The high-pitched voices of the children were drowned out in the bustle, as they spun around with clasped hands. They chanted in honor of spring, while their elders enjoyed her delights more directly. Ale flowed freely, and clothing became scant in the meadows beyond.
The merry music of the famous bard Gabriel intermingled unbiased with the excitement, turning the chaos into one united song. Above it all, sat the Warrior Queen, Cleo Sen of Rakg. Tonight, she would enjoy this expression of new things to come; tomorrow she would select her husband.
Cleo watches the suitable men dance in the bright light of the fire, which blazes a bit too close to her throne. Their muscles glisten in the effort to impress her, forearms and chests painted with ancient runes of promise. She stifles a yawn in the monotony of it all; the notion that she should select a partner this way was unfortunate.
Cleo didn't like men, nor did she crave the company of women. She found some men attractive, sure. The idea of taking any of them as a husband spawned repulsion in her, however. She loved battle, she loved her people... Now these loves contradicted each other.
Her two younger siblings had fallen in the wars of last spring, leaving Cleo as the sole heir to the Rakg Clan. Her family had headed the tribe for 500 years, and now it was up to her to continue that. Babies and wars do not mix, her duty had undeniably changed.
As the last notes of "Ode to Sen" dwindled from the strings of Gabriel's lute, the bard approached Cleo with a bow. "My Queen." His eyes are downcast, yet the smile on his lips is less demure. "On this joyous occasion, I cannot help but to wither in your melancholy." He raises his eyes, and electricity strikes her. Before she can respond, his fingers are back at work.
He strums a tune she has never heard, yet it feels oddly familiar. The cheerful vibrations of his usual fare are absent, yet it is a declaration of reverence like all the rest. The only difference is this one talks about Cleo by name. Her achievements and her valor. Not just within the house of Sen.
"Fair maiden stronger than any man, brings glory supreme, in a warring hand. Chasing out the river tribes, she brought us loot, where once few survived." His words draw Cleo in, and a warm feeling ignites across her cheeks. Was she actually blushing?
A lone tear streaked down the startlingly beautiful visage of the Warrior Queen. Quite pleased with himself, the bard finishes with an elaborate flourish. Rising, he saunters over to her throne once more, to kneel at her feet. "My Queen, my love," Gabriel begins, as the ghost of a smile sits at the corner of his leader's lips. "perhaps you are glum, for a warrior is not who you need."
He looks up at her, the next phrase loaded in his ever-moving mouth. The idea of success is still within his eyes, when she liberates his head from his shoulders in one fell swoop of her great sword. Drawn and delivered before the bard could react. She laughs wildly, gripping his head by the hair to raise above her head. The tribe joins, matching her vigor.
"The bard was right in one way!" Cleo shouts out to her kin. "I do not need a warrior, nor do I need a fool who rambles!" she spits with the force of the words. "Men who know how to write, approach." She sits back against the pillows of her throne, motioning for wine to her handservant.
After several minutes, it was clear only half the men who had stepped forward could write. The fury of the Queen held no bars, in a barbarian tribe you must never lose face. The liars too were killed, and the remaining men suddenly became quite serious.
"Who among you can count sums?" Cleo asks, her lovely face streaked with blood. Immediately, all but three men walk away under a nod of approval from the Queen. The trials continue. None of the three seem to show a superior mathematical skill, so Cleo moves on.
Tests involving agility eventually weed out another candidate. Cleo looks to the last two men, comparing them. One is tall, strikingly handsome. He smiles at her freely, as if she didn't just kill a dozen people. His hair is a mass of thick black curls, and under it is a good mind...
The other man appears fit yet is not one to pick out of a crowd. He does not look at her, but his face is not fearful. He stands composed; his hands wrapped together neatly in front of him. Cleo lifts his chin, meeting his eyes in an imposing gaze. He does not falter, just merely looks confused.
She paces between the pair for a time, and ends in front of the confused man. She looks to the other, who still smiles like he's a prize just waiting to be plucked. "Go." That is all Cleo says to him, and he sprints away.
"I pick you." She says, grabbing the remaining man by the hand. "What is your name?" She asks. He sputters, for a moment seeming unable to speak. When his words do come, his voice is smooth. "Fabian, my Queen." He finally manages. She smiles at him and raises his hand within hers. "Fabian! Future King of Rakg!" Cleo declares, and the tribe cheers.
The painstaking task of convincing their Queen to marry was finally finished. With a breath of relief, many were glad the body count was modest. Marriage was historically brutal in the Sen family line, this was a breeze.
