Spoiled Blood: Prologue

“Y’can’t do this, Raff! Y’don’ know what’s in that box! There isn’t a soul around that does!”
Raff Skyhart groaned outwardly. It was often said that the wrath of a woman is far more fearsome than the wrath of the Gods – and at this point in time, Raff couldn’t agree more.
“Listen, would’ya? There’s some land we might just be getting for this job! What’s it matter what’s in the stinkin’ box anyway?” The beleaguered man retorted, making a beeline for the door.
“Jus’ tell me Raff. Who gave you that? Sounds like it’s for some high-born lad – it’s for that Lord Varwyn, that’s it! I’d be willing to bet this bread on that!” the hoary woman proclaimed, shoving a fistful of un-kneaded dough in her spouse’s direction.
Just tell her and be done with it. “Bloody heavens! Love, it’s nothin’ important anyway, I’m sure’f it. It’s for a highborn lass, as a matter o’ fact, but to which lass that may be I can’t say – secret information, that is.” He could see the scowl setting more deeply into his wife’s face, an all-too familiar forerunner of further outbursts that might yet be. “And it’s from some blacksmith lad… his name escapes me at present… Buxley, I think he said, but I could ‘ave sworn that was another fellow. I best be off, darling, don’t worry about me at all. It’s all gonna go fine”

He swung open the door as fast as he dared and then shut it behind him before the tirade had a chance to resume, stuffed the box into his sack and started walking the long walk to the eerily high walls of the Royal District. She’s a right nuisance, thought Raff, probably keeps right on yabberin’ on about nothing important, even when I’m outta earshot!
Weary legs carried an eager Raff in the direction that pleased him. Maybe she did have a point. Wouldn’t be such a crime to have a peep into the ol’ box now, would it? No one’s like to know I did anyways.
His inquisitive fingers fumbled with the latch, finally flicking it open. “Ooh-ahh!” he exclaimed, staring into the contents of the container. Two shiny, sapphire-embedded earrings glared back at him. Must be worth a fortune, those. No wonder this is all secretive and such. I suppose I could just pocket ‘em meself!
But there were eyes around him everywhere – Raff wasn’t exactly bright, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could get away with cheating a royal delivery.

Yells promising great deals and perfect produce filled the farmer’s ears, not at all sounds they were unaccustomed to. In truth, he had lived a large portion of his life in the Market District of Bermus.
He approached the excessively large gate that led to what Raff knew was the Royal District.
“’Scuse me, sir, I’ve got a package fer m’lady Queen Swordhand.” Raff said to the now-snarling gate guard.
“I’m not letting the likes of you roam free in the Royal District, peasant” the oversized man growled.
“Meaning no offence, sir, but this package is of importance, I’m told! Could you be so kind as to take it in yourself?”
The guardsman snorted. “Sure, I’ll take your package to the Queen, peasant” he grunted.
Before Raff could even curl his lip upward into a grin, there was a flurry of steel, and a blade appeared at his throat.
“And if there’s anything off about this package, I’ll bloody know. And when I bloody know, you’re gonna bloody know. Though I guess it’s hard to bloody know anything if your head isn’t attached to your body, peasant” he snorted, sheathing the blade, eyes still boring holes into the smaller man’s flesh.
“Y-y-yes, m’lor – I mean sir. Yes sir” Raff turned to walk away, but a thick hand jerked his torso in the wrong direction.
“What’d you say your name was, peasant?” the guardsman asked, spitting the last word as if it had, on a previous occasion, caused him great illness.
“Cuffs – I mean, Raff, sir. Raff Skyhart, sir”
The guardsman’s lips formed a toothy smile - a terrible, malicious thing that would've frightened the hair off a bear’s back. His grip on the lesser man relaxed, and Raff scrambled away as fast he could, eager to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

Bloody brute, he thought, absolute bloody brute. At least that’ll be the last I’ll see of that son of a sewer rat. The man’s legs pumped more swiftly than they had earlier in the day, eager to be away from that district, that box, and that bloody guard at the gate.