1 Excuse me, I was told to be the Villain? (01)

"I won't let you take her!" Spittle flies from his lips, as he brandishes his sword at me. His pastel colored dandelion hair is puffing and waving all over the place. Ethnically, he's Vanto, so their hair is like it's own little language.

I've absolutely no clue what it's saying to me, but I'm sure it's somewhere between 'Go jump in a lake!' and 'Stand still, so I can stick my sword into your guts and swirl it around a bit.'

He's not terrible, but he's not that great either. He's a little sloppy and flamboyant with his motions. A bit over the top, and certainly not enough to make this interesting. I only need to use my swept hilt rapier to outmaneuver him (don't even need to reach for the Xiphos stored neatly on my right hip). I'm surprised he's the final boss of my little adventure. My longer, heavier Bastard Long Blade lays quietly on my back, and I have no intention to reach for it today. That thing loves blood, and may sneak a sip when I'm not paying attention.

I dance a passing half step to the left and let his sword thud past me so it will ruin the carpet. I'm petty like that sometimes. I almost sigh, as I lazily parry his reverse blow, and maintain the tempo for a riposte. I somehow manage to hold the sneer in place on my face.

Honestly, sword fighting is easier than maintaining even this abysmal acting standard.

Because I'm apparently the villain, so sneering is what I should do when I kidnap the beloved little clairvoyant princess.

I'm done playing around, I realize. He's just trying to delay me, anyways. Might as well give him what he wants (a reason to hate me even more): "I'll tell her you objected." I drawl, as I disarm him and push my blade lightly into his throat - just enough pressure to keep him there.

I don't like killing things. Especially things that might decide to haunt me after-the-fact. I've spent many a terrible 7-day haunted by the idiots who refused to surrender, changed their mind halfway through surrendering, or straight-up killed themselves through stupidity.

My first haunting was a boy who speared himself on his own sword when he tried to run-away from me. I wasn't even chasing him. Was just minding my own business while waiting for my father to chop-off some lord's head during a border skirmish. He stumbled into MY clearing, then there was this blasted big tree root… and well, you get the idea. I was 12 at the time. It was so very unpleasant.

"You'll get yours one day soon, granite-face!" His skin is flushing an alarming shade of pink, so he must feel something about this girl I'm supposed to be kidnapping. I have to pull my sword back quickly when the idiot lunges up - to accentuate his point? Who knows? - and presses himself into the tip.

It's like they don't realize there is a sharp pointy thing at the end of swords. I still draw a tiny drop of blood even with my quick reflexes.

My sword eats it greedily. Well, superb. Really swell. I wrangle back my rapier before it skewers him and drains him dry. And this is my docile weapon!

With a bit more force than necessary, I kick him in the face. I do feel some satisfaction when I feel his nose crunch a bit.

He tastes disgusting. Like a really fake fruit mix. It's like eating a face-full of my sister Pru's fruity air freshener when I walk into her room right after she's doused it in the stuff.

I grimace as I look back over the long hallway. I've made a bit of a mess with the 50 or so guardsmen taking nice little naps from the entry doors to the moron at my feet.

I hold back another sigh, and turn to the giant elaborate door that I'm hoping has the girl behind it. If not, this was a serious waste of my morning. Hoping it's not locked I lightly test one of the handles and tug.

Of course it's locked.

I gather myself for a moment to reallocate the necessary power and strength to my legs and then give it a really good kick, but it holds. I get more and more irritated as my knees creak. The final 7th blast loosens it enough that I hear something snap.

Gods in hell; I'm actually panting a bit from that… Should have taken 3 kicks at most. What kind of lock was that?

I shake myself off, put my sneer back in place, throw up the doors with a satisfying 'bang,' and wait half a second to see if anything charges me.

Nothing does.

I hate this part.

I hate walking into rooms with blind corners.

Alone.

In a normal situation, I would be edging in with my head on a swivel, but today is different; I have to stroll in casually, sword resting on my shoulder in a way that has the hairs rising on the back of my neck. I have to look the part - father was very clear about that to me.

They have to think we're taking her to be petty for their trade maneuvers versus the reality.

We need her.

She's the only Ascerian I could find (her people are understandably deep in hiding), and the only thing that can save us.

And I know, even if there is no one here awake, but the girl, and myself, obviously; it is 100% certain that this place is warded. Everything I do here today will be seen over and over again by her Nephilim keepers.

I see the girl right away. She's sitting at a… what does Pru call it? Dressing table? Under a floor to ceiling window. Her room is almost all windows, I realize. Maybe I don't have to worry about hidden threats. There is nothing in here, but the table, a tiny bed, an open rack upon which a few dresses hang, and the massive windows. Windows must be some sort of enchantment. If there were this many windows, I would have just climbed up the back way, smashed one, and carried her off without having to go follow through on all of that excess cardio.

There is not a single entry point beyond the front door in this stone monstrosity. I know, I checked twice.

Her otherness is striking, and she's just sitting there like that commotion in the hallway meant nothing to her.

The first thing I notice about her is naturally the giant pair of white feathered wings that tell me she has not yet reached her age of majority. The radiale at the joint is over-accentuated and peaks high above her head. There aren't that many of her kind left. Being kissed by the gods is naturally bad for your longevity.

The second thing I notice about her is the iridescent sheen of her skin. She looks like an opal or some other smooth gemstone. It shifts under her skin, as the light hits her. It's a really pleasant smattering of warm shades, muted oranges and golds with the occasionally flicker of blue or white.

As I walk-up behind her, I see the third striking thing - the thing that brought me here. She's looking at me, but not seeing. Her normal eyes are shut. Her third eye, that solid golden third eye, the one all the lore says a Kismera god of fate kissed into her kinds' forehead as a reward turned punishment, is wide open.

In the mirror, I feel like that eye is meeting my own bronze, marbled ones. They match in a way. My people, the Queztal, are lacking the two toned eyes of most of the humanoid races. There is a reason that Vanto called me granite face. It's a racial slur for our hard, stone-like eyes.

In my case, it is actually even more appropriate, as my face is also hard-looking and very square. Honestly, I look like a construct-a-rock-boy project. Giant square head. Giant square shoulders. Giant square frame. My shading also took an unfortunate turn when I reached my majority and my skin took on a greyish cast that makes me look like a walking corpse to outsiders. Over the years, it's taken on a very distinct titanium tinge compared to the white marble of my sister and late mother, or the ebony of my father.

At least I have two things going for me:

The first is the dark blue metallic featherings that stretch from my jaw, swoop up slightly over my cheekbones, and then break elongated over my head around my horizontal ears with a nice click-a-clack. I've always felt the sound reassuring compared to most, and only magnetize them into submission when I have to actually be on a mission - like now.

It's basically like wearing a helmet fused to my head. As a swordsman I love it and it's purely mine. Not a single member of my family achieved such interlocking pinnings except for me.

Yes, I am allowed to have one point of vanity.

The second are the long swift legs I inherited from my mother that are excellent for swordplay.

I'm afraid my father ruined the rest of me. He's even uglier than I am. At least Pru inherited our mother's delicate beauty. Beauty matters more to her than me, anyway. She's an artist, as well as a diplomat. For the circles she moves in, beauty is capital. I'm just a swordsman who takes better care of his blades than his body.

Now that I'm here, and she's in some sort of trance; I'm not quite sure how to proceed. Do I just knock her out? Clear my throat? Shake her shoulder? Aren't you not supposed to disturb them when they're Seeing? I feel like my father told me something of that nature before I left, but I wasn't listening as closely to that part...

I'm still staring at her with a furrowed brow when she comes out of her trance, blinks enormous lavender eyes at me, and smiles.

"Thank you for coming to rescue me." Her voice all songbirds and sunshine.