Path of Exile Talent Competition

More realistic

Just a few days ago, the young Scion hadn’t lifted a bow her entire life. What need had she? Servants brought food to her table, guards warded away the rabble from the heights of her estate’s walls, and for sport she danced, drawing the eyes of Oriath with each graceful motion. All eyes…even his. Her grip tightens on the bow as she recalls their “courtship.” He, coin dripping from his pockets into the cupped hands of hangers-on and loose-lipped servants, bought a place at her family’s table, becoming yet another of her father’s many guests. He, with stalking eyes and lupine smile, studied the Scion’s motions one night, only to invite her to dance the next. And how could she, a late-born daughter of a rising family, refuse? One dance, begrudgingly given, begot a second, then a third…until she was trapped within a music box, opened for his amusement, melodies played to give an excuse for him to lust after her form. Suitors withdrew their pursuits whenever they learned of his intentions for her, and the Scion hardly blamed them. Days passed into weeks, until his patience ran out. The Scion wasn’t involved in her own betrothal, beyond being informed of its occurrence as an afterthought in a conversation over dinner with her parents.

The Scion’s mother at least tried to feign excitement; arrangements were made, tailors hired to measure and prod every last inch of the Scion’s form in an exacting, unsparing manner. In the end, her dress was a concession to the tastes of the time; blue silks clinging to her curves, accentuating and highlighting every feature, with gilded threads suggesting a dawn golden with possibility following marriage. Dominus himself had stood at the altar beside her betrothed, mouthing the blessings of Innocence on this most fortuitous matrimony…but she remembered the eyes below the blue mask. They burned with intent of their own, and in that moment, she knew not what she feared more; her husband’s yearnings, or those lingering behind the cold, piercing eyes of the High Templar.

She wonders, now, whether Dominus suspected her own intentions. Perhaps her silence at the altar had given her away. Brides in Oriath, by custom, need not speak their vows; their obedience was assumed, bought and paid for by the successful suitor. Her husband had led her from the altar, his grip on her arm loose, for law now cleaved her to him more than a strong grip might ever achieve. To the dance hall they went, and there she swayed, swooned, and dipped at his lead. A feast awaited, but the Scion couldn’t stomach a meal. A fine silver knife, serrated slightly to part flesh, nevertheless found its way into her grip…and then above it, within the cuff of her long-sleeved dress. And from thence to the bedroom, where –

No, the Scion shakes her head angrily. “There’s no resting on your laurels in Wraeclast,” she mutters, forcing the wedding night from her mind. Her hands are clammy, sticky with sweat…not blood. The bow ensures that. Ahead, she can hear the chants of marching men – Blackguards, whose ranks the militant youth dream of entering. All loyal to a fault to their master. Some would have sweethearts in Oriath, she knew. Families depended upon their coin, and she was going to –

No. Today, here, there are men and women who want me dead, she thinks. They stand between me and the Scepter. From afar a cry goes up among the Blackguards, an alarm raised. The Scion scowls and grips the bow tightly before her, forefinger brushing along the gems embedded in the grip. One, a gift from the Karui sla…no, the exile, I mustn’t forget, she reminds herself…crackles with energy at her touch. With a gesture of her free hand she focuses the verdant power, manifesting before her a marvel of technology, wrought into existence by the strange magic of the gem. At once, in quick succession, a trio of ballistae arise, wood creaking slightly as they emerge. The Blackguards ahead let out a cry of surprise as their charge falters. Some, even, turn away. Whatever forces animate these ballistae find their targets and dispassionately launch their ordinance. Arrows, all aflame, ascend into the sky, only to find the Blackguards stumbling below. The Scion looks away as they scream. Some die in the blasts. Others burn.

Before long, there is a quiet that cannot be called silence, for another alarm call sounds in the distance, in the shadow of the Scepter. The Scion strides forward, ballistae lingering behind her, still now. One of her foes gasps at her feet, his armor cracked and blazing. Blood gurgles in between breaths, and he gazes upward, locking eyes with her. She takes no pleasure in seeing his chest heave and falter. Indeed, a small tear beads as she considers that, but for circumstance, this young man might’ve been willing to surrender, to abandon Dominus, as Helena had. She would’ve understood, she could’ve stopped this, she might’ve spared –

No. She squeezes her eyes shut. This is Dominus’s fault. The Scion clings to this, knows, no, NEEDS it to be true. His authority married her. His order exiled her. His commands stationed this man here, before the Scepter, on this day. And your hand will slay him, some part of her whispers. Just as you did your husband.

“Innocence forgive me,” the Scion whispers as her eyes open. At least she can deny that voice one truth. Her hand won’t be the one to hold the knife, to nock the arrow, to end this life. A brush of her finger is all it takes; beside her, a ballista rises. Just one, this time. The young man gurgles something beside her, but the Scion pays no mind. Her focus is ahead. Before her, an archway stands, and beyond she hears the strange bellows of exotic beasts. Dominus’s menagerie, she reckons. Looming ahead, shrouded in the storm clouds far above, the Scepter of God awaits. It is taller than any building she has ever seen, a tribute to Innocence and the grandiosity of humanity. She had been surprised to learn Dominus was here, in Wraeclast…but not so that he had taken residence in the tallest building in the lands. He will be at the top, she knows. Where else would his pride allow him to be?

There will be more of this, the voice calls. There will be more deaths. More murders. More times you’ll kill and burn and break and –

Yes, the Scion concedes as she crosses below the arch. Before her, mad beasts catch her scent and howl their hunger. A familiar finger traces the contours of the gem, pouring forth her mana to summon those familiar ballistae. I will kill, she agrees. But I won’t bloody my hands again.