User:Michael Bard/The Last Trial

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     Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
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     Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] 
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December, 707 CR

Yvarra stood in the good sized chamber. In the middle, alone. She was dressed in simple robes, her fedora was in her hands against her chest. The Sword of Songs had been left in her rooms. A tiny stub, shattered, torn, still remained coming out of her forehead. Other than that, good food, bed rest, time, all had healed the wounds to her body. And maybe to her soul.

Except for the memories.

The chamber was crowded, filled to capacity and possibly beyond. The goat who had chased her in Euper was there. The tiger that had saved her, that had saved the keep, if not the world, was there. The scarred fox was there. And so many others.

Before her were two thrones, a larger one and a smaller, both had crimson cushions and looked to be made for humans. Behind were the three rows of full benches, and the aisle between them she'd been escorted down. A deep red cloth covered the floor, and ancient hangings poured down from rafters as sunlight shimmered in through glass windows.

The two guards, a human and an otter, turned and left her as an old man called out. "All stand for his excellency Duke Thomas of the House of Hassan, fifth of his line, Duke of Metamor and Euper, King of the Northern Midlands. Hail! Hail!"

The last two words were echoed by the crowd, and Yvarra curtseyed as low as she could as Duke Thomas entered the room. He was a horse, a rich chestnut, dressed in simpler robes than she'd expected. He walked with a stately dignity, his hooves thudding on the rich carpet. As the crowd was silent, he made his way to the larger of the two thrones, and carefully lowered himself into it. From experience, Yvarra could tell that he'd pulls his tail painfully up so that he could sit in a seat made for the human form.

"Be seated; the accused will stand," boomed out the same old man.

With grace, Yvarra stood up from her crouched position, and looked at the Duke, at the judge of her fate, with steady eyes. His voice was steady, old and tired. "Court is now in session. The accused, known as Yvarra, once known as Sarpadon, employed as an obtainer of rare antiquities, you are before this court on multiple charges of murder. Of the killing of citizens that have my sworn protection. How do you plead?"

Yvarra swallowed. Glad that cud did not chose to come up. Her voice, proud and steady, she called out her choice: "Guilty."

Preceded by: Between the Worlds

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Succeeded by: None