"I'm so hungry; how much food have we got left?" Evie called to the guard keeping an eye on the stores.
The sky was a clear, lucid blue, with little clouds laced inbetween, like a foreign tapestry. Where the sky met the land, there was a battle for dominance between the ragged, long green stretch and the bright blue of the air. Eve smiled, stretching out in her saddle, reaching her hands upwards, as though she could grasp the sky. In front of them was a weatherbeaten, dusty track, which presumably lead through wooden, underdeveloped villages to the destination of Port Regis.
They had travelled for around three days, and only plains stretched outwards, touched by the little villages here and there.
"Not enough for you to snack on my lady, I'm afraid," the guard responded.
She sent him a withering glance, shifting in her saddle and kicking at her stallion in frustration. It, in turn, shook its' head about, eyes frantic.
Eve could mildly understand her annoyance. It was difficult to keep patient when the scenery never changed, and when the road appeared so endless. But she was not stupid enough to feel she could empathise with such a woman - such a brute. Buck's hind flicked as his tail swished about, as though tasting the clean environment. His hooves were in good shape as Eve leaned to one side to check them, although they had brought a horse vet along with the troupe, and he would have stopped him from carrying Eve if thought to be faulty. He would then have been replaced with a spare horse, and cut from the group.
She leant down to hug his neck. Although he was a moody stallion, he had put up with her for the few months they'd known one another, and only let her ride him. When the palace had first ordered him into the stables, he had bucked so wildly and thrown all other servant-riders off; Eve was unlike those clean horse-trainers, however, and had clung on, relishing the excitement of the rebellious horse. Somehow, she thought she could relate to the animal. After all, they both hadn't chosen to be "recruited" as property of the King on pain of death. And certainly there was an admirable resistance to Buck. When he had calmed, and noticed that Eve hadn't let go of him, he stayed still for about ten minutes, and then kicked off again, throwing his head from side-to-side. Again, Eve had kept clinging on, and the servants watched in horror as she laughed in excitement at the horse's antics.
Eventually, the stallion had calmed, and was left a panting, brown mess. Then, Eve had slid off its' back, patted it, and trotted off triumphantly. From that moment on, they had become bonded, in some strange way. Although the other women had laughed at her and called her a street rat for getting along with the horse, there simply was no other way. It would kick or attack anyone who dared brush it, groom it or otherwise, if not Eve.
Buck's ears twitched, and he reared his neck, so that Eve was sat in her saddle properly once more. She rolled her eyes, laughed and patted his neck. Clearly, he'd grown tired of her putting extra weight on him.
As the day drew to a close, and the sky turned from a bright tapestry blue, to a misty, amethyst-like night, the entourage decided to stop, a little ways off the empty track. A great fire was lit, and a few nearby trees chopped and strewn around it for everyone to sit on. By this time, Eve's face was hot and sticky from wearing her mask, and she slid off Buck reluctantly, sliding it into the satchel attached to his side before unpinning her tent and going to construct it in the small forest next to the fire. Kneeling down with only a small candle to aid her, she began to build. It was only a small blue thing, enough to fit her and her satchel, with a little bit of room to spare.
Once it had been erected, she stood back, hands on hips, admiring it.
"Hello, there," a voice suddenly started from behind her, "What a masterpiece!"
Eve turned, smiling, to face Sir Ben.
"Why, thank you, Sir Ben." She curtseyed playfully, then rose.
He was out of his armour, clad in a green tunic and some trousers. His boots were a little scuffed and worn, but altogether gave him the look of a man who is carefree and friendly.
He mock-blushed, raising a hand to his cheek effeminately.
"Who; me?" He laughed, dropping the act, and Eve noticed a silver cup of ale in his hand.
"Can I?" She gestured to it, and he offered it to her as they walked together to the fire, where the other guards - and women - were sat chatting.
By now, the moon had risen, but it was hidden by a wall of grey cloud.
As they sat down together, Sir Ben turned to Eve, and whispered conspiratorially:
"You know, Ben is not my real name!"
Eve leaned in with interest, her soft hair tilting over her right side, looking fiery red in the reflection of the fire.
"So what is it?" She took a swig of his drink, noticing he was quite tipsy already.
A lightweight.
"Sir Benedictine," he said, then clasped his hand over his mouth dramatically. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that! It's a stupid name; apparently, my parents were affected with hallucinogens from mouldy rye bread when they chose it! Fancy that!" He beamed, grabbing another cup from a passing guard, saluting him with it, and then downing the drink in one.
"Fancy that," Eve echoed, staring now into the fire and seeing events flitter in the flames.
She could see the dead men who ploughed the land before her, merging into horrific shapes and depictions of warped, twisted humans. As she fell further and further into them, she began feeling itchy and hot, as though someone was watching her. And suddenly, the fire roared up and everyone gasped. Eve stayed very still, as she watched a little entourage of people being kicked by tendrils of flame, and each disintegrated, one by one, until one remained. The one which was left raised an arm holding a sword in defiance, and then charged off into the flames, leaving Eve with a sense of dread.
She knew whoever was Chosen would come out of this as the sole survivor.