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Entry tags:	golden thrai, king's own, melraan, ni-yana, raykin, rumal, ulkar

Genesis 114
Title~ Southerner
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Still mine
Notes~ Genesis 114. Another introduction fic. This is~ Rumal, another of the swordies of the King's Own. He grew up south of the Main Road, which is the seedy part of Ni-Yana, for those who've forgotten the first intro fic I did. He's not proud of it, and he's done his best to get rid of that reputation, but yeah, people still resent him being in the Own.

When a Raykinian says 'southerner', they're generally referring to someone living south of the Main Road in Ni-Yana, rather than from southern Raykin. If they're talking about the whole country, then it tends to be upstream and downstream, highlanders and delta dwellers, not north and south.

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Rumal furrowed his brow in concentration, blinking a few times to focus better. His hand swayed more than he would have liked, but the pyramid of glasses didn’t collapse when he added his to the top, so he was able to clasp his hands behind his head and smile in satisfaction.

‘That is an absolute masterpiece,’ he declared.

‘Sensational,’ Melraan agreed. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Your round,’ Ulkar informed him with a grin.

‘No it’s not. It’s Kurae’s.’

Rumal shook his head, not taking his eyes off the masterpiece in the middle of the table. ‘Kurae left an hour ago, quael.’

‘Aeia-damn it.’ He didn’t move though.

The three swordsmen sat silently for a moment. Or several moments, Rumal couldn’t tell.

‘Why don’t you go get drunk in one of your own pubs and leave the ‘Thrai for the human beings?’

Rumal didn’t move, but he could see the expressions of his colleagues across the table. Melraan was looking at him worriedly; Ulkar cast a warning look in the direction of the men who had spoken.

‘Hey southerner, I’m talking to you!’

‘Don’t, quael,’ Melraan warned the swordsman with a small shake of his head. Evidently he could see the anger rising in Rumal’s eyes as his brow lowered over them.

He could feel his jaw clenching as he unlaced his fingers slowly from behind his head and drummed the three remaining fingers of his right hand on the table. He looked down at the four parallel scars on the back of his wrist. One had come when he’d stolen a dagger, another for stealing a bread roll, the next for a basket of dates, and the most recent, more than fifteen years ago, was for stealing six silver coins.

‘I’m not a southerner anymore,’ he growled, hearing his old accent creeping into his words.

‘Rumal,’ Ulkar cautioned, ‘They’re not worth your time. Cool down and leave it alone.’

Rumal flicked his eyes up to look at his fellow swordies, both silently begging him not to do anything stupid.

‘Whatever. You have no place here. Now get out before I kick you out.’

‘Not a smart move,’ Melraan told him, keeping his eyes on Rumal as though they were the only things keeping the swordsman from killing the guys on the spot. ‘I guess you don’t recognise us then?’

‘Oh, I recognise you, all right, and I don’t care how good you are. Southerners have no place at the Golden Thrai, and certainly no place in the King’s Own.’

Rumal could just barely catch the helpless groans of his fellow swordies as they rested their foreheads in their hands. He snatched two of the glasses from the pyramid and spun to his feet with a speed belying his inebriated state. He cracked the glasses into the men’s temples and sent them crashing to the floor, then sat back down and set the glasses back down next to the ruined pyramid.

Melraan sighed heavily. ‘Nice restraint there, quael.’