SD
Every day is a fight

Storytime: Sitamar

She was born as the youngest daughter to a black fisherman. Sitamar had 6 siblings, 4 of them girls. Since early age she sat on the ground in front of the small shack, cleaning up the fish her father and older brothers caught, among her mother and sisters.. She didn’t learn to read or write, only to tell the difference between fishes and which ones would bring in most money. She had good eyes and small and fast hands, but she was really pretty too. Her skin was much lighter than that of her siblings, and when her oldest sister Narvi was going to get married Sitamar was sold to a brothel so the family had enough money to arrange a decent wedding and pay the bride price. Her other sisters had to stay home because their mother started losing her eyesight.

Following the tradition that children are raised and taught everything useful in the brothels (and if they make good money they can support their family) Sitamar also now learned to read and write, sew and even cook simple dishes. She was sold many times before ending up in the brothel right next to the palace. She was pretty and learned quick, but unfortunately during these years she developed a burning thirst for power and wealth. Seeing rich men and women come, watch the dancers, feast and leave a part of their fortune behind made her wish she’d be one of them. She learned the best moves, prettiest smiles to make the most money, and she wasn’t afraid to walk over other people to get what she wanted. She still remembered her childhood in the poor fisherman’s shack.

There were others like her who made it from rags to riches before her. There was Quirana. But Quirana was not only beautiful and smart, she was caring, tender, a loving mother. Everybody looked up to her. But Quirana was long dead and Sitamar only wanted to be bigger and better. Other people had no meaning to her. She got annoyed by the tiniest disturbance and was constantly fighting with the other girls. Eventually her bad attitude caused the house mistress to take action. She told Sitamar to either learn to behave, or leave. Sitamar left.

She was too proud to bow her head. Too selfish and cocky to befriend with anyone. Before leaving she stole everything she could, believing that with her rich admirers she’d be able to make it alone. But life’s hard for those who only learned to take and not build. Sitamar ended living in the streets. She still had customers, but within a year she became a drug addict and her beauty started to crumble. She was only 15. Selling stolen items she managed to buy special drugs and creams that should make her beautiful again, and when she was 16 she was taken in to a brothel with a rather bad reputation.

The house mistress here was an old hag only interested in making money, and her younger husband used the services of their girls without paying them. Sitamar was a head above all the other girls and those few boys they had and she fully enjoyed being the main event. Treating others like her personal servants she made a questionable career that lasted almost two years, before she got what she deserved and was kicked out after refusing to serve a customer who she thought was not wealthy enough to afford her. Being homeless once again Sitamar sought help from her older sister who she thought would lend her money. But the surprise was big when Narvi wasn’t married to that rich prince Sitamar had imagined him to be from what little she saw of him before she was sold. Narvi’s husband was a poor fisherman’s son who had found work at the fish cleaning factory. They had 4 little children and they still couldn’t afford living inside the city walls.

For Narvi it looked like Sitamar had come to make fun of her, and she and her husband didn’t want to let her in, and when Sitamar begged and pleaded with a honey tongue they let her stay a few days, but after she started to teach their oldest daughter some pretty dirty dance moves they threw her out. Sitamar went to look for her old home, but meanwhile her mother was completely blind and had had to marry another man after Sitamar’s father drowned in a storm. Her mother recognised her but also didn’t want her to stay. She had small children with the new man and Sitamar didn’t see any of her own relatives. While her mother took care of the little ones her new husband raped Sitamar.

She ran away from the city the same night. Her pride wounded, with the horrible knowledge that she wasn’t irreplaceable, and her body wasn’t unbreakable. She left everything behind and found shelter in a guarding tower of the village Ebrai. The guard hid her, believing her lie that bad men were after her, and she lived with him a few months. Then someone told the man about her lie and Sitamar was chased from the village and driven north to the grass plains.

Luckily, or not, a group of people from the city who had left to join the enemy and were travelling with horses and wagons loaded with all their belongings, and they spotted the young girl laying on the ground, too exhausted and scared to continue running. Her clothes torn and dirty, her make-up almost gone, her long black hair a mess. But one of the men still recognised her. He had seen her dance long time ago when she was just a little girl learning her profession. These people were friendly to Sitamar, in their camp they warmed water and the women washed her and combed her hair, lent her their make-up and dug out the prettiest dresses for her to wear. But Sitamar had learned nothing. As soon as she noticed she could control the people who helped her, she turned from poor misunderstood runaway to a calculating bitch with a cold cold heart.

With these people she came to the enemy camp and immediately caught attention. She wanted revenge, and was not secretive about it. She told everyone she hated Kulja and everyone living in the city, and would like to see it burned to the ground. Within only few weeks her burning hate had earned her a place on the Warmaster’s side. This was the highest position anyone could ever get, and Sitamar abused her new position in every way. Her awful nature wasn’t the only reason for this: during the first night she spent in the Warmaster’s tent he told her she was only a toy. She was there to keep up a facade and fool some of his supporters who would  not have accepted him to have a male prostitute. Sitamar was even angrier after knowing the truth, but she couldn’t do anything. She had no other place to go and she knew the Warmaster wouldn’t let her get away alive. She was given everything she wanted to have: an own tent, servants, golden rings and bracelets, necklaces made of finest silver and priceless gems, she got any food she wanted – but nothing could sweeten the bitter loss she experienced every time when the Warmaster invited her to his tent, to serve him tea or to fold his clothes, or just sit on the ground and keep him company. A silent one. She wasn’t allowed to talk without permission.

The Warmaster knew who she was, everything about her life and personality, the moment he touched her, and he didn’t plan to reward Sitamar of her dirty deeds. She’d remain imprisoned, maybe sacrificied at some point. Her anger would feed the Gods of Destruction well, and the more his people hated Sitamar the more powerful they would be in the nearing battle.

Her end though was nearer than thought. She had no meaning to the Warmaster, and he was entertained by the anger and jealousy his right hand, the sorcerer Nazhras, felt towards Sitamar. Since her appearance Nazhras had felt his position compromised. Even when the Warmaster explained Sitamar was nothing more than a toy, a flower which was pretty to look at but poisonous, and still too weak to be of any use. That she would not be any kind of a threat, that he wanted only Nazhras, that Sitamar wasn’t even allowed to warm his bed because he’d rather sleep in cold than be touched by that low creature… Nazhras still hated her and doubted deep in his heart.

And then, on an evening when icy wind swept over the moor and everybody stayed inside, Nazhras left the tent of the Warmaster. They had talked for long and Nazhras was not on the best mood. The battle was getting closer and there had been fights between the farmers and the rest of the enemy forces. Zhardon, the leader of the Dark Elves, had already left to his part of the camp. The moor was giant, empty, the wind howling between the bulges of the ancient graves that dotted the landscape. The end of the year was close but this year there would not be a celebration on the harvest day. Nazhras passed by Sitamar’s tent and heard her yelling at her servants inside. He stopped when the two young girls came out, bowing sheepishly while backing out between the door flaps. Even in the dark Nazhras could see bruises on their small, skinny faces. The younger had burns in her hands. Maybe she had dropped the heating bowl and Sitamar had made her pick up the charcoal with her bare hands.

That woman was crazy. And she had gone too far. After being turned away by the Warmaster Sitamar had taken several young lovers. They had to be wealthy, but of nothing else she didn’t care. She picked on them, hit them, punished them for fun, asked them to arrive just to send them away again. Now she started to yell after a servant to help her out of the bath and dry her skin. Nazhras stepped closer, just enough to have some light from Sitamar’s tent cast on his face. And older woman approached, even when Sitamar had cried for the young man. Nazhras knew the woman. She was blind, but she belonged to the Dark Elves and was able to do some work
with her skill. Usually she cooked for Zhardon and his closest men. She sensed Nazhras’s presence and stopped. He waved her to leave and she left. Turning away from light she couldn’t hide a slight smile. Was she relieved? Happy? Gleeful?

Sitamar’s cries got louder and angrier. She was screeching and splashing water. She was not going to stand up and dry herself, that was for sure. The Warmaster had promised her servants to do whatever she wanted and she’d make them feel sorry for this.

Nazhras watched her between the tent flaps. Once she had been pretty, he thought. What was left now was a strained body, curly hair that was too messed up to ever get straight again, and a skin that made her look like an old woman. She was barely 18. Nazhras pulled away. He lifted his hand and lit up a small green flame in his palm. He let it grow, get hotter, enjoying the light touch of the fire. It wasn’t really warm, not for him. Sitamar’s tent was
full of expensive tables, chairs, dressers. In the back there was a huge bed, and expensive dresses hung from every wall. Nazhras let his fireball roll out and circle Sitamar’s tent in a wall of fire. Then he added lightings and made the fire even hotter. The tent had caught fire and he now let his fireball roll inside. Sitamar screamed of fear. The sound satisfied Nazhras. He had been strained too, for a long time. He had not rested well. Every time he
heard Sitamar’s voice he felt the urge to fill his ears with wool and stay in bed all day. Now, he enjoyed every bit of a noise she made.

Sitamar tried to splash water over the fireball, but it only seemed to get bigger, hotter. It’s sparkles burned holes in the one-of-a-kind carpets that covered the bare ground. There were no walls anymore. She jumped out of the bath tub. With all her power she managed to push it on it’s side, but the fire didn’t cease burning. A sparkle hit her bare skin and made her scream even louder. Then, she looked out of the door. The door flaps were gone, indeed the iron poles holding the tent together started showing, and not far from the tent stood Nazhras. Smiling, moving his hands like he was guiding something invisible. Suddenly the fireball was there again. Right between them. It grew, and Sitamar heard the cracking when the back of her tent fell together. She took few steps towards the black night outside. Cool freedom. And Nazhras stood there blocking her way.

Something hit her from behind. She didn’t live to know the ceiling of her tent had collapsed and fell on her. All she felt was something burning her all over and keeping her on the ground. Her both legs were broken, she was paralyzed, and the last she saw was the Warmaster, standing behind Nazhras, putting his hands on the sorcerer’s shoulders.

Then, Sitamar was gone.

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