Irene of Goldfields

You see yourself. Not surprising. For some reason, you had the notion that just because you're now in charge of a duchy, you'd simply appear more majestic overnight. Well, perhaps majestic was not quite the appropriate word. But changed somehow, at least. More beautiful, or perhaps serene. Or some other quality often attributed to good rulers.

Nope, you are the same. Blonde, straight hair that reaches your shoulders, cute button nose, modest breasts.

Ah well, truth be told it is a relief as well. You're still you, come what may. As you mull it over for a few moments, a smile comes to your face. Tucking a blonde strand of hair behind your ear, you walk back over to bedroom window. When you were little your head barely reached over the windowsill. That seems a lifetime ago now. Before you, your lands are stretched out before you. Or one side of them, at any rate. Orchards, teeming with fruit. Grapes and oranges and lemons, for the most part. Following the sea of green, it gives way to the actual one, the white crest of each wave visible. In the distance smoke rises, the only evidence that the port town of Laurlond exists from where you stand.

You allow yourself a chuckle, maybe to mask your anxiety. Starting from today you would be managing that town, with the help of the mayor, naturally. You would be managing your castle, Laurost, and the entire duchy of Goldfields, westernmost province of Itheria. Somehow it was only now sinking in.

You spend a few more moments enjoying the view. It was rather idyllic, all in all.

It wasn't always like this, of course. Oh no. Being on the coast was both a boon and a source for perpetual woe. The same raid that murdered your parents also saw a third of the duchy set aflame. Laurost and Laurlond had been spared. These orchards you now saw had been spared, but the southern reaches of Goldfields had fared somewhat more poorly. You wince, twelve years since, and you still saw signs of what had occured.

Oh, the towns had been rebuilt, the farms, the windmills, the inns. But everyone knew someone, a friend or a relative, who had perished. You weren't quite sure how to describe it, but the people simply felt different. They didn't blame you however, neither did the count ruling there. Your parents had perished leading troops there, and they seemed grateful for the help, and the hurt avoided. They seemed rather more cross at the king. Fair enough, you thought, was he not sworn to protect you from threats beyond the kingdom, just the same as you were sworn to his aid? The Capital had not been particularly sucessful 12 years ago, no.

You try to shake off these dismal thoughts. Today's a new beginning, and you would rather it be a positive one.

Quickly, you change out of your nightgown into something more suitable. Finally you put on your circlet, that symbol of your station. You look back in the mirror.

With a silver circlet, and a dark green gown with gold trimmings, you think you look fine. Certainly not the worst noble in Itheria.

Now, time to govern.