Tattia Myrr


The Chamberlin coward as his mistress chucked another pair of boots out of her late father’s closet. He was cowering not only because of Tattia famous rage but because he knew what she was searching for, and it was in the pocket of his vest. Until his untimely death Lord Myrr had forbade his daughter from accessing the treasury, something his daughter had always resented. Now the only thing stopping her from looting the vaults for her debased parties was one old man with a nervous tick and too loyalty to a dead man. “Lady… I.”

“Out of my sight! I’ll find it myself or I’ll see everyone one of you collared.” The Chamberlin turned and waved the maids away telling them they could tidy up after the Lady was finished. He stood in the doorway to his late master’s bedroom for another moment before going. He need to make sure that the kitchens had begun dinner. Despite the fact that even a few minutes of delay on his part would delay the meal by several minutes and probably cost some poor peasant her job he walked slowly his hand over his heart. The small silver key was rested exactly where it had been ever sense the Duke was found. Many years before the Duke had shown his man-servant where the key was hidden and swore him to secrecy. The Chamberlin remembered the instructions well. “You must never tell anyone but you must forget where this is. When I die you must retrieve it and keep it safe. My daughter will want into the vaults to take the items I brought back from my travels. She cannot have them.” The Chamberlin had never asked why, that was not his place, but if Lady Tattia’s reaction to its “loss” he could guess why. There was something in the vaults beneath the manor that would increase her standing with the nobility, but at what cost? So deep was he in his thoughts that the old man, most faithful of servants didn’t hear the shouts and so never saw the massive wine keg that was rolling down the steps and ever closer to his doom. The only consolation to a life of service was a quick death. Tattia pushed her usually immaculate quaff of red hair out of her face. Where was it, where was her father’s key. She had tried so many times to break into the lower vaults but not pick, not strength, and no magic could break the doors. The only way in was the key and her father was the only one who had it. Now he was dead and unless he somehow actually took it with him it had to be here. She hadn’t order her father’s death. No, she was more than willing to wait for a rival to deal with him, and one had. They strung from the towers of the Court Palace, stripped of his robes and beaten to the point of almost being unrecognizable. Someone wanted to make an example. She had doubled the guard but no one had moved against her so Tattia had concluded that it had been a problem with her father.

The young Matron of the Myrr family screamed her rage and actually ripped a sleeve off of her silk gown in frustration—it was worth more than a year of her staff’s wages. She punched the floor length mirror in rage, shattering it. She didn’t feel the shards of glass in her knuckles, but the pain slowly cleared her mind. The healers could fix it later. By the time she was fully in control of herself it looked like a pack of wolves had been caged in her father’s room. She was sitting in the one remaining chair gritting her perfect teeth when there was a crash from below. “Now what!?”

She descended the stares to find three worried looking kitchen workers standing in a pool of wine and blood. A forth was bent down searching the mangled corpse of the Chamberlin. The three peasants were looking between the body and the broken cask of wine and wondering which was more important. They saw Tattia coming and blanched. She held up a hand before they could speak. Just as she reached the landing and put one slippered foot into the pool of wine the forth peasant mumbled there was something in his pocket. He stood holding up a small silver key. He turned came face to the Lady of the manor and had time to blanch before the she broke his wrist and kicked him back onto the body. “Dispose of this filth and get dinner ready. I don’t want to be disturbed for any reason.” With her orders given Tattia turned on her heel and strode off. The three kitchen workers took only a moment to wonder about the look of joy on the ladies face before setting to work.

The upper vaults of the Myrr Manor were filled with more than enough wealth to last the young noble for three life times. Tattia however only had eyes for the silver door at the back of the vault. Here was where her father kept the relics he had retrieved in his travels. And beyond those doors was the only thing that the late Lord Myrr had ever denied his daughter. It was a beautifully carved stone chest. By the way the servants had carried it, there was obviously something of great value within. When she had asked what was in it her father had refused to tell and her and forbade her from opening (How dare he). Before she had even had a chance he had locked it away. The chest and whatever it had contained burned in her thoughts for years and now, finally she would have it.

There was no flash of light, no clap of thunder, only the click of a lock as the gates opened. Tattia found herself mildly disappointed. After how thoroughly it had resisted she had hoped there would be some display of power. Taking one of the torches from the wall she descend the stares. There were no spider webs to impede her progress. Whatever ward had been placed on this place they were truly impenetrable. The room was small square and filled mostly with golden vases, odd boxes, racks of strange weapons and armor from around the world. Tattia only had eyes for the chest, which her father had placed dead center of the room. In the guttural light of the torch it looked plainer than she remembered, but no matter it was probably just tarnished with age. Placing the torch on the floor beside her Tattia slowly lifted the heavy lid. She gazed inside the chest and saw only a flash of blue light before there was only nothingness.

Tattia Myrr

City of Rhun Eichlos Eichlos