Briar Rose

Beatrix stared into the depths of the wineglass, holding it up to the moonlight that filled her room. She took a savory sip of the luxurious drink, and stared into its depths once again. Without fail, the dark red liquid reminded her of old blood, of love lost, of victory and its sacrifices, of loss and its price. The taste was always sweet to her, no matter what vineyard it had come from or how long it had been fermented.

She drank other liquids sparingly, but red wine was what she enjoyed.

The Alexandrian knight lowered her wineglass, and stared out into the Alexandrian streets far below her from where she stood, catching a whiff of the night breeze beside the open doors of her balcony. True to her nature, her sword remained sheathed at her side, and her armor remained buckled upon her lithe figure; it was said that she could not sleep without her sword within easy reach.

She did nothing to quell the stories, nor the rumors. They created fear, and she had learned that sometimes it was good to live on fear.