A/N: Well…this is a bit of an experiment in writing. Aviah's thoughts are in present tense and her actions are in past tense…kind of like she does something, and then tells you what she thinks about it. Strange…I know, but I just felt like doing something different. This story DEFINITLEY will be continued, but if you don't like the tenses, I'll do my best to follow your suggestions!

Chapter 1: Letters and new 'suitor.' (read: challenge.)

I was furious.

I was much, much too intelligent for this.

I shouldn't be batting my eyelashes and being polite for God's sake!

I should be writing a play.

That's it. A play. About an old, ugly donkey of a father who threatened his intelligent, talented daughter with the prospect of being cooped away and horribly mistreated by a man with a total of two teeth, one eye, mutant nostrils, a body that looked like it had been discarded by a pig and a brain plucked from a mockingbird.

I doubt he even had all his vital organs! He's probably only still living on that mocking-bird-peanut-sized-brain because it has such a drive for food and bedding with a girl. I bet you that's all it does: feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed. Bed. Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed. Bed. Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.

I hope he dies of a seizure because his brain blows up. Probably because someone tried to explain how to be a decent HUMAN BEING.

What was his name again?

In any case, I'm better than being meat on a platter for a bunch of old idiots who think because they have money it makes them attractive in a way much more worthy than the attractiveness of me wanting to squish their heads in. More like popping, because I don't think they have much between the ears.

I ran through the halls of the king's castle trying not ram straight into one of the princes (and there was a slime-ball you didn't want to meet) 'servants' (read: poor little peasant girls trying to make some money for their families-except they're constantly being assaulted by an oversexed tyrant prince and then being called sluts). He sounds charming, doesn't he?

I turned the lock to my rooms vigorously (I'm still angry, you know) and swung it open. Of course, the first thing I saw was a couple of letters from one of my many 'suitors.' (Read: Old, fat, stupid men that come on the invite of my father while I try to disappear into the ball room floor while they hold me with grubby hands and tell me about all their past wives who've died.) I'm so glad that I'm potentially going to be another one of your dead wives, monsieur.

I picked them up and sorted through them (can't wait to see who's just proposed to me today!). Let's see…there's Duke Janan of Iishim, who, let me tell you, is quite a looker. Blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, rich, fawned over…

And stupid.

And arrogant.

And I hate-

Make that loathe him.

Oh! Then there's this little treat of a man…if you want to call him that. Count Rushlow something of somewhere. You want to know why I don't know those titles? Despite what you might think, it is NOT because I wasn't paying attention (although it has as much probability as the truth) but because he's so old he talks in a language of wheezes, clicks and hacks that I have not yet begun to decipher so I may better understand the deep, profound mysteries he is attempting to tell me when he says, "Haaaack...pfttttt…ckkkkkk."

How can I marry I man that I can't converse with?

More business-minded, I am uncertain I can even produce an heir with a man of his…ripeness.

Last, but not least in the letter pile is my favorite (read: The one I despise the most) 'suitor.' Prince Harshal Gerenga of Daibik. Now, I know you're most likely not from around here, so, to inform you, Daibik is my country.

Oohhhhh, yes! The prince of my country is trying to court me! I think I'll just die now, because Harshie, the resident brat-rapist soon to be kingie wants me to be his brat-rapee soon to be queenie. Can't wait! Now isn't he a gem?

All because my idiot-fool father wants to trade me like a cow for money. Like he doesn't have enough of it, and no wife to tell him what to do about it. No, he beat my mother to death. So now he can prance around with his entourage of 'real sluts' (read: gold-diggers) and have no one at court raise an eyebrow for the horrible acts he's done, because he's not disrespecting any woman.

I believe I am the only girl to yell at my father in quite a long time. Probably because I can dodge hits. You see, my mother used to tell him what's for, but that was an 'arranged marriage', and my father hates those, which is probably why he wanted one for me.

Oh, we have a great relationship.

I'm sure we might have had a chance if I had gotten all my teeth knocked out when I was little or was mute, or if my father wasn't a blood-sucking vampire (read: dowry-sucking bastard) who loathes me because I'm not a boy, or if he's in a good mood, hates me because I'm only one girl and can't bring him more money.

It really sucks being female.

That's when I had an amazing idea, looking down at the letter from Princie Harshie. One that would hit Harshie in his 'special spot' (read: either wee-wee or ego. Better to be both.) and possibly hit my father so hard he gets kicked out of the castle. Literally.

So I started writing.

Dear Prince Harshal (had to start over 3 times due to writing Princie Harshie)

If you do not recognize the penmanship, this is Duke Ronale Rubenne of Serkar. And I am very angry. (My father is not very articulate.) My daughter, Aviahnna Rubenne has been receiving advances from you for quite some time, and I am angry. (My father is also redundant.) She has been courting another man that she loves for longer than you have been attempting to court her, and she tells me she has told you this many times, (well, that was the lie I told Harshie anyway) so therefore I would appreciate if you, Prince Harshal, retained from your advances for the rest of your (pitiful) life. You should not call her "My pretty flower with the russet hair, china-blue eyes and powder skin"(ooooooohh! Add 'pretty flower' to a basic description of my features and you have a compliment!) any longer.

My regrets,

Duke Ronale Rubenne of Serkar.

Now all I have to do is get it with a courier. That was what I was about to do, when my lovely father came barging (I don't know how he fit in the door) into my chambers. I quickly hid the note in a concealed pocket in one of the folds of the skirt and tried to smile.

He was rubbing his mustache and looking very pleased with himself, and in an instant I knew he had either invited a new suitor or one had arrived. With my luck, both. He sat there strumming his dirty beard for a few minutes before he realized I was just sitting there, doing nothing. Which probably meant I had been doing something earlier.

Before he could say anything, I got up and started bustling around for no particular reason. I wish he would go away, or take his five-hundred pound body for a little roll down the hallway.

"What are you doing, Aviahnna?" he asked gruffly. He never calls me 'Aviah' like all the other sensible people who don't want to roll that ugly thing around in their mouths.

I ran a hand through my pinned up brown hair, biting my lip and looking for a focus point. I can't tell him I was writing a note to Princie Harshie or any of my other suitors, because he knows I hate them (not that he cares).

Just then I spotted my bow and arrows hastily thrown in the corner of my room.

"I was going to practice on Jivan with the bow…and maybe some throwing knives." My father occasionally lets me ride my beloved horses and practice weapons, just because it made me that much more of an outcast. And he likes that.

But not today.

Moving to sit on one of my chairs (I honestly was afraid it might break) he drew in a messy breath. "No, Aviahnna. There is a new suitor coming today…and although he is no Prince Harshal, he is very rich. You must get one of your maids to make you…" he looked at me and sniffed, "as presentable as possible."

I sighed, exasperated. I really wanted to get that letter sent. "Father, I hate Prince Harshi-er, Harshal, so why would I ever like this new one?"

My father glowered at me over bushy eyebrows. "I don't understand why you don't like Prince Harshal. He's rich, and he is a prince."

"Father, because he has a penis and he likes to use it."

"AVIAHNNA!" My father was infuriated. That was not lady-like of me. Do not ask me why I even said it. It slipped out and blew right into my father…not that I regret it.

Too bad he didn't really have much inclination to get out of the chair, so when I scooped up my bow and arrows, along with my knife belt (hey, I was probably going to spend a lot of today avoiding my father, why not spend it outside practicing?) and ran as fast as a heavy dress can take you down the hall, he didn't come after me.

I blew right out of the castle, juggling the protruding weapons. I hadn't exactly had time to grab my riding leathers, so I can't ride Jivan, but I suppose I could practice on the marks. After I delivered my letter.

I gave my weapons to the stable boy to put beside Jivan's stall, not even wanting to go see my beautiful pure white stallion…my letter was too important for that. I am going to make my father poor! Princie Harshie will read the letter and send us away! A dream come true! I took the letter out of the pocket and…

That was when the biggest idiot in the world ran into me with his giant over-sized excuse for a horse, and I watched my beautiful dream-letter drop to the floor and into a pile of mud. (Or possibly horse dung.)

Then that was when the misshapen cow (read: horse) stomped all over it.

I'm beyond furious. I rounded on the idiot on the horse; tugging at his stirrup and making him fall flat into the mud (I pray it's actually horse dung). Then I proceeded to kick him.

In between kicks I heard his annoying, idiotic voice say, "What the hell-OW!- are you doing-OW!-, you insane-OW!- wench?-OOOOOWWW!"

"You just ruined the thing that was getting me out of this hole, you arrogant, pitiful excuse for a man!"

"Stop kicking me!"

Suddenly the idiot flew up, bits of caked mud flying everywhere, and grabbed my forearms, trying to wrestle me to the ground. I guess he thinks I haven't spent a good portion of my life working with bows and horses. The fool.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"Not that it's any of your business, but Aviahnna Rubenne."

He suddenly went limp, and taking every chance I got, I threw him to the ground and started kicking him again. "Who are you?"

"Kadenelar Ashok of Damodar." My father was right behind me, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner, and I suddenly felt sick. He smiled, "He's your new suitor, Aviahnna."

Well, Kaden-what's-his-name had gotten up, and was looking at me with arrogant, indignant eyes, and a scowl on his face. His misshapen cow was beside him, nudging him annoyingly, and I was all covered in mud. Less than him though.

Then, (can you believe this?) right in front of my father, he pushed me straight into the mud (I pray it's not horse-dung) and stalked off with his cow. My father just started laughing.

Well, Princie Harshie is nothing compared to this bastard. But I suppose I can cheer myself up by making him my new challenge…how fast could I get him out of the castle?

Without warning, I felt a slap at the back of my neck as I stood up. I didn't even have to guess. Cow-boy just threw mud at me.

I abhor him.

A/N: J did you like it? Review if didn't, review if you did!