Festival of Masks Fiction

A large ruby glowed on the inn table. The four Jaskinors stared at it.

“On the last day of her life, my mother entrusted me with the Eye of Dahsk,” said Sufri Jaskinor. “I shall be the one to present it to the sultan.”

“Songs on the subject agree,” his daughter Layla replied as she quietly strummed her harp, “that a wicked vizier and a beautiful concubine stole it when they ran away together.”

“No!” Sufri exclaimed. “Our ancestor hid the Eye at the request of his sultan, who feared assassination.”

“Who cares?” Omar ran a finger along an edge of the gem and whistled. “Let’s sell it.”

“No matter why we have it,” Layla said, smacking her brother’s hand away from the stone, “it must be returned. It is my responsibility, as the eldest, to undertake this journey.”

Omar made a rude noise. “We need the money!”

The three argued long into the night

At daybreak, Nayefa Jaskinor slipped out of the Wayfarer’s Inn with the gem and headed towards the docks.

Comments are closed.