(Ah, sorry this is so late. I meant to post it earlier but I felt I needed to add to it. It's probably not done, but I dunno. How do you like it? It seems a bit boring, lol. .<.)
Characters:
- (MC) Ennyadiah Ruhimere (Moor)
- (MC) Pieter Arenloch (Pete)
- (SC) Viktor (Huehuehue)
- (MA) Unknown (Big Bad Boss)
Ch. 3: "Chance"
The pair fled into the sunrise, while their shadow slipped away, into the slums. This man was hard of face, yet quick of feet. He went northward with a subtle, sinister eagerness about him. He made for a private little building and let himself in, passing a few guards who seemed to be no more than mere thugs, like himself. He gained access to an ill-lit room, wherein a man sat in the suffocating darkness, his right hand holding the stump wrist of his other before him. He was dressed like a merchant, or moreso a pirate; yet, what truly accentuated this sinister appearance was the wickedness in his crinkled eyes.
"Sir, i's her." His voice was gruffy and somewhat hoarse. The other remained silent, so he continued, "She is west, an' resides wit a man who lives on th' risin' slope by the market. Jes' south and east of the castle grounds, they are."
Still no response, so again he spoke, "Shall ah bring 'em here? Or jes' tha' woman? Perhaps this man is of value. He tamed her, see?" He laughed, then, a chuckle of sorts, but it lacked something that made it sound out-of-place.
"That man, what do you know of 'im?" The sudden voice sounded more like a deep growl. Beady eyes met this figure, who grinned widely in return.
"Bloody Pete, 'e is. Pieter Arenloch. Jes' some fool who lost his dame and kid durin' the war." Viktor began, "Always drinkin' 'imself tah bits at me bar, see. Didn't bother to pay his bloody due afore leavin', even stirred up sum commotion with tha' woman."
The silhouetted man seemed to have ignored whatever else he had said, contemplating only on the name of the man when he began. His voice as a raven's, hard and cold, "Arenloch, Arenloch Na' where 'ave I heard that name before Aren loch. Ah," A smile tugged at the edges of his lips, "Ah'd remember that name anywhere. Kingfeller, they called 'im."
"Shall I kill 'im? It'd be one load off me back an' sweet revenge for tha' damage 'e made." He began to grumble.
"You fool!" He yelled with a burst of outrage, shocking the measly bartender. "He's the most infamous creature to grace the underworld and that filthy world above. Even the heavens know that name. You'd be walkin' to ye death if you approached him with so much as a nicked blade."
"Sir?"
"Threaten him." Now the darkness seemed palpable, yet it seemed to permeate his existence all the same, "Tis an honour you'd ne'r 'ave again, he can guarantee it. Unless Yes, use the girl."
"Yes, sir." Viktor replied quickly, yet now he was unsure of himself, "Then what wit' th' girl?"
"Take 'er alive."
And so, the man with steeled gaze left the dark man's presence and went off. He was aggravated by the reaction, he'd hoped he'd be let to kill this man; the streets of this measly kingdom had been such a bore for a long while ever since the end of the last war. Perhaps, if not kill him, he could take a simple threat and make it something more. Then, knowing what to do, he smiled maliciously without refrain as he sauntered off.
After arriving at his humble abode, the pair slipped inside and Pieter had the shaken woman take a seat. "Ah do think they left us as we came out'a deh alley." He assured her, quiet, judging her reaction. Her lips were tight and her face, sallow, she had not the mind to speak. Her eyes were still somewhat puffy after her weeping earlier, and he ached in regret for causing the lady tears. "Have ye any place to go, missy- miss Moor?" A slow shake of her head, and he nodded likewise. "Would ye stay here?"
Her face came alight then, and she looked up to him, nigh disbelieving, "Would you? Would you really let me...?" Then Moor stopped herself, her attitude shifting once more, "I- I couldn't do that to you. I would only pose a danger to you, Sir Arenloch."
"Nonsense, ah'd protect us both from any a harm tha' comes our way," A gentle smile eased into his face, "We'll be fine, I'm sure, miss Moor."
"" She relented, "Thank you" And then she fell again into silence. It hung for a bit, before she took to her feet and excused herself to his son's room. Pieter exhaled, large and grave, with a sort of melancholy to his gestures as he shifted her chair back into the table.
The soldier went to his own room and gently closed the door behind him, then he shuffled to the bed and sat heavily. He reached for the cabinet and opened a rickety drawer. He leaned over it and fumbled around the few articles of clothing that gathered dust from within, prompting a sneeze. Lifting away the layers, he pulled out a crinkled piece of paper, tattered and yellowed, and curved around the edges. Flipping it over, he gazed upon a painted picture of what was presumably his family, consisting of himself holding his wife, and their only child smiling at the front. All at once, he was overwhelmed, the old, tired, lost soldier, grown lonely after the years of wear and tear and solitude. Had he a purpose once again? The stillness of the room crept in all around him, the same walls, over the years, drying, cracking, hollowed. He stood abruptly, replacing the little picture, then left his room.
"Miss Moor, I will be leaving to the market. Ah should return before long." No response. He sighed again, then departed, the sun was still high in the sky.
The road, sloping downwards toward the far-reaching markets, was dry and hot as the sun had been up for some time now, basking it in a pervading heat. Mirages appeared and disappeared several times, as if they were gleaming waters over the stones. He treaded down the age-worn path with heavy steps, that threw bits of dust up behind him, and before long, he began to sweat under the midday heat. Wiping his forehead, he began to create a list for himself of what to buy. Perhaps they'd have some fruit later into the night.
Meanwhile at home, Moor had retreated to little Timothy's room and laid herself onto the bed, mindless of the heat, only further tightening the cloak around her body. Her eyes drooped, slowly. She was tired, and before she knew it, she was captured within herself in a dark dreamscape.
She was within the depths of a forest, the absent moon watching over her, helpless to light the way as she tried to find her way out and escape. The hunters were just behind, and the shadows were closing in. She heard an eerie sobbing, and then a long, drawn-out wail, and she realized that it was herself, who cried in such a way. Suddenly, she was watching herself, lying on the forest floor, crying out, kicking, shooting fire in wild directions, but to no avail. Moor couldn't look away, she watched her captors closing in with a mocking slowness in their tread. She felt sick.
Pieter strolled along in oblivion as some vendors called out to him, saying hello or, mostly, selling their wares. He followed the winding roads until he came upon the food district. Stands upon stands lined the streets, with heavenly aromas and other, less pleasant smells wafting through the open air. Fish, bread, nuts, cakes, fruits, and even raw meat; they had everything here that one could possibly hope for. However, having spent his month's dues, his gaze sought for cheaper foods.
He spent what he had brought on some bruised vegetables, a pound of flour, and a loaf of crusty bread; his regular vendors gave him some things extra as well, and although it wasn't much, it would do for the day. Pieter turned towards home, satisfied with himself and, though he wasn't one to admit it, was a bit excited to feed his guest. His steps felt--lighter. Then his thoughts were abruptly halted when he came to pass an old hag, likely a beggar, sitting alone along the roadside beneath the day's searing heat.
"Old soldier," She called out to him, her lips twitched, "Why do you harbor that beast at your side?"
Confusion hit him first, "What'dye mean, ma'm?" Though he was shocked by her blatancy, he remained cordial; he was a gentlemen, after all. "I see no beast. If yer referrin' to me new guest, I pray ye' not insult her."
"You have a ways to go, old soldier." Her twitch became a smile, tight and thin. She rose from the ground and slipped into the dark of a nearby alley, and simply seemed to have vanished. Pieter decided to ignore it and made his way on home. He had breakfast on his mind, and surely he could fashion what of the leftovers into lunch.
Back home, the witch sat up in the bed, which creaked in protest below her. She pulled her hair behind her ears and held her cloak close to her as she looked down at herself, her fire-like eyes gazing nowhere in particular. She was shaking, hard, and breathing as if she had just run the entirety of the marketplace. She focused on easing her breathing, calming down, but those thoughts stuck furiously to her mind. She looked around warily, but soon enough, began to ease. Moor relaxed, then; there was no-one about and she knew it. The thick, umber fabric even fell away from her shoulders and exposed them to the air, and then the edges of her cloak began sparking to life and glowing dimly. Trying to distract herself, she looked over to the hole in the side of her cloak and muttered, "I really should fix that," before rising to stand in the middle of the room and allowing her cloak to take on its true form A ring of blazing fire.
She stood within the ring, connected the entire way around in a strong, crimson flare. What was once a dull cloak lit the room up as if it were an autumn day. She handled this fire in her hands, and let it bob and weave up her arms. They didn't singe the cotton of her dress, a faded grey-white, but followed certain patterns up and down her skin; even upon her face, the fire traced peculiar ovular and sharply-tipped shapes. Long, jagged patterns of fire traced her back and one particularly long strand of fire ran down her left leg, wrapping around it. As this continued, the sweaty pallor in her face and her hands began to disappear, and she looked somewhat healthier; not glowing with health, no, but better. These strange strands lifted from her body now, and suddenly she seemed to have transformed. Her eyes burned white and her jaws slacked open to exhale hotly and to gnash and-
The front door creaked open and heavy steps entered.
"Ah've returned, miss Moor," Pieter called from the front of his tiny home. "It-... I's late, but would ye care for some breakfast?"
The fire returned to her in an instant as a cloak that settled down upon her shoulders and drifted towards the ground. Her skin remained in a light, but not as sickly a state, and the dagger's tear in her cloak had completely disappeared. Moor returned to the door and cracked it open to gaze upon her host.
"Yes, please, sir Pieter. I would certainly appreciate it," And then, hesitating, she continued, "Is there any way I could help?"
"Oh, no! Ah couldn't ask ye for that, miss Moor. Yer me guest, so.. Maybe if'd like te watch...?"
His nervousness amused her, it seemed as if he hadn't done this in a long while, cooking for someone. But she felt contented to take a seat in the dining chair and wait.
It seemed that, in the moment Moor fully stepped into the main room, the room itself warmed noticeably. Maybe it was due to some property of the witches, he reasoned, unsure, but he let it go. It felt pleasant, after all, he mused as he turned around. Pieter began to pull out what he needed to clean, cut, cook, or otherwise prepare, and set the other things aside for later use.
"Er, how has your morning gone, sir Pieter?" And they both were caught off guard. Moor shifted in the chair, unsure, watching his back, while Pieter was surprised because he thought her to be the demure type, not one to speak casually like among the common folk.
"Ah'm doin' well, thank ye fer askin'." He responded, a bit of cheer in his gruffy voice. "How's about i' for ye, miss Moor?" He followed.
"I feel better now, thank you." She came to smile now, and her voice soft, but its presence lingering pleasantly in the air afterwards. Then again, she spoke, a little quieter and twinged with apology, "Thank you For earlier. I've been shaken for a while now." Her hands kneaded themselves in her lap.
"Ah, I knew tha'. Yer a gentle soul, miss Moor, an' ah already told ye, din't I? That I was outta tha' business." Pieter recalled his words, and the memory of that night before returned freshly to his mind. That exhaustion written into her face, it was so piteous, and she seemed not only desperate, but also fragile. Extremely so. The carrots easily gave way beneath his knife, and he moved onto the potatoes.
Sunlight bathed the room, and the burnt-out candles scattered throughout the edges of the room were like silent spectators, listening to the slow and steady noise of him chopping away. Pieter had sliced up some of the bread and tossed one lamb chop, then both after silent contemplation, into his boiling pot of old chicken stock and flour. Poor he may be, but he had the dignity to give her the best meal he could make out of these lackluster ingredients.
He spiced them lightly with what precious ingredients he had for the year, "Miss Moor" He turned and chopped up a tomato that old Greenwich's wife had given him. "If ye ever need help, please, jes' ask." He pulled out a handful of dried mushrooms, and hoped they would do. Soon enough, he was stewing their "breakfast", an honest lunch by that point, and setting out a couple of ceramic bowls he had. He watched her from his place by the fire, then turned back to the flames.
When the stew was done, he scooped them out into the bowls and balanced one on each hand to the table. Then he brought them old, wooden spoons and some water.
"Would ye like tah see th' town? I presume ye havn't seen it yet." He inquired, and watched as Moor lifted her gaze from her stew. He saw a bit of wonder in them, which was quickly overshadowed by more a haunted look. He wondered if he'd said something wrong.
"Would it be 'bout those hunt'rs, miss Moor? Them hunters who were after you last night?" And she answered with a turn of her head. His heart fell, "I'll be besides ye all th' way, miss Moor, y'oughta be sure of that."
"... Yes, thank you. I do appreciate it." Her smile was warm and kind; it reminded him of that smile his wife used to give him, and sank his heart a little further. |
