Post by Judas D'arc on Jan 19, 2024 20:45:06 GMT -5
Bound by chains, the elf was helpless before them, her torn dress and bloodied knees covered in mud and sand from that secluded beach. Nearby, her captors’ hirelings prepared a small skiff for their next destination, under the unreliable light of two half-moons. Despite her discomfort, there was a subtle gracefulness to her subservient posture. Despite her circumstances, she did not seem particularly concerned about her fate.
“Lady Sforza, I regret to inform you, you’re a widow now.”
Her expression did not noticeably change. Instead, she focused her gaze on the taller of the two men looking above her. He was calm and armored, and his right eye was concealed by a black leather patch emblazoned with the symbol of a coin. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she told him.
The smaller of the two men, a foppish nobleman who stunk of cheap Deep Forest wine, turned to his companion. His face was badly bruised, and his voice cracked under the weight of his anxieties. “I prefer not to be present for the burning and beheading and all that.”
“She’s not a vampire, Oswin. And there’s no need for a beheading, least for tonight.”
“But her husband -- ”
“He was the vampire,” the elven prisoner completed his statement for him., “Still, more of a child than husband. Though not incapable of providing pleasure when called upon, it was his name that was of interest to me. I can always find more husbands.”
“But you told me, and I told the Fist -- ” the smaller man’s alcohol-stained mouth sputtered.
“From how I understand it, you’re fond of collecting names,” said the one-eyed man.
“The same could be said for one who fashions himself a Stower, an Orton, and a Hairy Bastard,” she replied with a haughty grin.
“No disagreement, Lady Sforza,” he gave her a slight nod. “Or do I now call you El’yana?” He turned to the trio of armed men waiting by the small vessel. “Load her up, boys!”
As their hirelings dragged away the elven prisoner, in a manner that ensured that her torn dress and bloodied knees had greater exposure to the filth of the ground, the two faced one another. The man who smelled of wine and perfume and stale couplings said to his companion, “I admit, too many questions. Why did you call her by a name so similar to mother? Who was she first, if not the Lady Sforza of Nujel’m? And why are you keeping her alive?”
“Tell me the most infamous ship that you’ve ever sailed upon.”
He thought on this for a few moments, and answered even quicker than that. “Your own.”
“A name that’s a reference, but it’s not the only reference to it. And in that one, we have mother, the dark enchantress, and eight others no one gives much thought to at all.”
“I am puzzled, still.” He raised his flask and swallowed some of its contents. “I have never been one for riddles mysteries. My mind was crafted for life’s finer pleasures.”
The one-eyed man grunted and nodded. “It’s my own fault then, for confusing you with yourself.” He glanced towards the skiff, the hirelings, and the elven prisoner. “Find your own way home, I’ll let you know when you’re next needed.” He then touched the other man’s cheek, gently tracing the various bruises that covered it. There was a hint of remorse in his next words. “Apologies for the beating from Sforza. If the Fist hadn’t destroyed him, I’d have done it myself.”
“No need for sorries.” A longer sip passed his lips. “As we always say, Blood is All.”
“Lady Sforza, I regret to inform you, you’re a widow now.”
Her expression did not noticeably change. Instead, she focused her gaze on the taller of the two men looking above her. He was calm and armored, and his right eye was concealed by a black leather patch emblazoned with the symbol of a coin. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she told him.
The smaller of the two men, a foppish nobleman who stunk of cheap Deep Forest wine, turned to his companion. His face was badly bruised, and his voice cracked under the weight of his anxieties. “I prefer not to be present for the burning and beheading and all that.”
“She’s not a vampire, Oswin. And there’s no need for a beheading, least for tonight.”
“But her husband -- ”
“He was the vampire,” the elven prisoner completed his statement for him., “Still, more of a child than husband. Though not incapable of providing pleasure when called upon, it was his name that was of interest to me. I can always find more husbands.”
“But you told me, and I told the Fist -- ” the smaller man’s alcohol-stained mouth sputtered.
“From how I understand it, you’re fond of collecting names,” said the one-eyed man.
“The same could be said for one who fashions himself a Stower, an Orton, and a Hairy Bastard,” she replied with a haughty grin.
“No disagreement, Lady Sforza,” he gave her a slight nod. “Or do I now call you El’yana?” He turned to the trio of armed men waiting by the small vessel. “Load her up, boys!”
As their hirelings dragged away the elven prisoner, in a manner that ensured that her torn dress and bloodied knees had greater exposure to the filth of the ground, the two faced one another. The man who smelled of wine and perfume and stale couplings said to his companion, “I admit, too many questions. Why did you call her by a name so similar to mother? Who was she first, if not the Lady Sforza of Nujel’m? And why are you keeping her alive?”
“Tell me the most infamous ship that you’ve ever sailed upon.”
He thought on this for a few moments, and answered even quicker than that. “Your own.”
“A name that’s a reference, but it’s not the only reference to it. And in that one, we have mother, the dark enchantress, and eight others no one gives much thought to at all.”
“I am puzzled, still.” He raised his flask and swallowed some of its contents. “I have never been one for riddles mysteries. My mind was crafted for life’s finer pleasures.”
The one-eyed man grunted and nodded. “It’s my own fault then, for confusing you with yourself.” He glanced towards the skiff, the hirelings, and the elven prisoner. “Find your own way home, I’ll let you know when you’re next needed.” He then touched the other man’s cheek, gently tracing the various bruises that covered it. There was a hint of remorse in his next words. “Apologies for the beating from Sforza. If the Fist hadn’t destroyed him, I’d have done it myself.”
“No need for sorries.” A longer sip passed his lips. “As we always say, Blood is All.”
