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Post by Alisiea on Oct 28, 2012 12:33:58 GMT -5
*This thread was started in May of 2012 and first appeared on the Ashencrosse boards. I am reposting it here since it gives a little insight into Ali's background leading up to the current Shadows thread* "The Prisoner" The blows rained down about her head and shoulders. She fought back but to no avail. Never had she felt such violence. She had, in the past, been chased from towns and villages. Roughly escorted to the edge of counties by sheriffs. Tossed into the street from taverns and Inns and dragged to jail for doing nothing more than dancing in the square for money. But this; this was different. She had had words with Orcs before. On more than one occasion they had cornered her, mocked her, and sniffed at her as if she were a fresh cut of meat. But then Orcs did that to almost every female they saw. Tonight, however, it had been different. The Orcs seemed intent from the start that they were not leaving the tavern empty handed. Already they had killed and seemed more than willing to kill again. They had attempted to abduct several women and, at one point, Alisiea had drawn her blade and blocked the exit in an effort to show her solidarity with those women whom she knew, in her blood, were her natural enemies. And yet the prospect of seeing, even them, taken by force into slavery and bondage was more than she could stomach. Perhaps it was that very action that drew the Orcs attention. Perhaps it was something else. Regardless, the tensions subsided briefly and it seemed the Orcs were finally convinced they would have to leave empty-handed. They left and the atmosphere calmed. Alisiea too was about to leave when Judas returned. Surprised at seeing him come back, her mood brightened. Did he return for her? Did he? She smiled when he spoke to her and decided she would stay awhile longer, if for no other reason, than to hear his voice and see him smile. They had been together now for many weeks. First in Haven, then she followed him to Ocllo and finally to Trisic where they and the others met in secret and formed their plans. He was, to the young gypsy girl, the first man who had ever paid any attention to her in a meaningful way; in a kind way. And because of this she was willing, more than willing, to give Judas what she had given no other man; herself. But, as fate would have it, the Orcs returned and appeared more determined than ever. Almost immediately a fight ensued. Alisiea attempted to assist but found herself pinned against a wall by a massive, brutish Orc. His close-set eyes and wide, tusk filled mouth leered at her as he held the blade of his battle-axe against her throat. She dropped her own blade and kept absolutely still. A mere flick of his wrist would sever her head and Judas would never know the taste of her kiss. Suddenly the Orc seized her by her hair and dragged her out of the tavern. Had anyone seen? The sound of breaking glass and smashing furniture combined with the shouts and grunts of the continuing fight made it almost certain no one had. ********** Alisiea groaned and rolled onto her side. Groggy, bleary-eyed and sporting a sizable lump on the back of her head, she tries to sit up. Blinking she realizes she is naked and lying on a mat of rotting straw. But there is something else. Something that brings her to her knees. The stench of rotting horse, mongbat and other unrecognizable odors assaults her senses causing her to retch. Sitting up she finds an iron collar has been fastened around her neck and bolted tight. A long, heavy chain leads from the collar to a sturdy oak post set in the ground ten paces away. The chain is anchored to the post by a heavy iron ring. Rising to her feet she yanks the chain. Held fast, the iron ring doesn’t budge; she is securely tethered. Rage sweeps through her, but her body will not shift; the iron collar prevents it. Moving out to the point where the chain ends, she finds she is in a large cage made of steel and wood. The steel bars criss-cross making a solid wall of squares. The walls are anchored deep into the ground. They are twelve feet high and attached to a ceiling of heavy oak. Two of the walls are made of thick, wooden posts. The other two are steel. A gate in one of the steel walls is secured with a heavy lock. A thin evening fog makes it difficult to see what lies beyond the cage, but at the edge of her sight she can make out the muted orange flames of a small fire. Squatting down she begins to dig at the base of the cage with her hands, but finds the bars are set deep. Growling she climbs the bars as far as the chain will allow. She shakes the cage but it doesn’t budge. Jumping down she walks around the edge of the enclosure finding it littered with bones and rotting, discarded clothing. Fuming she grips the collar. “What is going on?” She whispers. Pulling the chain behind her, she moves to the gate. Peering into the haze she can make out a large dirt clearing strewn with straw, broken furniture and discarded tools. A small fire burns at the edge of the clearing and squatting near the fire are several dark forms, figures that seem like specters in the evening gloom. “HEY!” she shouts. LET ME OUT!” One of the shadowy figures makes a sudden motion and something whistles through the air to crash against the bars only inches from her fingers. A large rock tumbles away. Alisiea pulls her hands inside and backs away. Snarling, she shouts again. “Why have you done this to me? LET ME OUT!” At that, one of the figures stands and moves toward her. As it draws closer she sees it is squat but broad shouldered and clothed in an odd assortment of armor and furs. Its claw like hand grips a massive club. The Orc sways back and forth as it walks swinging its thick arms in slow muscular arcs. As the Orc draws near Alisiea backs away for it is easily twice her size with arms as thick as her legs. On its head sits a rusty, cracked and crooked helmet with a nose guard separating its beady, close set eyes. A heavy jaw juts from its squat face and at the sides of its broad mouth protrude chipped and crooked tusks. Closing on the cage the creature swings the club bringing it crashing against the bars. The entire cage rattles from the blow. “CUEIT FEMMI SNAGA! NOVI BAQK!” The Orc yells, leering at her nakedness. Alisiea moves away until she feels the wood of the palisade against her back. Squatting she covers herself as best she can. Looking around, fearful of what might come next, she cowers in the shadows … but not for long. Shortly other Orcs return. The ones that dragged her from the tavern and brought her here, to this fortress hidden deep in the forest. One of them enters the cage and grunts at her in his unfathomable language. She stands and faces him. She does not understand. He slaps her hard across the face. She reels from the blow. He grunts again. She frowns. He wants her to do what? To scrub and to clean their filth? She refuses. She is slapped again; harder. She refuses again. Two more Orcs enter the cage. The three surround her. She is ordered again to clean and cook for them. Again she refuses. Without warning the beatings begin. She fights back as best she can but they are twice her size and three times as strong. If she could shape-shift she would rip their throats out and tear them limb from limb, but the iron collar weighs heavy against her flesh as they beat her senseless. One of the Orcs has bitten her on the back of the neck. When she falls at their feet they kicked her and continued to beat her until she finally agrees to do as ordered. The largest of the Orcs, their leader she guesses, drags her out of the cage by the chain. Drags her to a filthy corner of the fort and sets down a bucket of greasy water and rags before her. Again he kicks her. She crawls to her knees and begins to slowly wipe down any object within reach. The stench of the place is unbearable. There is a whisky still and several barrels. She wipes them down. The Orcs drink and laugh watching her. One slaps her behind and grunts something. She spins and throws a rag at him. They beat her for it. A short time later, exhausted and bleeding they drag her back to the cage and lock her in. She is left alone as all the Orcs leave the fortress. Despair now becomes her companion. Her auburn hair is a tangled mass of filth, spittle and blood. Her flesh is torn and her body bruised. The Goddess of the forest has abandoned her. The humans have abandoned her. Judas … Judas has abandoned her. She is gypsy and a shape-shifter. One who once served the undead. She will be forgotten and never forgiven. Left to serve the Orcs and most likely taken by one of them to be a mate. She will die before that happens. This she promises herself. Leaning against the palisade wall she glares out from under her brows and curtain of tangled hair. Her eyes flash in the growing gloom. If these creatures ever make the mistake of removing the iron collar; their fate will be sealed. Suddenly there is a commotion outside the walls. The Orcs have returned but they are not alone. Voices, human voices and the sound of horses and the jangle of armor filter over the walls of the fortress. Alisiea struggles to her feet. She strains to listen. There is talk. Grunts. More talk. Voices are raised and one of the Orcs opens the cage and drags her out. He throws her torn and filthy dress over her and yanks her by the chain to the entrance of the fort. She peers out through swollen eyes. There are humans before the gates and others as well, but she cannot make out whom. There is more talk. Talk of money. Talk of retribution. Alisiea cannot understand why they are here. She saw no other prisoners. No other humans held captive. Perhaps the Orcs are selling her to slavers. It is not unheard of. Should she expect anything less? The talk continues. Becomes heated. Weapons are drawn and she is dragged back to the cage and tethered once more to the post. She lies in the diminishing light of day as a battle rages outside the walls. Between wakefulness and sleep she listens as the clash of metal upon metal and the electric arc of Magick is wielded. The screams of mounts, dying Orcs and human’s echo through the forest. How long the battle lasted she could not tell you. It could have been minutes or hours of even days it simply did not matter. Nothing mattered as she struggled against the currents of forgetfulness. Silence soon fell over the fortress and the surrounding forest and she was dragged out again. This time, however, she was set free. The collar removed and the chain taken away. Shoved outside the gates she fell to her knees. Too weak to shift. To weak to speak. A strong hand helped her to her feet. She peered through swollen, bloody eyes. The Lady Knight she had met earlier at the tavern was smiling and speaking to her, but her words were blanketed by thick gauze. Other faces appeared. One of the undead whom she once served stood nearby, watching in silence. A Mage? A jester? A priest? The healer who had seen to her arm that evening and the one called Paine and … and… nearby, as the night came into its own reality, stood the one man she was sure she would never see again … Judas.
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Post by Alisiea on Oct 29, 2012 6:58:12 GMT -5
The unbearable agony of splitting bones. Muscles torn from their connective tissue, sinew and tendons stretched beyond human endurance. Vital organs shifted or completely changed. The rib cage cracked and widened. Eye sockets shifted. The jaw displaced and the teeth moved forward. And the blood. Like molten lead it races through the arteries and veins burning away all semblance of humanity. What remains behind is nothing recognizable. The curse removes all human thought. No images of friends or companions. No desire to please others. No memory of touch or of kindness. No songs or music to occupy the empty spaces and no dance. All memories are replaced by one basic thing; instinct.
**********
The Red Wolf stands forty-eight inches at the shoulder. Seven feet in length and weights 347 lbs. It is a solid mass of muscle and rage. A creature created for one purpose; to kill. Its jaws can snap the leg bone of a man with a single bite or tear the throat from any Troll or Ettin living. It fears nothing and stops for nothing once it has caught the scent of enemy or prey. The wolf serves no one save the pack, but this wolf has no pack. And this wolf … this singular wolf … is wounded.
Alisiea limped into the thick wood south of Luna and shifted. She wandered deeper into the forest until she came to a small brook. Here she sat for several hours taking in water and nursing her wounds. At times she would whimper or yelp as the deeper wounds, the ones she could not see, stabbed her. Slowly she made her way up the opposite bank and entered a thick stand of pines. The underbrush was heavy and difficult to break through, but her massive size allowed her to push her way into the dark interior of the pines. Here she circled and scratched at the thick carpet of soft needles until she had formed a bed to lie upon. As night descended she sat and waited. The scent of deer was strong on the wind and her instinct compelled her to hunt, but she could not. For to run … to even trot caused her great pain. Instead she circled three times and lay down to rest and let her wounds heal. How long it would take was not her concern. Her life had always been in the hands of the Moon Goddess and, if she lived, if she survived, then she would howl her thanks a thousand times. She perked an ear for, from the distant mountains, drifting on the breeze, she could hear the howling of a pack. The howling of her sisters. The howling of the hunt.
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Post by Alisiea on Oct 30, 2012 6:23:14 GMT -5
What would normally have taken weeks took only days. On the third day the red wolf rose and left her makeshift den. She descended the bank and drank her fill from the cool brook. Hunger gnawed at her. Having satisfied her thirst she set off at a gentle lope in pursuit of a tiny scent that lingered in the air. Her body now healed, she reveled in the strength that rippled through her. Delighted in the freedom of the run. She followed the scent as it grew stronger, more pronounced. Miles passed under her paws as she gained on her prey. She paused and sniffed the ground. They were just ahead, traveling west. A deep throated growl vibrated in her chest as she lowered herself and carefully crept forward. She stopped behind a stand of Bayberry shrubs and looked over a shallow ridge down into a wooded depression. The forest was deeply shaded here and offered the three Orcs shelter from the brighter light of day. They would rest until nightfall and then resume their journey.
But the red wolf could not wait for nightfall and watched as the Orcs went about preparing their camp. It did not matter that these were not the same Orcs who had wounded her so badly. It only mattered that they were Orcs and that they should die. Quietly, with the skill of a master hunter, she circled the Orcs sizing up their strength. She chose the largest one, focused her eyes on him and backed away some distance. Pulling her hind legs in, she tensed her muscles, raised her hackles and sprang forward.
The Orc heard the pounding charge and turned towards the sound but the wolf had closed the distance quickly, offering him no chance to draw his weapon. She slammed into the Orc with the force of twenty men bowling him over before he could shout. His body broken, he coughed blood and cursed. The wolf clamped her jaws down and picked the Orc off the ground by his throat. With a flick of her head she flung the Orc towards his two onrushing companions. A large, bloody chunk of Orc-flesh hung from her jaws. The body of the dead Orc crashed into the others knocking them to the ground. In seconds they too were dead.
The wooded hollow became littered with body parts and soaked with blood as the red wolf tore the Orcs to pieces. Her bloodlust satisfied, she sat in the center of the depression, raised her head to the sky and howled a song of victory. The forest, for miles around, echoed her cry of triumph. Returning to the brook near her makeshift den she washed the Orc-blood from her body. An hour later, as the sun dipped towards the horizon, she shifted.
Alisiea stepped from the shadows of the forest and walked across the grassy lawn toward the rear of Hanse’s hostel. She was naked and soaking wet, but healed. Above all else she craved a hearty meal, a stout ale and perhaps, but not necessarily, a hot bath.
Tomorrow, she would dance.
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Post by Alisiea on Oct 31, 2012 12:52:19 GMT -5
Things used to be simple; not so anymore. Before, there was only survival. To eat, sleep and find her way as best she could. Yes, at times it had been difficult and sometimes even painful, but at least she knew what to expect when she entered a town or village and she knew what areas to avoid. She had been able to make her way thus far by dancing. It was, in fact, the only thing of value she had. But then there was the curse. A two edged sword to be sure. With control, it offered her a freedom that came as close to the euphoria she felt when lost in the dance. Without control, it was unbearably painful and violently dangerous to anyone within reach. Thus she kept to herself, living off the few coins she could gather by dancing in town squares, for a curious or bored Lord or Lady, or in dark, filthy taverns where the patron’s purses would loosen with drink. It did not matter that she could neither read nor write; she could dance and for the longest time … that had been enough.
Now, however, things were not so simple. Now she found herself caught up in plots and schemes, rivalries and jealousies. Jealousy. Now there was a word she had never pondered before. Yes she had often wished to have the same fancy clothes as the Ladies she danced for. Yes, she had often wished for a solid roof over her head and a clean bed in which to lie, but she had never been jealous of those who were her betters. She knew her place and she kept to it as life demanded. But now … now she felt desire and a yearning in her chest that was more like a fever. A fever that could only be broken by the sound of his voice or the sight of his face or the touch … of his hand.
Where the simple clarity of survival and dance once stood, now confusion and jealousy took its place. Confusion over these people who had befriended her. People for whom she felt both love and fear. They guarded her, protected her and even risked their lives to rescue her. Yet she felt they could, at any moment, destroy her and enjoy every second of it. Jealousy towards the women who pushed her aside so they could spend time with Judas. And jealousy when he went off alone with one of them. Then there were … the others. She had been forced to serve them once when they lived under a different banner. When their dark purpose had no value other than the spread of terror and death. Now they formed a strange and confusing alliance with, not only each other, but with men and women who would have once hunted them, or even her, for the sheer pleasure of utterly destroying them.
These thoughts and feelings washed over her as she pulled herself out of the Haven harbor to sit naked on the docks. She had needed a bath and this was where she always came when there was no coin for a proper hot bath at the local inn. This desire to be clean was something else that never seemed important either; until now. Was it because the fever she felt pushed her to be clean for Judas or was it because she was now in the company of Ladies who perfumed themselves to mask that subtle scent of death that no one else seemed to notice? Or was it because being clean simply felt good?
She was changing; she could feel it. And she looked at herself differently. Her hair, her clothes. The way she sat, ate, or spoke, how she smiled; everything was changing. For some odd reason or perhaps out of the changes that was occurring within her, she wished no longer to be alone. She wished no longer to simply “survive.” She wished, now, to be a part of something, belong somewhere or to someone. Now she wished to be a person not a “thing.”
Ashencrosse. She had seen the Inn and Tavern. The warm fires that crackled endlessly in the stone fireplaces. The well appointed tables with their fine settings and fancy candles. And the stage. A place to dance where the rain would not soak her or drive her from the streets, or muddy her feet. A place where people with good coin came willingly and would pay well to watch her dance. And there were cookies, lots and lots of sweet oatmeal-raisin cookies. Quinn had shown her how to get at them when the bartender was not looking.
Quinn. Of all the members of this strange alliance and of all the things Alisiea felt most confused about, this odd woman named Quinn was the most confusing of all. She knew the woman had wanted desperately to kill her once. Would have happily put one of those mechanical silver arrows in her brain and gone to sleep that night without a second thought. But Quinn too had changed. Somehow, this odd woman with the painted face had aided her when the Orcs beat her. Watched over her when she went to the forest to heal. Sat nearby when the “others” were present. The apprehension Alisiea once felt towards this woman was slowly being replaced by an odd attraction. She liked how Quinn spoke her mind without regard to how others might react. And she liked how Quinn acted towards Judas. Were they friends? Lovers?
Somehow the jealousy Alisiea felt towards other women did not seem to apply to Quinn when it came to Judas. Alisiea loved them both, differently of course, but love was the proper word. Alisiea knew she could go to battle alongside either one of them and die if need be to protect them. This loyalty towards another was also new and confusing and these feelings often sprang up without warning. Twinges of hope. Aches of desire. Tears of contentment. To be held in his arms. To be shown the secret of the cookie jar. To be given a clean room with a soft bed. To have a wayward finger freed from the clutches of an ale bottle or to have silverware pushed out of reach for her own good. These things mattered. These things counted for something. These things demanded that she change.
Alisiea sighed deeply and dressed herself. She cared little that a sailor aboard one of the moored ships leaned over the rail to leer at her. She was clean again and it felt … proper. As she walked back toward the outdoor tavern and her friends, Alisiea smiled. Somehow, the City of New Haven seemed much smaller than it had before her bath. Somehow, in some small way, she had outgrown it.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 1, 2012 10:23:44 GMT -5
Cookies are good. All cookies. Sugar cookies. Lemon Drops, Orange Wedges and Raspberry Swirls. But the best cookie of all, in my opinion - the “Queen” of all cookiedom, besides the Ginger Snap, which is like the Princess of cookiedom, has to be, hands down, in my opinion - the Oatmeal Raisin. Not too crunchy, not too soft. It fills my mouth with sweetness and makes me laugh. Makes me want to dance.
**********
When I cut off his head I didn’t know what to think. Actually I didn’t think at all. I didn’t even know the man, but they said he was a monster. He didn’t look like a monster, but then … neither do I. And some people might easily think I am a monster. It is right for one monster to kill another monster? I have killed monsters before and they did not look anything like this man. But he had killed a girl in front of everyone. Right there in the tavern. Tore her throat out with his teeth. Perhaps he really was a monster. He smiled at me earlier that night. Spoke to me … like She used to. He made me feel … funny.
“Choose.” They told him. “Choose the one who will destroy you.”
He chose me. Why me? They handed me the axe. A battle axe. I am not used to such a heavy weapon. Knives and Krisses fit my hands better and Fencing is like a dance anyway, so it suits me. But I took the axe, heavy as it was, and swung it at him. I would have done better with a knife or a kriss, but they insisted on the battle axe. I could have done better in my other body, could have torn him to pieces with my hands and teeth, but that would have put my friends in danger too. And that would have made me the monster. So I hacked at him …, hacked at him …, and hacked at him. And he did not fight back. He just stood there. When it was over I dropped the battle axe on the damp grass and walked away. I pushed it from my mind.
Later, when we returned to the tavern, I tried to talk to people. A pretty girl in a beautiful gown wanted to talk to me about things, pretty things, but all I heard was ringing in my ears. A great blood stain on the wood floor and the smell of death was everywhere. The room started to spin and I could feel my blood start to burn. I had to leave before it was too late.
I ran. I ran through the forest until my legs burned and my lungs could take no more. I fell to the ground next to a winding river of stars and would have plunged in to cool my raging blood but the curse took me before I could move.
The rest is a dark blur of smells and tastes I cannot identify. Did I kill? Did I destroy? Did I too, become a monster?
When I came back to Ashencrosse, whether it had been a day or two days I don’t know. But when I came back to Ashencrosse, to the Bramble Rose, they were there waiting for me. Waiting to make me laugh. Waiting to make me dance.
Those wonderful Oatmeal Raisin cookies.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 2, 2012 5:43:56 GMT -5
Her young body transformed violently but she endured the pain. She went to the forest so they would not hear her screams or witness the breaking of her bones, the overstretched muscles, the expanding ribs and the loss of self. She did this, not out of anger. Not out of fear. But rather from a sense of duty. A sense of responsibility.
These words were new to her. Duty. Responsibility. She had always been free. Free to choose her own direction. Choose where to sleep. Choose whether to bathe or not bathe. To dance or not dance. Now she had a different kind of freedom. The freedom to stay in one place. The freedom to help those who had helped her. The freedom to belong.
The Lady Knight who had helped rescue her from the Orcs, lay dying. Two others dead. Viciously attacked by someone or something from outside. Something that came into the very place they considered most safe. The danger was certain. The response; simple. Kill that which threatened them the most.
These people were her clan now. This place was her home now. She transformed her body, not out of fear, not out of anger, but from a need to protect her clan. And this she would do regardless of the danger. This she would do even to the death. There was nothing more important. Nothing more vital. Nothing more basic.
She had gone to New Haven that night instead of sleeping in the attic of the Bramble Rose as she normally did. Instead she had taken the few coins Paine had given her and went to Haven to dance and have a bath. A real bath with hot water and scented soap. But since that night, more than once did she think;
“If I had only stayed.”
So now she patrolled the grounds, outside the palisades and in. Swept through the alleys and along the tree-line. Stood guard at the entrance. No one. No one got in or out so long as she stood the night watch.
Then the unthinkable happened. Judas, the man she loved, or thought she loved, confessed to the crime. Yet somehow he was not responsible? Somehow his actions that night had been controlled by the monster called Draven? It was all so confusing. Was such a thing possible? It was madness, she thought; utter madness.
A dark mood hung over the small town of Ashencrosse and its leaders as they argued and wept. Some kind of action was needed, anything to relieve the unbearable sense of loss and failure that threatened to destroy them all. For Alisiea there was only one solution. If her clan was to be free again. If she was ever going to dance inside that theater again, if she was ever going to laugh again, then the danger must be eliminated. And so, gathering her armor, she headed for the gate. Today, before he rose again, she would travel to the other side of the world, travel to the place called Carden and destroy the thing called Draven.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 3, 2012 11:51:40 GMT -5
"Coming of Age"
Alisiea opened her eyes. She was lying on her side facing the fireplace in the meeting room of the Great Hall. Last nights fire had died to embers but still gave off a soothing warmth. The silver stillness of early morning lay over the town of Ashencrosse. She smiled. There was a warmth at her back, one she normally did not feel, but now welcomed. Paine’s arm lay across her waist. The heaviness of it spoke of strength and safety. His breathing near her ear was strong and steady. Sometime during the night, when she was already asleep, he lay down behind her to comfort and protect her. And there, he too, fell asleep.
**********
The day before had been one of intense agitation. Wild emotions that ran the spectrum; from anticipation, worry, fear, anger, joy and rage, to guilt and passion. Never before has she been carried on a storm of such magnitude. Never before had she been so torn. At times she wanted to tear her own heart from her chest and throw it to the ground for all to see. At other times she wanted nothing more than to vanish into the shelter of the forest and run and run and run until she could run no more. Yet still, at other times, she wanted to dance for the sheer pleasure of loosing herself in the Magick of the spell. But it was not to be.
Love pushed at her. Teased her. Rubbed its fingers along the inside of her thigh. For months the object of her affection was a man who was, himself, torn and shredded by a past that haunted him still. Judas could not love her the same way she loved him and he told her so. When she realized he was right and that all the pleading and promises she could think of would be of no avail; that offering herself to him and selecting him to be her first was a mistake, she felt her heart bleed in her chest. She would have gladly torn out her own eyes rather than see the look on his face. She would have gladly ripped off her own ears rather than hear his words. His arguments seared her heart. His logic drove her mad.
There were moments in the day, however, that brought a sort of lingering peace, a quiet conversation with a friend. Someone who, by all rights, should be a blood enemy now became a trusted confidant. They spoke of love and the intimate secrets only women shared. And Alisiea listened, thought, and considered the truth of Jolicia’s words. From those thoughts and feelings Alisiea found more words, words that were spoken later to Judas and from those spoken words was raised a bitter storm. Anger and rage tore though her like lightning through the night sky only to be quickly followed by guilt and shame.
She found no relief. No quarter was given. The unbridled emotions that now ruled her drove her to bitter tears. Love shows no mercy to those who surrender to it so willingly. But love still held the high ground and when the Judas came to her that last time, she still felt love for him and listened to his explanations and his logic until she grew too confused to understand its meaning. She ran. She wanted to hide and never feel like this again. She wanted to steel herself against the invasion of love and its momentary joy, its illusion that she might be his only thought, his only reason for drawing breath, and, she wanted to forget… forget all of it.
**********
The morning light spilled through the leaded glass windows of the meeting room and pressed itself against the far wall. Alisiea lay her head down on the hearth and smiled at the memory of Paine’s first kiss. She had been broken with the news that Judas had sacrificed his one last possession of value and in doing so was lost to her completely. Paine, after months of silence spoke of his affection for her. How, even in Trinisc, he had watched her from afar and, certain she belonged to Judas, kept silent. But now she was a part of Ashencrosse and realizing her ties to Judas were nothing more than threads of hope, Paine spoke freely.
Alisiea, over the past several weeks, as the truth about Judas was beginning to sink in, had taken notice of Paine as well. He was always nearby. Always ready to lend her aid or give advice and he had stayed alone in the Great Hall while she slept downstairs. He made her laugh. He spoke warmly to her and he stayed true to his word. Not only that, he did not torture himself over his past. At least not in public. And, he seemed content with who he was.
Alisiea listened to Paine as the world around them shook itself free of any illusions as to what was to come. The attack on Draven would take place on the morrow and some might die in the trying. But none of that mattered in that moment. Suddenly, Paine took her in his arms and kissed her. She had been kissed before, but this time it felt different, it felt honest and warm and …
She kissed him back and something inside her snapped like the breaking of a Lute string. In that moment she understood what Jolicia had been talking about, the thing that was most important to her quest.
Outside the Great Hall the town of Ashencrosse was stirring. A day of reckoning had dawned. A day of battle. Alisiea smiled and laid her hand atop Paine’s. Soon, when the storm had passed and all had safely returned to Ashencrosse. When the quiet of night lingered over their heads. She would be transformed again, she would become something vastly different from the gypsy girl who danced for coin and begged for scraps. She would become …
A woman.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 4, 2012 9:55:35 GMT -5
The full Frog moon hung low on the western horizon. Deep shadows bent the forest into a maze of unrecognizable pathways. Twisted and broken branches of Beech and Burch. Needles of Hawthorn stung and clung to her ruddy colored fur. Golden eyes broke the dark and fangs white as bone snarled and growled. Claws lashed and bodies fell. Bloody pools soaked the pine needled floor under the wind swept boughs. Jaws clamped on thick necks burst tendons and muscles; Orc bodies ripped without regard or remorse. Howls of anger and the stench of fear filled the pre-dawn air as the hard pressed, ragged armored defenders closed and barred their heavy gates. Her long, low mournful howl echoed across the leafless hills as she padded circles round and round the palisades. Head low, spittle drips from curled lips as she watches for signs of exit or advance. The long night curls toward dawn when only once did she pause in her march to listen. The cry of a newborn child cuts the night across the far flung hills and draws her eyes eastward. Leaping bolder and stone she ran and ran and ran until the dawn creased the blood scarred horizon and found her to home once more.
**********
Alisiea awoke next to the calm, sleeping body of her lover. Her eyes grew wide at the blood soaked bedclothes. Her hands stained red. Her lips smeared with crimson iron. The metallic taste bitter on her tongue. She stumbled to the bath and soaked her body clean of the dream and the terror and the fear and the curse that promised to undo her one true hope. She slipped beneath the surface and let the warmth embrace her. The ritual she witnessed cured the others of their bloodlust curse. Could the strange man cure her as well? Could he rid her of this affliction? Could he promise her whatever child she bore would be free of the curse, the blood; free of the claw and the fang? Could he do for her what he had done for them?
She returned to find the bedclothes clean and unstained. Slipping beneath the cool sheets she curled her body next to his. His steady breathing comforts her. His warmth sustains her. When the strange man returns to Ashencrosse she will seek him out. She will speak with this Renthar and she will pay whatever price he asks to cure her of this curse. To cure her of this bloody dream. To cure her of her fear.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 5, 2012 12:11:15 GMT -5
“She will not harm you. She only wishes to ask you questions. You trust me don’t you Alisiea?”
Raquel’s voice was kind and gentle but she wore the Black and the Red.
“You serve Her now?” Alisiea asked her friend.
“Aye,” Raquel answered. “But she is nothing like the others say she is. She is kind and understanding and only wishes to help you. Come with us. You will see, you have nothing to fear.”
The other was not so kind.
“You will come with us. You have no choice in the matter,” she commanded, her one eye glaring.
“Be silent Mei, you are frightening her,” Raquel hissed at the one eyed woman before turning back to the Wolf-child.
“Come Alisiea, there is nothing to fear, trust me …, trust me … trust …”
**********
Alisiea sat bolt upright. Sweat matted her auburn hair. It clung in sticky tendrils to her neck and back. She stank of fear. Turning in the dim light she saw the bed beside her empty. Her lover gone or not yet returned she could not say which. Pulling her legs up she sat cross-legged in the bed. She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes shutting out the darkness. Slowly, rhythmically she began rocking forward and back, forward and back, whispering over and over.
“ABCD … ABCD … ABCD …”
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 6, 2012 10:24:27 GMT -5
A whirl of color. Blue, green, yellow and red blending together in a frenzy of spinning joy. A cacophony of sound. Raised voices yip and yell. A hundred hands clapping in rhythm to the heartbeat of the tambourine, the fiddle and the drums. The deep resounding pounding of the tribal voice echoed through the hills. Woodsmoke and whisky. Laughter and singing.
Alisiea whirled in a dizzying display of skirts and scarves. The fire burned high lighting the Gypsy camp and pushing the darkness further and further and further away.
**********
She awoke to the sound of laughter in her ears. As the dream split and shredded into the morning light to be whisked away like smoke from an old man’s pipe; Alisiea rose. She stood at the foot of the bed staring at the empty space next to hers and ran her hands through her damp, tangled hair. Descending the stairs she lingered in the warm bathwater for some time and then washed her hair. Was it simply too much; this not knowing. Jolicia said it might be stress or lack of sleep. Regardless, she had to know.
Arriving in New Haven a hour later, she sought out a healer. An hour after that she sought out a second one. An hour after that she found a third and an hour after that she sat on the steps of the New Haven bank twisting her hair into knots. It was not supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be different. She would not, could not, return to that house. Nor could she return to Ashencrosse. She would not bring her shame down upon that town, those people and her friends. Not after all they had already been though.
Alisiea entered the bank and withdrew all the money she had saved. After haggling with the stablemaster, she purchased a broken down pack horse. At the provisioners she bought enough supplies for two weeks and a little more. It might take one week to find them. But when she did she would share everything she carried, food, clothing, money. Share it all with those of her own blood and they would take her in. They would watch over her just as they had watched over her mother. They would protect her and they would teach her child the old ways, the sacred ways. And they would keep her safe. And she prayed, not for herself, but for the child. She prayed the child would not inherit her curse and that, somehow, life would be better and they would be happy; at least as happy as this world would permit.
Two hours later she stood outside the gates of Luna. The great mass of people and creatures milled about conducting their business. The sounds the smells, the odor of cooking food and animal dung turned her stomach. Tugging the reins of the stubborn horse she headed west towards the mountains of llshenar. One of the healers in New Haven told her of a place called the Healers Grove. The wise men who lived there might be able to tell her if her unborn child carried the curse. Then she would know. Then she could decide.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 7, 2012 12:03:55 GMT -5
This was, by far, the strangest place she had ever seen. Meertown it was called and the creatures that inhabited it were as odd looking as one could imagine. Taller than a human man they walked on long, gangly legs and seemed to always be in a trance. They never spoke and when asked directions they ignored her as if she was not there. Beyond the town, east of the Moongate, the forests were alive with Fairies and Pixies that flitted and shot tiny spells into the air. They followed her, curious, until she reached the edge of Meertown, then they vanished back into the forest. No one in the town could tell her what direction to go so she just kept going east. It was near sunset when she came upon the grove. The packhorse refused to go any further so Alisiea made camp just outside the ruins of a church or a tower, she could not tell which. Entering the grove she asked the first healer she saw for help. He was dark of completion and hair but spoke to her in a soothing manner, the way a father might a daughter. His touch was warm and when he and another healer, a woman, examined her they assured her the child would be free of any curse.
Alisiea wept in relief. Paying them what little gold she had left, she returned to her camp and the stubborn packhorse she had named Boulder, and slept a sound restful, dreamless sleep.
At first light, one of the healers pointed her in the direction of the Compassion Mountains where the Gypsy camps were located. It would take a full day of hard travel to reach them provided she did not meet any obstacles along the way. She was cautioned there were giant spiders and deadly harpies between the Grove and the mountains and, if she followed the wrong path she would find herself in the mountain fortress of the undead.
Donning her armor and checking her weapons, she covered herself in a robe that would help her blend into the landscape and half-dragged, half-pushed the packhorse forward. She had already determined that once she arrived at the Camp she would set the damn horse loose to find its own fate. Orcs liked horseflesh. After that thought, the horse did not complain anymore, as if it had read her mind, so she decided to keep it and see what happened.
It was well past noon when she reached the foot of the mountains. She had passed through forests filled with Fairies and Wisps and an altar of some sort in the middle of a great meadow…she skirted the altar out of fear and clung to the edge of the wood. Once, she was forced to hide within the shadow of the forest when a band of heavily armed hunters’ rode past headed toward the altar. She did not care to know why.
Finally, just before sunset she crested the top of a mountain pass and looked down into a broad, tree lined valley. Somewhere down there lay the Gypsy camps. She would reach them by nightfall. Yanking the reins once more she tugged the horse forward with a promise of good grain and grass at the end of his journey. He snorted and bucked his head in reply.
“Well, it could be worse,” she assured the animal with a grin. “It could be raining.”
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 8, 2012 16:38:18 GMT -5
Once in the valley things did get worse, much worse. Ratmen archers and Mages fell upon her the moment she entered their territory. She was forced to fight her way to the gypsy camp. The horse was lost under the onslaught along with all the supplies Alisiea had brought. Near daybreak she entered the gypsy camp, bloodied and without resources. She had nothing to offer them; nothing to share. But this was not the only reason they refused her. The matron of the camp, an old woman, remembered Alisiea’s mother. She remembered her mother’s skill at dance and foretelling but refused to speak of the man she had taken as lover. A man the camp, as a whole, had driven off. Now their child stood before her asking to be taken in. Stood there, bloodied and shoeless and with eyes that spoke of a curse. A curse that the gypsies could not cure. A curse the old woman would not permit.
They would, however, allow her to stay one day provided she did not eat any of their food. After that, she must be gone. Alisiea was given permission to sleep under one of the wagons and she had no sooner crawled under it than she was fast asleep. Near mid-day the old woman poked Alisiea in the ribs with a stick and told her if she did the old woman a favor she would be allowed to eat something before she left. Alisiea agreed and crawled out from under the wagon. She was taken to a table and told to make biscuits for a mountaineer who was injured and being tended to in the healer’s wagon. The very same wagon Alisiea had slept under. Grudgingly she began to mix the flour, salt and water into dough. She had been at it for half-an-hour when she heard a familiar voice behind her. She turned, hands covered in flour and dough and blinked as Strider stood smiling at her. To his right stood Quinn and behind them the Countess, Jolicia and Judas.
At first Alisiea did not know what to say. She just stood there with her mouth open as if what she was seeing was an illusion, some reflection of her hungry mind. But then Quinn spoke and the façade burst permitting reality to flood in. They had come for her. To take her back. Suddenly she could not repress her emotions. It had been like that for weeks. One moment elated the next depressed or angry. She was not sure what this emotion was. Relief? She wept openly and explained why she left Ashencrosse to travel this far and why she needed answers. Answers she received at the Healers Grove.
They took her back. Back to Ashencrosse and got her settled in the rebuilt gypsy camp at the outskirts of town. She was grateful and humbled, but still did not feel right. Something was missing. Something important. She lied to Judas when he pressed her about the child. Paine was gone. No one knew where. Alisiea had resigned herself to the possibility she might never see him again. Gone without a word; vanished, like her mother. No, she told him, the child belonged to a nobleman who would raise the child once it was born. This would assure that Paine would remain unburdened with the responsibility should he still be alive. Alisiea did not think Judas believed her, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
And then: The Solstice.
She returned to the same Gypsy camp that had refused her, but this time she did not come alone, she did not come bloodied and without resources. This time she came with friends, true friends; her family. The Circle cast. The Quarters called. The gods invoked. The fire burned high and bright as the words were spoken and prayers offered. She danced and wore the Garland and listened to the stories and then suddenly, standing outside the circle, beyond the revelers, like a vision conjured up by the gods she saw him. Paine.
She blinked and tilted her head confused by this illusion. Some Magick gone astray? Some fit of her imagination. A trick of light from the fire? The illusion moved around the circle and came to rest on the steps of on of the gypsy wagon behind her. She sat frozen, unable to speak or rise. And then the illusion spoke and she stopped breathing until the Countess, sitting beside her, squeezed her hand.
The illusion spoke again, to Judas and Judas spoke back. Alisiea rose and went to him and he was real. He saw her, spoke to her, rested his head on her shoulder. He was injured, ill. Caught up in some battle. Mixed up with the one they called Renthar. Paine needed rest and care and after a time he returned to his home and Alisiea lingered a while longer staring into the Solstice fire, wondering what to do. The others left and when she was alone she returned to Ashencrosse and sat in the theater in a chair near the fire. And there, she fell into a deep and restless sleep.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 9, 2012 7:20:11 GMT -5
A naked Alisiea stood sideways to the full-length mirror in the room provided her by the Mid-Wife she had been told about. The woman’s house was along the east road on the outskirts of Umbra. There were things she simply did not know and needed guidance and who better than a Mid-Wife? The woman named Naomi Baxter Miller agreed to examine her and give her advice as well as answer her questions. Alisiea ran her palms gently over her belly and shoved her spine forward to see what she might look like in three or four months. She frowned.
“Tubby. That is what they will call me. I am sure of it.”
She smiled. A rush of emotion flooded her veins and she felt the warmth and tingle of a full blush wash over her. Each day she felt herself growing closer to the tiny person growing inside her. Was it possible to love something that much? The woman from the Healer’s Grove warned her not to shape-shift, for such a violent act upon her body would certainly kill the child and, possibly, her as well. She must guard her emotions she was told, but in particular, anger. The Mid-wife too, was full of answers.
“Now, sit down and let’s have a talk, eh?”
The sickness that came each morning might last as long as two or three months. Some woman had the sickness longer. Others, not so long. Alisiea prayed she would be one of the latter.
“You being as thin as you are you might be showing a bit sooner than most. You will need to start thinking of bigger clothes.”
Dancing was fine until the Equinox. Then no more dancing. Alisiea though she would die hearing that, but the woman was insistent.
“You might fall. Then what?”
Eat and eat often and no drinking ale … milk, water. Fresh milk is better, she said. Alisiea wrinkled her nose at the thought of drinking milk. No ale? Already she was being closely watched. Jolicia kept checking everything she put in her mouth lately and Quinn too, when she was around.
“You already seem to be a moody girl; true?” the woman asked.
Alisiea frowned.
“Yes I thought so. Guard against that moodiness,” she said shaking her head. “It’s no good for you. But it will come, sure as daylight; you will be having mood swings.”
Then the woman asked the question Alisiea simply could not answer.
“What about your husband? Is he fine with all this?”
The look in Alisiea’s eyes said it all. The Mid-wife sat back and stared at her for a long moment.
“Like that is it?” She asked quietly.
Alisiea only nodded. The woman too.
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.” She answered. “But I’ve had a letter written to him.”
The woman gave her a look.
“A letter? Don’t you think you should tell him in person?”
Alisiea shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. I mean … he is away a lot.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she sighed. “It is often that way.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Friends then?”
“Aye.”
“Good friends?”
“Aye,” she nodded. “The best.”
“Well then,” she said smiling. “All’s well isn’t it?”
The woman stood, opened the door but paused and looked back.
“Get dressed an see me in a month. You do know how long that is, right? A month?”
“Aye,” Alisiea nodded as she began dressing. “I know a month.”
“Good then,” the woman grunted. “You can leave the coin on the dresser there and may the gods watch over you.”
And with that, she gently closed the door.
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 11, 2012 10:12:01 GMT -5
Alisiea went to the forest. To the deep wood. Here, under the sweeping Elms and long-haired Willows, she found solace. She could quiet her mind and free her soul. Here, she could lie in the cool early summer grass and doze away the hours listening to the chirp and click of cricket and cicada. And here she could dream.
How the sky above rolled past. How the Jay with its raucous call gave warning to all who thought it important. How the stream bubbled and sang. Here, she could pull her thoughts down into quiet musings and roll naked in the grass.
How much was too much? How little was not enough? She let her hair down and bathed in the cool waters of the noisy brook that ran from the timeless mountains to the endless sea. And where those waters ran a part of her flowed with them. A strand of hair. A bit of flesh. She was part of the sky and the ocean. She was part of the world. And she danced.
She danced with abandon, covered herself with joy, and sang the songs her mother taught her. She raised the Magick in the forest glen by spinning round and round in a wild release of freedom. And when it was done. When the Magick was released and her body and soul were refreshed, she fell to the ground and laughed until she cried.
And the child within her stirred …
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Post by Alisiea on Nov 12, 2012 9:31:40 GMT -5
The second Alisiea stepped out of the gate that carried her from Buc’s Den to New Haven, she collapsed on all fours and vomited blood and bits of raw meat. Her throat clenched and, struggling for breath, she wept hard, bitter tears. She wanted to die; to lie there in the mud-splattered alley behind the bank and let the earth absorb her like the rain falling around her. Rain that filtered through her stringy hair, mingled with her tears and carried them in salty rivulets to the nearby puddles. A horse clip-clopped past. Its rider tossed a coin that landed on the gypsy girls back with a tiny thud. Pity was the last thing she wanted.
She wanted to shift. To rip both her and the child she carried within, to pieces. She wanted to kill; to destroy. She wanted to bite and claw her way out of this predicament like the monster she could become; like the monster she was. She felt cornered. But her love for the unborn child gave her strength and she struggled to her feet. She made her On wobbly legs way to the inn where she spent her last coins for a room … and a bath.
**********
He had stopped her at the Magincia Moongate just as she arrived after leaving the tavern gathering, like he had been waiting there for her. He blocked her path, leering at her. Asking questions. Moving his steed back and forth so she could not pass.
“Where are you going little one?” His voice was silk.
“New Haven,” she responded nervously.
She shifted her weight in the saddle. The man made her uncomfortable and his shirtless torso made her even more so. A gate appeared and he motioned to it.
“To New Haven then,” He offered with a polite wave.
Alisiea struggled for a moment then stepped through. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it really was New Haven. He followed close behind. They dismounted and stood in the ally behind the bank. Alisiea wanted leave his presence, but the man had answers. He had knowledge she desperately wanted; desperately needed.
“Do you remember me?” He asked tilting his head and giving her the kind of look one gives a simpleton or a child of four. “We met in Ocllo. I told you a tale about its origins. Do you remember?”
She looked at the ground, afraid to bring her gaze up to meet his own.
“Aye, I do.” She responded in a hoarse whisper.
“So how have you been little one?” He stepped towards her; she back away. “And how is Lord Paine? I understand you are quite fond of him.”
Alisiea wanted to scream; wanted to bolt from his presence and hide, but she needed to hear his secrets. She needed to know. So she stayed and her hands slid to her belly as if to assure the child within that no harm would come to it so long as she was alive.
“I … I have not seen him.”
“No? And why is that? I understand the two of you are quite close.”
Alisiea could only nod.
Renthar looked her over the way one inspects a horse or a cow that is placed on the market and priced below its value.
“You know,” He continued, “I saved his life not so long ago.”
She looked up.
“Aye, he told me.” She affirmed.
“So, you have seen him.” A strange light flashed in his eyes.
For some reason Alisiea could not look him in the eyes. She shifted her weight and glanced around hoping someone, anyone might walk by and thus break the hold he had on her.
“Aye, at the Solstice.” She muttered.
“So he still lives? He was poisoned you know. Did he tell you?”
She only shook her head.
He leaned towards her, studying her.
“So? How is he?”
Alisiea turned sideways. She wanted to leave, but felt anchored to the ground; unable to move.
“He left right after the Solstice,” she whispered.
“I see,” he mused. “Do you know why I saved his life, little one?”
She wished he would stop calling her that. It made her feel … odd. She shook her head.
“I saved his life, now that he’s mortal, for the sheer pleasure I will derive from watching him grow old and die. How do you feel about that?” He asked, tilting his head and smiling at her like a spider.
Alisiea calmed herself and turned to face him.
“I … I need to know about Paine. I need to know everything about him and I am told you are the one person who would know.”
Renthar seemed genuinely surprised at this and stood back watching the girl closely. He followed the line of her face. The curve of her shoulder. The length of her arms and legs and, when she absently slid her hands over her womb, Renthar laughed.
“Ah … now I understand. Well, little one, what you already know about Paine is only a tiny grain of sand compared to the vast shore that is his life. But come, I prefer to discuss this with you in a more private setting.”
Conjuring a gate he invited her to step through. At first her instincts said no … told her to run as far and as fast as she could, but something else tugged at her, something that overrode her instincts; something deep within that said she needed to know everything about the father of this child, not just for her sake but for … something bigger than both of them. She stepped into the portal and found herself in a place filled with unusual looking trees and soaking heat. Large colorful birds glided from tree to tree squawking and making a ruckus. The smell of the ocean was strong and the air tasted of salt. This was Buc’s Den he told her and beckoned her to follow.
“Watch out for Pirates now,” he warned with a mocking laugh.
He led her down to a large dock where all manner of ships were anchored. A few sailors milled around or busied themselves with chores of one sort or another. The heat was stifling. Her hair and clothes were damp and sticky within moments of arriving. A dark haired, face scarred sailor gave her a look as he walked past.
“That one wants to touch your body,” Renthar teased.
Alisiea turned and glared at the man. “He would die trying.” She stated.
“So be it.” Renthar replied. With the speed of a trained assassin Renthar flung a bolt of energy from his hands that struck the man squarely between the shoulder blades. The man fell to the dock; dead. Alisiea staggered backwards in disbelief at what she had just witnessed.
“You … you …”
“Killed him?” Renthar finished for her. “Aye that I did. You see, little one, taking another’s life is merely an exercise. Somewhat of a sport. Something to be witnessed, as you have done. That way the pleasure of it is intensified. Now, shall we discuss payment for the information you seek?”
Alisiea stared at the dead man. His body quivered, then stilled. A large burn mark showing charred, ruined flesh smoldered on the man’s back. Alisiea blinked and looked at Renthar who was smiling as if he had just heard an amusing joke. The shock of what she had just witnessed, coupled with the caviler attitude of his question, pressed against her chest causing her to catch her breath. She coughed once before she could stammer:
“Pa … payment?”
Taking his eyes off the dead man, Renthar took on a more serious tone. He stepped toward her, closing the door on any final thought of escape.
“Aye, little one, payment. Nothing comes to us for free. Everything has its price. Surely even one such as you would understand this?”
Her thoughts swam trying to grasp the strange juxtaposition of his thinking and his speech with that of his actions. Payment? Payment?
“I…I have a little gold saved up …”
Renthar’s laugh was genuinely awash with pure amusement. He moved closer. She backed away.
“Gold?” He shook his head chuckling under his breath. He stepped closer. She looked behind her. The end of the dock was not far.
“Gold,” he repeated. “Allow me to show you how easy it is for me to acquire gold, little one.”
He moved swiftly toward one of the ships moored nearby and grabbed a woman who was mending nets. He dragged her across the dock and whispered something in her ear. The woman’s face went blank, her eyes rolled back in her head and she coughed once then went limp in his arms. Renthar let the body fall, then rifled through the woman’s bags coming up with a handful of coins which he held out to the Gypsy girl.
“You see?” he said grinning. “Your offer is meaningless.” He tossed the coins into the ocean and advanced on her, leveling his gaze.
“You have other things of greater value to offer. Can you think of one?”
Alisiea backed almost to the edge of the dock. Her mind raced trying to understand what he meant. She shook her head in confusion as her brain ceased trying to comprehend what was happening.
“I …I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, holding up her hands as if warding off a blow from an angry parent.
Renthar stopped and looked at her with a mix of pity and amusement. He shook his head.
“You have, within your position, three items of value that would suffice as payment for the knowledge you seek. Knowledge that I, most definitely, possess. These three things are: Your heart, meaning the love you hold within it; Your Soul, and Your Body. Any one of which I will gladly accept as payment.”
Alisiea was cornered. She could not go backward or forwards without paying some grave price. He dangled the knowledge before her knowing, full well, her need.
“I could take the child from you.” He said. “Cut it out of your belly, right here, right now, and teach it all the secrets I possess while you lie dying. Actually, now that I think of it, I might prefer that to the other options.” His eyes glimmered as he leered at her.
Her defenses breached, Alisiea pleaded.
“I can not pay with my heart, for it is owned by another. I will not pay with my soul, for it is mine and mine alone … but …” She turned her head and closed her eyes. The very thought was appalling. “… but only after you have told me everything I want to know …”
“After?” Renthar interrupted. “No, no, little one. Not “after”… payment is always made before.”
He moved closer. She could almost feel him touching her. He leered down at her, his eyes gleaming.
“We have a bargain then, little one?”
Alisiea nodded only once.
Renthar stepped back, clapped his hands together, and grinned.
“Excellent. Excellent. I shall wile away the hours between now and then dreaming of all the possibilities that exist for me to wage war upon that delightful little body of yours.”
He chuckled and conjured another portal.
“There you are my child. A portal back to your little sanctuary of New Haven.” But he stopped her as she was about to step through. His eyes narrowing. “I will come for you in a few days time.” He said as he brushed a lock of her hair from her face.
“Be ready.”
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