RANDOM BUN AND JAVS THREAD. TOTALLY IRRELEVANT.

[Javert]

WARNING: [/b][/u]this has nothing to do with realms of fantasia; we just needed a place to put it. sorry. nothing to see here. well, I mean, you can read it for your own amusement, but it won't make any sense. moooving on....


JAVS:

There hung in the air something like smoke, or steam; the scent nor texture of it was not strong enough for the former, but did not feel like the latter. He raised a gloved hand and pressed his palm against the night. The night pressed back.

Ah, he thought. So that was how it was going to be.

He stood still. Something itched at the back of his neck, and he pushed aside a ponytail of brown curls to scratch at it, the gesture more reflexive than anything since he knew that the itch was far below the skin. He looked out of place in his surroundings, as he was wont to look in any situation--there was something about the insouciance of his carriage juxtaposed with the proud jut of his chin, or the heavy sword weighted on his back like a globe across the spine of Atlas, or the way his eyes never stayed in one place for any amount of time--and the forest refused to embrace him. Instead he felt a chill, and hoary frost clung to heavy fabric of his shirt. He puffed out his cheeks and let loose a pennant of air, which waved indecisively before freezing. He shuddered at the cold, which was becoming more insistent, more decisive.

“Hmph,” he murmured, licking his chapping lips, and held up his hands, an expression of surrender. “I’m not posing any threat, dear sirs…”

But, giving his large hand a little shake at his side, as if something was beginning to settle unpleasantly upon his skin, he began to walk, slowly. The cold dissipated with the movement but the trees still muttered their disapproval. His steps seemed almost laborious, as if he were wading through water, and his eyes, which seemed moon-grey in the moonlight and shadow-grey in the shadows, flickered from branch to path to the uneven shards of sky above him. Perhaps it was the manner in which he periodically turned around to face behind him--he would never simply look over his shoulder, but turn completely around and walk backwards--or the low sigh he would utter that would belie the lightness of his brow, but it almost seemed as if he were waiting for something. The forest, however, would not allow him to stop for long, and every step felt more and more difficult. Something was weighted thick on his tongue. He spat to the side of the path.

Eventually he stopped, though, and laughed, drawing his sword in a manner too easy for the weapon’s weight, its point resting in the earth and his left hand braced upon the hilt. “So it is you,” he said to the night, nodding, as a hand went to dislodge the tiny icicles forming already at his eyelashes.

[Javert]

BUNNEH:

How delicious the night was. From the moment the sun sunk below the horizon, drowning, reaching with her whispy tendrils of sunlight, grabbing the clouds before dying a quite, unnoticeable death to the moment when the whole world was cast in shadows, the hooded figure’s heart throbbed in an adrenaline rush. With such a heavy blanket cast over the forests, even the fragile attempts of the stars and moon to light the path for those weary travelers were countered. Nothing but death lurked unseen in the connected shadows.

And its form tonight was the shape of five hooded figures. One murmured softly under its breath, a steady stream of nonsensical words as it slipped from the bushes. There was no move to quiet the rustling of evergreen needles. There was no move to hush the white noise being emitted from its mouth. Instead, the person hidden beneath their own, personal night stepped onto the path, cutting off the way for a carriage and its occupant(s). The fabric fluttered around the face, obscured as it tilted up slightly, tilting to examine the horses which froze mid-step.

The figure waited, watched, studied the man and the way the slanted light of the moon sharpened the contours of his nose, the arch of his brow and the slant of his cheekbones. The hilt of a sword peeked from behind, if eyes were not mistaken. Oh, yes, they weren’t indeed, were they? After the first statement, it became aware that he saw the others, slinking behind trees, or, if he weren’t human, he sensed them, their eyes testing the angles of his arms to see how long it would take for him to attack and for them to counter.

A faint laugh greeted the last set of words to slip from the man. An unseen eyebrow arced in question. The figure in front outstretched both arms, unarmed, yet still whispering the fairly unbroken chain of magic, forged at the tip of the tongue and tied meters away, locking horse hooves in place.

One of the others, though, replied, drawing a bow back in anticipation. “How far did you think someone like you could go without being stopped? We are not as fooled as those whose pockets made decisions that their heads should.”

[Javert]

JAVS:


He grinned.

The creaking of carriage wheels behind him had quieted, an instrument in the night’s symphony that had suddenly broken a string. He did not turn his head or his back to see if it had stopped because he knew that it had. A horse, however, whinnied uncertainly, a questioning shriek, which only made the man’s smile widen. There was the instrument to fill the new void. Panic--fear--always created good music.

And yet, in case the orchestra had wanted to expand, the quintet of shadows before him seemed to be gaining solidity, transmogrifying from vague suggestions of danger into a substantial threat. These were more than bad dreams, which disappeared if one pinched himself and banished the bogey monster back into its dwelling. These weren’t going to go away.

He could no longer feel the end of his somewhat sizable nose, nor the tips of his fingers, although they were warmed by the leather of his gloves; he wore no coat nor cloak and the accumulating chill was becoming exponentially more unpleasant. Some men feigning bravery would have stared impassively ahead, immobile but for the gathering furrow of their brows. He was not some men and curled his hands into fists and out of them, stomped his foot against the ground, rolled his shoulders to coax some warmth back to his body.

His gaze did not make such large movements, instead describing small ellipses between the figures that he could see, before his eyes flickered upwards, as if attempting to recollect something. “Gods,” he said, conversationally, “I was thinking… Perhaps a half a league? I have no gift for mathematics so’t may be off. You lot have gotten faster,” he observed, brows protesting the cold and raising. He did not hear so much as feel the whisper of a bowstring. He sneezed. “Or I have gotten slower.”

Gods’ teeth, it was cold. “Is this a new trick?” he asked, dryly, raising his free hand and halfway expecting an arrow to strike him at the movement. He pulled the glove away with his somewhat chattering teeth to expose the hand beneath turning white. The ice at his lashes was now turning to cold water against his face when he blinked. “Impressive, aye, but I was expecting more. I s’pose you gave up power for speed. A fair trade, but one I’d never make.” His gaze swung to the figure in the front, and the grin that flickered onto his face almost seemed like a bare of the teeth in the shifting shadows. “But that’s always been the diff’rence ’twixt us, aye?”

[Javert]

BUNNEH:

“You jest. Is wit all you have to offer before we strike you down?” the same figure inquired in a booming voice, jerking his head to the side, gesturing for the others to raise their bows. Locked into place, the arrow glinted in the moonlight bouncing off its flint tip. One move. All it would take was one disapproving mood, and the man before him would be an imitation porcupine, lying on the ground with prickly arrows jutting from his back and arms. God, it’s what he wanted to command. There was nothing of serious interest keeping this man alive, and yet no matter how many times the group cornered him, one usurper would speak on his behalf.

His chest rose and fell methodically. The copper taste in his mouth flooded the sides of his mouth. Extracting his teeth from his tongue, the figure scowled and tilted his head toward the lone one in front of the target, still whispering under its breath. If he commanded fire… right now… Surely the arrows would move faster than…

At the flicker of the man’s hand, he called, “Fire!”

Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

Four arrows released in a symphonic round. There should have been an echo of the staggered notes, but, instead, all four fell in a half-moon two feet from him. The white noise, the soft mash of words changed in tune. Of course. She intervened as usual. A faint scowl crossed his lips before the returned to the concrete thin line of his former silence. The entire tango was well scripted and rehearsed. Every fucking time, each person stepped the same step, countering moves so ingrained in each soul that before the dance had begun, everyone knew the outcome.

Slowly, the string of words threaded from her lips died, ended, and slipped away into oblivion. The horses, movements before, stuck kicking in place could jolt forward. Very carefully, she raised her hands, grabbing hold of the black fabric and lowering it down past the crown of golden curls framing her face, past the delicate slope of her nose, the similar gold of her slanted eyes which were focused, not on the panicking animals but the one who had attempted to earlier tame them, direct them in the direction of his choosing. He hadn’t changed, of course, just as they hadn’t. “A drink? On me. I am sure you would prefer it to becoming a makeshift kabob.”

[Javert]

JAVS:

This was the part where they shot him.

It was, in fact, almost like a routine, upon every encounter. If variety was the spice of life than the lives--the word, of course, being used in its loosest and most vague sense--of the six figures in the circle of trees were as bland as uncooked porridge. Blood, admittedly, was a liberally-used seasoning, and he could almost smell it now, beyond the magic that was infiltrating his nostrils and still preventing his feet from moving. Still, he knew as the figure spoke that he was about to be shot, and the Cheshire grin playing at his lips widened. “Spare me,” he intoned, bored, and looked straight into the eyes of the figure before him.

He did not require the assistance of moonlight, nor was he hindered by the layer of fabric obscuring her visage. He sought her eyes and found them. He knew where they would be, the very expression that would be in their tawny depths, the subtle nuances of light and dark that would alternately glisten and deepen in the iris and pupil.

There.

Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

He smirked.

And then the hood came down, and her eyes were fully revealed, full harvest moons beneath crescents of gold, along with the face that housed them. The weight that had prohibited him from movement was very suddenly lifted (although the gripping cold remained), but the sensation was one he had experienced so often before that he did not so much as blink in surprise. Instead, gratefully, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, rolled his shoulders, the very quintessence of ease two feet away from four arrows that lay forgotten on the ground. The grey of his eyes returned to the gold of hers, moons greeting the dawning sun.

“Hmmph. You‘re sure? How well you know me,” he said, lips suspended in a grin that for some reason lacked all sincerity.

Without looking behind him he clucked his tongue, and the horses, formerly hysterical beyond all comfort, walked calmly to him, carriage wheels content to add their squeak to the symphony of evening again. He patted the freezing neck of one horse as it blithely thrust its head over his shoulder. “As much as I’d like to take that offer”--sarcasm communicated what his words did not-- “I’m ‘fraid I must be continuing on, if your rugged renegades’ll grant me passage. It was the greatest o’ pleasures to see you all once again. Wish the Lady the best and all that.” And he raised his brows meaningfully, and waved a gloved hand, reiterating his desire for the Dead Sea before him to part.

[Javert]

BUNNEH:

“Hmmph. You‘re sure? How well you know me,” he said in that pretentious tone he hated. If it weren’t for the wench of a witch, they’d have killed him twice over years ago. Cockiness from scum like him was added insult to the injury of being under the command of a woman. Clicking his tongue in distaste, the man that had called execution and received nothing, cocked his bow and drew back the string once more, tilting his head once again to call for the others to take up their arms. Even if she’d impede his will to have the man killed, she’d still allow him to use force if the drink request was denied once again.

The woman cocked both eyebrows, her eyes flickering to the horse and then to him. The pattern dictated that she inform him that there was no denying her hospitality if he wished to be a recipient of it in a future time—or even guarantee he was alive to even see the sunrise. However, monotony was the death of society, and so she nodded and drew the hood once more over her head. ”As you wish. Then we have no further use of you. Farewell,” she said in a bland tone, turning on her heel to start walking away, the trail of foreign words beginning to slip from her mouth as soon as silence took hold of her tongue. It wouldn’t be fair if he ran from the arrows, now would it?

[Javert]

JAVS:

As the woman turned away, the carriage door opened. A man unceremoniously fell out.

Face-down in the mud, he uttered something akin to a giggle before emitting something very much like a roar. “Drink the blasted thing!” he bellowed into the mud, with a voice far larger than his emaciated frame, before turning his head so that the command could be reissued and heard. Since pushing himself into a bipedal position would have been too easy, he writhed about for a moment, the pale silk of his clothing becoming further stained and begrimed, before rolling over twice and springing onto his feet. He swayed, pitched forward, steadied himself. A hand shook through the long sheets of his black hair, while the faultless androgyny of his features twisted.

“Fist of the gods,” said the first man, wearily, not even turning around. The horse at his shoulder chuffed in disapproval. “How’d ye get out, Brute?”

“Brutemiônur,” scowled the prettier man, as, if to cement his dandyish status, he tied his hair in a bow around his neck. His eyes darted constantly much as the first man’s did, but there was a very evident glaze of insanity to his gaze as opposed to constant wariness. The prettier man quite suddenly clawed a hand through the air, and there was a sound like breaking glass, and then shards of the night began to fall to the ground. The first man and his horses found themselves quite able to move again, and the frost clinging to them began to melt, rapidly. The first man ran a hand down his face to recapture the rivulets of water as the prettier man stumbled forward.

“My lady!” he said to the woman in the front, seemingly completely oblivious to the danger he was entering. “How marvelous to yet again make your acquaintance. I have been much in want of The Lady’s favoring gaze, but I admit I have been indisposed as of late…” But before he could glare pointedly at the first man, his attitude suddenly shifted, and he seized the woman’s arm. “He is an idiot,” he stated, vehemently, an intensity surfacing in the opaque silver of his eyes.

(The first man muttered something to his horse, who snorted.)

“He must drink. He will drink. He accepts your offer. The Lady shan‘t..” He suddenly leapt back as if something had physically burned him; magic shimmered around the palm of his hand and he clenched it into a fist, then spat something in a halfway-forgotten language so that the dull fire flared and was gone. He rolled his eyes like a nervous horse and paused. “It’s dark,” he whimpered.

After a pregnant pause, the first man made a noise low in his throat, stepped forward, and said, with some effort, “Forgive me for my… Rudeness. I accept your offer, if it still stands. Aye?” He held his breath discreetly.

[Javert]

BUNNEH:

The sudden tumultuous activity behind slowed her feet. She had expected a call, a gruff pronunciation of her name to call her back not the distinct tones of a raving lunatic. With her curiosity piqued, Vi stopped completely, her lips still moving in her predictably unpredictable pattern. Her concentration wavered, however, and was completely shattered by the sudden interference. This unwelcome development forced her to pivot slowly on her right foot to see if who she thought was being addressed as ‘Brute’ was the same one she’d met at an earlier time, a few years ago, if her recollection was accurate. Her eyes fell upon his visage like the sun upon the hills, his features alight as she studied them.

“My lady! How marvelous to yet again make your acquaintance. I have been much in want of The Lady’s favoring gaze, but I admit I have been indisposed as of late…” Her eyes narrowed faintly at being addressed. It was decided that her recollection was accurate and that she cared very little for the flamboyant individual glancing her way. Eyes flickered over to the first man; an eyebrow arched. For what reason was one transporting the other, and why didn’t she note his presence in the carriage? The two facts bothered her, and Vi lapsed into silent reverie, not noting said flamboyant man’s approach and his sudden grasp on her arm.

Her head jerked up, the hood resting precariously on the crown of her head slipped into a puddle around her neck. Over his incessant, insistent ramblings, she clearly enunciated, ”Do not touch me.”

And he leapt back, his hand releasing her arm. With her lips pressed into a thin, unwavering line, Vi glanced away, rolling her shoulders back once and then once again. She wasn’t going to admit it, but his touch burned past the protective fibers of her cloak, past her skin… It was comparable to Hell’s flames licking her bones, charring them for an eternity’s worth of suffering. If it was his magic, then it was as damned as his mind. If it wasn’t… it didn’t matter. His hands wouldn’t be allowed to come within five feet of her any longer.

As a mark on her skin bloomed, Vi attempted to distract herself, only looking to someone else when that someone spoke up. ”Death no longer appetizing?” she said breathlessly, ”You keep him under control. We’ll escort you to the tavern.”

[Javert]

JAVS:


He wasn’t supposed to have been able to escape. A twinge of magic itching at the back of the first man’s neck informed him that the bonds in the carriage were still present; faint odors of burning flesh and wet dog, respectively, informed him that they had been broken. His now-shadow-grey eyes flickered to Brutemiônur, as the pretty man approached the pretty woman, and his suspicions were confirmed. He held out two callused fingers and felt something pulsate like an uneven heartbeat against his skin. Gods. The man sighed but shook his head, and almost amusement was present on his face, unable to be banished quickly enough when the woman arced an inquisitive brow at him.

The man was wise enough to know that lives ran in concentric circles, that when they intersected it was not simply by the whim of Lady Fortuna, and that major intersections were liable to occur more than once. The first time he had encountered Brute, they had been far different men, and the meeting of a far different darkness; the second, one had saved the other’s life, although one could not remember who had saved whom; this was the third, and three was a potent number.

The man looked to the woman, the proud jut of her jaw, the flare of her nostrils, the disapproving curve of her lips as she rebuked the prettier man, and wondered what damned time this was for them.

The prettier man also had his attention on the woman, for the briefest moment, when a fraction of a cloud passed beyond the blank moons of his eyes. He was always aware of when magic left him; it physically hurt him as much as it did the other. Therefore, a similar mark was blossoming like an angry flower on his arm, and his hand went to soothe it. He stumbled back, and the first man put out a hand to stop him.

“Steady,” he said, and Brute muttered, “The Lady is pleased…” They glanced upward in unison and saw the moon, previously hidden, bleeding liberal silver onto the treetops.

“Aye, I’ve whetted my palate with death enough to enjoy it anymore,” said the first man, in response to the woman; an insouciance still remained in his tone, like the slouch of his back, yet so, too, did a razor-sharp edge like the sword on his back that only was sharpened when the woman spoke. Keep him under control? “I’ll do my best,” he said, and began to walk, his stride still casual but his eyes still moving. Brute had mounted one of the horses and lay on its bare back, curtains of ebony hair obscuring his features as he whispered into its ear. The carriage groaned behind them.

[Javert]

BUNNEH:

Vi clicked her tongue in disapproval, sharp disapproval that colored her person in a hue of disgust. While most people who dealt with her for any length of time caught onto the strict, unwavering seriousness of her personality, it was very rarely that the level escalated to an intolerable level even by her own standards. However, life held exceptions to every rule, and hers was physical contact with anyone who was not given express permission to lay a hand upon her person. Even if she were bleeding at the bottom of a cliff, her rescuer would either need to leave her lying upon the ground to die or wait for her to wake and give express orders to take her home. And so, with one of the very few exceptions initiated, the woman turned her head away from the pair and began walking down the path they had previously been on course down.

The others with her maintained their hands on the feathers of their bows; the locking feature kept arms from wavering under the strain of being armed for attack. Hoods for them remained over their eyes, shading faces from both the discerning light of the moon and curious eyes of man and beast alike. The forests talked, whispered from tree to tree anything out of the ordinary. Mercenaries lurked under the silent bark of the shade; the hooded figures and their woman knew better than to reveal more than was inherently necessary to get their newest traveling companions to the tavern which would be reached within an hour or two depending on how incapacitated by his abilities the fairer addition was and how well the other could manage him. Normally, it would be left to her to contain anything and anyone seeped with magic, but she was summarily ticked, and he’d find himself in a ditch faster than he could say ‘Lady.’

”The door. You, take the carriage around back,” she stated as the dirt road solidified into more easily identifiable cobblestone. The expanse of trees thinned, each one dispersed farther from its brother and, therefore, less inclined to gossip among the grapevine. Her finger pointed to each man; her eyes remained focused on the building toward which they were steadily headed. It was small; it could barely fit six men in either direction. The roof leaked during monsoon season, and the vagabonds who happened to take momentary shelter never failed to reek of their own bodily fluids. There was nothing about its external appearance to suggest that more than what met the eye was hidden within the mossy walls, no hint of magic in the creaking, crooked sign labeling the tavern as belonging to Jurak. However, if the less fair man had a memory as accurate as she was reticent, then he’d remember the familiar curve of the steps leading above ground into a third level shaded by magic.

The first man she pointed to knocked twice, thrice on the door, then once to the right and twice more to the left. When a faint, androgynous voice inquired as to the business, he responded as normal: they were here for the pleasure of the drink. Vi murmured something under her breath as the once invisible level revealed itself to the nine people standing before the tavern. ”You can go in and mingle with Jurak or skip the pleasantries and face your fate,” the first man gruffly informed the pair, gesturing to a side staircase which had materialized as quietly as the flickering candlelight in the newly formed windows.

[Javert]

JAVS:

“Eorn,” hissed the prettier man.

The first man was still several paces ahead of the rest of them; his stride was carefully long enough to ensure it. He could feel their eyes boring holes into his back, probing for the sight of something beneath the barriers of inconsequential flesh and bone. Perhaps the curve of his spine or the sword like Atlas’s globe upon his shoulders would deter them. Gods knew that anything else wouldn’t.

He turned when the prettier man addressed him--he had unabashedly turned round every few moments to watch those watching him--and paused until he was walking beside the horse that Brute rode. There was the uncomfortable sensation of now being trapped within the belly of the beast, but he ignored it as if it were merely some small insect hovering above his skin. “Eh?” said the man, Eorn, rolling his shoulders backward and his eyes upward.

“We’re headed in the opposite direction,” observed Brute. The curve of his cheek remained pressed to the curve of the horse’s neck; his face was moon-white, stark against the dark horse like a sculptured seraph in the night, but the haze of intoxication over his eyes made his face more demon than angel. Eorn fiddled with his ponytail.

“Aye,” he said after a moment, walking backwards, now, only for a moment, until he turned back round to face the approaching morning. “I daresay this troubles you, Brute.”

Brute shook his head, slowly, pressed his face to the horse’s black mane. “You must drink,” he murmured, low enough for Eorn not to hear it, but Eorn nodded, anyway, a crease like a fold between fabric beneath his level brows.

“I don’t intend to cheat Fate out of her fortune anymore,” said Eorn. “Got to play the hand that’s been dealt instead of counting cards.”

“My hands have numbed,” said Brute, and their conversation ended.

They walked, encompassed by a ring of shadow, like a knot of bright fire in the sky surrounded by the gathering night. Trees still murmured as they passed; periodically, Brute would raise his head to acknowledge them, and he would speak something so fluidly archaic that even the hair on Eorn’s arms were raised. He interpreted only syllables, and those that he could string into words were unimpressive-- yes, no. Wait. He thought at one point that he heard something either like ’remember’ or ’regret’, and when he cast his wary gaze at the elf, he was staring at him, wide-eyed, lips moving without noise emerging from between them.

When Eorn felt cobblestones beneath the weathered soles of his boots, it seemed as if all the insouciance with which he had been carrying himself disappeared. Suddenly, he was all tension, shoulders raised, head lowered slightly, hands curling and uncurling into fists. His agitation only increased as they moved further into the city. He frequently stared at the hooded figures surrounding them, as if only now fully aware of their presence, his smirking lips twitching toward more negative territory. He looked at the woman most often, knowing the location of her eyes, and avoiding them.

The carriage was taken from them, and Brute forced to dismount; he stood leaning against the wall of the tavern, swaying slightly nonetheless, sweat beading his smooth brow. “You can go in and mingle with Jurak or face your fate,” the woman said, and it was obvious by her tone that she would have preferred the lattermost.

“Feeling particularly ominous, are we?” muttered Eorn, suddenly irascible, but found himself moving toward the dilapidated steps leading to the third floor--until the door of the tavern swung open, and Brute’s tall, emaciated frame was contorted to allow him swift entrance into the establishment. “Hi, you,” said Eorn sharply, as if whistling a dog back to his side, and made to grab at Brute’s shirtsleeve before his hand twitched and he reconsidered. Instead, his eyes--now neither moon- nor shadow-grey but darker, more opaque, like metal--flickered to the woman. “We appear to be mingling,” he said, dry words through a dry mouth, and entered after his companion.

Immediately after the entryway reigned a cloud of violet smoke thick enough in which to wade, or swim. Eorn heard Brute coughing violently somewhere up ahead; a dull thud and a feeble ‘ow’ was heard emitting from a similar position moments later. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he glanced backward, as if to reassure himself that the woman was following--or that she wasn’t--and subsequently collided with Brute, who had stopped. Eorn swore, loudly, as a flare of magic seared his skin. Brute, forced to experience the same pain, began to weep.

“Hush,” came a swarthy monosyllable from somewhere in the smoke; a face as dusky as its voice, strikingly exotic in its beauty, all robust cheekbones and plush grinning lips. The smoke parted only enough to reveal sections of her at a time--a bare, rich brown leg; a purple gown of an unfamiliar style; dark hair elaborately coiled into a crown atop her head. Brute immediately fell to his knees and kissed the woman’s bare feet, as Eorn glanced at him in poorly veiled disgust.

“Djabenusiri,” cried Brute, in tones of dulcet rapture, and the woman slipped a bejeweled finger beneath his chin, raising his tear-stained face (Eorn could not discern if his tears were now of his earlier sorrow or his present joy) to regard her own. Her gaze moved to Eorn’s, and the radiance of very white teeth suddenly sliced through the darkness. “And who are you?” she asked, ignoring Brute, who remained staring at her and trembling.

“I’d like to ask you that myself, my lady,” he responded, arms crossed, nudging the immobile Brute with the toe of his boot.

“Who are you?” asked the woman again, but the question was now laced with not sugar but poison, and very obviously directed to the man over Eorn’s shoulder as opposed to Eorn himself. The smoke was clearing, as someone had extinguished the pipe at her lips, and in the sudden clarity, she appeared slightly less majestic and intimidating and more like a teenaged girl caught wearing her mother’s expensive gowns.

“Seize her!” the woman shrieked in the awkward pause that followed, leveling an imperious finger at the floor. At the feet of the man who had followed them in was another woman, prone, dressed in rags, her hands bound behind her and her feet at the ankles. She appeared to be hellbent on creating some disruption, but the gag in her mouth prevented any noise beyond infuriated bursts of choked screams. She flailed at the man’s feet in a wordless imploring for help, or a seething display of the present state of her happiness.

The majestic-but-not woman’s breath came in short bursts from her flared nostrils, since no one seemed keen to obey her command.

Eorn shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I’ll be upstairs,” he announced, and headed toward the door.





BUNNEH'S TURN GO