Keaira had not felt safe roaming about in the open, as she had no idea of the reputation she might have gained as the enticing Tigre. She had gone out on a limb attending the coronation, but that was the largest risk she hoped to take. In silence, between short and fitful naps and meals taken in the Dragon, she had tried her best to recall the past months, instead finding only darkness. In that darkness there were whispers, bits of remembrance, but nothing she could tie down. It frightened her. In that darkness was anger -- something she never allowed herself to feel. It must have been something traumatic, she assumed, for her mind to shut it off so soundly. Even now she was reticent in trying to dig very deep into it. Lost in her contemplations and hiding as such in her room, Keaira had long since missed the appointment she couldn't remember setting up with Ashari, yet it was just as well, for that was one woman she would not have been able to fool for long. Anyway, her thoughts were getting more and more erratic. She wasn’t feeling herself lately.
It occurred to her that there was much going on in the Citadel she didn't understand. Groups she didn't know of were fighting wars she didn't understand. And somehow, she'd gotten herself caught up in the middle of it. Why? How? It frightened her, knowing she was stumbling through the dark. When would it end? Would she be attacked again? Her fears had kept her inside the Burpin' Dragon for days, until she finally decided it was time to try and find Michael. Perhaps now he would show his face, now that most of the commotion had died down.
Once the sun was low in the sky, nearly disappearing over the horizon, Keaira brushed her hair out and donned a long-sleeved black bodice and blue skirt, not wanting to dress too differently from those around her; but she didn’t want to look too simple. Her skin appeared more milky when placed against such dark colors, but Keaira enjoyed the effect. She took her time in lining her eyes with dark kohl, intensifying the blue of her irises and making them stand out as well. Her hair she left mostly free, tying back only a small section and securing it with a blue ribbon. Her cheeks were lightly dusted with rouge, giving her a soft glow. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, she prepared to leave.
Most of the money and what little she had bought was left in the sack she'd been given, hidden away safely in her room. She did place a few larger coins in her purse in case Michael wanted proof of her honesty -- if she was even able to find him. The ruby ring Michael gave her and the emerald ring she couldn't recall receiving also went into the purse. Placing her purse in a leather satchel and pulling the strap over her shoulder, Keaira glanced over the room one last time. Locking the door behind her, she left the Burpin’ Dragon as quietly as she could, avoiding attention as much as possible.
In the streets she kept to the busy areas, for she felt none too safe any more. There were more guards, yes, but perhaps also more danger. As quickly as she could she made her way to Pier Seventeen, avoiding eyes and people on the way.
----------
Stretching out a modest distance into the Citadel's large, calm harbor was a pier that was no longer used for shipping. Built towards the center of the boardwalk, Pier 17 had been outreached many yahren ago by the larger, more serviceable piers of the harbor after the moles were constructed to tame the unsettled waters of the Ocean. While most of the old piers were torn down, this one remained due to popularity due to tavern that grew upon it's broad, sturdy surface, a popular place open at all marks of the day and every day of the week, it's rosy, warm lights as familiar a sight to returning sailors as any lighthouse.
The tavern itself was unique in that it was constructed entirely of timber, as much from convenience as the potential dangers of weight. As such, it boasted only a single level with a sharp roof that towered up at a stern angle. A single chimney...for there was a stove within the building...rose well above the building itself, as much to protect the pier from its dangerous sparks as it was to protect the fires from the moist spray of the sea. A fresh coat of red paint covered the buildings past coats of paint, enough such that timbers themselves no longer displayed their grain. A broad pair of white double doors protected the entrance, though these were seldom closed or even noticed, and beyond these was a modest, brightly-lit taproom with a small, lacquered bar to the right and a half dozen snugs and tables to the left. Beyond these tables were another pair of doors, a magnificent pair made of stained glass set in iron that lead out to the Gallery beyond.
While there were a few tables located within the building itself, Pier 17 remained a popular eatery due to its magnificent covered porch. The Gallery, as the locals called it, was guarded on all three sides by a carefully crafted railing and imperfectly lit with the muted, amber glow of several brass lamps hung from the upper rafters such that the lights of the harbor were not diminished for the guests. Another small bar was stationed here alongside the stained glass doors that lead inside. A pair of short steps spilled out of the Gallery opposite the tavern building to the remainder of Pier 17, a popular place for evening walks or meetings.
Regardless of where one might be upon the pier, the odor of fresh, spiced fish cooking in the hidden kitchen was unmistakable, a marvelous smell that mixed with the fresh, sea air to leave the building with a relaxing and intoxicating scent. While a short, rotund man sat behind the inside bar of the establishment, he stared wistfully out one of the many windows of the building, watching the dockyard at work and leaving one of his employees…a petite girl of perhaps fourteen yahren with a considerably freckled face under warm, brown hair…to greet newcomers. This she did, with a wobbly curtsey and a glorious, content smile. “Welcome to Pier Seventeen! Have a seat anywhere you like!â€
----------
Upon arriving, Keaira looked about quickly, trying to spot Michael Crane. She would move to a table on the porch, recalling how he'd told her he enjoyed looking out on the dock workers 'like some great, judgmental deity.' The thought had intrigued her at the time, but now she tried to ignore it. I am no better, she told herself.
Her satchel she placed on her lap, keeping it close, her dark lashes veiling her eyes as she continued to watch for any sign of Michael. Would he even come out in the open yet? He had probably interpreted the attack on the Banner as an attempt to end his life. It was, though, and they failed. Now I have to finish their job. I'm not a murderer! Inwardly, she was repulsed by the idea of killing Michael -- or of even leading him to his death. He's a bad man, she reminded herself, trying to make the thought less horrifying. Perhaps she would have been less reluctant to kill him if she could have remembered how he had ruled her life -- or how she had already killed one person. No doubt that at that moment, the glee Tigre had felt would have terrified her.
Michael had eyes on the streets, though, and his goons knew her face well enough. A lone girl sitting at a table was easy to notice. Keaira only hoped that she wouldn't be noticed by the wrong eyes.
[OR] The Lamb seeks the Lion (Ch 26th, ET)
Moderator: Mods
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
[OR] The Lamb seeks the Lion (Ch 26th, ET)
Last edited by Keaira Morgandy on Mon Feb 04, 2008 6:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
OOC: Pardon the delay. RL has me in its clutches rather firmly, but I shall try to beat it back.
There was an almost palpable tension on the streets, though unlike after the burning of the Red Banner, the guards were nowhere to be seen. They were still performing their duties, but they kept to well lit main streets and moved in groups of half a dozen or more men, nervously eyeing the mouth of each alley. As Keaira neared the harbor, the reasons for such behavior as well as the absence of people on the streets became obvious. A man sat, leaning heavily against a nearby wall, his head slumped to the chest. It was only when she got closer, that the dark stain upon his shirt became obvious, the same liquid that stained his shirt pulling around his legs. It was his own blood, the man already dead by the time former Madame came close, killed by a single wound in the side of his neck, his lifeblood drained away. It was a neat slice, the only visible damage to his body that slice of the jugular. A few dozen paces down the street, a dark shape stood in the middle of the street, though in the gathering darkness and at the distance she was at, Keaira had no way of knowing what it was.
OOC: Let us first get to the Pier 17, and then enter. Things have changed in the Citadel on the 26th
There was an almost palpable tension on the streets, though unlike after the burning of the Red Banner, the guards were nowhere to be seen. They were still performing their duties, but they kept to well lit main streets and moved in groups of half a dozen or more men, nervously eyeing the mouth of each alley. As Keaira neared the harbor, the reasons for such behavior as well as the absence of people on the streets became obvious. A man sat, leaning heavily against a nearby wall, his head slumped to the chest. It was only when she got closer, that the dark stain upon his shirt became obvious, the same liquid that stained his shirt pulling around his legs. It was his own blood, the man already dead by the time former Madame came close, killed by a single wound in the side of his neck, his lifeblood drained away. It was a neat slice, the only visible damage to his body that slice of the jugular. A few dozen paces down the street, a dark shape stood in the middle of the street, though in the gathering darkness and at the distance she was at, Keaira had no way of knowing what it was.
OOC: Let us first get to the Pier 17, and then enter. Things have changed in the Citadel on the 26th
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
OOC: I suppose I should know better than to assume by now, haha. Very well, my apologies!
The streets weren't nearly as crowded as she was used to, and Keaira couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at the behavior of the guards as she made her way toward the harbor. They're nervous, she observed wordlessly, growing uncomfortable herself the further she got from each cluster of uniformed men. It wasn't that late, but there were no dock workers cheerful about the day's end -- not even distantly could many voices be heard. It was eerie, and as goosebumps rose on her skin, Keaira began to entertain thoughts of turning around.
But for now her feet wouldn't let her stop, and she tried to square her shoulders and convince herself that all was well. After all, I've got to find Michael some time, right? Otherwise they might think I'm not trying at all. Not that she knew exactly who they were or if they even had an eye on her at all; for all she knew, they could be busy with troubles of their own. There was certainly something serious brewing in the Citadel.
Searching for something familiar to calm her, she spied a man slouched against a wall. There now, a lazy worker enjoying the evening to himself. Look at him, drenched in booze, probably asleep, so drunk he isn't even moving. Or snoring. Or...breathing.
Keaira dared to move closer, holding her breath. He's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead...oh! But he was dead, and she could plainly see the clean slice through his neck which had destroyed some sort of organ, no doubt vital. Her eyes widened in horror as she jumped back and spasmed, her stomach expressing a passionate distaste for such a sight. It was quite a few flickers before she had recovered herself, somehow managing not to vomit in the street.
At a quickened pace she continued, though for what reason she knew not. Maybe Michael knows about all of this, he's a bad man. Maybe all these killers belong to him, they won't hurt me, he'll have told them.. Her thoughts were swimming much more successfully than her vision, and Keaira's eyes narrowed slightly at a dark shape which seemed to be in the road. Standing? Hovering? She couldn't tell. It was so dark...
Come now, you should be used to this sort of thing. Come on, chin up. Don't look so weak.
A deep breath was drawn in and released, followed by another, and then Keaira stood up straight as if her surroundings were the most natural thing in the world. Confidently she continued down the street, her eyes on the shape. I must get to Pier 17. I must find Michael Crane.
The streets weren't nearly as crowded as she was used to, and Keaira couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at the behavior of the guards as she made her way toward the harbor. They're nervous, she observed wordlessly, growing uncomfortable herself the further she got from each cluster of uniformed men. It wasn't that late, but there were no dock workers cheerful about the day's end -- not even distantly could many voices be heard. It was eerie, and as goosebumps rose on her skin, Keaira began to entertain thoughts of turning around.
But for now her feet wouldn't let her stop, and she tried to square her shoulders and convince herself that all was well. After all, I've got to find Michael some time, right? Otherwise they might think I'm not trying at all. Not that she knew exactly who they were or if they even had an eye on her at all; for all she knew, they could be busy with troubles of their own. There was certainly something serious brewing in the Citadel.
Searching for something familiar to calm her, she spied a man slouched against a wall. There now, a lazy worker enjoying the evening to himself. Look at him, drenched in booze, probably asleep, so drunk he isn't even moving. Or snoring. Or...breathing.
Keaira dared to move closer, holding her breath. He's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead...oh! But he was dead, and she could plainly see the clean slice through his neck which had destroyed some sort of organ, no doubt vital. Her eyes widened in horror as she jumped back and spasmed, her stomach expressing a passionate distaste for such a sight. It was quite a few flickers before she had recovered herself, somehow managing not to vomit in the street.
At a quickened pace she continued, though for what reason she knew not. Maybe Michael knows about all of this, he's a bad man. Maybe all these killers belong to him, they won't hurt me, he'll have told them.. Her thoughts were swimming much more successfully than her vision, and Keaira's eyes narrowed slightly at a dark shape which seemed to be in the road. Standing? Hovering? She couldn't tell. It was so dark...
Come now, you should be used to this sort of thing. Come on, chin up. Don't look so weak.
A deep breath was drawn in and released, followed by another, and then Keaira stood up straight as if her surroundings were the most natural thing in the world. Confidently she continued down the street, her eyes on the shape. I must get to Pier 17. I must find Michael Crane.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
The dark shape move as Keaira approached, a soft groan issuing from it, though it was a few paces before she recognized it for a man, spread down upon the cobbles, the whites of his eyes reflecting a sudden ray of moonlight, white as a bleached bone. This one was definitely alive, though a dark stain surrounded him too. A break in the clouds brought a bit more light, giving Keaira chance to clearly see twin arrows sticking out of his back. "Heeeeeeeelp me." His voice was coarse, drawn out pitifully, the right side of his face never moving, making the words somewhat slurred and odd sounding. Left hand reached towards her, nails digging into the cobbles, feebly pulling him forward a few inches, right arm and leg dragged limply.
It was indeed one of Michael's killers. His face quite familiar if only Keaira would dare refresh her memory, recollecting the darkest moments of her life. His name was Michael. Thug and a brute. A drunk. Beater of women. A rapist. She had been one of his victims in Samheen. His birthday present. "Pleeeeeeeafeeeeee."
It was indeed one of Michael's killers. His face quite familiar if only Keaira would dare refresh her memory, recollecting the darkest moments of her life. His name was Michael. Thug and a brute. A drunk. Beater of women. A rapist. She had been one of his victims in Samheen. His birthday present. "Pleeeeeeeafeeeeee."
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
As she walked, Keaira watched the shape carefully, ready to run should it prove to be a hostile figure -- or worse. She wasn't quite sure if she believed in ghosts and spirits, but she didn't want to find out they were real in a manner that might be unsavory.
She hesitated when it moved, drawing her leather satchel nearer to her, as if it could somehow protect her. Yet then she heard a groan, followed by a coarse plea.
"Heeeeeeeelp me."
Keaira wasn't a caring creature. She wasn't nurturing. Though innocent and agreeable, her first impulse was not to save this man. It alarmed her further when the clouds parted and she noticed two arrows protruding from his back. It seemed that half of his face wasn't working correctly. Keaira's eyes widened further in fear as he reached toward her and she was quick to step back, her gaze moving from his wounds to his face.
For a moment she stared without comprehension, aware only of a sudden, seething anger that was boiling up inside her. She was overwhelmed. Her skin prickled, her teeth clenched, her fingers curled into fists, and every muscle in her body tensed for an unknown purpose. She thought she could feel a distinct pain in her jaw. Was that the taste of blood in her mouth? She heard whispers nearby, but no one was there. Her vision swam dangerously as she wondered if she was going to be sick. Her hand went to her stomach as she bent over slightly. Everything was getting darker. She could barely see. Her hearing was gone. It was as if she was drowning in rage. Anger...so much anger...
---
Tigre was having trouble.
True, she'd been aware the entire time, since the moment she'd let the meeker Keaira regain control. But it was tiresome, suppressing an entire personality, and she'd been less than reluctant to have a rest. Anyway, it was amusing to watch Keaira trying to piece together what had happened. Sometimes she got too close, and Tigre had to scare her off with some of that trademark rage. It hadn't been hard, the girl was easily intimidated.
But she was tired, and she had come to want that rest. So, for the most part, she had settled back into the darkest corners of Keaira's psyche and watched without interfering as the girl carried on with her life as best she could. Slowly her strength had been returning, and she was content to wait.
Her plans had changed.
The sight of that disgusting, putrid, repulsive man had thrown her into an instant rage. She tore through Keaira's psyche like a machete through thick underbrush, eager to seize control again. But the girl's shock hindered her. She hadn't had time to weaken Keaira; to wear her down. When in any other case Keaira might not have offered so much resistance, she seemed to think that Tigre was a sickness coming on to her from the sight of a dying man, and she was fighting for control of herself. There was danger, and she knew it. She knew she wasn't safe, and it was no time to lose her head. But that was exactly what Tigre wanted her to do.
Tigre was stronger, there was no doubt about that. It took only a few flickers for her to regain control of Keaira's movements, but the girl was still aware. She could sense her grasping at nothing, struggling to stay conscious, her eyes widening in an attempt to fight off the encroaching darkness. There wasn't time to completely subdue her. There was only time for revenge.
---
After a few moments of stumbling and rapid breath, the girl suddenly straightened up, seeming to collect herself. Her gaze turned back to the man on the ground, and she seemed concerned. Her voice whispered softly to him, "Ssshh, be still. I'll help you. Don't move."
Carefully, watching for any sudden movements and ready to spring away should he try to grab at her, the girl made her way around to his right side, which was obviously paralyzed. Again she spoke gently. "Don't move, I'm going to take this out. Try not to yell." He was weak, he'd lost a lot of blood. He was vulnerable. She would help him, all right.
Bracing herself a moment, the girl wrapped both her hands around the shaft of one of the arrows (the one furthest from his spine, lest she catch it on a bone) and gave it a hard pull, in an attempt to remove it from his back.
She hesitated when it moved, drawing her leather satchel nearer to her, as if it could somehow protect her. Yet then she heard a groan, followed by a coarse plea.
"Heeeeeeeelp me."
Keaira wasn't a caring creature. She wasn't nurturing. Though innocent and agreeable, her first impulse was not to save this man. It alarmed her further when the clouds parted and she noticed two arrows protruding from his back. It seemed that half of his face wasn't working correctly. Keaira's eyes widened further in fear as he reached toward her and she was quick to step back, her gaze moving from his wounds to his face.
For a moment she stared without comprehension, aware only of a sudden, seething anger that was boiling up inside her. She was overwhelmed. Her skin prickled, her teeth clenched, her fingers curled into fists, and every muscle in her body tensed for an unknown purpose. She thought she could feel a distinct pain in her jaw. Was that the taste of blood in her mouth? She heard whispers nearby, but no one was there. Her vision swam dangerously as she wondered if she was going to be sick. Her hand went to her stomach as she bent over slightly. Everything was getting darker. She could barely see. Her hearing was gone. It was as if she was drowning in rage. Anger...so much anger...
---
Tigre was having trouble.
True, she'd been aware the entire time, since the moment she'd let the meeker Keaira regain control. But it was tiresome, suppressing an entire personality, and she'd been less than reluctant to have a rest. Anyway, it was amusing to watch Keaira trying to piece together what had happened. Sometimes she got too close, and Tigre had to scare her off with some of that trademark rage. It hadn't been hard, the girl was easily intimidated.
But she was tired, and she had come to want that rest. So, for the most part, she had settled back into the darkest corners of Keaira's psyche and watched without interfering as the girl carried on with her life as best she could. Slowly her strength had been returning, and she was content to wait.
Her plans had changed.
The sight of that disgusting, putrid, repulsive man had thrown her into an instant rage. She tore through Keaira's psyche like a machete through thick underbrush, eager to seize control again. But the girl's shock hindered her. She hadn't had time to weaken Keaira; to wear her down. When in any other case Keaira might not have offered so much resistance, she seemed to think that Tigre was a sickness coming on to her from the sight of a dying man, and she was fighting for control of herself. There was danger, and she knew it. She knew she wasn't safe, and it was no time to lose her head. But that was exactly what Tigre wanted her to do.
Tigre was stronger, there was no doubt about that. It took only a few flickers for her to regain control of Keaira's movements, but the girl was still aware. She could sense her grasping at nothing, struggling to stay conscious, her eyes widening in an attempt to fight off the encroaching darkness. There wasn't time to completely subdue her. There was only time for revenge.
---
After a few moments of stumbling and rapid breath, the girl suddenly straightened up, seeming to collect herself. Her gaze turned back to the man on the ground, and she seemed concerned. Her voice whispered softly to him, "Ssshh, be still. I'll help you. Don't move."
Carefully, watching for any sudden movements and ready to spring away should he try to grab at her, the girl made her way around to his right side, which was obviously paralyzed. Again she spoke gently. "Don't move, I'm going to take this out. Try not to yell." He was weak, he'd lost a lot of blood. He was vulnerable. She would help him, all right.
Bracing herself a moment, the girl wrapped both her hands around the shaft of one of the arrows (the one furthest from his spine, lest she catch it on a bone) and gave it a hard pull, in an attempt to remove it from his back.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
Where once a single strike from Michael had nearly knocked Keaira unconscious, giving her a bruise that marred her jaw for nearly a week, he barely had strength enough to move at that moment. His eyes, or more correctly, his left eye looked at her pleadingly, the corner of his lips curling up into a gruesome mockery of a relieved smile as the thug recognized her face. "Ffffff...fank you, Tigre." A bubble of air formed upon the wounded man's lips, a soft gurgle issuing from his chest, a clear indication that his lungs were pierced, managing a nod, before his forehead struck the cobbles sharply, muscles relaxing as he awaited the girl's assistance.
To say her choice of help shocked him would be a grave understatement, the arrow so firmly lodged in his flesh that she lifted his chest off the ground before the momentum and his weight combined to dislodge the arrow with a sickening rip of his flesh. A strip of skin remained upon the shaft, held by the wicked barbs of the arrow tip, Michael too weak to scream, managing nothing more than a whimper. His head turned awkwardly around, the paralyzed muscles in the right side of his neck making it hard for him to perform even that simple maneuver. His eyes stared into hers, a bloody tear rolling out of its corner, his look sad and accusing. "Whyyyyyy?" Barely above a whisper, he kept repeating that one word, seemingly unable to comprehend why she had so savagely tortured him in his weakness.
To say her choice of help shocked him would be a grave understatement, the arrow so firmly lodged in his flesh that she lifted his chest off the ground before the momentum and his weight combined to dislodge the arrow with a sickening rip of his flesh. A strip of skin remained upon the shaft, held by the wicked barbs of the arrow tip, Michael too weak to scream, managing nothing more than a whimper. His head turned awkwardly around, the paralyzed muscles in the right side of his neck making it hard for him to perform even that simple maneuver. His eyes stared into hers, a bloody tear rolling out of its corner, his look sad and accusing. "Whyyyyyy?" Barely above a whisper, he kept repeating that one word, seemingly unable to comprehend why she had so savagely tortured him in his weakness.
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
She couldn't move.
But she was moving.
She couldn't control herself.
Keaira watched through her own eyes, unable to comprehend what was happening. Everything was dim; the man's lips moved, but she heard no words. Through a haze of anger she was dimly aware of her own terror, yet found herself unable to act upon it. Her own lips moved, and still no words. What was happening?
Helpless, she saw her own hands wrapping around the shaft of the arrow. No! She protested, but couldn't stop herself, and with a horrible jerk the arrow was pulled free. This wasn't right. She could have left him there in good conscience -- it wouldn't have bothered her at all. But she was getting involved, she was hurting him more. That was wrong. It was cruel. Horror filled her, but still it was smothered by rage and hatred. She felt as if she were drowning.
Why? She echoed Michael's words without knowing it, not sure who she was speaking to. Surely these weren't her actions? Surely someone else was making her do this? Why?
---
As the arrow wrenched free, the girl clutched it triumphantly in her right hand, turning it so that the tip was protruding a few inches below the clutch of her fist. Tigre had promised herself that night so long ago that she would kill Michael the first chance she got, for forcing himself upon her and daring to touch her, to degrade her like that. He would pay for his actions. She had been endlessly patient, and now it was time. Now she would have her revenge.
Her eyes seemed to glow softly, as if the light of the moon had been caught in them and trapped. The blue orbs focused on Michael as she looked down on him, narrowing her gaze, her pouty lips curling into a sneer of wicked satisfaction. Her teeth bared slightly, almost in an animal-like way, as she bent at the waist and leaned down just a bit nearer to him. She wanted him to hear her well.
Her words came in a half purr, half hiss through her teeth, her tones deeper, spoken more from her throat. "You fucked with the wrong woman, darling." Like a cat she moved, walking round behind him and along his left side (still wary of his movements) so that he would either have to use more energy to turn and watch her, or lose sight of her. "You humiliated me. You thought because you were stronger than I am that you could get away with it. With making me your birthday present." She spat on him as if to get some foul taste out of her mouth, and stopped when she came to stand in front of him, scowling down at his face, so hideous to her. Goosebumps dotted her flesh not from cold, but from pure rage; looking at her face, however, betrayed only a small amount of it. Crouching down slightly again, the girl spoke in a softer, lower purr, the arrow still clutched firmly in her right hand.
"I warned you. Now you get what you deserve, you fucking pig."
In a swift movement she struck, drawing her arm back and swinging it downward with all the strength she had, aiming for the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Positioned slightly on his left, she swung from the right, both because he was paralyzed on that side and, hopefully, to avoid any spray of blood that she might have trouble explaining away later.
But she was moving.
She couldn't control herself.
Keaira watched through her own eyes, unable to comprehend what was happening. Everything was dim; the man's lips moved, but she heard no words. Through a haze of anger she was dimly aware of her own terror, yet found herself unable to act upon it. Her own lips moved, and still no words. What was happening?
Helpless, she saw her own hands wrapping around the shaft of the arrow. No! She protested, but couldn't stop herself, and with a horrible jerk the arrow was pulled free. This wasn't right. She could have left him there in good conscience -- it wouldn't have bothered her at all. But she was getting involved, she was hurting him more. That was wrong. It was cruel. Horror filled her, but still it was smothered by rage and hatred. She felt as if she were drowning.
Why? She echoed Michael's words without knowing it, not sure who she was speaking to. Surely these weren't her actions? Surely someone else was making her do this? Why?
---
As the arrow wrenched free, the girl clutched it triumphantly in her right hand, turning it so that the tip was protruding a few inches below the clutch of her fist. Tigre had promised herself that night so long ago that she would kill Michael the first chance she got, for forcing himself upon her and daring to touch her, to degrade her like that. He would pay for his actions. She had been endlessly patient, and now it was time. Now she would have her revenge.
Her eyes seemed to glow softly, as if the light of the moon had been caught in them and trapped. The blue orbs focused on Michael as she looked down on him, narrowing her gaze, her pouty lips curling into a sneer of wicked satisfaction. Her teeth bared slightly, almost in an animal-like way, as she bent at the waist and leaned down just a bit nearer to him. She wanted him to hear her well.
Her words came in a half purr, half hiss through her teeth, her tones deeper, spoken more from her throat. "You fucked with the wrong woman, darling." Like a cat she moved, walking round behind him and along his left side (still wary of his movements) so that he would either have to use more energy to turn and watch her, or lose sight of her. "You humiliated me. You thought because you were stronger than I am that you could get away with it. With making me your birthday present." She spat on him as if to get some foul taste out of her mouth, and stopped when she came to stand in front of him, scowling down at his face, so hideous to her. Goosebumps dotted her flesh not from cold, but from pure rage; looking at her face, however, betrayed only a small amount of it. Crouching down slightly again, the girl spoke in a softer, lower purr, the arrow still clutched firmly in her right hand.
"I warned you. Now you get what you deserve, you fucking pig."
In a swift movement she struck, drawing her arm back and swinging it downward with all the strength she had, aiming for the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Positioned slightly on his left, she swung from the right, both because he was paralyzed on that side and, hopefully, to avoid any spray of blood that she might have trouble explaining away later.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
OOC: Hmmmmm, and here we go again. I fear this thread has just become impassable. You know the drill, missie.
Michael tried to defend himself, but he did not have the strength to do it. He had lost far too much blood already. His lungs were filling with blood, the world swimming before his eyes, dark blots obscuring his vision, forcing him to squeeze his eye shut to clear it up a bit. He had to keep Tigre in front of him, otherwise he would see her in duplicate or triplicate. The pitiful wreck of a man began shaking in fear, his one good eye pleading for mercy, though he did not expect any to come. Oh, whathe would have given for just a dozen flickers of his own self back. To have her soft neck under his fingers. To squeeze. Feel her skin stretch under his grip. Squeeze the life slowly out of her. Watch the light die in her eyes. Have her plead for mercy.
All he got instead was a chance to gasp, the sharp tip of the arrow piercing his neck, sinking deep, blood gushing from the wound. It coated Keaira's fingers, warm and sticky, almost unnaturally thick against her skin. Then came the call from down the street, preceded by a shrill whistle. "Hey you!!!!! What are you doing down there?" They were too far for Keaira to see clearly, but about half dozen humanoid shapes began running towards her. There was about fifty or so paces between them, and it would not take them more than ten flickers to cover the distance.
Michael tried to defend himself, but he did not have the strength to do it. He had lost far too much blood already. His lungs were filling with blood, the world swimming before his eyes, dark blots obscuring his vision, forcing him to squeeze his eye shut to clear it up a bit. He had to keep Tigre in front of him, otherwise he would see her in duplicate or triplicate. The pitiful wreck of a man began shaking in fear, his one good eye pleading for mercy, though he did not expect any to come. Oh, whathe would have given for just a dozen flickers of his own self back. To have her soft neck under his fingers. To squeeze. Feel her skin stretch under his grip. Squeeze the life slowly out of her. Watch the light die in her eyes. Have her plead for mercy.
All he got instead was a chance to gasp, the sharp tip of the arrow piercing his neck, sinking deep, blood gushing from the wound. It coated Keaira's fingers, warm and sticky, almost unnaturally thick against her skin. Then came the call from down the street, preceded by a shrill whistle. "Hey you!!!!! What are you doing down there?" They were too far for Keaira to see clearly, but about half dozen humanoid shapes began running towards her. There was about fifty or so paces between them, and it would not take them more than ten flickers to cover the distance.
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
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Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
OOC: Ah, yes. Good times, Mr. Wolf.
This time, just as before, Tigre began to laugh when she realized that she had succeeded in her goal -- that Michael would die now, and by her hand. She cared not that he would have died anyway, as long as she had struck the final blow. Her laughter began as a soft giggle, bubbling up from the depths of her throat as his blood gushed warm and thick over her striking hand.
Keaira was mortified. Tigre could feel her screaming within, terrified by what she had seen, overwhelmed with terror and fear and unable to comprehend how her own hands could have done such a thing. It would be amusing to see how this would affect the girl, for until now Tigre had been careful to spare her of any knowledge of her actions, and the girl remained naive and innocent. Curiosity sparked in Tigre just as a shrill whistle echoed from behind her, and it only took a flicker for her to reach a decision. Keaira would be a far more convincing terrified victim than she, after all, and she was caught.
---
It all rushed back to her at once, but she couldn't understand it. Suddenly, Keaira could clearly see all that was before her. The darkness left the corners of her vision and, though she couldn't see it, the soft glow departed from her eyes. The pressure of silence lifted from her ears and she heard herself begin to sob. What had happened? What had she done? What could she do now? She was a murderer.
It was a strangled sound at first, but the laugh Tigre had begun only a moment before became a cry, erupting abruptly from Keaira's throat, choking out meekly before growing in strength. Within flickers it was a full-fledged wail, as she slid to her knees and placed Michael's head in her lap, the blood on her hand smearing to the other and across his face as she did so. Crouching over him, she rocked back and forth, and it was hard to tell if the motion was to comfort him or to soothe her terror; if she cried for herself or for his demise. Here and there a sob was punctuated with a wailing noooooo!, repeated again and again. She was the picture of abject fear and sorrow, unconcerned about the blood that would spill on her skirt from the neck wound.
The girl's entire body shook violently with the force of emotion consuming her. Her face was no longer a porcelain cream color, but rather sickly pale, kohl streaming in paths from her eyes and down her cheeks. She looked quite manic when the figures finally reached her, but she refused to look up at them at first, only staring in terror at Michael's face, gasping for breath and blinking floods of tears from her eyes.
"Dead," she choked out between sobs, shaking her head and rocking back and forth quickly. "Dead, he's dead, just like the man by the building, just like the people in the Banner, dead..dead..." Keaira sounded not unlike a lunatic, mumbling on incoherently, refusing to let go of Michael.
This time, just as before, Tigre began to laugh when she realized that she had succeeded in her goal -- that Michael would die now, and by her hand. She cared not that he would have died anyway, as long as she had struck the final blow. Her laughter began as a soft giggle, bubbling up from the depths of her throat as his blood gushed warm and thick over her striking hand.
Keaira was mortified. Tigre could feel her screaming within, terrified by what she had seen, overwhelmed with terror and fear and unable to comprehend how her own hands could have done such a thing. It would be amusing to see how this would affect the girl, for until now Tigre had been careful to spare her of any knowledge of her actions, and the girl remained naive and innocent. Curiosity sparked in Tigre just as a shrill whistle echoed from behind her, and it only took a flicker for her to reach a decision. Keaira would be a far more convincing terrified victim than she, after all, and she was caught.
---
It all rushed back to her at once, but she couldn't understand it. Suddenly, Keaira could clearly see all that was before her. The darkness left the corners of her vision and, though she couldn't see it, the soft glow departed from her eyes. The pressure of silence lifted from her ears and she heard herself begin to sob. What had happened? What had she done? What could she do now? She was a murderer.
It was a strangled sound at first, but the laugh Tigre had begun only a moment before became a cry, erupting abruptly from Keaira's throat, choking out meekly before growing in strength. Within flickers it was a full-fledged wail, as she slid to her knees and placed Michael's head in her lap, the blood on her hand smearing to the other and across his face as she did so. Crouching over him, she rocked back and forth, and it was hard to tell if the motion was to comfort him or to soothe her terror; if she cried for herself or for his demise. Here and there a sob was punctuated with a wailing noooooo!, repeated again and again. She was the picture of abject fear and sorrow, unconcerned about the blood that would spill on her skirt from the neck wound.
The girl's entire body shook violently with the force of emotion consuming her. Her face was no longer a porcelain cream color, but rather sickly pale, kohl streaming in paths from her eyes and down her cheeks. She looked quite manic when the figures finally reached her, but she refused to look up at them at first, only staring in terror at Michael's face, gasping for breath and blinking floods of tears from her eyes.
"Dead," she choked out between sobs, shaking her head and rocking back and forth quickly. "Dead, he's dead, just like the man by the building, just like the people in the Banner, dead..dead..." Keaira sounded not unlike a lunatic, mumbling on incoherently, refusing to let go of Michael.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
As luck would have it, the shapes approaching Keaira's side turned out to be an eight-men patrol of the City Guard. Or rather it was a seven-men-and-a-woman patrol, each of them holding a cudgel in hand, though each person had a proper weapon upon his or her belt. About half a dozen paces from the scene they stopped, tehir faces twisted in a mixture of disgust and fear. Only the man whose sleeve bore a trio of wedge shaped stripes showed any measure of calm. Wit a light shove and a murmured command he soon had his men spreading around, a trio of them going to the body slumped against the wall.
With woman guarding his back, surveying the street, keeping an eye on the rooftops in particular, he approached and knelt beside the sobbing girl. He was a man in his thirties, lean and slightly muscular, his face unshaven though the stubble covering his cheeks could not have been more than a day or two old. As he lowered himself on his knee, Duncan's scabbard clanged against the cobbles, sending a spark up in the air where its steel-shod tip struck the rocks. The scent of blood mixed with a scent of hot metal for a flicker, the heavy smell of Michael's life only enhanced by it. Sergeant reached and touched the girl's shoulder almost gently, shaking her body to get her attention. "Miss, are you alright? What happened here?" His eyes went to the body whose head rested in Keaira's lap, taking in the wound in his neck and moving down towards the arrow lodged in his spine. "Who killed your friend?"
With woman guarding his back, surveying the street, keeping an eye on the rooftops in particular, he approached and knelt beside the sobbing girl. He was a man in his thirties, lean and slightly muscular, his face unshaven though the stubble covering his cheeks could not have been more than a day or two old. As he lowered himself on his knee, Duncan's scabbard clanged against the cobbles, sending a spark up in the air where its steel-shod tip struck the rocks. The scent of blood mixed with a scent of hot metal for a flicker, the heavy smell of Michael's life only enhanced by it. Sergeant reached and touched the girl's shoulder almost gently, shaking her body to get her attention. "Miss, are you alright? What happened here?" His eyes went to the body whose head rested in Keaira's lap, taking in the wound in his neck and moving down towards the arrow lodged in his spine. "Who killed your friend?"
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
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Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
I'm a murderer.
Keaira remained oblivious to those approaching her, for Tigre had still been in control when their whistle blew and Keaira was so hysterical their footsteps fell on deaf ears. She continued to rock back and forth, cradling Michael's head like a baby, tears rolling endlessly down her cheeks.
I'm a murderer.
It was only when the soldier's scabbard sparked against the cobbles that the girl's breath caught in her throat and she froze. Duncan's touch upon her shoulder nearly sent her into hysterics once again as she cringed away from him, wincing as if he had hit her. "Don't hurt me," she whimpered, cowering from the man, though Michael's head still rested in her lap. At first she didn't look at him, her kohl-streaked face hidden behind a curtain of black hair, but she caught sight of his uniform through her tresses -- and was still more terrified.
Did they see? Will they throw me in jail?? The thought of this caused a shiver to jerk through her trembling body. Then, she realized what he'd said.
Who killed your friend?
My friend. So, they hadn't seen. She could be a victim here, too. Her eyes stared at him as if she didn't understand him at first -- terror could do that, after all. In truth, though, she was forming a story, deciding her course of action. She'd obviously been out of her mind when it happened, after all. This wasn't her fault. Someone else had done the damage first, other people were dead too. This could be that person's fault as well; no one ever needed to know.
"Are you..are you a guard? You haven't come to kill me too?" She sounded scared, hopeful, almost relieved, still clinging protectively to Michael's form. Her voice trembled pitifully as her gaze darted upward toward the rooftops, fear apparent in her blue eyes, still brilliant despite her current state. "He was already hurt... I tried to help, but someone --" Here she choked, beginning to cry again. "I think they're on the roof! Everyone is dying!"
Finally she let go of Michael, turning toward the guard and throwing her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his chest, crying miserably, obviously scared for her life. It was easy for her to cry, with the knowledge that she had killed that man -- or at least killed him faster -- still fresh in her memory.
"Please, I don't want to be here!"
Keaira remained oblivious to those approaching her, for Tigre had still been in control when their whistle blew and Keaira was so hysterical their footsteps fell on deaf ears. She continued to rock back and forth, cradling Michael's head like a baby, tears rolling endlessly down her cheeks.
I'm a murderer.
It was only when the soldier's scabbard sparked against the cobbles that the girl's breath caught in her throat and she froze. Duncan's touch upon her shoulder nearly sent her into hysterics once again as she cringed away from him, wincing as if he had hit her. "Don't hurt me," she whimpered, cowering from the man, though Michael's head still rested in her lap. At first she didn't look at him, her kohl-streaked face hidden behind a curtain of black hair, but she caught sight of his uniform through her tresses -- and was still more terrified.
Did they see? Will they throw me in jail?? The thought of this caused a shiver to jerk through her trembling body. Then, she realized what he'd said.
Who killed your friend?
My friend. So, they hadn't seen. She could be a victim here, too. Her eyes stared at him as if she didn't understand him at first -- terror could do that, after all. In truth, though, she was forming a story, deciding her course of action. She'd obviously been out of her mind when it happened, after all. This wasn't her fault. Someone else had done the damage first, other people were dead too. This could be that person's fault as well; no one ever needed to know.
"Are you..are you a guard? You haven't come to kill me too?" She sounded scared, hopeful, almost relieved, still clinging protectively to Michael's form. Her voice trembled pitifully as her gaze darted upward toward the rooftops, fear apparent in her blue eyes, still brilliant despite her current state. "He was already hurt... I tried to help, but someone --" Here she choked, beginning to cry again. "I think they're on the roof! Everyone is dying!"
Finally she let go of Michael, turning toward the guard and throwing her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his chest, crying miserably, obviously scared for her life. It was easy for her to cry, with the knowledge that she had killed that man -- or at least killed him faster -- still fresh in her memory.
"Please, I don't want to be here!"
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
The man looked almost startled at Keaira's reaction, his muscles stiff for a flicker, slowly relaxing in her hold. It took him a few more moments to try and soothe her, his hand at first patting the dancer's back, shyly, almost as if he was afraid to touch her, flickers passing and seemingly making him more resolute. His hug was gentle, a piece of his breastplate pressed against Keaira's collarbone, making the whole sensation a tad uncomfortable, ruining a perfectly gentle moment. "There, there, you are safe now. Good, old Sergeant Duncan won't let anyone hurt you."
He held her for a few flickers more, shifting slightly and uttering commands to his men in soft voice. "Search the alleys and be careful. Check if there are more victims. And be careful. Krys, you're in command while I am gone. I'll meet you at the Blind Man's Wharf in a mark." He let her sob a moment more, before gently raising her head, his fingers cupping the girl's delicate chin. The night was dark, but as close as they were the man's features were clear, his angular face somewhat hollow, his cheeks a bit sunken. He did have a pair of dazzling pale blue eyes, the color of ice, or steel, and a gentle half smile, a short stubble upon his cheeks giving him a somewhat rugged look. Perhaps surprisingly for a man of his calling his uniform carried a faint scent of fresh soap, probably washed that very day, though a faint undercurrent of alcohol tainted the air slightly. He had probably had a drink or two, but it was most likely at least a mark since that time.
"Come, I'll take you somewhere safe." Gently he untangled himself from Keaira, rising to his feet and helped her up, the patrol he lead spreading out and moving to the shadows and alley mouths seeking clues. Holding the girl's hand, Duncan looked uncertain of how he should proceed, glancing up and down the street before deciding to take the most obvious course. "Now, where would you like me to take you. And don't worry about your friend. We'll take him to the Temple and make sure he gets a proper burial." he paused and decided another smile would not hurt. "What is your name?"
He held her for a few flickers more, shifting slightly and uttering commands to his men in soft voice. "Search the alleys and be careful. Check if there are more victims. And be careful. Krys, you're in command while I am gone. I'll meet you at the Blind Man's Wharf in a mark." He let her sob a moment more, before gently raising her head, his fingers cupping the girl's delicate chin. The night was dark, but as close as they were the man's features were clear, his angular face somewhat hollow, his cheeks a bit sunken. He did have a pair of dazzling pale blue eyes, the color of ice, or steel, and a gentle half smile, a short stubble upon his cheeks giving him a somewhat rugged look. Perhaps surprisingly for a man of his calling his uniform carried a faint scent of fresh soap, probably washed that very day, though a faint undercurrent of alcohol tainted the air slightly. He had probably had a drink or two, but it was most likely at least a mark since that time.
"Come, I'll take you somewhere safe." Gently he untangled himself from Keaira, rising to his feet and helped her up, the patrol he lead spreading out and moving to the shadows and alley mouths seeking clues. Holding the girl's hand, Duncan looked uncertain of how he should proceed, glancing up and down the street before deciding to take the most obvious course. "Now, where would you like me to take you. And don't worry about your friend. We'll take him to the Temple and make sure he gets a proper burial." he paused and decided another smile would not hurt. "What is your name?"
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
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Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
As the sergeant addressed Keaira and the girl responded in turn, Tigre smiled darkly from the recesses of Keaira's psyche, clearly amused. Good job, little one. I suppose you are good for something after all.
----------
Hugs were not something Keaira experienced often. True, she had forced the man to reciprocate, but as he hugged her back gently she found herself relaxing, despite the breastplate pressing against her collar bone. His voice comforted her in soft tones, and gradually her uncontrolled sobbing slowed, her breathing becoming more steady. She was still quite the mess, though.
After a few flickers she heard him directing orders to the other guards, and then he was lifting her head. Her brilliant eyes stared back at another pair of blues steadily, darting back and forth between them. They were lighter than hers, more ice than water, but she decided she liked them. As her control of herself increased, Keaira began to notice that he smelled of soap and alcohol, and somehow this was endearing. Perhaps it was the role of damsel in distress that caused her to find him handsome in a rugged sort of way. Perhaps she was eager to distract herself.
At first she resisted when he began to move away, her arms clinging almost desperately at his neck. Of course this made sense, if her 'friend' had just died and she feared the same fate. He was safety, to her. Yet he was rising and she did indeed want to keep close to him, so she too rose, taking a moment to lay Michael's head down very gently -- after all, she had to maintain that she mourned for him.
Her hands were covered in drying blood, but she still clung tightly to the sergeant's grasp, her small fingers linking between his. Keaira kept near to him, her other hand lifting to curl more small fingers around his bicep. She even gave a slight squeeze, as if making sure he was strong and could protect her from the danger. Being so near to him caused her soft breasts to press up against his arm, but likely he was a man of honor and would hardly notice such a thing. Keaira herself paid no attention to it; it wasn't intentional, and this wasn't a time for seduction.
When the sergeant asked where she wanted him to take her, Keaira stared at him almost with bewilderment in her eyes, then glanced back down to her blood-soaked skirt. She was grateful she favored black, for at least against the dark background the dark liquid was hard to identify. If she could just get it off her hands, she wouldn't look too suspicious when she returned to the Burpin' Dragon. For a moment she considered an escort to the Pier, but she couldn't go looking like this.
"I...I don't know," she said between gentle sobs, her chest heaving slightly as she gasped for air. Tears still streamed slowly down her face, but the torrent he had first witnessed had disappeared. These were tears of quiet fear. "I have a room..at the Burpin' --" Here she coughed and wiped a few more tears from her kohl-stained cheeks, assuming that he would gather what she had intended to say. After a few more flickers she answered his second question. "Keaira," she whimpered out almost pathetically. If that paladin elf had been there, he wouldn't have been able to resist aiding such a helpless girl. She only hoped the sergeant would feel the same way.
----------
Hugs were not something Keaira experienced often. True, she had forced the man to reciprocate, but as he hugged her back gently she found herself relaxing, despite the breastplate pressing against her collar bone. His voice comforted her in soft tones, and gradually her uncontrolled sobbing slowed, her breathing becoming more steady. She was still quite the mess, though.
After a few flickers she heard him directing orders to the other guards, and then he was lifting her head. Her brilliant eyes stared back at another pair of blues steadily, darting back and forth between them. They were lighter than hers, more ice than water, but she decided she liked them. As her control of herself increased, Keaira began to notice that he smelled of soap and alcohol, and somehow this was endearing. Perhaps it was the role of damsel in distress that caused her to find him handsome in a rugged sort of way. Perhaps she was eager to distract herself.
At first she resisted when he began to move away, her arms clinging almost desperately at his neck. Of course this made sense, if her 'friend' had just died and she feared the same fate. He was safety, to her. Yet he was rising and she did indeed want to keep close to him, so she too rose, taking a moment to lay Michael's head down very gently -- after all, she had to maintain that she mourned for him.
Her hands were covered in drying blood, but she still clung tightly to the sergeant's grasp, her small fingers linking between his. Keaira kept near to him, her other hand lifting to curl more small fingers around his bicep. She even gave a slight squeeze, as if making sure he was strong and could protect her from the danger. Being so near to him caused her soft breasts to press up against his arm, but likely he was a man of honor and would hardly notice such a thing. Keaira herself paid no attention to it; it wasn't intentional, and this wasn't a time for seduction.
When the sergeant asked where she wanted him to take her, Keaira stared at him almost with bewilderment in her eyes, then glanced back down to her blood-soaked skirt. She was grateful she favored black, for at least against the dark background the dark liquid was hard to identify. If she could just get it off her hands, she wouldn't look too suspicious when she returned to the Burpin' Dragon. For a moment she considered an escort to the Pier, but she couldn't go looking like this.
"I...I don't know," she said between gentle sobs, her chest heaving slightly as she gasped for air. Tears still streamed slowly down her face, but the torrent he had first witnessed had disappeared. These were tears of quiet fear. "I have a room..at the Burpin' --" Here she coughed and wiped a few more tears from her kohl-stained cheeks, assuming that he would gather what she had intended to say. After a few more flickers she answered his second question. "Keaira," she whimpered out almost pathetically. If that paladin elf had been there, he wouldn't have been able to resist aiding such a helpless girl. She only hoped the sergeant would feel the same way.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
Duncan kept his eyes steadily focused on Keaira's, his voice gentle and soothing, the same gentle smile creasing his lips, though he still showed slight hesitation, obviously not entirely comfortable with the closeness. He glanced aside, almost nervously, his fingers curling around the dancer's a flicker later, as if he waited to see if she really meant to hold him thus. His muscles were tense, the biceps firm under her fingers, the man obviously having trouble relaxing just yet, though he did his best to appear calm. Had it not been dark she might have noticed how flushed his face was, as Duncan moved to quickly wipe a drop of sweat that rolled down his temple.
"Alright, Keaira. I'll get you to the Burpin' Dragaon." With a quick glance about, he led her down the street, away from the grisly scene, keeping close to the houses on the right, keeping himself between her and the street. At first his steps were slow, though as flickers passed he picked the pace up. He was quiet for a while, but once they were a few dozen paces away from where Michael lay dead, he leaned to look into her eyes and whispered, coughing before raising his voice to a more audible tone. "Can you... Can you tell me what happened back there? Did you see who did it? Or do you know why he was killed?"
"Alright, Keaira. I'll get you to the Burpin' Dragaon." With a quick glance about, he led her down the street, away from the grisly scene, keeping close to the houses on the right, keeping himself between her and the street. At first his steps were slow, though as flickers passed he picked the pace up. He was quiet for a while, but once they were a few dozen paces away from where Michael lay dead, he leaned to look into her eyes and whispered, coughing before raising his voice to a more audible tone. "Can you... Can you tell me what happened back there? Did you see who did it? Or do you know why he was killed?"
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
Keaira was vaguely aware of the tension in Duncan's muscles, though at the moment she was too concerned with her own plight to realize how she was affecting him. Her cheek rested gently against his muscled arm, and she felt comforted to have him so near. Surely he could protect her -- for while it was true that she had given the final blow, Michael had been injured before he reached her. Someone was indeed killing people.
She kept very close to the guard as they walked, her crying gradually slowing to a stop. Her fingers left Duncan's arm for only a few flickers, carefully rubbing the smeared kohl off of her cheeks. Though she had no mirror to look into, Keaira knew her face quite well, and mostly succeeded in removing the mess -- though of course some smudges remained here and there, marring the otherwise smooth visage of her porcelain cheeks. Keaira hugged herself close to Michael's arm again just as he decided to speak to her.
It seemed he had surprised her a bit, for she looked up at him suddenly, and through his arm's close proximity, nestled between her breasts, he could feel her breath catch in her throat. She was skittish after such an encounter. Who wouldn't be? And he had been so quiet at first. Her large eyes turned their azure depths up toward him once she realized that all was well, and her head shook gently.
"Mm-mm," she responded to the latter two questions, her head shaking gently. A few strands of raven hair fell across her cheeks and were quickly brushed back. "I was trying to get to the Pier, and I was so caught up in...I didn't realize how awful things were until..." She seemed to be having trouble. "I saw a man slumped up against a building. I..I thought he was drunk. But then I saw..." Trailing off, Keaira shivered slightly, pressing closer to Duncan at the thought of seeing the man's throat slit cleanly. "His throat was cut. He was dead. That's when I realized..." Again she trailed off, but it was easy to guess at what she'd intended to say. "Then I saw a shape, I couldn't tell what it was, but it moved. I got closer, and it was..." Here she gave a gentle sob, though she didn't cry again. "He was hurt, and I tried to..he called to me. But when I went to him, someone...suddenly there was an arrow..in his neck..."
It seemed terribly difficult for her to discuss such a thing, as well it should. Poor girl, she was traumatized. Keaira became doe-eyed -- a pitiful, sweet, pretty little thing in need of saving. "I thought I was next..so I just held him. But then you...I think you scared them off. You saved me." Finally she released his gaze, dropping her head to press her cheek gratefully into his arm; and hoping his questions wouldn't probe much further.
She kept very close to the guard as they walked, her crying gradually slowing to a stop. Her fingers left Duncan's arm for only a few flickers, carefully rubbing the smeared kohl off of her cheeks. Though she had no mirror to look into, Keaira knew her face quite well, and mostly succeeded in removing the mess -- though of course some smudges remained here and there, marring the otherwise smooth visage of her porcelain cheeks. Keaira hugged herself close to Michael's arm again just as he decided to speak to her.
It seemed he had surprised her a bit, for she looked up at him suddenly, and through his arm's close proximity, nestled between her breasts, he could feel her breath catch in her throat. She was skittish after such an encounter. Who wouldn't be? And he had been so quiet at first. Her large eyes turned their azure depths up toward him once she realized that all was well, and her head shook gently.
"Mm-mm," she responded to the latter two questions, her head shaking gently. A few strands of raven hair fell across her cheeks and were quickly brushed back. "I was trying to get to the Pier, and I was so caught up in...I didn't realize how awful things were until..." She seemed to be having trouble. "I saw a man slumped up against a building. I..I thought he was drunk. But then I saw..." Trailing off, Keaira shivered slightly, pressing closer to Duncan at the thought of seeing the man's throat slit cleanly. "His throat was cut. He was dead. That's when I realized..." Again she trailed off, but it was easy to guess at what she'd intended to say. "Then I saw a shape, I couldn't tell what it was, but it moved. I got closer, and it was..." Here she gave a gentle sob, though she didn't cry again. "He was hurt, and I tried to..he called to me. But when I went to him, someone...suddenly there was an arrow..in his neck..."
It seemed terribly difficult for her to discuss such a thing, as well it should. Poor girl, she was traumatized. Keaira became doe-eyed -- a pitiful, sweet, pretty little thing in need of saving. "I thought I was next..so I just held him. But then you...I think you scared them off. You saved me." Finally she released his gaze, dropping her head to press her cheek gratefully into his arm; and hoping his questions wouldn't probe much further.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
Keaira's gasp, her surprise, had Duncan falter in his steps for a flicker, his own breath held, a hint of terror in his eyes as he looked at the girl on his arm, Sergeant letting out a soft sigh when she did not bolt, instead answering his questions. He so wished to brush the back of his fingers against her cheek, to tell her all would be fine, that she could take her time. His cheeks felt like they were on fire, toes and fingertips freezing cold, his steps measured, matching hers, the voices of his fellow Guardsmen dying out, becoming more muffled with each step.
He could feel the rush already. Knew that she would make a good canvas. Her skin looked so smooth and soft, like porcelain. Each cut of his knife would stand out nicely, each verse of the poem would be clear. Those who could read would revel in it. The rest would simply think it repulsive and sickening. She did look so fragile. Thinking he would protect her. It was only a matter of time before they left the other guards behind. Then would be the time. With so many dead on the streets it would be days before they found out. Would that make the lyrics illegible.
Duncan shivered as a sudden whiff of wind caressed their skins, bringing with it the faint aroma of sea and burning wood, the street curving gently, bringing them out of sight from the patrol. Something moved up ahead and with a gentle hand, he guided Keaira towards the mouth of the nearest alley, intent to guide her into the dark shadows there. "It is dangerous to be outside tonight. They say the Scouts are trying to exterminate the Brotherhood." His voice was slightly shaky, the man obviously nervous, his steps quickening as they approached the alley. Walls loomed up above them, the narrow passage almost completely dark, Duncan pausing after a few steps waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Let's go this way. Less likely we'll run into the looters or gangs."
He could feel the rush already. Knew that she would make a good canvas. Her skin looked so smooth and soft, like porcelain. Each cut of his knife would stand out nicely, each verse of the poem would be clear. Those who could read would revel in it. The rest would simply think it repulsive and sickening. She did look so fragile. Thinking he would protect her. It was only a matter of time before they left the other guards behind. Then would be the time. With so many dead on the streets it would be days before they found out. Would that make the lyrics illegible.
Duncan shivered as a sudden whiff of wind caressed their skins, bringing with it the faint aroma of sea and burning wood, the street curving gently, bringing them out of sight from the patrol. Something moved up ahead and with a gentle hand, he guided Keaira towards the mouth of the nearest alley, intent to guide her into the dark shadows there. "It is dangerous to be outside tonight. They say the Scouts are trying to exterminate the Brotherhood." His voice was slightly shaky, the man obviously nervous, his steps quickening as they approached the alley. Walls loomed up above them, the narrow passage almost completely dark, Duncan pausing after a few steps waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Let's go this way. Less likely we'll run into the looters or gangs."
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
Keaira hugged closer to Duncan, beginning to feel a more acute fear when he spoke of the Scouts and the Brotherhood. She didn't know the groups, but she thought back to when she was captured: how that man had moved without making a sound. How even when she'd been in the same room she couldn't hear his footsteps. What if the man, or men, who had wounded Michael and slit the other man's throat could do the same? What if she never saw them coming? Her life was in danger. Again.
Pan's breath, how do I keep ending up in these situations? Her thoughts flickered back to her brief appearance at Pan's Temple. Had he even noticed her? No doubt gods were far too busy to trouble themselves with a small mortal girl. A shaky sigh escaped her lips.
Those lovely blue eyes widened fearfully as something moved up ahead and, though the other prospect was probably just as dangerous, her small feet shuffled and resisted meekly as Duncan guided her toward a dark alley -- though she still entered the passage at his unspoken request. The high walls made her feel cramped, and her heart began to beat faster. I don't want to die, she thought suddenly. A tiny whimper fumbled its way around in her throat. Please, I'm sorry I killed him. I didn't mean to. Please don't let me die... She wasn't sure who she was praying to. Likely Pan, as she addressed him most often, but in truth she besought any god who might be looking in her direction at that particular moment.
Her fingers squeezed Duncan's as she paused with him, as if she were reassuring herself that she would be alright as long as he was near. Beneath her fear she could feel a faint tension and anger which she didn't understand. It was so faint, however, that she hardly payed any attention to it.
Tigre, however, was paying keen attention, and that was what Keaira sensed -- the darker side of her, lurking beneath her skin, sending shivers over that perfect flesh. She was restless. While it was true that Keaira had done an excellent job of putting the soldiers off her scent, it was also true that someone was murdering people in the streets -- and Keaira was in the streets. She kept reminding the girl of this with little thoughts here and there; kept stirring up her fears and maintaining her terror. While Keaira asked not to die, Tigre only insisted: I will not die. To Keaira, being in danger of dying was still a relatively new feeling. Tigre, however, was used to and familiar with it.
A moment of exerted influence brought Keaira's gaze up toward the rooftops, and another gentle push brought it down to Duncan's belt. Without the naive girl's knowledge, Tigre was using Keaira to watch for rooftop archers and to check Duncan for any weapons she might be able to use -- for a sword was out of the question. You need a dagger, she thought, more to herself than to Keaira.
Had any been able to see her, poised in the depths of Keaira's psyche, they might think she were a cat ready to pounce.
Pan's breath, how do I keep ending up in these situations? Her thoughts flickered back to her brief appearance at Pan's Temple. Had he even noticed her? No doubt gods were far too busy to trouble themselves with a small mortal girl. A shaky sigh escaped her lips.
Those lovely blue eyes widened fearfully as something moved up ahead and, though the other prospect was probably just as dangerous, her small feet shuffled and resisted meekly as Duncan guided her toward a dark alley -- though she still entered the passage at his unspoken request. The high walls made her feel cramped, and her heart began to beat faster. I don't want to die, she thought suddenly. A tiny whimper fumbled its way around in her throat. Please, I'm sorry I killed him. I didn't mean to. Please don't let me die... She wasn't sure who she was praying to. Likely Pan, as she addressed him most often, but in truth she besought any god who might be looking in her direction at that particular moment.
Her fingers squeezed Duncan's as she paused with him, as if she were reassuring herself that she would be alright as long as he was near. Beneath her fear she could feel a faint tension and anger which she didn't understand. It was so faint, however, that she hardly payed any attention to it.
Tigre, however, was paying keen attention, and that was what Keaira sensed -- the darker side of her, lurking beneath her skin, sending shivers over that perfect flesh. She was restless. While it was true that Keaira had done an excellent job of putting the soldiers off her scent, it was also true that someone was murdering people in the streets -- and Keaira was in the streets. She kept reminding the girl of this with little thoughts here and there; kept stirring up her fears and maintaining her terror. While Keaira asked not to die, Tigre only insisted: I will not die. To Keaira, being in danger of dying was still a relatively new feeling. Tigre, however, was used to and familiar with it.
A moment of exerted influence brought Keaira's gaze up toward the rooftops, and another gentle push brought it down to Duncan's belt. Without the naive girl's knowledge, Tigre was using Keaira to watch for rooftop archers and to check Duncan for any weapons she might be able to use -- for a sword was out of the question. You need a dagger, she thought, more to herself than to Keaira.
Had any been able to see her, poised in the depths of Keaira's psyche, they might think she were a cat ready to pounce.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
The thin patch of sky was illuminated the street barely enough for them to make their way between obstacles, Duncan skirting the patches of refuse and filth easily, all the while guiding Keaira deeper into the maze of alleys that was Citadel's Outer Ring. The alleys twisted this way and that, as the Sergeant guided the girl on his arms through the labyrinth with a sure step of a man who had done so a thousand times before. He had been silent for almost a burn, his voice finally breaking the deathly silence of the night, echoing off the walls, like a thunder in the night. "You seem familiar to me, Keaira. Have we ever met before? Did someone introduce us?"
The rooftops were devoid of movement, not even the cloud moving over the clear sky, a clash of steel against steel, followed by a few shouts coming from their right, too far for either of them to discern the words being shouted. Apart from the sword at his belt, Tigre so no other weapons on Sergeant's belt, though something hard pressed against her left hip, her own body obscuring the view of it. Were she to move, it would turn out to be a dagger, its blade a good twelve or so inches long, wickedly curved, marking it as a weapon more than a tool. His whisper came again, lower this time, soft, sounding almost like a hiss. "Don't worry. Duncan will take care of you. You'll be fine with me."
The rooftops were devoid of movement, not even the cloud moving over the clear sky, a clash of steel against steel, followed by a few shouts coming from their right, too far for either of them to discern the words being shouted. Apart from the sword at his belt, Tigre so no other weapons on Sergeant's belt, though something hard pressed against her left hip, her own body obscuring the view of it. Were she to move, it would turn out to be a dagger, its blade a good twelve or so inches long, wickedly curved, marking it as a weapon more than a tool. His whisper came again, lower this time, soft, sounding almost like a hiss. "Don't worry. Duncan will take care of you. You'll be fine with me."
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
The girl's nervousness grew more powerful by the minute, as did Tigre's. Neither of them had any idea where they were heading now, and Duncan's behavior was increasingly unsettling. She jumped again when Duncan spoke, and used this as an excuse to let go of his hand and brush the hair out of her face. But she did not seek his hand again, rather resting it on his bicep with the other. Obviously she took comfort in the fact that he was muscular.
Her first instinct was to tell him that she had been the Madam of the Red Banner for some time, but something stopped her before she did so. Tell a man you were a whore when you're in a dark alley and you don't know where you're going? Don't be fucking stupid. Though alarmed at the language her thoughts were using, Keaira saw the reason in it, and decided against the admission.
"I don't think so, sir," she mumbled in soft tones, sounding thoughtful. "I'm sure I would have remembered a man like you." Flattery, that would help. She looked up at him admiringly.
Her gaze grew a bit more alarmed as the clash of steel met her ears, but Duncan seemed to pay no heed to it. This made her more fearful. Was this the kind of man she wanted to be walking down a dark alley with? Keaira looked down again before he could see the fear in her eyes. A wider sway of her hip brought his dagger into view, and Keaira was still more frightened. That is not a normal weapon. She'd never seen a guard with a knife like that.
That was all Tigre needed, though the soft hiss of Duncan's voice convinced her further that she was in danger. With more gusto and urgency than before, motivated by the desire to live and the fear that was being turned to anger in the dark twists of her wicked soul, she ripped through Keaira's psyche again. The girl stumbled slightly on an unseen rock, a faint whimper that Duncan may have mistaken for another sob shaking her small frame for a moment -- but Keaira was too frightened to fight this time. She gave in quite easily. It's easier this way, she found herself thinking, as she slipped again into silence and was pushed aside.
The girl soon regained her composure and walked silently next to Duncan once more, one of her hands slipping down his arm as if she were seeking to hold his hand once again. A sudden movement, however, changed everything, as her nimble fingertips wrapped around the hilt of his dagger and she ripped it upward out of the scabbard, turning it in such a way that the sharp edge would tear into the flesh of Duncan's side as pushed him hard to propel her weight backward. Using her momentum to turn around, Tigre ran back in the direction they had come from; they hadn't gone far, after all, and she thought she could remember the way back to the main street.
Her first instinct was to tell him that she had been the Madam of the Red Banner for some time, but something stopped her before she did so. Tell a man you were a whore when you're in a dark alley and you don't know where you're going? Don't be fucking stupid. Though alarmed at the language her thoughts were using, Keaira saw the reason in it, and decided against the admission.
"I don't think so, sir," she mumbled in soft tones, sounding thoughtful. "I'm sure I would have remembered a man like you." Flattery, that would help. She looked up at him admiringly.
Her gaze grew a bit more alarmed as the clash of steel met her ears, but Duncan seemed to pay no heed to it. This made her more fearful. Was this the kind of man she wanted to be walking down a dark alley with? Keaira looked down again before he could see the fear in her eyes. A wider sway of her hip brought his dagger into view, and Keaira was still more frightened. That is not a normal weapon. She'd never seen a guard with a knife like that.
That was all Tigre needed, though the soft hiss of Duncan's voice convinced her further that she was in danger. With more gusto and urgency than before, motivated by the desire to live and the fear that was being turned to anger in the dark twists of her wicked soul, she ripped through Keaira's psyche again. The girl stumbled slightly on an unseen rock, a faint whimper that Duncan may have mistaken for another sob shaking her small frame for a moment -- but Keaira was too frightened to fight this time. She gave in quite easily. It's easier this way, she found herself thinking, as she slipped again into silence and was pushed aside.
The girl soon regained her composure and walked silently next to Duncan once more, one of her hands slipping down his arm as if she were seeking to hold his hand once again. A sudden movement, however, changed everything, as her nimble fingertips wrapped around the hilt of his dagger and she ripped it upward out of the scabbard, turning it in such a way that the sharp edge would tear into the flesh of Duncan's side as pushed him hard to propel her weight backward. Using her momentum to turn around, Tigre ran back in the direction they had come from; they hadn't gone far, after all, and she thought she could remember the way back to the main street.
Last edited by Keaira Morgandy on Sun Feb 24, 2008 9:22 pm, edited 3 times in total.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
"Oh, my mistake then." Duncan nodded, a hint of disappointment in his voice, a small frown marring his features, his steps slowly but surely taking the away from the man streets, and through countless twists and turns that made it impossible for Keaira to orient herself, and hope that the Sergeant would take her back to the Dragon safely. With the houses pressed closely together, they both had to strain their ears in order to move through debris, dark alcoves representing doorways, breaking the walls every dozen or so steps, dark enough to hide just about anything in their depths.
In the end danger did not come from the dark, but rather from within, Keaira's darker half ripping through the dancer's psyche, and taking control. Duncan's hand sought to take hold of Keaira's to offer support, but she never reached that far down, her fingers closing about the curved dagger at his waist. It slid out easily, without a sound, the sheath well oiled, the handle wrapped in soft leather, fitting perfectly in her slender fingers. A slight twist of her wrist and the blade slid along Duncan's side, cutting through the thin fabric of his blue tabard with ease. It reached deeper, and hissed, sending sparks as it slid along the steel breastplate he wore under the tabard, a few spark dancing down towards the ground. The hilt pushed his arm up, and in the end prevented her from continuing the upward slash, up his arm and neck, where steel did not stood in her way.
Despite his surprise and the rather bad training City Guard had, Duncan had been walking the streets for yahren and that required some skill aside form luck. The moment dagger's handle found the inside of his forearm, the guard pushed away, his left palm slamming into Keaira's chest with some force, pushing them both towards opposite walls. He was already sliding along the wall behind him as he drew the sword out, holding it menacingly before his body, deftly blocking the way back. The tip of the blade in Duncan's hands swayed from side to side, as he lowered into a defensive posture. "Now, why did you have to go and do that? I would have taken care of you and we both would have been perfectly happy. Now I'll have to hurt you before I turn you into a work of art. Stupid girl. Why do they always resist?"
In the end danger did not come from the dark, but rather from within, Keaira's darker half ripping through the dancer's psyche, and taking control. Duncan's hand sought to take hold of Keaira's to offer support, but she never reached that far down, her fingers closing about the curved dagger at his waist. It slid out easily, without a sound, the sheath well oiled, the handle wrapped in soft leather, fitting perfectly in her slender fingers. A slight twist of her wrist and the blade slid along Duncan's side, cutting through the thin fabric of his blue tabard with ease. It reached deeper, and hissed, sending sparks as it slid along the steel breastplate he wore under the tabard, a few spark dancing down towards the ground. The hilt pushed his arm up, and in the end prevented her from continuing the upward slash, up his arm and neck, where steel did not stood in her way.
Despite his surprise and the rather bad training City Guard had, Duncan had been walking the streets for yahren and that required some skill aside form luck. The moment dagger's handle found the inside of his forearm, the guard pushed away, his left palm slamming into Keaira's chest with some force, pushing them both towards opposite walls. He was already sliding along the wall behind him as he drew the sword out, holding it menacingly before his body, deftly blocking the way back. The tip of the blade in Duncan's hands swayed from side to side, as he lowered into a defensive posture. "Now, why did you have to go and do that? I would have taken care of you and we both would have been perfectly happy. Now I'll have to hurt you before I turn you into a work of art. Stupid girl. Why do they always resist?"
Last edited by Grey Wolf on Tue Feb 26, 2008 10:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
Tigre cursed inwardly as the knife met with the steel of his breastplate. Of course he wouldn't have been walking around the streets without armor, he was a fucking guard. Yet she had no time to vocalize her disappointment, for any sound she might have made was knocked out of her as Duncan's hand slammed into her sternum. Her breath left her immediately as she stumbled backward, gasping for breath. Yet fear had rushed adrenaline into her veins, and fear always turned to anger for her. Everything turned to anger.
The girl's brilliant eyes glowed softly in the darkness of the alley, giving her an almost demonic look as she narrowed them and held the dagger defensively in front of her. There was no way she could fight a man with a sword when she had only a dagger. Even a sword would have helped her very little, for her strength was diminutive at best. No doubt she would have lost an arm wrestling match to a fourteen yahren-old boy if she'd tried.
Nor could she run, for he knew these alleys far better than she, and it was only through Duncan's careful watch that Keaira had avoided stepping in piles of filth and refuse thus far. In a blind run she would no doubt find herself slipping in liquids she never wanted to come into contact with, and he would catch her in an instant. So running was not an option either.
Her thoughts returned to the night the Banner had burned to the ground. She remembered how her rage at the archer had manifested itself, how she had damaged him so much internally that her captor had been unsure as to whether or not he would even live. Tigre's mind raced. If she could do physical damage to someone's insides, then she could harm their outsides as well. Duncan was much stronger and more experienced than he, but if she could cripple him, take away a large chunk of his advantage...
His eyes.
The thought sprang upon her, and she just managed to keep a smile off of her lips. Of course! If he couldn't see, she could easily run, or even finish him off. She would destroy his eyes.
Rage and anger were roaring through her as violently as a tempest tears through straw shanties. He had deceived her. He'd led her away from safety, taken her from the frying pan with every intention of placing her in the fire. He was a murderer. She was a murderer as well, and no one murdered her. As Tigre began to mentally gather her hatred of him into something she could use against Duncan, she spoke softly to him, a (false) quiver in her tones, which had lowered slightly in pitch. Her hand, still holding the dagger, visibly shook.
"I don't want to die, please. Why are you doing this? What is the purpose of killing me? Of killing others?" If she could get him talking -- for he obviously had her cornered and outmatched, with no where to run -- it would give her enough time to ready her attack. If not, she would have to try anyway.
The girl's brilliant eyes glowed softly in the darkness of the alley, giving her an almost demonic look as she narrowed them and held the dagger defensively in front of her. There was no way she could fight a man with a sword when she had only a dagger. Even a sword would have helped her very little, for her strength was diminutive at best. No doubt she would have lost an arm wrestling match to a fourteen yahren-old boy if she'd tried.
Nor could she run, for he knew these alleys far better than she, and it was only through Duncan's careful watch that Keaira had avoided stepping in piles of filth and refuse thus far. In a blind run she would no doubt find herself slipping in liquids she never wanted to come into contact with, and he would catch her in an instant. So running was not an option either.
Her thoughts returned to the night the Banner had burned to the ground. She remembered how her rage at the archer had manifested itself, how she had damaged him so much internally that her captor had been unsure as to whether or not he would even live. Tigre's mind raced. If she could do physical damage to someone's insides, then she could harm their outsides as well. Duncan was much stronger and more experienced than he, but if she could cripple him, take away a large chunk of his advantage...
His eyes.
The thought sprang upon her, and she just managed to keep a smile off of her lips. Of course! If he couldn't see, she could easily run, or even finish him off. She would destroy his eyes.
Rage and anger were roaring through her as violently as a tempest tears through straw shanties. He had deceived her. He'd led her away from safety, taken her from the frying pan with every intention of placing her in the fire. He was a murderer. She was a murderer as well, and no one murdered her. As Tigre began to mentally gather her hatred of him into something she could use against Duncan, she spoke softly to him, a (false) quiver in her tones, which had lowered slightly in pitch. Her hand, still holding the dagger, visibly shook.
"I don't want to die, please. Why are you doing this? What is the purpose of killing me? Of killing others?" If she could get him talking -- for he obviously had her cornered and outmatched, with no where to run -- it would give her enough time to ready her attack. If not, she would have to try anyway.
Last edited by Keaira Morgandy on Tue Feb 26, 2008 11:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
Duncan had faced thugs in a fight before, and he had survived to tell the tale, though admittedly in each of those fights he had numbers on his side, City Guards always moving in groups. He felt quite confident he could overpower Keaira, just like he had overpowered the other girls he had killed, though until she tried to stab him with his own dagger, he was still reluctant to actually do it. Too many people had seen him leave the scene of the crime with the girl and though her smooth skin tempted him to carve his art upon it, he knew it was a bad idea. Now, now he had to do it, and he had to ruin the perfect canvas. She knows? How could she know? Can she read my mind?
He was distracted for a fraction of a flicker, nervously rubbing his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts of such a dangerous sentiment and then sprang forward, seemingly about to slam his shoulder into the girls abdomen. It was just a feint, and the tip of his sword shifted, the edge of the blade sliding along the back of her hand, sending a lance of pan through her hand as it bit deeper, reopening the wound she had suffered at the Red Banner only a few nights ago, and adding a new injury. It was a strike designed to disarm, though resistance and only wound lightly, though he kept pressing the advantage.
The blade nestled between Keaira's ring and middle finger, biting even deeper, cutting her soft skin, finally meeting the steel of the dagger she held. Steel hissed against steel, as the dagger was pushed out of her grasp, the sword sinking into her flesh as the Sergeant tried to disarm the girl. Finally, it severed a tendon and the dagger clattered to the ground, Duncan taking a step back, but still holding the girl within striking distance. "See what you made me do? And how do you know who I killed? I never told you. Who are you working for? Is it Red?"
He was distracted for a fraction of a flicker, nervously rubbing his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts of such a dangerous sentiment and then sprang forward, seemingly about to slam his shoulder into the girls abdomen. It was just a feint, and the tip of his sword shifted, the edge of the blade sliding along the back of her hand, sending a lance of pan through her hand as it bit deeper, reopening the wound she had suffered at the Red Banner only a few nights ago, and adding a new injury. It was a strike designed to disarm, though resistance and only wound lightly, though he kept pressing the advantage.
The blade nestled between Keaira's ring and middle finger, biting even deeper, cutting her soft skin, finally meeting the steel of the dagger she held. Steel hissed against steel, as the dagger was pushed out of her grasp, the sword sinking into her flesh as the Sergeant tried to disarm the girl. Finally, it severed a tendon and the dagger clattered to the ground, Duncan taking a step back, but still holding the girl within striking distance. "See what you made me do? And how do you know who I killed? I never told you. Who are you working for? Is it Red?"
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
It had been Tigre's suspicious nature which had demanded action, driven to rash measures by the angry discomfort Duncan had led her to feel. It had been that which led her to assume he intended to kill her -- for after all, that was how her mind worked. Everyone was out to get her, eventually. She had to get them first.
Tigre had been concentrating so hard on her gathering of energy that Duncan's movement toward her was entirely unexpected. She had expected to be run through at once, but instead his blade sought her arm. First her old wound was reopened, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, ere the blade caught itself between her fingers, slicing through her skin as if it were little more than butter. Though at first her hand hung on stubbornly to the dagger, due to the fact that it was her only protection for now, she cried out softly as Duncan's blade sliced through a tendon and immediately released the dagger. She couldn't cry out too loud, lest he fear being overheard and kill her faster.
Warm blood began to flow slowly from the girl's wound as she cradled her arm, backing away from Duncan as best she could. Pain was etched through her features, though in the rush of the moment Tigre couldn't rightly feel it. It sent tingles through her body that she assumed would be pain, were she in her right mind.
His words rushed through her ears. She had to buy time. Had to make him stop and think. The would would be fuel for her spell. The angrier she was, the stronger she got. Seizing on the first opportunity, she lied expertly.
"Yes, I work for Red. And if you kill me, she'll know. She'll know it was you, because I was sent to find you. Would that be a wise move?" Here she paused, letting him digest that for a flicker. "I didn't want to attack you, Duncan, but you scared me. I just wanted to get to know you. I'm curious about your work. I really want to know why you do it."
Through her words and after, as best she could, Tigre focused her abilities. She drew even on the pain in her arm, pulling the sensations up into her chest, where she focused her power. She pushed the anger harder and harder, compressing it into a concentrated burst of rage and power, ere bringing it slowly down her arm and into her uninjured hand. She was ready to strike. If he moved quickly toward her again, she would attack first, swinging her hand up in a slashing motion and forcing the energy outward to slice through Duncan's face -- and, more specifically, through his eyes. If not, she would wait.
Tigre had been concentrating so hard on her gathering of energy that Duncan's movement toward her was entirely unexpected. She had expected to be run through at once, but instead his blade sought her arm. First her old wound was reopened, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, ere the blade caught itself between her fingers, slicing through her skin as if it were little more than butter. Though at first her hand hung on stubbornly to the dagger, due to the fact that it was her only protection for now, she cried out softly as Duncan's blade sliced through a tendon and immediately released the dagger. She couldn't cry out too loud, lest he fear being overheard and kill her faster.
Warm blood began to flow slowly from the girl's wound as she cradled her arm, backing away from Duncan as best she could. Pain was etched through her features, though in the rush of the moment Tigre couldn't rightly feel it. It sent tingles through her body that she assumed would be pain, were she in her right mind.
His words rushed through her ears. She had to buy time. Had to make him stop and think. The would would be fuel for her spell. The angrier she was, the stronger she got. Seizing on the first opportunity, she lied expertly.
"Yes, I work for Red. And if you kill me, she'll know. She'll know it was you, because I was sent to find you. Would that be a wise move?" Here she paused, letting him digest that for a flicker. "I didn't want to attack you, Duncan, but you scared me. I just wanted to get to know you. I'm curious about your work. I really want to know why you do it."
Through her words and after, as best she could, Tigre focused her abilities. She drew even on the pain in her arm, pulling the sensations up into her chest, where she focused her power. She pushed the anger harder and harder, compressing it into a concentrated burst of rage and power, ere bringing it slowly down her arm and into her uninjured hand. She was ready to strike. If he moved quickly toward her again, she would attack first, swinging her hand up in a slashing motion and forcing the energy outward to slice through Duncan's face -- and, more specifically, through his eyes. If not, she would wait.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
It was a rather shitty situation for Duncan, for he had just damaged a perfect canvas with his sword and more so he would have trouble explaining the entire situation to his superiors. Why did you have to pull the dagger? And why do you have to read my mind? It was a rather disturbing thought, to have a perfect stranger attack him like that, only pure luck and a piece of old armor saving him from bleeding to death in the alley. Then she started talking, his guard instinct kicking in, Keaira's hastily composed lie obvious to Duncan. His breathing quickened, mention of Red causing the Sergeant to shiver even though the night was not that cold, for a moment chewing his lower lip in doubt.
Suddenly his eyes went up, focusing on Keaira's, his face a mask of determination, white of his good teeth clearly visible against his darker skin. His sword wavered, the tip lowering an inch, and then he leapt forward swinging the blade in a wide arc, his scream tearing through the silence around them. "LIAR!" He pushed the sword around with all the strength in his body, foregoing any defense, intent on punishing the girl for her lies and for making him kill her now. She would have been a perfect victim, her skin so soft and smooth, and milky white, but even he knew restraint, knew that he could not indulge in his passion whenever he had the chance. It he had, he would have been caught much sooner, a few of the twenty two women he had slain perhaps alive now.
He did not expect her to fight back after he had disarmed her, Tigre nails flashing through the air, her anger fueling her strike, turning her hand into something more akin to a claw. His scream turned into howl of pain as she swung her hand faster, nails catching him just over the right brow, tearing the skin off as them moved down. His eye was shredded a moment later, the tip of his nose torn off as the nails pushed further down, tearing through his cheek when the sword struck home. Where anger helped fuel Keaira's strike, pain pushed Duncan onward, his muscles already in motion. Already taut, his muscles stretched to the point of breaking, and the sword found Keaira's neck, biting into her flesh, sending a flash of white hot pain through her entire body. She was dead an instant later, the last thing she felt a jarring thud as the sword struck her spine, lodging in it, severing her spinal cord. Even as she crumpled to the ground, she managed to injure her killer further, her nails still curled into a claw, tearing more flesh off his face, and splitting his upper lip in two. A flicker later he fell down as well, clutching the ruin of his face, screaming in agony, half-blind and delirious.
Suddenly his eyes went up, focusing on Keaira's, his face a mask of determination, white of his good teeth clearly visible against his darker skin. His sword wavered, the tip lowering an inch, and then he leapt forward swinging the blade in a wide arc, his scream tearing through the silence around them. "LIAR!" He pushed the sword around with all the strength in his body, foregoing any defense, intent on punishing the girl for her lies and for making him kill her now. She would have been a perfect victim, her skin so soft and smooth, and milky white, but even he knew restraint, knew that he could not indulge in his passion whenever he had the chance. It he had, he would have been caught much sooner, a few of the twenty two women he had slain perhaps alive now.
He did not expect her to fight back after he had disarmed her, Tigre nails flashing through the air, her anger fueling her strike, turning her hand into something more akin to a claw. His scream turned into howl of pain as she swung her hand faster, nails catching him just over the right brow, tearing the skin off as them moved down. His eye was shredded a moment later, the tip of his nose torn off as the nails pushed further down, tearing through his cheek when the sword struck home. Where anger helped fuel Keaira's strike, pain pushed Duncan onward, his muscles already in motion. Already taut, his muscles stretched to the point of breaking, and the sword found Keaira's neck, biting into her flesh, sending a flash of white hot pain through her entire body. She was dead an instant later, the last thing she felt a jarring thud as the sword struck her spine, lodging in it, severing her spinal cord. Even as she crumpled to the ground, she managed to injure her killer further, her nails still curled into a claw, tearing more flesh off his face, and splitting his upper lip in two. A flicker later he fell down as well, clutching the ruin of his face, screaming in agony, half-blind and delirious.
The diplomacy is the art of saying "Good dog", while you are searching for a big rock.
-
Keaira Morgandy
- Tazlure Supporter
- Posts: 356
- Joined: Fri Nov 03, 2006 2:16 am
- Location: Citadel
Again he moved at her, and Tigre's hand swiped forward, all the gathered rage she had readied to unleash on him expelled with unabated passion and fury. "MURDERER!" she shrieked back at him, her shout echoing off of the nearby walls.
Given the time, she might have reflected on the irony of their shouts, for they were each liars and murderers. She would have enjoyed convincing him that they should work together and then killing him when the opportunity arose. But alas, it was not to be.
As her sharp nails tore into Duncan's face, his sharper sword cut into her neck, and Tigre found herself slipping. For the second time she yielded, Keaira awaking again from that empty dream. But all the poor girl saw was her hand tearing into a man's face before a searing pain shot through her body and she released a strangled cry. Why? In less than a flicker that same blade found her spine, agony curling her fingers deeply into Duncan's flesh ere she fell, tearing it off with her descent.
The dancer's body crumpled to the ground with hardly a sound, the leather satchel at her side clinking from the metal bits within. Bloodied flesh in her left hand and bleeding from her right, her neck slit cleanly open, the former madam's brilliant blue eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky. Already the gentle shroud of death had stolen the light from their melancholy depths and blood pooled silently around her, matting her beautiful silken hair and soaking into her corset. Despite her wounds, she held fast to her doll-like beauty. But no one would ever love her now.
Keaira was dead. The marionette had lost her strings -- and with her, Tigre faded into oblivion.
Given the time, she might have reflected on the irony of their shouts, for they were each liars and murderers. She would have enjoyed convincing him that they should work together and then killing him when the opportunity arose. But alas, it was not to be.
As her sharp nails tore into Duncan's face, his sharper sword cut into her neck, and Tigre found herself slipping. For the second time she yielded, Keaira awaking again from that empty dream. But all the poor girl saw was her hand tearing into a man's face before a searing pain shot through her body and she released a strangled cry. Why? In less than a flicker that same blade found her spine, agony curling her fingers deeply into Duncan's flesh ere she fell, tearing it off with her descent.
The dancer's body crumpled to the ground with hardly a sound, the leather satchel at her side clinking from the metal bits within. Bloodied flesh in her left hand and bleeding from her right, her neck slit cleanly open, the former madam's brilliant blue eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky. Already the gentle shroud of death had stolen the light from their melancholy depths and blood pooled silently around her, matting her beautiful silken hair and soaking into her corset. Despite her wounds, she held fast to her doll-like beauty. But no one would ever love her now.
Keaira was dead. The marionette had lost her strings -- and with her, Tigre faded into oblivion.
Last edited by Keaira Morgandy on Tue Mar 04, 2008 12:11 am, edited 1 time in total.
[size=75]'All things truly wicked start from an innocence.'
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]
-- [i]Ernest Hemingway[/i][/size]