The Stormwind Stockades was in more of an uproar than usual, the guards finding their ‘charges’ to be even more desperate than before in trying to escape. News of a disease spread like wildfire among the brigands and thieves, and many already had succumbed, fighting off phantom shadows in their cramped cells. The mentally afflicted were rounded up, dragged out of their cells forcibly, their feet rapping against the stone, the dirt, the grout. Some begged to be left in their cells, while others begged to be carried away to die. It was a circus of chaos.
A pair of eyes looked up from the iron grate the prisoners were dragged over, creeping to spy upon the prisoners above her. Rats scurried out between the prison bars in her trap door, finding freedom. She was so quiet, most of the Guard had forgotten about her, forgotten to feed her, forgotten that she was there as the months went by. Long had they forgotten her little rat-bodied presents, impaled upon sharp rocks or rubble. Yet, she was there, all the same.
A forgotten killer.
(Two days later)
The murderess curled at the back of her underground cell, all too used to the smell of rotting rat bodies, of urine. She spent the whole of the day there searching the darkness with her eyes, trying to track the flickering rats that slipped in along the walls. They were getting good at hiding in those flickers of shadow. A wiggling shade danced on a ledge of particularly sharp rock, and she dashed her hand out to capture the rat, only to scrape her hand hard against the stone. She drew back, huddling back into her corner, and gave a small whimper of pain as she licked at the smidgeon of blood on the back of her hand.
They would come back. They always came back.
(Two more days)
She twitched out of a dreamless sleep, feverish. Something had woken her. What was it? A constant, thrumming sound. No….thumps. A thumping against the wall she rested against. Shifting in the dank darkness, she put her ear to the wall the thump-thump-thumping sound came from.
From within the rock, the mortar, she could hear it, and it made her tremble.
A heartbeat…
(A week…)
Her eyes ached from sleeplessness, but she ignored it as she ignored the stinging pain of her bleeding fingertips. She had to have it in her hands, had to rip it out of the rocky cavity it was trapped in, as she had done with so many others. It would be a worthy sacrifice to the Voice, and yes, oh yes, how her brethren would take her back into their circle. She would have a window’s view of the world on fire! A glorious death!
Yet, no matter how much she scratched at the stone and dirt, she was no closer to the heartbeat trapped within.
Ignored were the snickering shadowy apparitions around her. They could not stop her from trying.
(A week and a half)
There was no sound above her. No sound below her. The heavy, monotonous heartbeat was all she could hear, filling her ears. She stared unblinking upon the ebon black, shriveled heart that floated in the middle of the dungeon, now sharing her prison. It was roughly half her size, and it’s flesh rippled with each pump. It was a masterpiece.
And now, the moment of truth. The heart began to shrivel, and then expand. And there, there in the very center of the black flesh, an eyelid opened. A milky film covered the great eye, staring out into nothing at first. The prisoner’s hands squeezed so tightly around her body, feeling the dirt caking the fingers, the sediment ground into her skin. Anticipation rose in her, seeing the milky eye begin to clear, the wild unearthly iris beginning to focus, to see.
The scream begin to rise in her throat, malevolent laughter filling her head in place of steady, droning heartbeat.
‘I SEEEEEEEEEEE YOOUUUUUU…..’
Anisse bolted for the trap door, her scream ripping through the first few halves of the Stockades. She’d clawed the rough wood until her fingernails cracked before she was dragged out of the pit by a surprised guard, and still, her screaming would not cease.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Shaddap!” the guard bellowed, and threw her in with the others that were suffering the same mental disturbance.
“The darknesss knows my naaaameeee…..knows my nammmmme…..” the prisoner wailed back in retort, over and over, in different increments of tone and pitch.
“Get the mage down here to transport these rats to Dalaran! Pronto! Got to contain whatever this is now….nngh….” the barking guard held his carton mask close to his face, staring at the young woman as she began to return to shrieking.
“Which one is that one! What’s her name?” another guard asked, trying to talk over her screaming. The larger guard ended her endless vocal tirade with a heavy kick to the head.
“Hell if I know?! Get them out of here!”
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Patron of the Lamb #31
Gray. Bland. Dirt, black as black. The space was small, where the murderer was contained, and this is all she saw. It was almost like her former “home”, deep within the cellars of the Slaughtered Lamb. Except people were shooting uncomfortable glances at her through the prison bars--yes the circus freak. Everyone stare and get your gold’s worth.
Or perhaps, it was the little collection of rat bodies she’d had spread out in front of her, splayed open, tiny organs painstakingly removed. Her nails had grown stubby, her fingers raw in scratching out sharp pieces of sediment in the stone wall to practice on her little “friends”.
Days went by, Perhaps. How was she to know the turning of the day and night in this place? Time passed, she at least knew that, and the longer it passed, the less and less she was left with medical inquisitions, with crude remarks, or with threats. In time, no one cared enough to ask their questions, and she might be left with a meal a day. Some days, she was forgotten. There were more important things to deal with in the city of Stormwind than one piece of filth isolated from the rest of society. Anisse came to appreciate the silence. And when she could not bear the silence, there were always the terrified squeaks of rats to occupy her.
Yet, in all the days she had stared into the bland gray stone of the wall, the young prisoner that none would confront received a visitor.
The iron bars of the prison screeched across the dirty stone floor, and the captive flinched, curling up into her corner. After an exchange of whispers, a figure stepped in to the open prison door, and it was shut behind him slowly, again grating against the floor. The lamplight by wish he used to alleviate the darkness was blinding, and she cursed aloud as it shone down upon her.
“You look terrible,” came the soft voice of a male, and indeed, she did. Not that she cared what she looked like. But the smell of feces could choke most people in that prison.
“Die in a fire.” It was her only response, and one would wonder if it was directed to the dark figure, or the lamplight that so assaulted her senses. There was no magic she could hope to use to put out the light here, however, and her quiet voice did not back the threat--or insult. She peeked out of her loose hair, the dirty mahogany strands shielding her just a bit against the light’s full intensity.
“You know who I am, Anna?” The voice was too soft, too weak, but recognizable. All too recognizable.
“Yes. And you can leave now,” she said dully. A squeak rang off in the dark as a rat was caught in one of her traps--one that a passing nurse had initially left, taking pity upon the prisoner. Anna scrambled to it immediately. They were always best to operate on while still warm.
“Then…then you know I can’t do that,” the man’s voice seemed to take on a pitying turn, but she did not respond, much too concentrated on whatever she might be doing in the corner of her prison. He swallowed hard in the awkward silence, hearing the sound of scraping, of flesh being torn into. “…Anna. What the hell…”
The body of the rat slid out into the light of the lamp, its tiny intestines pulled out, and wrapped around its head like a funeral shroud. He could hear the spiteful grin in the sound of his sister’s voice: “I’ve been practicing. Quicker now, isn’t it, brother?”
“S--stop it. Anna…”
“I bet I could eviscerate a human in all of five minutes now, depending on what it is I wanted. What do you th--”
Quintin bolted forth from his chair and kicked away the damn rat, and smashed the rest of her “collection” into the stony floor, ruining them. His amber eyes were on the young woman as she slammed herself against the prison wall, silenced. But he was already angry.
“Do you know what I had to do to keep you alive in here, Anna?! What…what you did to that family..? Took up the rest of the Handhour fortune, paying off their heartache. Hhh…” He slammed his hand against the prison bar, staring out through them now. “Not that anything could pay off murder. Seems there’s mercy for crazy people in the world after all.” He glanced back at Anisse painfully. “I gave up everything to keep you safe. And you’re in here killing rats. So much for saving our family name, eh? Mother would be so proud.
A soft scoffing sound came from the woman in the corner, but otherwise she was silent. Quintin’s hands came then, jostling her as he dragged her up to her feet. He shook his young sister violently, forcing her to look upon the miserable man she had turned him into. Indeed, he had not eaten in days, his breath sour with whiskey.
“We…we can make this right, Anna. I can fix this, make you all…better again. Let me help you, please!” Despite her small protests, her wriggles, Quintin pawed at her face, trying to brush the mess of dark, tangled hair away from her so he could look fully upon her. Somewhere, here, there was his sister, right?! “Remember the stables? The gardens? We can rebuild it all, and I’ll take care of you, Anna, like I used to. Just let me--”
With all the strength she had left in her, Anisse raked her red fingers across his face, trying to drive him away, push. He’d let go of her finally, letting her drop back into the dark corner that had become her friend. Her legs dragged up against herself, she rocked in place, staring at nothing but the inky blackness around her.
Wordless, her brother left her there again, with a slam of the prison door. Once again, Anisse was abandoned like a well-used rag doll.
Once again, alone.
Or perhaps, it was the little collection of rat bodies she’d had spread out in front of her, splayed open, tiny organs painstakingly removed. Her nails had grown stubby, her fingers raw in scratching out sharp pieces of sediment in the stone wall to practice on her little “friends”.
Days went by, Perhaps. How was she to know the turning of the day and night in this place? Time passed, she at least knew that, and the longer it passed, the less and less she was left with medical inquisitions, with crude remarks, or with threats. In time, no one cared enough to ask their questions, and she might be left with a meal a day. Some days, she was forgotten. There were more important things to deal with in the city of Stormwind than one piece of filth isolated from the rest of society. Anisse came to appreciate the silence. And when she could not bear the silence, there were always the terrified squeaks of rats to occupy her.
Yet, in all the days she had stared into the bland gray stone of the wall, the young prisoner that none would confront received a visitor.
The iron bars of the prison screeched across the dirty stone floor, and the captive flinched, curling up into her corner. After an exchange of whispers, a figure stepped in to the open prison door, and it was shut behind him slowly, again grating against the floor. The lamplight by wish he used to alleviate the darkness was blinding, and she cursed aloud as it shone down upon her.
“You look terrible,” came the soft voice of a male, and indeed, she did. Not that she cared what she looked like. But the smell of feces could choke most people in that prison.
“Die in a fire.” It was her only response, and one would wonder if it was directed to the dark figure, or the lamplight that so assaulted her senses. There was no magic she could hope to use to put out the light here, however, and her quiet voice did not back the threat--or insult. She peeked out of her loose hair, the dirty mahogany strands shielding her just a bit against the light’s full intensity.
“You know who I am, Anna?” The voice was too soft, too weak, but recognizable. All too recognizable.
“Yes. And you can leave now,” she said dully. A squeak rang off in the dark as a rat was caught in one of her traps--one that a passing nurse had initially left, taking pity upon the prisoner. Anna scrambled to it immediately. They were always best to operate on while still warm.
“Then…then you know I can’t do that,” the man’s voice seemed to take on a pitying turn, but she did not respond, much too concentrated on whatever she might be doing in the corner of her prison. He swallowed hard in the awkward silence, hearing the sound of scraping, of flesh being torn into. “…Anna. What the hell…”
The body of the rat slid out into the light of the lamp, its tiny intestines pulled out, and wrapped around its head like a funeral shroud. He could hear the spiteful grin in the sound of his sister’s voice: “I’ve been practicing. Quicker now, isn’t it, brother?”
“S--stop it. Anna…”
“I bet I could eviscerate a human in all of five minutes now, depending on what it is I wanted. What do you th--”
Quintin bolted forth from his chair and kicked away the damn rat, and smashed the rest of her “collection” into the stony floor, ruining them. His amber eyes were on the young woman as she slammed herself against the prison wall, silenced. But he was already angry.
“Do you know what I had to do to keep you alive in here, Anna?! What…what you did to that family..? Took up the rest of the Handhour fortune, paying off their heartache. Hhh…” He slammed his hand against the prison bar, staring out through them now. “Not that anything could pay off murder. Seems there’s mercy for crazy people in the world after all.” He glanced back at Anisse painfully. “I gave up everything to keep you safe. And you’re in here killing rats. So much for saving our family name, eh? Mother would be so proud.
A soft scoffing sound came from the woman in the corner, but otherwise she was silent. Quintin’s hands came then, jostling her as he dragged her up to her feet. He shook his young sister violently, forcing her to look upon the miserable man she had turned him into. Indeed, he had not eaten in days, his breath sour with whiskey.
“We…we can make this right, Anna. I can fix this, make you all…better again. Let me help you, please!” Despite her small protests, her wriggles, Quintin pawed at her face, trying to brush the mess of dark, tangled hair away from her so he could look fully upon her. Somewhere, here, there was his sister, right?! “Remember the stables? The gardens? We can rebuild it all, and I’ll take care of you, Anna, like I used to. Just let me--”
With all the strength she had left in her, Anisse raked her red fingers across his face, trying to drive him away, push. He’d let go of her finally, letting her drop back into the dark corner that had become her friend. Her legs dragged up against herself, she rocked in place, staring at nothing but the inky blackness around her.
Wordless, her brother left her there again, with a slam of the prison door. Once again, Anisse was abandoned like a well-used rag doll.
Once again, alone.
A Patron of the Lamb #30
The collection was marvelous.
Even in the darkness of the catacombs, the ‘elf ‘ could appreciate the way the torchlight glinted off her collection of jars. Everyday birthed a new contributer to her supply since the sailor ship had come to rest at the port near the orcish city, and with every kill her skill with the scalpel had increased tenfold. Indeed, by now she could cut into a chest cavity and relieve it of a heart in all of ten minutes, regardless of the creature. Far from the catacombs of the Lamb, she’d found a new place to stash her little treasures until the ship would be homeward bound.
The fact that dead bodies were delivered to the little crypt almost every hour kept her scalpel very happy.
The Undead One had called it the “dumping” site, as far as Anisse had learned. This Undercity had become far more interesting than the elven captial of fornication she’d been wandering before. But ah, Eversong. It seemed to also breed plenty of victims for her to practice upon, and most civilians were too concerned with their mating rituals to care for what had happened to nameless bodies left to the Scourge outside of their shining city. Still, the crypt offered less of a need to be so mobile, and it gave her a chance to witness the use of the Undead’s dark magic: necromancy. The winged spirits exacted the use of it in mesmorizing form, resurrecting lines and lines of the fallen just outside of the graveyard gates…
Free to take what she needed from the “failures”, extra earnings were spent in procuring more glass jars. They tinked against the crypt’s stoney ground as she lined them before the row of filled vessels. Casting a final, small smile to her collection in the corner, she rose, seeming to separate from the shadows, so long had she been sitting there in the dark. The newest bodies were heaped over in the torchlit crawspace, tossed on the stone floor like rag dolls. She drew the hood away from her face as she knelt down, and the make-shift ears that were sewn into the insides were pulled away as well, weighing down the hood as it hung.
The details of the corpses became apparent to her--one a male corpse, the other female. Though the female was in better condition, for some reason she could not explain, Anisse chose to open up the male first. She gazed for a time at the corpse’s face, the jaw ripped away to leave nothing but a lolling tongue.
“This will not hurt at all…” Anisse whispered in the dark to the corpse, parting the rags around the sunken chest. “But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” The delicate blade slid against the weak, fragile skin, and barely had it cut through that the skin sunk into the chest, as if sucked into a sinkhole. A sigh left her as she parted dried viscera, seeming to fall apart like grains of sand. Was there even something worth salvaging inside? The chest rustled like a bag full of dried leaves as she searched, until she felt something hard brush against her fingers. The heart was black as she fished it from between the brittle ribcage, and hardened over, veiny muscle shriveled to nearly half the size it ought to be.
Raising the hardened heart to the torchlight to better see it, Anisse hardly realized that the female corpse was awakening, that her bony hand was skittering across the floor. Only when she felt the bony fingers wrap around her ankle, did she realize something was very wrong…
“Hhhhhhh…his….wkkt….” the awakened corpse rasped between full, cold lips. Alive. No, dead. Undead. How could she have not known?! Anisse thumped back onto her bottom, trying to kick her ankle out of the undead woman’s bony hands. The hand disconnected at the wrist in her struggle with the re-enlivened corpse. The shriveled, hard heart was dropped between the corpses in her surprise. Anisse sought to reach forward and claim it… until she began to notice the male shudder as well.
It seemed the corpses were not ‘duds’ after all.
“…..hh….how dare you….” The female shuddered up to a seated position, the sound of her rasping words and scraping fingers leaving a sharp echo throughout the crypt. She was now crawling over to the body of her dead, jawless husband, helping him to sit up off the stone floor. Both stared upon their violator with gleaming, angry eyes, the light of undeath filling them completely.
Shocked into silence, Anna sat completely still in the darkness, watching as the female’s fingers poised over the gaping hole in her mate’s chest. She was trying to shove the hardened heart back into place! Whatever apprehension she may have felt seemed to drip away as she watched the female try to thunk the heart back into it’s hole. Back into that rotting bag of dried flesh. She wouldn’t have it!
There were better places for such hearts. And this one was hers!
Narrowing her amber eyes, Anna shot forward, propping herself on her knees to better propel herself. She snatched the shriveled heart from the hole it’d been shoved into, breaking a few of the brittle rib bones of the corpse in the same motion. It was hers!
“Mine! ITS MINE YOU LITTLE INGRATE! AUUGH!!!” The female’s raging screams followed Anisse out of the crypt as the deader tried to drag herself after, legs still not fully working. Darting away from the path, she spat out a quiet obscenity as she realized she’d left most of her collection with the undead couple, and probably could not re-collect it.
“Get her! GET HER! You wont get away with this!”
The small grin slipped up against the little grave robber’s face, adrenaline pumping. She stopped to wrap the shriveled heart into a piece of cloth before ripping back into her run through the dark wood.
The Deathguard would have quite the story to tell.
Even in the darkness of the catacombs, the ‘elf ‘ could appreciate the way the torchlight glinted off her collection of jars. Everyday birthed a new contributer to her supply since the sailor ship had come to rest at the port near the orcish city, and with every kill her skill with the scalpel had increased tenfold. Indeed, by now she could cut into a chest cavity and relieve it of a heart in all of ten minutes, regardless of the creature. Far from the catacombs of the Lamb, she’d found a new place to stash her little treasures until the ship would be homeward bound.
The fact that dead bodies were delivered to the little crypt almost every hour kept her scalpel very happy.
The Undead One had called it the “dumping” site, as far as Anisse had learned. This Undercity had become far more interesting than the elven captial of fornication she’d been wandering before. But ah, Eversong. It seemed to also breed plenty of victims for her to practice upon, and most civilians were too concerned with their mating rituals to care for what had happened to nameless bodies left to the Scourge outside of their shining city. Still, the crypt offered less of a need to be so mobile, and it gave her a chance to witness the use of the Undead’s dark magic: necromancy. The winged spirits exacted the use of it in mesmorizing form, resurrecting lines and lines of the fallen just outside of the graveyard gates…
Free to take what she needed from the “failures”, extra earnings were spent in procuring more glass jars. They tinked against the crypt’s stoney ground as she lined them before the row of filled vessels. Casting a final, small smile to her collection in the corner, she rose, seeming to separate from the shadows, so long had she been sitting there in the dark. The newest bodies were heaped over in the torchlit crawspace, tossed on the stone floor like rag dolls. She drew the hood away from her face as she knelt down, and the make-shift ears that were sewn into the insides were pulled away as well, weighing down the hood as it hung.
The details of the corpses became apparent to her--one a male corpse, the other female. Though the female was in better condition, for some reason she could not explain, Anisse chose to open up the male first. She gazed for a time at the corpse’s face, the jaw ripped away to leave nothing but a lolling tongue.
“This will not hurt at all…” Anisse whispered in the dark to the corpse, parting the rags around the sunken chest. “But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” The delicate blade slid against the weak, fragile skin, and barely had it cut through that the skin sunk into the chest, as if sucked into a sinkhole. A sigh left her as she parted dried viscera, seeming to fall apart like grains of sand. Was there even something worth salvaging inside? The chest rustled like a bag full of dried leaves as she searched, until she felt something hard brush against her fingers. The heart was black as she fished it from between the brittle ribcage, and hardened over, veiny muscle shriveled to nearly half the size it ought to be.
Raising the hardened heart to the torchlight to better see it, Anisse hardly realized that the female corpse was awakening, that her bony hand was skittering across the floor. Only when she felt the bony fingers wrap around her ankle, did she realize something was very wrong…
“Hhhhhhh…his….wkkt….” the awakened corpse rasped between full, cold lips. Alive. No, dead. Undead. How could she have not known?! Anisse thumped back onto her bottom, trying to kick her ankle out of the undead woman’s bony hands. The hand disconnected at the wrist in her struggle with the re-enlivened corpse. The shriveled, hard heart was dropped between the corpses in her surprise. Anisse sought to reach forward and claim it… until she began to notice the male shudder as well.
It seemed the corpses were not ‘duds’ after all.
“…..hh….how dare you….” The female shuddered up to a seated position, the sound of her rasping words and scraping fingers leaving a sharp echo throughout the crypt. She was now crawling over to the body of her dead, jawless husband, helping him to sit up off the stone floor. Both stared upon their violator with gleaming, angry eyes, the light of undeath filling them completely.
Shocked into silence, Anna sat completely still in the darkness, watching as the female’s fingers poised over the gaping hole in her mate’s chest. She was trying to shove the hardened heart back into place! Whatever apprehension she may have felt seemed to drip away as she watched the female try to thunk the heart back into it’s hole. Back into that rotting bag of dried flesh. She wouldn’t have it!
There were better places for such hearts. And this one was hers!
Narrowing her amber eyes, Anna shot forward, propping herself on her knees to better propel herself. She snatched the shriveled heart from the hole it’d been shoved into, breaking a few of the brittle rib bones of the corpse in the same motion. It was hers!
“Mine! ITS MINE YOU LITTLE INGRATE! AUUGH!!!” The female’s raging screams followed Anisse out of the crypt as the deader tried to drag herself after, legs still not fully working. Darting away from the path, she spat out a quiet obscenity as she realized she’d left most of her collection with the undead couple, and probably could not re-collect it.
“Get her! GET HER! You wont get away with this!”
The small grin slipped up against the little grave robber’s face, adrenaline pumping. She stopped to wrap the shriveled heart into a piece of cloth before ripping back into her run through the dark wood.
The Deathguard would have quite the story to tell.
A Patron of the Lamb #29
Darkness. It collected below the deck of the ship, comforting in its obscurity, its quiet. The oil lamp on the bolted desk flickered in vain against the soft shadows that had overtaken the bunk hold, and the passenger’s shadow trembled on the wall as an effect. Sitting upon her assigned bed, Anisse slowly pulled the hood down from around her face, then rolled her head against the hold’s wall. She wondered how long the ship would sail before it reached its destination, if all ships followed the same path as the Captain’s. Gerty, the dwarf cook of the Seawolf’s ‘merchant’ ship, had secured passage for her on this particular vessel. Thinking that she couldn’t wait for the Captain to make his rounds, she had quickly boarded the small cargo ship.
Anything to get away from the city.
The rowdy sailors on deck made her trip a restless one, and Anisse found herself trying yet again to numb herself to the sounds of obnoxious laughter, of glass bottles smashing against the hull of the ship. She concentrated on the gentle rocking as it rode the waves, her arms relaxing as her body followed in motion. Her eyes slid over to the golden oil lamp, its fire flickering weakly. Images, flashes of memory played in her head, ringing around the lamp’s soft light. The stern face of the woman she once called mother danced in the fire, amber eyes like two points of the flame gleaming up at her. Anna rolled her head away from the oil lamp, trying to dissuade the images, but only more seemed to seep into her foggy mind.
The far off sound of gulls calling washed over her, riding the cold winds off the cliffsides. Raining. Always raining. Droplets hit the window pane hard as she pressed her small hands against it. The torchlight flickered at the stables beyond her reach. Just as it always rained, Quint and Mother always fought. Except now they did it outside. The muffled sounds of their yells was ended when Lady Handhour struck him, slapping the young man hard enough to make him veer back a bit. He’d really done it now. She quickly clamored away from the window as Mother shot back to the doors of the manor. The heavy oak doors slammed against the manor walls as she entered, making the windows shudder.
“Anna! Back to the study with you girl! NOW!” Her Mother’s voice trembled with an anger that was not directed at her, but it still sent her quickly to where she was ordered.
Anisse drew her knees up closer to her body, as if fighting to keep warm. Brother. Sister. Mother. The words seemed alien to her, though her memories seemed to reflect the fact that she had experienced them. The tumult of emotion these thoughts evoked made her stomach turn with unease. She stole the fire of the oil lamp, stole its life--punishment for provoking her. Again, she rocked with the ship as it sailed, trying to find comfort in the rolling waves. Trying to blot out everything in the sound of the ocean.
The sound of Quint‘s voice filtered in and out of her mind among the waves.
Sail…
Her heart felt sick and she hated him for it.
Sail…
It was easier to feel nothing at all...
Sail…
The glinting edge of her scalpel was her ‘affection‘.
In the early morning, just before twilight, Anisse emerged from the bunk hold. Her small boots crunched upon broken bottle pieces, the sailors laying around in inebriated heaps around her. The quiet rolls of enlivened shadow followed just behind, the void walker blanketing the deck in a dark fog. Looking over the railing of the vessel, she beckoned her demonic servant forward. The body of the dead sailor swirled around within the demon’s abyssal bulk, and in one soft order, he was released to the ocean. The calm that she’d retained from the kill filled her as the body sunk below the waves, a job well-done.
The drunkard’s fate was sealed when he’d mistakenly tried to climb into her bunk. And it was exactly what she needed. His heart floated gently in one of her jars below deck now, and none upon the ship were any wiser. By the time they would go looking for the sailor, she surmised that she would be long off the ship. Peering over the ocean, she noticed the sun began to paint the water orange where it began to rise. It would be time to eat soon for the crew.
Luckily, she’d came across very fresh meat for her meatpies. She certainly hoped they would be hungry.
Anything to get away from the city.
The rowdy sailors on deck made her trip a restless one, and Anisse found herself trying yet again to numb herself to the sounds of obnoxious laughter, of glass bottles smashing against the hull of the ship. She concentrated on the gentle rocking as it rode the waves, her arms relaxing as her body followed in motion. Her eyes slid over to the golden oil lamp, its fire flickering weakly. Images, flashes of memory played in her head, ringing around the lamp’s soft light. The stern face of the woman she once called mother danced in the fire, amber eyes like two points of the flame gleaming up at her. Anna rolled her head away from the oil lamp, trying to dissuade the images, but only more seemed to seep into her foggy mind.
The far off sound of gulls calling washed over her, riding the cold winds off the cliffsides. Raining. Always raining. Droplets hit the window pane hard as she pressed her small hands against it. The torchlight flickered at the stables beyond her reach. Just as it always rained, Quint and Mother always fought. Except now they did it outside. The muffled sounds of their yells was ended when Lady Handhour struck him, slapping the young man hard enough to make him veer back a bit. He’d really done it now. She quickly clamored away from the window as Mother shot back to the doors of the manor. The heavy oak doors slammed against the manor walls as she entered, making the windows shudder.
“Anna! Back to the study with you girl! NOW!” Her Mother’s voice trembled with an anger that was not directed at her, but it still sent her quickly to where she was ordered.
Anisse drew her knees up closer to her body, as if fighting to keep warm. Brother. Sister. Mother. The words seemed alien to her, though her memories seemed to reflect the fact that she had experienced them. The tumult of emotion these thoughts evoked made her stomach turn with unease. She stole the fire of the oil lamp, stole its life--punishment for provoking her. Again, she rocked with the ship as it sailed, trying to find comfort in the rolling waves. Trying to blot out everything in the sound of the ocean.
The sound of Quint‘s voice filtered in and out of her mind among the waves.
Sail…
Her heart felt sick and she hated him for it.
Sail…
It was easier to feel nothing at all...
Sail…
The glinting edge of her scalpel was her ‘affection‘.
In the early morning, just before twilight, Anisse emerged from the bunk hold. Her small boots crunched upon broken bottle pieces, the sailors laying around in inebriated heaps around her. The quiet rolls of enlivened shadow followed just behind, the void walker blanketing the deck in a dark fog. Looking over the railing of the vessel, she beckoned her demonic servant forward. The body of the dead sailor swirled around within the demon’s abyssal bulk, and in one soft order, he was released to the ocean. The calm that she’d retained from the kill filled her as the body sunk below the waves, a job well-done.
The drunkard’s fate was sealed when he’d mistakenly tried to climb into her bunk. And it was exactly what she needed. His heart floated gently in one of her jars below deck now, and none upon the ship were any wiser. By the time they would go looking for the sailor, she surmised that she would be long off the ship. Peering over the ocean, she noticed the sun began to paint the water orange where it began to rise. It would be time to eat soon for the crew.
Luckily, she’d came across very fresh meat for her meatpies. She certainly hoped they would be hungry.
A Patron of the Lamb #28
Spring rain pelted the cottage outside, the smells of Elwynn forest brought in through the dining room windows. Like the rest of the cottage, the dining table was quaint, but sturdy, large enough to seat the family comfortably, but not so large as to provide an obstacle to the furnace stove in the corner. It was dinnertime: well-used bowls and glasses poised before each chair. And like any family, parents and children were seated, ready to enjoy their meal.
If Laureth Adler could see through her blindfold, she would see that they apparently were having her husband’s heart for dinner. It rested in his empty wooden bowl, garnished by its own liquids. The smell of blood assaulted her senses--she was still recovering from hearing the death gurgles across from her, and it was getting too hard to breathe against the gag pulled tight against the corners of her mouth. She didn’t have to see the scalpel that had slid so carefully across his throat, or the gaping jigsaw puzzle that his chest had become underneath its linen shirt.
All of her unmasked senses told her she should be filled with dread.
Anisse stared down silently at Ms. Adler as the woman shuddered in her seat, no longer straining against her binds. She had never went after an entire family before, but the ease at which she was allowed inside their home had been surprising. The citizens of Elwynn Forest were far too hospitable for their own good. After the murders she’d committed in Goldshire, one would think a family would keep their guard up a bit tighter. It only secured their deaths in Anisse’s mind: lambs easy for the slaughter. Some were simply meant to be the sacrificed.
There was something far more intimate in meaning in the victims she had chosen than Anisse could care to admit, however. Her gaze rested on the young son of Ms. Adler, on the edge of manhood. He was rocking back and forth in his chair as far as the rope he was bound with would allow him. His teeth were bared upon the cloth gag in apprehension, the occasional whimper leaving him. The younger daughter sat across from him, her small face glistening with silent tears just beneath her blind. She trembled much like the mother, like a leaf. And there sat Mr. Adler, still in his chair. His neck gleamed in the oil lamp’s light, bloody as his chest. Father had a new necktie. A family.
If she could murder them, then she could drown out the chaos pouring into the crack of her mind. Back to beginnings. Back to what she knew.
As much as it pained her to, Anisse picked up the father’s heart within the bowl, and began to squeeze its excess into it. Blood. It was essential in all offerings, the life energy magic in itself. To a demon it was surely sacred.
To the Old One‘s, it was amusing.
The table creaked under Anisse’s weight as she knelt upon it, pushing other bowls, utencils and glasses out of the way. The whimpers and frightened panting seemed to rise all around the table, but it did not stop her from painting the blood from the bowl upon the smooth wood. The circle would have to be perfect if she hoped to gain the blessing of the Twilight’s Hammer again, if she hoped to earn the Voice again. Purpose, to close out all of these…distractions. The circle went unfinished by the time the last bit of blood had been used from the bowl, the heart a used sack of viscera. Another…
Again, the amazing symphony of fear collected around the table, started by the eldest son as he heard Anisse shuffle near him. Feet skittered, the pathetic attempt to get away from her fingers causing the boy to make the chair scoot back a few inches. His muffled pleads set off the strained, guttaral moan of despair from the mother. The boy’s death was quick, but the mother’s suffering in hearing his last breath only went on and on. It was almost a sigh of relief that rattled from the murderess’s lips, to hear the mother sob in such silence, feel the release of life slip from her son.
It felt good to make Mother feel something. Make her cry.
The oil lamp seemed to scream with each flicker of its golden light upon the walls, witness to the desecration of another body, witnessing what the mother and daughter could not. In silence, Laureth Adler mourned the death of her husband and her son, waiting for the moment when the murderer’s blade would be turned on her. Already the mother contemplated ways to save her young daughter. Surely the Light would be merciful? Surely the murderer would know something of mercy upon a child barely out of its fifth year?!
Suddenly, the cottage door crashed open, making all within the dining room twitch, panic. Scalpel in one hand, and the boy’s heart in the other, Anisse felt her heart skip a beat. She had been followed?! The shadow stretched over the light cast by the flickering oil lamp, her eyes fixed upon the figure that had entered. His frock coat in disarray, the Hunter stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene at hand. Shuddering hands leveled their rifle at her, and slowly she slid herself off of the table she had been painting upon. What did she look like in her brother’s eyes? A child? A child painted in blood?
“…wh…what the hell, Anna…” he whispered out in that soft voice, on the fringe of a bellow. The rifle was cocked, ready, and yet he would not shoot. Of course he would not shoot. His eyes were weak, his nerves shot. The mother was wailing now, wailing so loud that one could wonder if she truly was gagged. The split second Quintin Handhour took to eye the surviving mother, Anisse stole away into the shadows of the room and escaped, wordless.
Her scent was still thick in his nostrils, thick in the animal’s throat that begged to be released from inside of the Hunter. He did not follow. As Anisse escaped into the night, she tucked her arms into the loose sleeves of her robes, pathing as fast as she could along the road out to Lakeshire. He’d let her live, but Anisse was still checking her body for wounds. He could have ended it all there, but he did not.
Because he was her brother, and brothers protect their little sisters, no matter what little sinners they grow to become.
Anisse still denied this fact as she denied the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
If Laureth Adler could see through her blindfold, she would see that they apparently were having her husband’s heart for dinner. It rested in his empty wooden bowl, garnished by its own liquids. The smell of blood assaulted her senses--she was still recovering from hearing the death gurgles across from her, and it was getting too hard to breathe against the gag pulled tight against the corners of her mouth. She didn’t have to see the scalpel that had slid so carefully across his throat, or the gaping jigsaw puzzle that his chest had become underneath its linen shirt.
All of her unmasked senses told her she should be filled with dread.
Anisse stared down silently at Ms. Adler as the woman shuddered in her seat, no longer straining against her binds. She had never went after an entire family before, but the ease at which she was allowed inside their home had been surprising. The citizens of Elwynn Forest were far too hospitable for their own good. After the murders she’d committed in Goldshire, one would think a family would keep their guard up a bit tighter. It only secured their deaths in Anisse’s mind: lambs easy for the slaughter. Some were simply meant to be the sacrificed.
There was something far more intimate in meaning in the victims she had chosen than Anisse could care to admit, however. Her gaze rested on the young son of Ms. Adler, on the edge of manhood. He was rocking back and forth in his chair as far as the rope he was bound with would allow him. His teeth were bared upon the cloth gag in apprehension, the occasional whimper leaving him. The younger daughter sat across from him, her small face glistening with silent tears just beneath her blind. She trembled much like the mother, like a leaf. And there sat Mr. Adler, still in his chair. His neck gleamed in the oil lamp’s light, bloody as his chest. Father had a new necktie. A family.
If she could murder them, then she could drown out the chaos pouring into the crack of her mind. Back to beginnings. Back to what she knew.
As much as it pained her to, Anisse picked up the father’s heart within the bowl, and began to squeeze its excess into it. Blood. It was essential in all offerings, the life energy magic in itself. To a demon it was surely sacred.
To the Old One‘s, it was amusing.
The table creaked under Anisse’s weight as she knelt upon it, pushing other bowls, utencils and glasses out of the way. The whimpers and frightened panting seemed to rise all around the table, but it did not stop her from painting the blood from the bowl upon the smooth wood. The circle would have to be perfect if she hoped to gain the blessing of the Twilight’s Hammer again, if she hoped to earn the Voice again. Purpose, to close out all of these…distractions. The circle went unfinished by the time the last bit of blood had been used from the bowl, the heart a used sack of viscera. Another…
Again, the amazing symphony of fear collected around the table, started by the eldest son as he heard Anisse shuffle near him. Feet skittered, the pathetic attempt to get away from her fingers causing the boy to make the chair scoot back a few inches. His muffled pleads set off the strained, guttaral moan of despair from the mother. The boy’s death was quick, but the mother’s suffering in hearing his last breath only went on and on. It was almost a sigh of relief that rattled from the murderess’s lips, to hear the mother sob in such silence, feel the release of life slip from her son.
It felt good to make Mother feel something. Make her cry.
The oil lamp seemed to scream with each flicker of its golden light upon the walls, witness to the desecration of another body, witnessing what the mother and daughter could not. In silence, Laureth Adler mourned the death of her husband and her son, waiting for the moment when the murderer’s blade would be turned on her. Already the mother contemplated ways to save her young daughter. Surely the Light would be merciful? Surely the murderer would know something of mercy upon a child barely out of its fifth year?!
Suddenly, the cottage door crashed open, making all within the dining room twitch, panic. Scalpel in one hand, and the boy’s heart in the other, Anisse felt her heart skip a beat. She had been followed?! The shadow stretched over the light cast by the flickering oil lamp, her eyes fixed upon the figure that had entered. His frock coat in disarray, the Hunter stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene at hand. Shuddering hands leveled their rifle at her, and slowly she slid herself off of the table she had been painting upon. What did she look like in her brother’s eyes? A child? A child painted in blood?
“…wh…what the hell, Anna…” he whispered out in that soft voice, on the fringe of a bellow. The rifle was cocked, ready, and yet he would not shoot. Of course he would not shoot. His eyes were weak, his nerves shot. The mother was wailing now, wailing so loud that one could wonder if she truly was gagged. The split second Quintin Handhour took to eye the surviving mother, Anisse stole away into the shadows of the room and escaped, wordless.
Her scent was still thick in his nostrils, thick in the animal’s throat that begged to be released from inside of the Hunter. He did not follow. As Anisse escaped into the night, she tucked her arms into the loose sleeves of her robes, pathing as fast as she could along the road out to Lakeshire. He’d let her live, but Anisse was still checking her body for wounds. He could have ended it all there, but he did not.
Because he was her brother, and brothers protect their little sisters, no matter what little sinners they grow to become.
Anisse still denied this fact as she denied the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
A Patron of the Lamb #27
For days he had followed her, or at least the scattered passing of time Anisse lived currently had indicated to her this. She would watch from alleyways as he would stop to ask local inkeep about her, sometimes complete strangers, staying just out of his sight. He never pressed his search too hard on any one person, dampening his own desperation with a taste of liquor. The bottle he would tip to his lips shined, holding the glare of street lights. It reminded Anisse of a glass jar under a peek of torch light in a dark, dank basement.
The ironic similarities made her shiver.
She was afraid of him, afraid he would look her way. Her dread spiked to a new high when he spotted her watching, and gave chase. No! Like a deer she bolted into the darkness of a stone forest, heavy boots spurning her on like a one-man calvary on the hunt. She hit the brick wall that blocked freedom too hard, the small form beneath layers of robes thrown back onto the dirty ground at her pursuer’s feet. Quickly, she scurried back to the brick, back against it. Her nails dug so hard into the brick that they cracked and split around her soft fingers.
“Anna! Anna…” His soft voice seemed to pound through her skull, ripping away at the cold peace of apathy. Memories seeped into the crack of her mind his voice created. A child’s loss. Hurt. Missing, yearning. Mother’s darling. His fingers were on her shoulders, trying to shake her, and his words were a jumble. What was he saying…?
Brother…
He was forcing her into his arms, whispering. Holding. Hugging. Comforting…
Comfort was for children.
“…..let. Go.” Her whisper grated under the spidery strings of her hair. His frock coat was hard, creaked against her, and she shoved to get out of the imprisonment of his arms. His soft amber eyes were a disease, trying to melt her defenses. She hated it him for it.
She was not the child he remembered her to be, but his denial would allow him no intelligence. Again his arms reached for her, stammering out the beginnings of reconciliation, of some foolhardy hope. Talk of family. Lips curled into a mad sneer as her mind folded into itself to heal what damage he had wrought. The sound of cold metal scraped through the darkness, and something quick sliced through the air. The man a child would have called brother stooped to his knees, wounded.
“Family? A union upon the blood and souls of lambs in offering. That is all family ever was to me, ‘brother‘.” She spat the last word out upon him, her voice cutting through the air like her own dagger. His blood dripped upon its curved edge as she stepped past him, sheathing it carefully, lovingly. “Let me alone,” she started, her whisper vicious with threat. “…or you will find your time upon this festering world shorter than the rest.”
Having ran into the alleyway a scared girl, Anisse meandered out of its darkness with the mind of a cultist.
With the need to make an offering.
The ironic similarities made her shiver.
She was afraid of him, afraid he would look her way. Her dread spiked to a new high when he spotted her watching, and gave chase. No! Like a deer she bolted into the darkness of a stone forest, heavy boots spurning her on like a one-man calvary on the hunt. She hit the brick wall that blocked freedom too hard, the small form beneath layers of robes thrown back onto the dirty ground at her pursuer’s feet. Quickly, she scurried back to the brick, back against it. Her nails dug so hard into the brick that they cracked and split around her soft fingers.
“Anna! Anna…” His soft voice seemed to pound through her skull, ripping away at the cold peace of apathy. Memories seeped into the crack of her mind his voice created. A child’s loss. Hurt. Missing, yearning. Mother’s darling. His fingers were on her shoulders, trying to shake her, and his words were a jumble. What was he saying…?
Brother…
He was forcing her into his arms, whispering. Holding. Hugging. Comforting…
Comfort was for children.
“…..let. Go.” Her whisper grated under the spidery strings of her hair. His frock coat was hard, creaked against her, and she shoved to get out of the imprisonment of his arms. His soft amber eyes were a disease, trying to melt her defenses. She hated it him for it.
She was not the child he remembered her to be, but his denial would allow him no intelligence. Again his arms reached for her, stammering out the beginnings of reconciliation, of some foolhardy hope. Talk of family. Lips curled into a mad sneer as her mind folded into itself to heal what damage he had wrought. The sound of cold metal scraped through the darkness, and something quick sliced through the air. The man a child would have called brother stooped to his knees, wounded.
“Family? A union upon the blood and souls of lambs in offering. That is all family ever was to me, ‘brother‘.” She spat the last word out upon him, her voice cutting through the air like her own dagger. His blood dripped upon its curved edge as she stepped past him, sheathing it carefully, lovingly. “Let me alone,” she started, her whisper vicious with threat. “…or you will find your time upon this festering world shorter than the rest.”
Having ran into the alleyway a scared girl, Anisse meandered out of its darkness with the mind of a cultist.
With the need to make an offering.
A Patron of the Lamb #26
The investigator straightened his tie for what seemed to be the tenth time since he’d arrived at the Slaughtered Lamb, Anisse noticed. The guard behind him seemed more clean-cut than him, but he seemed less dull, less jittery. The questions droned on for Jarel, but he kept his gentlemanly air in light of it all. He had called in the missing report for little Miss Lunita, after all. It was a smart move, Anisse thought, taking the suspicion off of the Lamb as quick as he could by alerting the guard to the gnome’s dissapearance.
The Lamb certainly did not need anymore suspicion or unwelcome rumors.
“And how would you describe these abductors, Mr. Moor? Anything about them that you can remember?” The investigator flicked his pencil nimbly around two of his fingers. The bartender rubbed at the gristle of his face, flicking a lock of hair before answering with a sigh.
“Well. The two were masked that came to the bar. Could have pinned them as warlocks, definitely, by the robes. Quite a bit distracting, those two. Didn’t quite get a good look at the ones that actually took poor Miss Lunita though. One minute she was here, then she gone! Always trying to help, that gnome. Couldn‘t have asked for a better waitress!”
Better waitress. Anisse’s face remained still as stone, emotionless, her eyes on her task. Her fingers flexed out what dismay she felt on the dough she was molding, however, crimping it hard to the edge of the pie foil. Apparently, she also had to act like an idiot and run off with complete strangers as well before she could get any sort of recognition. There was no crime here. It was a case of pure stupidity.
Not that Anisse could have a word edgewise. Jarel had forbidden her to say much of anything to the investigator besides, ‘would you like a drink?’ Anisse understood the bartender’s need to save his own skin, but to think that anyone would actually harm Lunita was…
…well, she might‘ve. Indeed, if the gnomess had continued to work at the Lamb consistently with Anisse, she might’ve been tempted to add her cotton candy heart to her collection. But that was entirely besides the point.
“Did the gnome have any enemies you might know of?” The investigator’s eyes flicked over to Anisse as she began to rock the blade of a kitchen knife over the cutting board, slicing up cooked pieces of meat. She was quick, methodical, her gaze never straying from the task. Liver of a boar. Perhaps. Anisse could hardly tell anymore what she was cutting up, or remember what she’d put in the icebox. It was best not to label what she’d hunted for the day.
The knife might stray if she thought too much on it. Or on Lunita.
“What? Enemies? She was a pleasant little thing, wasn’t she Miss Anna?”
“…sickeningly pleasant, of course.”
“Yes, yes. Why, we had people come into the Lamb just to speak to Lunita!”
The investigator finally tore his eyes away from the knife and the chopped meat when Anisse turned to toss it into the metal pot behind her. She’d left the kitchen knife propped, stabbed into the wooden bartop. The guard sniffed at the air as the stew broiled, and he shifted in hunger.
“Eyy.” Anisse paused mid-stir as the guard leaned on the countertop to smile at her. His helm came off and rolled across the bar before he stopped it with his large hands. “Can you give me a bowl of that? Got some coin in it for you.” The Investigator sighed as his partner sat down to eat. The pencil he held was now tapping into the tablet in his other hand.
“So, a possible kidnapping. Stalking, possibly beforehand. Hmm. Thank you for the report, Mister Jarel. Best question your…other patrons below.” The investigator’s face creased in discomfort as he looked down the torchlit ramp that lead to the lower levels of the Slaughtered Lamb. It was obvious he did not want to be down there. Anisse contained an amused smile as she observed the man‘s hesitation, ladling the stew into a wooden bowl. Yes, the guard was hungry, his large hands overwhelming the serving bowl as he took it to his lips. Who needed spoons? She watched with appreciation at his appetite, like an artist appreciating the live canvas he drew inspiration from. It was always good when someone could share in her work. Even if he was simply consuming it. By the time the partnered Investigator finally made it past the torch that lead to the basement, the guard was asking for seconds.
She gladly spun around to refill the wooden bowl, feeling all her apprehension about the Lunita incident slowly start to widdle away. She could chase after her “doggies” and Jarel would have one less on the dwindling payroll to worry about. The situation was not completely horrible. The gnome would not be missed, and Anisse could have what remained of her sanity back.
The barmaid was almost near humming in her optimism when she turned back around to serve the hungry guard. The sound of heavy boots clogged the entrance next, and her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the source. Muddy, unlaced leather boots. Stomping all over the tavern floorboards. Which she would have to clean after. Feeling her uplifting thoughts pitch back down into vexation, she sighed deeply as Jarel heartily greeted the newest patron.
“Evening, gent! What’ll it be?”
“A…a brandy. If you could, please. And…I was looking for someone…”
Anisse untangled the old mop from behind the counter from its bucket and shoved both into the sink a bit harshly, taking a glance at the one who’d created more work for her. She spied the sleeve of his leather frock coat, sporting a crack near the shoulder. The linen cuffs of his shirt sleeve was frayed around his rested hand. Dirty. The fingernails made her cringe, and she looked away, quick to pull the bucket from the sink.
“Oh?” Jarel chuckled as he pulled a dark bottle out of the icebox and set it near the dirty hand. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to be a little more specific!”
“Its….ahahaha…its more than a little silly, really. Possibly on the “Im going stark raving mad!” sort of silly, but I was told that maybe…”
There was a long silence in which the man did not finish his mumblings, the soft-spoken voice already hard enough to hear as it was. What was it already?! When Anisse looked up to ask exactly what the confused ponce was babbling about, she found that he was staring right at her from across the bartop. Staring. The sudden creak of his leather coat combined with his fumbling overtaking of the stool in front of her made Anisse nearly jump backward.
What the hell…? She glowered at the staring patron.
And as the soft amber eyes stared back at her in disbelief, she went stiff, her face slackened.
“…Anna…?!” The sound of his voice--the soft, hopeful whisper--it sent a shiver up the barmaid’s spine that weakened her limbs, her hands. The bucket crashed to the floor behind the bar, and Jarel bellowed a few colorful words in surprise, water sloshing everything.
“N…n-n…c…have to…go to…inventory lists…yes…”
At the threat of being unraveled in its conditioning, Anisse’s mind forced her body into action.
Overhelmed and unprepared, it took off with her body and ran from the Lamb as fast as it could.
The Lamb certainly did not need anymore suspicion or unwelcome rumors.
“And how would you describe these abductors, Mr. Moor? Anything about them that you can remember?” The investigator flicked his pencil nimbly around two of his fingers. The bartender rubbed at the gristle of his face, flicking a lock of hair before answering with a sigh.
“Well. The two were masked that came to the bar. Could have pinned them as warlocks, definitely, by the robes. Quite a bit distracting, those two. Didn’t quite get a good look at the ones that actually took poor Miss Lunita though. One minute she was here, then she gone! Always trying to help, that gnome. Couldn‘t have asked for a better waitress!”
Better waitress. Anisse’s face remained still as stone, emotionless, her eyes on her task. Her fingers flexed out what dismay she felt on the dough she was molding, however, crimping it hard to the edge of the pie foil. Apparently, she also had to act like an idiot and run off with complete strangers as well before she could get any sort of recognition. There was no crime here. It was a case of pure stupidity.
Not that Anisse could have a word edgewise. Jarel had forbidden her to say much of anything to the investigator besides, ‘would you like a drink?’ Anisse understood the bartender’s need to save his own skin, but to think that anyone would actually harm Lunita was…
…well, she might‘ve. Indeed, if the gnomess had continued to work at the Lamb consistently with Anisse, she might’ve been tempted to add her cotton candy heart to her collection. But that was entirely besides the point.
“Did the gnome have any enemies you might know of?” The investigator’s eyes flicked over to Anisse as she began to rock the blade of a kitchen knife over the cutting board, slicing up cooked pieces of meat. She was quick, methodical, her gaze never straying from the task. Liver of a boar. Perhaps. Anisse could hardly tell anymore what she was cutting up, or remember what she’d put in the icebox. It was best not to label what she’d hunted for the day.
The knife might stray if she thought too much on it. Or on Lunita.
“What? Enemies? She was a pleasant little thing, wasn’t she Miss Anna?”
“…sickeningly pleasant, of course.”
“Yes, yes. Why, we had people come into the Lamb just to speak to Lunita!”
The investigator finally tore his eyes away from the knife and the chopped meat when Anisse turned to toss it into the metal pot behind her. She’d left the kitchen knife propped, stabbed into the wooden bartop. The guard sniffed at the air as the stew broiled, and he shifted in hunger.
“Eyy.” Anisse paused mid-stir as the guard leaned on the countertop to smile at her. His helm came off and rolled across the bar before he stopped it with his large hands. “Can you give me a bowl of that? Got some coin in it for you.” The Investigator sighed as his partner sat down to eat. The pencil he held was now tapping into the tablet in his other hand.
“So, a possible kidnapping. Stalking, possibly beforehand. Hmm. Thank you for the report, Mister Jarel. Best question your…other patrons below.” The investigator’s face creased in discomfort as he looked down the torchlit ramp that lead to the lower levels of the Slaughtered Lamb. It was obvious he did not want to be down there. Anisse contained an amused smile as she observed the man‘s hesitation, ladling the stew into a wooden bowl. Yes, the guard was hungry, his large hands overwhelming the serving bowl as he took it to his lips. Who needed spoons? She watched with appreciation at his appetite, like an artist appreciating the live canvas he drew inspiration from. It was always good when someone could share in her work. Even if he was simply consuming it. By the time the partnered Investigator finally made it past the torch that lead to the basement, the guard was asking for seconds.
She gladly spun around to refill the wooden bowl, feeling all her apprehension about the Lunita incident slowly start to widdle away. She could chase after her “doggies” and Jarel would have one less on the dwindling payroll to worry about. The situation was not completely horrible. The gnome would not be missed, and Anisse could have what remained of her sanity back.
The barmaid was almost near humming in her optimism when she turned back around to serve the hungry guard. The sound of heavy boots clogged the entrance next, and her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the source. Muddy, unlaced leather boots. Stomping all over the tavern floorboards. Which she would have to clean after. Feeling her uplifting thoughts pitch back down into vexation, she sighed deeply as Jarel heartily greeted the newest patron.
“Evening, gent! What’ll it be?”
“A…a brandy. If you could, please. And…I was looking for someone…”
Anisse untangled the old mop from behind the counter from its bucket and shoved both into the sink a bit harshly, taking a glance at the one who’d created more work for her. She spied the sleeve of his leather frock coat, sporting a crack near the shoulder. The linen cuffs of his shirt sleeve was frayed around his rested hand. Dirty. The fingernails made her cringe, and she looked away, quick to pull the bucket from the sink.
“Oh?” Jarel chuckled as he pulled a dark bottle out of the icebox and set it near the dirty hand. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to be a little more specific!”
“Its….ahahaha…its more than a little silly, really. Possibly on the “Im going stark raving mad!” sort of silly, but I was told that maybe…”
There was a long silence in which the man did not finish his mumblings, the soft-spoken voice already hard enough to hear as it was. What was it already?! When Anisse looked up to ask exactly what the confused ponce was babbling about, she found that he was staring right at her from across the bartop. Staring. The sudden creak of his leather coat combined with his fumbling overtaking of the stool in front of her made Anisse nearly jump backward.
What the hell…? She glowered at the staring patron.
And as the soft amber eyes stared back at her in disbelief, she went stiff, her face slackened.
“…Anna…?!” The sound of his voice--the soft, hopeful whisper--it sent a shiver up the barmaid’s spine that weakened her limbs, her hands. The bucket crashed to the floor behind the bar, and Jarel bellowed a few colorful words in surprise, water sloshing everything.
“N…n-n…c…have to…go to…inventory lists…yes…”
At the threat of being unraveled in its conditioning, Anisse’s mind forced her body into action.
Overhelmed and unprepared, it took off with her body and ran from the Lamb as fast as it could.
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