(...and mild language! Haha, okay, sort of. This takes place after some creepy secret santa gift exchange rp. In a butcher shop, no less.)
Nearly sundown over Westfall’s dry fields, and a scream broke out over the wheat-colored grass. Dust clouds swirled as the oversized boar tore at the grass with its rough hooves, squealing in high-pitched fever in dumb, unexplainable agony. The torment only ended when the axe blade cleaved through its head, halving the small brain it contained. Twitching its last upon the grass, the demon spat upon the lesser creature, towering formidably over the corpse…and its mistress.
“It is done, weakling.” The felguard muttered out disdainfully to the petite human. No doubt he thought of doing the same to her as he had done to the pig. Instead, his eyes dropped to the gouge wounds in her side. “How pitiful you are. This beast’s tusks can hardly scratch my own body, and you limp like a diseased flesh bag.” The demon sneered, his thick fingers curling around his axe tightly. “Allow me to help put you out of your misery.”
Anisse kept her scathing gaze on the demon. Of the imp and the void walker, she hated this new one the most, some queer embodiment of unfathomable rage and violence. They seemed to exist to test her reign over her own emotion, to tempt it out, and lose control. The imp was a coward, but a greedy coward, and more than once had the thing argued its own sense into her. The void walker simply made her hate the world. Perhaps more than the Twilight Hammer could have--it made her hate herself, her own actions.
But this creature, this muscle-bound demonic lout: it was the worst of them all.
It could look down on her, where its belittling words would make the most impact.
Anisse sauntered up to the demon, paying no mind to the wounds in her side, and the felguard locked eyes with her, this young mortal girl who would not be intimidated. Her small, slender hands pressed upon the metal of his axe head as it trembled with a violent desire to use. It could destroy her. Violate her small body and then rip it to shreds, add color to this bleak world with her entrails.
But the felguard would not dare move, staring into those cold, amber eyes.
“I have already taken your heart once, demon,” Anisse said very plainly. “How did it feel, waiting in agony for the magics of your world to repair what I did to you?” The warlock pressed up onto her toes, her slender hand lain upon the area where his small, beating heart pumped beneath. Her lips whispered with intention, soft, and biting with truth.
“I will gladly do it again before banishing you to the Netherworld, if you do not remain silent.”
The felguard’s eyes gleamed an enraged red, unphased by the threat. “Shove it up your hole, miserable little bi--”
The demon found it hard to speak his words with his lips sliced off. Shocked by the pain, the demon dropped its axe as a six-inch scalpel was driven through it’s eyeball, and pulled back out. The bloody eye now sat upon Anisse’s blade like a pickled, large olive. She whispered in demonic quickly as the felguard toppled to its knees, groaning in agony, and the hulking lump went stiff as the spell took hold. It sat, all of it’s body phased out of existence…except for its head. Raging in tongues unknown to its mistress, Anisse came closer, slowly pulling the impaled eyeball off of her renewed scalpel.
The thing just had to spoil her good mood, didn’t it? Winter’s Veil had not been too disappointing. She’d been lead to a butcher shop teeming with jars of gifts, and then let down with a written threat. Her benefactor was a confusing one, to be certain. The scalpel tasted more and more demonic face flesh as she thought on this, deaf to the felguard’s snarling screams. Is that what this little “game” boiled down to? A hunt? A promise to end her life? She sighed, prying the other eyeball out of the demon’s face, and slipping it onto her scalpel as well. She could not really say she was surprised, but she was disappointed. There were many in her lifetime that had wished to end her existence, after all. The hunt was always the same, in the end, with the same players.
They would die. Or they would move on to more “interesting sport.”
And nothing would be learned.
Anisse looked upon the bloody mess of the felguard’s face, and sighed, finally banishing the demon completely. This one would take time to be broken, and she was unsatisfied with her lack of focus during the breaking. Tying the demon’s torn eye-stalks together, she looked over the horizon. The sun had disappeared, and a chilled wind took over the sun scorched plains. She winced as she began to feel the sting of the gouging marks in her side, taken from the hulking boar. At least she was calm--the demon hadn’t gotten to her. She looked down at the pair of demonic eyeballs and smiled, wiggling them in her fingers, considering. It wasn’t a terrible day, and she had enough gold for a good bed.
The jars within her satchel clinked together as she limped, slowly, back to a place she could heal. The distinct, large eyeballs were left hanging off the branch of a dead tree.
And she cared not who found them first.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Patron of the Lamb #21
The Defias Hideout had seen fewer newcomers throughout the day than it was used to, and that was clearly because of the bloody mess left just a few feet in front of the mine’s entrance. Someone was in a celebratory mood and eager to share the season’s spirit, from the look of the barren tree, now laced with bright décor.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
A Patron of the Lamb #20
It was the worst day ever recorded in the definition of “worst days” for the barmaid of the Slaughtered Lamb. Particularly horrible days seemed to visit upon Anisse regularly, and whether this was because of her habitual disagreeable nature toward the world and its people, or just plain bad luck, it just couldn’t be decided. Perhaps, in fact, it was a combination of the two blended together, but the day had grown to its crescendo in things that could go wrong.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
A Patron of the Lamb #19
“Pain? That is ‘batha’, yes?” Anisse guided the ritual blade down the wound, reopening it slowly. She watched as the back that wore the wound shivered under the pain, and the anticipation of the pain to come, for there were nine more scabbed gashes to be reopened.
‘B--baothah!…’ the elf stabbed into her mind, unable to speak the words. The accent, even in Anisse’s mind, was perfect. She gasped out as the blade cut down the low end of her back, widening the gash. Anisse smiled behind her “student”, and brushed the moist tendrils of hair at the back of the girl’s neck. She was drenched in her own sweat.
“You are taking this better than I thought you would. You’ve not screamed yet.” Anisse’s voice was soft, perhaps the closest to understanding and compassion she might come. The lesson between instructor and student, or torturer and tortured, was a bond. Still, she was unmerciful with the enactment. The dagger started again at the top of the next scabbed gash, giving the elf no time to prepare. This time the girl writhed, sobbing aloud, feeling the searing pain of the blade cut once again into her skin. It hurt the most when the blade tore against fresher skin next to the scabbed wound, Anna knew.
She knew because she’d endured this herself once before. And such a lesson could not be easily forgotten.
“Focus.” The urge in her words now was as sharp as the ritual blade she wielded, which now dragged down to the middle of her back. “’Baothah’--pain. And Goodbye? Or Farewell?”
‘Sh….shor-r-r-rel’aran,’ Rain stretched out the translation more than she had meant to, hissing out the words into Anisse’s mind as the cursed blade tore through fresh skin.
“Shore. Shorel? Shorelran?” Anisse repeated with all the calm of a priest at night mass. She sighed as she started at the tip of the third gash. “You are not focusing. That is the reason why you feel the pain so readily. How will you expect to defend yourself if you double-over at the edge of a dagger? There are worse pains, Rain, and you must be ready to feel them, ready to numb yourself to an infliction.” The elf girl only seemed to sob louder as the mess upon her back only grew bloodier. It was only the second day of Rain’s lesson, Anisse thought to herself. Perhaps she was being too impatient, when there was still the rest of the week to see how this one would progress.
Watching this girl writhe and shudder into sobs, however, Anisse drew in breath, quieting the urge to drive the blade into Rain’s back, and have at the heart on the other side. It would be easy, as she preferred her victims to be, and within the seclusion of the sound-warded parlor, there was no better place for such a kill. But…this was an agreement, and if Anisse did not honor such a word, what would that make her? Would she not herself be acting upon her own base instincts, her own desires, as she condemned the Captain’s loose ways for, or this girl’s desperate hunger for affection? There was room for improvement here.
And who was she to deny Rain’s chance for betterment?
Her jar could go empty for a few more days, Anna told herself. The lady mage and the scraggly farmer of Westfall fell, both wasted kills, unable to get what she had wanted. Just a few more days. She could find a new scalpel, easy as pie. No one could stop her collection if she was careful. Even if one was indeed, watching. Was someone watching…? She questioned it now. Surely the impending attacks upon the city by her former brethren had the power to compel even the most astute mind from her doings. Yes, there were more pressing matters, weren’t there? Perhaps, even, there were more choice stalking grounds outside of Elwynn Forest?
An unseen heart beat out there somewhere, just waiting to be collected.
‘Is it ov…over yet..?’ Anisse could hear the girl’s voiceless whisper offer itself to her, breaking her own train of thought. The ninth gash was cut open, and by now the elf was ready to fall over onto the carpet. The manacles shook with her shuddering, and they were tight--even subconsciously, Rain was trying to physically escape the pain, instead of using her mind as its own escape.
“It will not be over, Rain. “ She leaned in toward one of the elf’s long, slender ears, whispering. “It will never be over, until you let it be.”
The blade was drug down the final gash, and Anisse was rewarded with silence, no whimper made. Disappointment settled in when she realized the girl was only silent because she had blacked out from the pain.
No matter. The girl would come to crave the pain come the end of the week.
Standing over Rain, the saucer of water Anisse had filled was pushed gently toward the unconscious girl, just within reach of her while she was restrained. It was important for her to receive no luxury, as Anisse remembered thoroughly on her own harrowing lesson taught by the Twilights years ago. She would still need to survive, however, and water was a basic necessity for all creatures to live on. Though a week of this rigorous training was hardly comparable to the month’s worth of lessons she herself remembered so clearly, the week would serve to impact the girl in the way she wished. In a way, Anna was giving over a precious piece of knowledge in undertaking this instruction, and it felt good to finally share a part of herself that did not concern meatpies. She hoped too that the Captain learned from her example as well, those weeks ago. When the heart is weak, the mind cannot grow.
She’d nearly made it to the top of the winding ramp of the Lamb, before realizing she was there and that Jarel was speaking to her.
“Spending more time than usual down there, girl. Go on, get some sunshine, eh?” The bartender was stacking mugs up into pyramids out of sheer boredom. It seemed his customers all had somewhere else to be tonight. To say that might have something to do with a rather large dragon landing atop Stormwind would be an understatement. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Anisse felt a dark pride, knowing that her people were responsible for the drake’s appearance.
“I think I might just do that.” Anisse stared on into the exit of the Lamb, feeling a few strands of hair brush her face, loose. Tightening the long black ribbon that now held her hair in place, she started outside, ready to see more of the chaos outside of the city gates.
The farmer’s ribbon was far more comfortable than a simple rubber band.
‘B--baothah!…’ the elf stabbed into her mind, unable to speak the words. The accent, even in Anisse’s mind, was perfect. She gasped out as the blade cut down the low end of her back, widening the gash. Anisse smiled behind her “student”, and brushed the moist tendrils of hair at the back of the girl’s neck. She was drenched in her own sweat.
“You are taking this better than I thought you would. You’ve not screamed yet.” Anisse’s voice was soft, perhaps the closest to understanding and compassion she might come. The lesson between instructor and student, or torturer and tortured, was a bond. Still, she was unmerciful with the enactment. The dagger started again at the top of the next scabbed gash, giving the elf no time to prepare. This time the girl writhed, sobbing aloud, feeling the searing pain of the blade cut once again into her skin. It hurt the most when the blade tore against fresher skin next to the scabbed wound, Anna knew.
She knew because she’d endured this herself once before. And such a lesson could not be easily forgotten.
“Focus.” The urge in her words now was as sharp as the ritual blade she wielded, which now dragged down to the middle of her back. “’Baothah’--pain. And Goodbye? Or Farewell?”
‘Sh….shor-r-r-rel’aran,’ Rain stretched out the translation more than she had meant to, hissing out the words into Anisse’s mind as the cursed blade tore through fresh skin.
“Shore. Shorel? Shorelran?” Anisse repeated with all the calm of a priest at night mass. She sighed as she started at the tip of the third gash. “You are not focusing. That is the reason why you feel the pain so readily. How will you expect to defend yourself if you double-over at the edge of a dagger? There are worse pains, Rain, and you must be ready to feel them, ready to numb yourself to an infliction.” The elf girl only seemed to sob louder as the mess upon her back only grew bloodier. It was only the second day of Rain’s lesson, Anisse thought to herself. Perhaps she was being too impatient, when there was still the rest of the week to see how this one would progress.
Watching this girl writhe and shudder into sobs, however, Anisse drew in breath, quieting the urge to drive the blade into Rain’s back, and have at the heart on the other side. It would be easy, as she preferred her victims to be, and within the seclusion of the sound-warded parlor, there was no better place for such a kill. But…this was an agreement, and if Anisse did not honor such a word, what would that make her? Would she not herself be acting upon her own base instincts, her own desires, as she condemned the Captain’s loose ways for, or this girl’s desperate hunger for affection? There was room for improvement here.
And who was she to deny Rain’s chance for betterment?
Her jar could go empty for a few more days, Anna told herself. The lady mage and the scraggly farmer of Westfall fell, both wasted kills, unable to get what she had wanted. Just a few more days. She could find a new scalpel, easy as pie. No one could stop her collection if she was careful. Even if one was indeed, watching. Was someone watching…? She questioned it now. Surely the impending attacks upon the city by her former brethren had the power to compel even the most astute mind from her doings. Yes, there were more pressing matters, weren’t there? Perhaps, even, there were more choice stalking grounds outside of Elwynn Forest?
An unseen heart beat out there somewhere, just waiting to be collected.
‘Is it ov…over yet..?’ Anisse could hear the girl’s voiceless whisper offer itself to her, breaking her own train of thought. The ninth gash was cut open, and by now the elf was ready to fall over onto the carpet. The manacles shook with her shuddering, and they were tight--even subconsciously, Rain was trying to physically escape the pain, instead of using her mind as its own escape.
“It will not be over, Rain. “ She leaned in toward one of the elf’s long, slender ears, whispering. “It will never be over, until you let it be.”
The blade was drug down the final gash, and Anisse was rewarded with silence, no whimper made. Disappointment settled in when she realized the girl was only silent because she had blacked out from the pain.
No matter. The girl would come to crave the pain come the end of the week.
Standing over Rain, the saucer of water Anisse had filled was pushed gently toward the unconscious girl, just within reach of her while she was restrained. It was important for her to receive no luxury, as Anisse remembered thoroughly on her own harrowing lesson taught by the Twilights years ago. She would still need to survive, however, and water was a basic necessity for all creatures to live on. Though a week of this rigorous training was hardly comparable to the month’s worth of lessons she herself remembered so clearly, the week would serve to impact the girl in the way she wished. In a way, Anna was giving over a precious piece of knowledge in undertaking this instruction, and it felt good to finally share a part of herself that did not concern meatpies. She hoped too that the Captain learned from her example as well, those weeks ago. When the heart is weak, the mind cannot grow.
She’d nearly made it to the top of the winding ramp of the Lamb, before realizing she was there and that Jarel was speaking to her.
“Spending more time than usual down there, girl. Go on, get some sunshine, eh?” The bartender was stacking mugs up into pyramids out of sheer boredom. It seemed his customers all had somewhere else to be tonight. To say that might have something to do with a rather large dragon landing atop Stormwind would be an understatement. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Anisse felt a dark pride, knowing that her people were responsible for the drake’s appearance.
“I think I might just do that.” Anisse stared on into the exit of the Lamb, feeling a few strands of hair brush her face, loose. Tightening the long black ribbon that now held her hair in place, she started outside, ready to see more of the chaos outside of the city gates.
The farmer’s ribbon was far more comfortable than a simple rubber band.
A Patron of the Lamb #18
((Bit of a prologue: After months of searching for her dead son, Patrick Teller, Lady Teller has discovered her searching has come to an end. Agreeing to meet the anonymous contact that has viable information about the lost mage apprentice, she hurries to an empty lookout tower near SI:7 in Stormwind.
Meanwhile, Anisse grows more apprehensive between the cultist attacks, these missing fliers depicting the boy she'd murdered months ago, and now a stalker of sorts. Something's gotta give...))
Lady Teller rushed over to the secretive district that housed SI:7 and the roguish sort. It'd been a place she'd avoided time and time again, and not because of the uncouth citizens of the so-called Old-Town. Love affairs had been a weakness in her youth, ever the romantic as she was, and she'd fallen for a dangerous, svelte assassin who always seemed to know exactly what to say to make her heart go aflutter. Still, romance had no place in her studies, and when her apprenticeship took her away from Stormwind, she began to visit the old tower less and less, until what affection that settled in her heart trickled away with the years like so much arcane dust. Looking at the old abandoned tower now, the aging mage felt the palpitations of her heart flutter once more, as they did when she was just a foolish girl.
...the nights that were had in that tower were absolutely scandalous...
It was a suprise when the anonymous tip-off lead her here, before the tower again, and Sorceress Teller counted every step she climbed to get to the top as she did when she was that lovestruck apprentice over twenty years ago. Her son Patrick had the same heart as she, eager for tales of romance and lovely women--he was a troublemaker as soon as he discovered that girls in fact, did not have rabies. A small amusement lifted the weight off her heavy heart, giving her the hope that perhaps he'd found a sweet thing to romance in the old tower, hiding his affair away from his tutors. She folded up the flier that had been left for her at the Mage Tower as she approached the top of the steps, turning the corner to find...
A slender figure robed in black. The cowl up, Lady Teller could feel her hope spread just a little more, reaching out...
"...patrick...?" she whispered ever so softly, so hopefully.
"I'm afraid not..." the voice answered her just as quietly. The voice made the Master mage sigh out, feeling her heart crack again. This one was not her son.
"H...were you the one that had information about my Patrick...?" The mage's question was more a plead now. Tears filled her already dry eyes, expecting the worst.
"I regret to inform you that he is dead, Lady Teller." The dark figure revealed herself, pulling the hood down to her shoulders. For such a young woman, her soft voice was too cold, too blunt and truthful, Lady Teller thought. Even the young mages ladies she took on as apprentices were always atwitter with thoughts of boys and rumor, the latest styles of dress. This one...seemed so estranged from that youthful world. The sadness of this added to the weight of sadness she felt for the truth of her son.
"I...I see. Perhaps you could take me to the body, my dear girl? I must see it.." She watched as the young girl approached, most likely to take her hand and offer words of comfort.
"I'm afraid that is not possible," was the answer instead. Lady Teller stared on into the pretty amber eyes of the girl. She was staring, unblinking back at her, with eyes of obssession, of madness--there was something very wrong here. "You see, he burned by fire. And such ashes are very hard to collect, in the end."
"...w...what?" The Mage stiffened up her tears and let out a few nervous, weak chuckles, hoping this was just some kind of...awkward game. Lady Teller was known to not be as uptight as some of the older master mages, but this was not some game, for the girl's cold, blank expression made such a sick game obsolete.
"I am sincerely sorry, but I simply have no body for you..." There was no apology in the sound of her voice, even as it went to a whisper. "But I could just not help myself, and it all happened so quickly. Do not worry, though, milady. He is put to good use."
The shine of a blade caught Lady Teller's eyes as it was pulled from the folds of the girl's cloak, and the mage prepared to retalliate immediately before the first strike could land. This girl did not know who she was dealing with. Bringing a focus to the front of the anger and sorrow she felt at her son's death, Lady Teller called upon the forces of magic to surrounding herself with an arcane shield...while blasting the girl with a freezing cold. Flexing her hand in front of the approaching girl, she narrowed her eyes.
Unfortunately nothing happened. The woman choked back a gasp as the magic again, refused to come to her will. She had no time to scream, or run, as the dagger was slid across her throat.
Anisse stared down at the body as it bled out on the floor of the watchtower, the pool of Lady Teller's blood forming at her feet. It glossed the bottoms of her small, black leather boots, and she paced back a few steps. The magical ward was flickering in her hands, its enchantment at its end---if she'd had waited any longer to end the life of Patrick Teller's mother, circumstances may have turned out much worse than they were. Her hands tightened on the hilt of her dagger, still kissed with the taste of the woman's blood, and Anisse's hands flinched, wanting to dig further into the body to collect her prizes.
Something stopped her, however, seeing Lady Teller's corn-colored hair spilled out over the floor, her blue eyes frozen open in a death stare. The smooth metal of the scalpel was missing from her hands. No ritual dagger could cut so cleanly through flesh to take what she needed. She'd grown spoiled by its delicate blade, and now it was lost. Like the pendant before it. Like her patience. Like her focus.
The scrawlings upon a dozen shadowy trees spiked through her mind, making her twitch.
'I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU....' A forest of taunts blanketed by the corpses of dead animals.
Snagging the remnants of her sanity before it threatened to scramble away, Anisse hurried on down the tower steps, leaving Sorceress Teller's dead body whole.
Meanwhile, Anisse grows more apprehensive between the cultist attacks, these missing fliers depicting the boy she'd murdered months ago, and now a stalker of sorts. Something's gotta give...))
Lady Teller rushed over to the secretive district that housed SI:7 and the roguish sort. It'd been a place she'd avoided time and time again, and not because of the uncouth citizens of the so-called Old-Town. Love affairs had been a weakness in her youth, ever the romantic as she was, and she'd fallen for a dangerous, svelte assassin who always seemed to know exactly what to say to make her heart go aflutter. Still, romance had no place in her studies, and when her apprenticeship took her away from Stormwind, she began to visit the old tower less and less, until what affection that settled in her heart trickled away with the years like so much arcane dust. Looking at the old abandoned tower now, the aging mage felt the palpitations of her heart flutter once more, as they did when she was just a foolish girl.
...the nights that were had in that tower were absolutely scandalous...
It was a suprise when the anonymous tip-off lead her here, before the tower again, and Sorceress Teller counted every step she climbed to get to the top as she did when she was that lovestruck apprentice over twenty years ago. Her son Patrick had the same heart as she, eager for tales of romance and lovely women--he was a troublemaker as soon as he discovered that girls in fact, did not have rabies. A small amusement lifted the weight off her heavy heart, giving her the hope that perhaps he'd found a sweet thing to romance in the old tower, hiding his affair away from his tutors. She folded up the flier that had been left for her at the Mage Tower as she approached the top of the steps, turning the corner to find...
A slender figure robed in black. The cowl up, Lady Teller could feel her hope spread just a little more, reaching out...
"...patrick...?" she whispered ever so softly, so hopefully.
"I'm afraid not..." the voice answered her just as quietly. The voice made the Master mage sigh out, feeling her heart crack again. This one was not her son.
"H...were you the one that had information about my Patrick...?" The mage's question was more a plead now. Tears filled her already dry eyes, expecting the worst.
"I regret to inform you that he is dead, Lady Teller." The dark figure revealed herself, pulling the hood down to her shoulders. For such a young woman, her soft voice was too cold, too blunt and truthful, Lady Teller thought. Even the young mages ladies she took on as apprentices were always atwitter with thoughts of boys and rumor, the latest styles of dress. This one...seemed so estranged from that youthful world. The sadness of this added to the weight of sadness she felt for the truth of her son.
"I...I see. Perhaps you could take me to the body, my dear girl? I must see it.." She watched as the young girl approached, most likely to take her hand and offer words of comfort.
"I'm afraid that is not possible," was the answer instead. Lady Teller stared on into the pretty amber eyes of the girl. She was staring, unblinking back at her, with eyes of obssession, of madness--there was something very wrong here. "You see, he burned by fire. And such ashes are very hard to collect, in the end."
"...w...what?" The Mage stiffened up her tears and let out a few nervous, weak chuckles, hoping this was just some kind of...awkward game. Lady Teller was known to not be as uptight as some of the older master mages, but this was not some game, for the girl's cold, blank expression made such a sick game obsolete.
"I am sincerely sorry, but I simply have no body for you..." There was no apology in the sound of her voice, even as it went to a whisper. "But I could just not help myself, and it all happened so quickly. Do not worry, though, milady. He is put to good use."
The shine of a blade caught Lady Teller's eyes as it was pulled from the folds of the girl's cloak, and the mage prepared to retalliate immediately before the first strike could land. This girl did not know who she was dealing with. Bringing a focus to the front of the anger and sorrow she felt at her son's death, Lady Teller called upon the forces of magic to surrounding herself with an arcane shield...while blasting the girl with a freezing cold. Flexing her hand in front of the approaching girl, she narrowed her eyes.
Unfortunately nothing happened. The woman choked back a gasp as the magic again, refused to come to her will. She had no time to scream, or run, as the dagger was slid across her throat.
Anisse stared down at the body as it bled out on the floor of the watchtower, the pool of Lady Teller's blood forming at her feet. It glossed the bottoms of her small, black leather boots, and she paced back a few steps. The magical ward was flickering in her hands, its enchantment at its end---if she'd had waited any longer to end the life of Patrick Teller's mother, circumstances may have turned out much worse than they were. Her hands tightened on the hilt of her dagger, still kissed with the taste of the woman's blood, and Anisse's hands flinched, wanting to dig further into the body to collect her prizes.
Something stopped her, however, seeing Lady Teller's corn-colored hair spilled out over the floor, her blue eyes frozen open in a death stare. The smooth metal of the scalpel was missing from her hands. No ritual dagger could cut so cleanly through flesh to take what she needed. She'd grown spoiled by its delicate blade, and now it was lost. Like the pendant before it. Like her patience. Like her focus.
The scrawlings upon a dozen shadowy trees spiked through her mind, making her twitch.
'I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU....' A forest of taunts blanketed by the corpses of dead animals.
Snagging the remnants of her sanity before it threatened to scramble away, Anisse hurried on down the tower steps, leaving Sorceress Teller's dead body whole.
A Patron of the Lamb #17
The attacks in Stormwind propelled the city into utter chaos, Twilight Hammer making their marks on the trees, on buildings, spreading their messages of fear to citizens. As raging elementals sent more and more to the Cathedral, many more felt imprisoned in their own homes by the ongoing terror.
Anisse never thought she would be one of them.
Hours turned into days of confinment inside of the Slaughtered Lamb. Strangely, the tavern was where others also found safety. While people widdled away their fears by drowning themselves in ale, Anisse only felt the anxiety grow in her as she served them hour by hour, knowing she would have to leave sometime. This fear was ridiculous. And the twitching need to collect was becoming unbearable.
The previous night's...altercations, did not make things better, but she made it out.
With another flash of the demon's fingers, fire raced out to smash the wolf in the flank. A howling whine broke through the forest as it toppled over onto its side, the fur singed black by repetitious attacks. It's legs were still paddling where it lay, twitching out the last vestiges of life upon the grass as Anisse approached. The imp's skills had been exhausted, and as it began to chatter meaninglessly in demonic she banished it with a twitch of her fingers, wanting no distraction. She had to work quickly, or the innards would grow cold.
She wanted the trophies hot in her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she dragged the blade along the stomach, not slicing through the fur and flesh as deeply as she meant to. Clenching her teeth, she growled at herself to cut, to focus, needing this now. The blade dove through the belly now much too hard, and she winced, knowing it had cut through something vital. Another mistake, as with the boar before this. What use were these kills if she could not get what she needed out of them? Her nerves were too fried to even perform this simple task.
Freeing the now ruined liver and bladder from the stomach cavity, she peeled back the fur to get to the heart. A heart. She did not yet own an intact wolf's heart. At least she could manage to take this and jar it. Pressing apart the bloody rib bones to get to the protected heart, Anisse sighed out softly, caressing the muscle with her fingertips. It was lovely. Taking a moment to free the surgical scalpel from the leather bag, she felt the smooth metal of the instrument between her fingers before edging it along the webs of flesh that held the muscle in place.
The sight of Manoc's face gleamed in her mind, blood trickling from the bullet wound between his eyes.
Her fingers flinched, causing the scalpel's blade to slice the heart, making it bleed out. Ruined! Her fingers curled tight around that scalpel, infuriated. More than this, she was stricken by her fellow Twilight's death, the fresh memory of it driving her to do something about it. All impulses directed her to report back to her base, to join in on the chaos erupting about the city. She might've been at Manoc's side now, rejoicing in the glory of infiltrating the fool's defenses.
Manoc would have killed her last night, given the chance.
His chance was taken by a pair of gloved hands and a carefully aimed gun...a pistol? Anisse couldn't quite remember. By all accounts, she should be in gratitude toward the theatrically dressed gunsman that saved her life. In all reality, she felt a slump deep within her, denied a death that in the Twilight's eyes she had surely deserved. The tumult of emotion toward the debacle made her sick, and now she was denied the relief of a slick, warm, perfected heart.
Everything...was turned on its head...
She finally started to feel the stinging pain of the scalpel blade as it dug into her palm, so tightly was she squeezing it. Hands trembling, she threw everything she could back into the black leather bag and took off, leaving the trail of dead animals at its end. Perhaps another night, she could reign in her thoughts enough to attain what was needed.
The cold metal of the surgical scalpel glinted through through tall, thick grass, unwittingly left beside the wolf's corpse.
Anisse never thought she would be one of them.
Hours turned into days of confinment inside of the Slaughtered Lamb. Strangely, the tavern was where others also found safety. While people widdled away their fears by drowning themselves in ale, Anisse only felt the anxiety grow in her as she served them hour by hour, knowing she would have to leave sometime. This fear was ridiculous. And the twitching need to collect was becoming unbearable.
The previous night's...altercations, did not make things better, but she made it out.
With another flash of the demon's fingers, fire raced out to smash the wolf in the flank. A howling whine broke through the forest as it toppled over onto its side, the fur singed black by repetitious attacks. It's legs were still paddling where it lay, twitching out the last vestiges of life upon the grass as Anisse approached. The imp's skills had been exhausted, and as it began to chatter meaninglessly in demonic she banished it with a twitch of her fingers, wanting no distraction. She had to work quickly, or the innards would grow cold.
She wanted the trophies hot in her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she dragged the blade along the stomach, not slicing through the fur and flesh as deeply as she meant to. Clenching her teeth, she growled at herself to cut, to focus, needing this now. The blade dove through the belly now much too hard, and she winced, knowing it had cut through something vital. Another mistake, as with the boar before this. What use were these kills if she could not get what she needed out of them? Her nerves were too fried to even perform this simple task.
Freeing the now ruined liver and bladder from the stomach cavity, she peeled back the fur to get to the heart. A heart. She did not yet own an intact wolf's heart. At least she could manage to take this and jar it. Pressing apart the bloody rib bones to get to the protected heart, Anisse sighed out softly, caressing the muscle with her fingertips. It was lovely. Taking a moment to free the surgical scalpel from the leather bag, she felt the smooth metal of the instrument between her fingers before edging it along the webs of flesh that held the muscle in place.
The sight of Manoc's face gleamed in her mind, blood trickling from the bullet wound between his eyes.
Her fingers flinched, causing the scalpel's blade to slice the heart, making it bleed out. Ruined! Her fingers curled tight around that scalpel, infuriated. More than this, she was stricken by her fellow Twilight's death, the fresh memory of it driving her to do something about it. All impulses directed her to report back to her base, to join in on the chaos erupting about the city. She might've been at Manoc's side now, rejoicing in the glory of infiltrating the fool's defenses.
Manoc would have killed her last night, given the chance.
His chance was taken by a pair of gloved hands and a carefully aimed gun...a pistol? Anisse couldn't quite remember. By all accounts, she should be in gratitude toward the theatrically dressed gunsman that saved her life. In all reality, she felt a slump deep within her, denied a death that in the Twilight's eyes she had surely deserved. The tumult of emotion toward the debacle made her sick, and now she was denied the relief of a slick, warm, perfected heart.
Everything...was turned on its head...
She finally started to feel the stinging pain of the scalpel blade as it dug into her palm, so tightly was she squeezing it. Hands trembling, she threw everything she could back into the black leather bag and took off, leaving the trail of dead animals at its end. Perhaps another night, she could reign in her thoughts enough to attain what was needed.
The cold metal of the surgical scalpel glinted through through tall, thick grass, unwittingly left beside the wolf's corpse.
Monday, December 6, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #16
It was just a little slice here. A little slice there.
The black leather bag she'd found was quite the treasure box. How beautifully the surgeon's scalpel cut through the layer of flesh, the insides bubbling over and painting the surface with color. She'd payed special attention to the medical books she'd borrowed to learn to properly use her newly found tools, and the lessons were certainly paying off. With each turn of her wrist, she guided the blade across her little masterpiece with precision, making sure every cut count. The inch of blade dipped inside of the crevice she'd cut, wetting the blade. A smile played along her lips as the knife cut so smoothly, easily, making this art her own. When at last she was done, she studied the cuts. Oh, she was getting better at this...
The meatpie crust was prepared!
"You're spending an awful lot of time on these, Miss Anna. Is...that a scalpel?"
Jarel was looking at his assistant strangely, finding a peculiar light in her eyes as she studied the little piece of "art" she'd created. It was just a crust. Snagging the pie from her, he popped it into the refrigeration unit, where the meatpie would be frozen in little more than an hour. The young woman tossed a tendril of hair away from her cheek and sighed, rolling out another bit of dough upon the bartop. It was early on in the morning, and not a drunkard was in sight. Her fingers white and powdery, she patted the dough down and rolled it out until it was thin.
"I am thinking of becoming a surgeon, Mr. Jarel." It was a blatant lie, of course, for she had other plans with her newfound treasures. The bartender believed every word.
"Ah, so a more permanent career, eh? Sounds like a good step. Not thinking of leaving the Lamb, are you dear?"
"No. Not quite." Her words were short but clear, all of her concentration on the meatpie as she set the thin layer of dough inside of the dish. While the meat of varying species was placed inside, she ladled hot gravy atop, and then folded the thin pastry over the top.
"Good. You know with those taxes you'd need the extra coin," Jarel was grinning ear to ear, but his assistant did not see it, much too concentrated on her work. "Should be sleeping, little chef."
"I will sleep when I must." The sharp scalpel catching the lamp light, it glinted as she cut the excess dough from the rest of the pie. Careful as the last one, she cut around with even, smooth strokes. She finally tuned in to the sound of Jarel's voice and his batch of hearsay and rumor he'd received for the week.
"...bet it'll be quite a big funeral. Think she might've eaten here a few times, hmm, lovely company, that Miss Hollowdrake. That masked fellow was about with a pretty thing earlier in the week, did I tell you that? Haha, I can only hope the gent comes back. He just drops his coin down like its nothing!"
"...mhmm..." Anisse murmured, now slicing into the top of the unbaked pastry. She was careful now not to cut too deeply, lest the batch of meat and gravy spill over too much over the top of the dough.
"They're all still going on about Goldshire, like it's something new to find a dead body in a room. I've heard the Innkeep's actually charging extra to people wanting to sleep in the room. Ridiculous, eh?"
Now this, these words did get her attention. Glancing up at Jarel, her fingers squeezed around tight to the metal of the scalpel, now made warm by her grip. "I thought...I heard the room had caught on fire?" Her words almost caught in her throat, talking about the scene.
"Yeah, me too. Apparently it was just the bed...some curtains. They replaced it right quick and went on with business. People have been claiming to see everything from ghosts to demons in the room. Haha, give it time, and they'll be digging through the floorboards to find Mor'Ladim's treasure in there!"
Anisse gave a half-smile, letting her eyes blink back down to the meatpie at hand. At least she didn't have to worry about the room anymore. With a last look of the last meatpie, Anisse handed the entree to Jarel gently, and cleaned her scalpel under the faucet until it was once again shining perfection. Tucking it in with the array of other surgical tools she'd not yet used, she shut the leather bag and strapped it around her shoulder. When Jarel saw that she was striding to the door, the bartender shook his head.
"Heading out at this hour? Girl, don't you ever sleep? Whatever are you going to do out there?"
Pausing before exiting the Lamb, Anisse tucked her cowl back up over her head. A shadow of a smile quirked her lips, her hand pressed against the bag at her hip.
"Me? I'm going to practice."
The black leather bag she'd found was quite the treasure box. How beautifully the surgeon's scalpel cut through the layer of flesh, the insides bubbling over and painting the surface with color. She'd payed special attention to the medical books she'd borrowed to learn to properly use her newly found tools, and the lessons were certainly paying off. With each turn of her wrist, she guided the blade across her little masterpiece with precision, making sure every cut count. The inch of blade dipped inside of the crevice she'd cut, wetting the blade. A smile played along her lips as the knife cut so smoothly, easily, making this art her own. When at last she was done, she studied the cuts. Oh, she was getting better at this...
The meatpie crust was prepared!
"You're spending an awful lot of time on these, Miss Anna. Is...that a scalpel?"
Jarel was looking at his assistant strangely, finding a peculiar light in her eyes as she studied the little piece of "art" she'd created. It was just a crust. Snagging the pie from her, he popped it into the refrigeration unit, where the meatpie would be frozen in little more than an hour. The young woman tossed a tendril of hair away from her cheek and sighed, rolling out another bit of dough upon the bartop. It was early on in the morning, and not a drunkard was in sight. Her fingers white and powdery, she patted the dough down and rolled it out until it was thin.
"I am thinking of becoming a surgeon, Mr. Jarel." It was a blatant lie, of course, for she had other plans with her newfound treasures. The bartender believed every word.
"Ah, so a more permanent career, eh? Sounds like a good step. Not thinking of leaving the Lamb, are you dear?"
"No. Not quite." Her words were short but clear, all of her concentration on the meatpie as she set the thin layer of dough inside of the dish. While the meat of varying species was placed inside, she ladled hot gravy atop, and then folded the thin pastry over the top.
"Good. You know with those taxes you'd need the extra coin," Jarel was grinning ear to ear, but his assistant did not see it, much too concentrated on her work. "Should be sleeping, little chef."
"I will sleep when I must." The sharp scalpel catching the lamp light, it glinted as she cut the excess dough from the rest of the pie. Careful as the last one, she cut around with even, smooth strokes. She finally tuned in to the sound of Jarel's voice and his batch of hearsay and rumor he'd received for the week.
"...bet it'll be quite a big funeral. Think she might've eaten here a few times, hmm, lovely company, that Miss Hollowdrake. That masked fellow was about with a pretty thing earlier in the week, did I tell you that? Haha, I can only hope the gent comes back. He just drops his coin down like its nothing!"
"...mhmm..." Anisse murmured, now slicing into the top of the unbaked pastry. She was careful now not to cut too deeply, lest the batch of meat and gravy spill over too much over the top of the dough.
"They're all still going on about Goldshire, like it's something new to find a dead body in a room. I've heard the Innkeep's actually charging extra to people wanting to sleep in the room. Ridiculous, eh?"
Now this, these words did get her attention. Glancing up at Jarel, her fingers squeezed around tight to the metal of the scalpel, now made warm by her grip. "I thought...I heard the room had caught on fire?" Her words almost caught in her throat, talking about the scene.
"Yeah, me too. Apparently it was just the bed...some curtains. They replaced it right quick and went on with business. People have been claiming to see everything from ghosts to demons in the room. Haha, give it time, and they'll be digging through the floorboards to find Mor'Ladim's treasure in there!"
Anisse gave a half-smile, letting her eyes blink back down to the meatpie at hand. At least she didn't have to worry about the room anymore. With a last look of the last meatpie, Anisse handed the entree to Jarel gently, and cleaned her scalpel under the faucet until it was once again shining perfection. Tucking it in with the array of other surgical tools she'd not yet used, she shut the leather bag and strapped it around her shoulder. When Jarel saw that she was striding to the door, the bartender shook his head.
"Heading out at this hour? Girl, don't you ever sleep? Whatever are you going to do out there?"
Pausing before exiting the Lamb, Anisse tucked her cowl back up over her head. A shadow of a smile quirked her lips, her hand pressed against the bag at her hip.
"Me? I'm going to practice."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)