When the hunter becomes the hunted (open, medieval/fantasy rp)

[SassyWench]

Mikhayla rode hard for the past three weeks along the trails, over the mountains and across the plains. She had to keep going, for she was now the hunted. Thank the stars her chestnut colored stallion, Rusher, was her mount. Rusher had been given to her on her sixteenth birthday and the two have been nearly inseparable ever since.


Rusher has been able to outrun and outjump any who've pursued the two as they streaked across the lands. A little over a month ago, in the far off lands Mikhayla hails from, a series of tragic events had been set into play. First, one of the nobles from the House of Blade had been poisoned at one of the coronation banquets held at the Castle De Illuminati. The House of Blade was one of Illuminati most respected Houses in lands, their alliance meant great things to the people and the Kingdom as a whole. The death of Lord Devon Blade, a King in his own right, had struck a mighty blow to both nations. The murder had broken the alliance treaty, thus plunging Illuminati and the BaD Lands into war.



Mikhayla had been the King's Royal Guard to the King of Illuminati. T'was rare for a woman to be allowed to hold a blade, let alone to be granted such a high honor as to become the King's Royal Guard. She endured some of the harshest training one could ever receive. Most men failed, so it was an amazing feat all in itself that she had not.



After the armies of both nation's had met upon the fields of battle, the King of Illuminati had been slain as well. Mikhayla felt as if she had failed at her sworn duty, after all, she did swear her life for his when she took her oath of honor upon attaining her rank as a Knight.



As she urged Rusher ever on, she played back the events of that night over and over in her head.





Haunting Memories


The ball had been going very well. The entire palace had been decorated exquisitely with sprays of black, white and gold (Illuminati's colors) bunting draped around the thick columns, over the banquet tables and just about anywhere else where it would look good. The food! Oh the food smelled absolutely divine; tantilizing one's senses from miles away as its aroma drifted on the warm, gentle, summer breeze.



As the noble's danced, the musicians played and the wee one's got into much mischief .... that's when it went horribly wrong. It had to be during that time. The sun hadn't quite set below the horizon, so it gave the attackers in the fields the perfect opportunity to strike. None of the field-workers noticed. So immersed in the last harvest of the autum swatting their sickles and scythes through the tall wheatgrass, before the snows fall and blanket the lands, they do not sense the other reapers sliding out of the forest.



Storm-warriors, quiet as sunlight yet black as the dark of the moon, each one tattooed, scalp to sole, in blue indigo dragoncoils and thunderclouds, rush upon the workers with shrieking battle cries. The storm-warriors do not eat grain grown on squared ground, believing it is poisoned by straight-line magic. For several of the field hands, the ax-wielding raiders are mere shadows in the white flash of pain that ends their lives. Others have time to swing their harvest blades once or twice before the howling men ax through wood, flesh, and bone.



Knives flicker in the waning light of the day, slicing off ears and hanks of hair, which will later ornament their war-lances. The war shrieks to a stop when the last of the workers, rushing with all her might through the golden depths of the field, falls under the flying weight of a warrior, who breaks her neck. Then the only sound is the sizzling wind in the wheat and the scrape of metal on bone.



As the fields burn, smoke wafting towards the massive trees towering overhead, it carries the acrid stench of charred flesh and death as it drifts lazily over the land as a triumphant war cry is unleashed.



Back at the castle, King Aemon stands from the throne to bid goodeve to his guests; suddenly from out of nowhere, three crossbow bolts appear in his chest and he tumbles back into the throne.



The Queen looks on in shocked horror. As her attention is diverted to her fallen husband, a serving woman next to the queen slits her throat while shifting back to it's true form, killing her instantly. As the changeling leaves the queen's body to slump at the fallen King's feet she grins evilly and watches the blood turn the white and gold floor a deep shade of crimson.





The Battle Begins



As the King and Queen are slain, the attackers storm the castle masked by magic so they aren't noticed until it is too late; the staff that is present are changlings that killed the real staff and took on their appearances. The enemy floods in in a wave of darkness, killing left and right, tearing people apart and drenching the room in a dark crimson red, bearing their grisly trophies in haloes of flies.



The guests begin to panic. The women begin to shriek and scream, the men do their best to draw any weapons they can manage to get their hands upon. A few of the most loyal guards, fifty-one in number, rushed into the heart of the battle. Swords clanged left and right as the men fought valiantly against the enemy. The King's head Royal Guard, Mikhayla, led her men into the heart of the battle. Drawing her mighty sword, which had been bound with spells from the Mage just weeks prior, she slashes into those who stand in her way of the Royals she is to protect and die for.



As the battle nears its climax, a sorceress Mikhayla knows in lands far from there begins to weave her magic as she sees the battle as its shown to her in her visions. She consumes most of her energy casting the mighty spells of swift blades and protection amongst the knights. As she does so, she calls forth the Dragon Guardians to aid in the mighty battle.



From far across the lands, the God of Dragons, Xiantos was tending to a few scrolls when he hears the pleas of the sorceress, and answers her pleas by sending forth his mightiest of dragon warriors. The skies became nearly thunderous with the sound of massive wings flapping furiously as the Dragon Guardians take flight and head off to aid their neighbor's to the northwest.



Upon their arrival, they immediately began their attack on the dragons already unleashing their fury against the army on the ground.



In the meantime, the King's remaining warriors put up a brave battle against their enemies, the fires lighting upon areas around the castle as bright as day.



After battling for the past several hours, the men and women grow weary and are barely able to lift their own blades in defense. The enemy attackers put down their blades as the last remaining soldiers surrender and kneel to the ground with their hands clasped behind their heads.



Victorious war cries are heard echoing throughout the lands, their lances and blades appear to be a dark shade of crimson from the blood drying upon their silver shafts. Shields are heard clattering noisily together as the enemies cheer for the total destruction they've wrought upon the once peaceful lands of Illuminati.



Merely a handful of soldiers get away unscathed. As they look through one of the castle's balconies, they witness the final blow to their once mighty kingdom. One of the mighty dragons has captured the eldest of the dragon protectors. The beast lifts its crimson gaze to rest upon the watchers as his lips curl back in a sadistic sneer, saliva begins to ooze off its razor sharp fangs. As the three look on in anger and horror, the massive beast opens its jaw and lowers his head swiftly, ripping the dragon protectors throat out as his talons pierce his chest and rip out his still beating heart. As creature lifts off the ground with a fluid grace, a deep, cruel laugh resounds throughout the sanctuary of the protectors room. The forlorn soldiers lower their heads in honor of their fallen brother and place their tightly clenched fists over their hearts, murmuring a prayer of peace for his soul.



With the lands now destroyed, the castle in ruins, those who managed to survive begin burying the dead and tending to each others wounds. By the time dusk arrives of the second day, the small band of survivors look back one last time over their shoulders as they leave in search of a new life elsewhere.





Present



Mikhayla hitches Rusher to the post outside of the tavern then ascends the two wooden stairs to the porch. Her boot heels click gently against the wood, some areas creak and moan in protest from age and weathering. She eases open the door and casts a casual glance around while sweeping the deeply cowled hood off of her head to rest upon her shoulders, then heads to the bar and sits upon one of the stools.

 

[IDreamofBunnies]

Refuge. At long last, Rich had made it to this roadside tavern. The glow of light from its windows shed some of the weight of his travels. All throughout the night he had driven his massive Clydesdale, Beaumont through the deep mud and pounding rain. Shrouded in his tightly bound cloak and hanging on to the hood, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. But now, now he would have a decent rest.

As he neared the inn he dismounted and lead his great steed to the stable. He removed all his articles from the saddlebags, just to sate his paranoia. After thrusting a few copper pennies into the stable keeper's grubby hands he walked into the tavern. The sound of his greaves and pauldrons clanking drew a bit of attention but no strange looks. He found a table close to the wall and sat down, quickly getting lost in thought.

In a better time...

Sheriff Richard Pryce the II, the most honorable sheriff of Malhambria since his father. Pryce, the incorruptible. Pryce, the noble. Pryce, the just. Every day he stepped out of his office with his breastplate and medals gleaming in the orange beams of dawn. All the lads in Malhambria wanted to be him and all the maids wanted to shake his bones. The elders told him to "keep up the good work" and all was well. He brought much honor to the office, dragging criminals through the streets and making them face justice. Chasing down brigands and keeping the countryside safe for the honest folk.
Life was good, a devotion to his charges and a clear conscience knowing that what he did was right.

Then came Mala, the raven haired beauty from a nomadic caravan. She and her people came once a year during the harvest time to peddle their spices and look into one's future for a few pennies. They sold potions and knick knacks of dubious origins and qualities. Mala was infatuated with the clean shaven, upstanding Sheriff, with his all important honor and holier than thou attitude. She made lustful advances towards Richard but was rejected at every turn. The forth rejection was Richards undoing, for nomads only rarely ask for something more than once and when they ask four times, one had better deliver. She cursed him on the main street, loudly declaring that he was doomed to be despised by those he held dear, just as he had despised her.

Later that night while on a routine patrol Richard heard a shriek of terror coming from an alleyway. When he rushed to the scene he found Mala stabbed to death, a Malhambrian dagger plunged into her heart. With no sign of the murderer he lifted Mala up and removed the dagger in order to examine it more closely. It was just at that moment when some commoners saw him, holding a bloody dagger in his hand and the body of the gypsy who had publicly cursed him at his arm.

He never knew if it had been the curse or not but he was chased out of Malhambria, never having the chance to defend his honor. That was two years ago. Since then he had been reduced to living the life of a mercenary. He had developed a reputation as a fierce warrior. "Filthy Rich" they called him, for he would take any job no matter how uncouth. "Filthy Rich" the disgraced sheriff of Malhambria.

And back again...

Now he was here, at this tavern drinking deeply from a wooden mug of spiced mead. He looked about cautiously, partially seeking potential employers, partially looking out for trouble. His eyes are drawn to the newest arrival, a striking woman. Judging from her posture she had seen combat before. An odd sight but not completly unknown. There was something vaugely familiar as if she matched some description he had heard before...

 

[SassyWench]

Overweight, balding on the top and unshaven, the bar tender approaches Mikhayla, inquiring as to what she'd like to drink. She doesn't hear him at first; too deep into her own thoughts really. While he awaits her response, he continues to wipe the inside of the earthenware mug with a dirty, greasy cloth; his beady lil eyes roaming over her body. If he hadn't been behind the bar, his erection would have been on display for all to see and there are just some people you don't want to picture naked; let alone see their manhood standing at full mast.

"Hmm?" Her dark eyes of soul-stealing sapphire settle on the dirty old man while she eases her slender, well-skilled fingers from the black rawhide gloves that have kept them warm for the past ...

She couldn't remember now how long it's been since she fled under the cloak of darkness.

"I asked what'll ye be drinkin' darling." He states to her, leaning against the bartop with his large, chubby hands set on the counter. His creepy eyes stray from hers to drink in the luscious figure that beseeches the young woman. Mentally, he's sizing her up; she'd make an excellent courtesan here at the Black Dragon Inn. Seeing her blade's hilt jutting out from beneath her cloak, he also figures she'd have to be broken in; that's if he wanted to make good coin off of her services.

"Whiskey. Keep 'em comin'.", she tells him quietly while raking her fingers back through her long, wind-blown hair the color of onyx. Olive skin, striking blue eyes that seem to stab the very soul of anyone who looks into them and dark hair; what an exotic beauty.

Chewing on the stump of his long wasted cigar, the bartender sets the bottle of whiskey on the counter then a small mug for her shots; he'd let her pour her own drinks at her own leisure. Inwardly, he's hoping she can't hold her liquor; he has plans for this one and the drunker the better to begin with.

As Mikhayla rises from the stool, she eases her cloak off her shoulders, allowing it to hang freely along her back while sweeping her gaze around the tavern.

"You let rooms here?" She asks the tender as he cleans up along the bar; anyone sitting within a ten foot radius of her would more than likely overhear. Her voice is soft-spoken, sultry; giving an unspoken promise of wildness to be taken and broken into submission.

"Aiyah. Ye be needin' one, lass?" His left eye squints against the smoke drifting upwards from a patrons cigar.

"Aye." Sliding her hand into the pouch that sits at her left hip, she withdraws 10 coppers and leaves them on the counter for the room; and soon enough, she is given the key.

"Room be 12. Up the stairs and to ye're left; cannae miss it." His large, calloused hand swipes up the coins and deposits them into the till.

Taking the bottle, mug and her gloves, she saunters across the tavern to a table set diagonally from where the former Sheriff is seated. Her cloak billows out gently in her wake and there is a whispered 'swoosh' as her black suede (skin tight) pants brush against each other at her thighs. T'was dark back here; she likes that. She can see the door and other entries and still keep her back protected with the wall behind her.

Kicking the chair out across from her, she props her booted feet up and crosses them at the ankles. Pouring herself a shot, she lifts it to her lower lip and scans the room once again from over the rim. Seeing the man kitty corner from her, she keeps her intocxicating gaze upon him then tosses back the shot quickly; savoring the warmth and burning sensation as it slides smoothly down her throat.

She doesn't refill the mug immediately. Instead, it sits on the table, empty as she remains motionless; save for her eyes that take in every small detail around her. Now, she has to figure out just who set her up, why and how to pay them back ten fold.

(OOC: for reference, this is what Mikhayla looks like

 

[Zirconn]

Einarr

The day had been long. The night will be longer still.

The day started pretty much the same as it did for the past year or more. The false dawn greeting him like an old friend; a quiet, peaceful and unassuming friend. It was the peace that he craved, and now that he had it, it was adventure that he missed. Quite a turnaround for someone, who had countless times, stared death in the face. In more youthful times, he would have even embraced Death itself, for the rush of blood, the ringing in his ear, that was the call of a bloodlust berserker.

With his medium height, he felt so dwarfed by the gigantic trees of the forest. A feeling soon remedied, as his day’s chores began. The creatures were stirring, in answer to the cacophony of his axe, biting deep into Giant’s leg. The chips of wood became the frozen blood of the Frost Giants of the North. The swings, reminiscent of the time when his axe bit deep into the skulls of man. The muscles, gleaming and breathing in the morning chill, showed a lifetime’s worth of hard labor and countless battles. The hands calloused from the oily ropes of the Dragons Ships, once proud, and once roamed and ruled the icy seas of the North, so many ages ago.

It was like a dim candle in his memory, when a gangly youth with barely a shadow of a whisker on his chin, first stepped foot onto the gangplank and gazed upon the gigantic Dragon Head on the prow. Like a dim candle, flickering memories of rowing to the beat of a drum and the wind, being whipped by unseen faces, and the sea, frothing like the breaths of Gods. An unforgiving life, but a rewarding one as well. No one would recognize the man as that youth, so many ages ago. Broad shouldered, heavily muscled, with jet-black hair and beard tied in braids. The boy had come of age.

Ah… So many ages ago…
The crunch of pinecones beneath his boots announced his presence in the forest. It was not easy trudging though the paths with a full load of wood pulled by his muscles alone. But it had to be done, by sheer strength and willpower, and quite a bit of gritting on the teeth. Old Sally of course would have her work cut out for her when she pulls the cart to town on more traversable roads. Only then could he rest.

No one would recognize this strapping and clean-shaven man as a fierce Northman. With his plain peasant smocks and simple half boots, all the townsfolk saw was a poor woodcutter, coming in for a few pennies and breadcrumbs. Ale would have cut deep into his pockets, and besides, Einarr had been sober for the past two years. No. No one would ever gaze upon his chest where a long scar from Glaedir The Mad tried to gut him. Or his back, the healed but visible scars of whips and axes.

No. The tavern keeper would let him sleep in the hayloft of the stables because he brought such a huge load of firewood, not because a berserker stood before him. The chill of night barely registered in Einarr’s mind as he unloaded the wood. What was registering however were the wonderful smells coming in from the kitchen. Smells which provoked the rumblings of discontent from his stomach. Lunch was a forgotten piece of bread and cheese. Dinner will soon be also forgotten pieces of bread and cheese from the kitchen, once he figured out a way to pry them from the stingy cooks.

The last load brought him directly into the main hall of the tavern. The guests tonight will be spared of the biting chill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw those that sought scant warmth from their bitter ales and whiskies. He saw the forlorn, mad, and happy. The sad, truthful and searching. Humanity was here, right here. He allowed a smile to cross his lips, a sneer which mirrored his own soul. And then his dark brown eyes gazed upon the steely sapphires of a woman, tall, powerful, and imminently, lethal…

 

[SassyWench]

Those steely eyes of hers had met the man upon his entry to the tavern. Having to keep her guard up all the time was becoming a pain in the ass, but if she wishes to continue to breathe, it must be done. Mikhayla follows his motions, noting and learning a few things about the man simply from sight alone. Those observations would be kept to herself; perhaps to be used at a later time in another place.

Rocking her chair back onto the back legs to balance precariously upon it, she reaches forth and grabs the whiskey bottle by the narrowed neck, pulling it in towards her lap where she rests it against her slender thigh.

If one could measure up someone by simply looking at them, she wouldn't really look all that threatening. When standing, she's maybe 5'6" at the most, weighs about 110 pounds soaking wet. However, she is mighty skilled with weapons and has a keen mind and sharp eyes.

After tossing back another long pull from the whiskey bottle, she decides that she would be better off on keeping her eyes on the two men closely.

 

[poohlive]

Thunderous hoofbeats echoing throughout the forest. A sense of danger upon them. Five of six shadows, all clinging to the dirty beasts, who ran as if they tried to catch the wind.
Verdin rode ahead, just a league above all the others. The reigns loose in his hands, letting the horse go at her own speed. He cared not for strength, or stamina. The horse ran for its life.
He held on for his own.
"They're still behind."
He stole a glance behind him. Past his long brown cloak which fluttered behind him, he saw the others, a small army, each of them riding their horses as fast as they rode his.
"Split up," His words short and crisp. He didn't bother to look at any of the rest, only sat back on his own steed, making her push just a little bit more.
The hoofbeats lessened behind him. He kept going straight, as each of his friends strafed to the west of the east. Closing his eyes, he prayed for them, one single silent word of hope.
They would all be dead by morning.
Himself included.
Behind, the legion itself split up. Their bodies disappearing into the nrrowing foliage. Each horse following a distinct set of tracks. He could hear two of them still on his heel, closing in.
He turned to the right, a sharp move that lost him speed. The edge of a spring came up, blocking any further ascent. Instead, he rode along its bank, desperately seeking a way across.
There was no escape.
His heart began to pound now. One hand moving from the worn leather to his sheathed sword.
How good were they? They had trained for years. This would be no easy challenge.
Two of them.
The horse found a small gradient. A bank that had slipped from a past rain, allowing a steep but steady access into the ravine that carried the stream.
There was no way up on the other side, but that far in the future hadn't crossed his mind just yet.
He had been running for the past two days. Those demonic bastards had kept on his tail the entire time. Closing in more and more. A day's ride away, then half, and now...
Behind him, he heard a familiar splash as they continued on their search.
To his surprise, he watched an arrow fly across his vision, landing just in front of them. He locked on it, for that brief moment, his eyes growing wide at its meaning.
They were good.
Horseback, at this speed, that far away, to be so accurate. His mouth went dry. Thoughts, fears, visions of doubt clouded him. He kicked the horse under him, urging him onward.
The stream babbled past rocks and small pebbles. The horse clobbered through the serence vision, finding a way out the other side. Verdin didn't hesitate to take it. The horse leaped up the bankside, as happy as he was to see the forest trees once more surrounding him.
They didn' take time to revel in the short handed success, only plowed onward. Green and brown became a blur once more, as he felt the horse take on a second wind. She raced against death, keeping them both from their fates.
"Yes," he whispered, urging her on, "That's it. Come on girl."
The horse fell from under him. She dropped, in midstride, knocking him off. He fell to the ground, various debris clinging to his sweat soaked cloak. Turning over and over again. He came to a stop on his knees.
His sword already drawn.
The horse lay on the ground, her legs still trying to run. Blood came out of her nose and mouth. She gasped for air. He could see two arrows sticking from her chest, and one from her neck.
She had been running for the better part of a mile in that condition. Verdin hadn't noticed, he tried so hard to have them both escape.
The two came up a moment later, dropping from their worn horses. He didn't pause to stand up, the sword in his hand, ready for one of them to make a move.
The taller of the two had a bow, aimed at him. Verdin's squinted vision barely caught this, but he made no forced movement. No one took any unwanted chances.
The other came at him with an axe. One of the nice sharp double bladed ones, very messy.
Verdin blocked the first blow, moving to the side as he did so. The hunter caught hold of this, having his foot ready. Before he knew what hit him, Verdin fell to his knees, his sword being held by the man.
He quickly held onto him. At this point, Verdin did little to stop him. He was too tired, his strength failing him.
Long and sturdy ropes held him at bay. Both men called out, some animal cry, a bird of some sort. There were a few replies all similiar.
He lowered his head. He had failed. The mission nothing more than a pipedream now.
"They'll want to see you."
The tall one said, looking at him. A sneer on his face. Before Verdin could think about it, he spit right in that man's content little face.
The man grabbed the axe, making sure to use the dull side. Bringing it back, he hit Verdin as hard as he could. Verdin fell to his side, unconscious before he touched the ground, blood trickling from his mouth.
"Put him on the back of the horse, and tell the others. We're going back to camp."
They left as quickly as they had come.

 

[SassyWench]

How many men had died because she led them into that last battle? Well over a thousand if she thought of the armies strewn throughout the lands. As she keeps her sapphire gaze on the two men, she takes another long pull from the whiskey bottle; which happens to be half empty at this point. Or, half full, depending on ones point of view.

Tilting the bottle back against her thigh, she looks at the contents through the glass.

"What the hell.." she murmurs, then eases her head back and finishes off the rest in a few long swigs.

"Ahhh.." As she brings her hand up to swipe it across her lower lip slowly, removing the small drops of the alcohol from it. Without a care in the world, she tosses the bottle aside, hearing it clank against the wooden floorboards until it wobble-rolls to a stop against some patrons booted foot.

"Argh! Watch it Miss!" The drunken man snarls at her; to which she just looks at him indifferently. Yeah, she'd watch it. When the tip of her blade is run through that man's portly belly as she eviscerates him slowly to force his endtrails to spill out onto his smelly, disease ridden feet.

Easing the front chair legs down to the floor, she rises slowly and fluidly. Using her hands to ease her black suede pants down her thighs to smooth them out, Mikhayla looks at the room key sitting on the table.

"Might as well..." She murmurs, taking the key into her hand then she gives a final look around the tavern. Alright; seems as if she'll be able to get a good nights sleep without the posse coming in to interrupt it.

Perhaps a slightly flirtatious look was given to one or both of the men who had been eyeing her as she turns, sauntering to the stairs then heading up, vanishing into the shadows of the dimly lit hallway.

 

[Zirconn]

Einarr

The fire danced in glee as new logs joined the dance.

The chore for the day had been finally done. Now Einarr can take supper and rest. As he left the main hall, his eyes again caught the confident, and sensuous strut of the woman who eyes had earlier bewitched him momentarily. A challenge inherent in her lithesome movements. A challenge which Einarr longed to partake. His brow arched in answer to that challenge.

But his body was still governed by his mind, and the involuntary first step in accepting that challenge never materialized. With a sigh and a heavy heart, he moved deeper into the kitchen, a place where he was grudgingly accepted. The cook was in a good mood that evening, which left Einarr enough to contemplate on the finer points of life instead of his stomach.

His breath smoked in the chill of the night as he sat on the roof of the stables, looking at the full moon. Even though he was tired to the bone, sleep did not come easy. When it did come, it was fitful and restless. The morning came too soon, just as Einarr was finally getting some rest. But the trek back to his simple cabin would be long and hard. The sooner he started, the sooner he would finally be comfortable on his own, and in his own bed.

The town was only visible by the thin silvery wisps of smoke from chimneys when he finally stepped foot on the porch of his cabin. He sat down on a rough log and looked pensively across the vast forest, in the direction of the North.

Someday he would return to the place of his birth, a welcomed hero…

The End.

 

[IDreamofBunnies]

Rich's cup was empty, and he, he was staring at the bottom of it. Not consumed with self-pity as he had seen in his fellow man time and time again, but with a smoldering desire for revenge. An impotent desire considering he did not know who to blame: the nomads, his people perhaps?

No, that kind of lifestyle could only lead to a miserable end. Still, there wasn't much to look foward to these days: Malhambria was closed to him and he heard from scared merchants that there was trouble in Illuminati. It might be worth a trip if there's war brewing. He was still living off the haul from that campaign in Jallus: they pay had been nominal but the looting was good. He had unloaded much of it along the road but he kept that one officer's dagger as a momento. It was a nice bit of Jallan craftsmanship: a long steel blade curved slightly at the center, weighted for throwing, and the decorative red and blue cord wound around the handle.

"Bartender, I'll have another of these. And whatever you have in the kitchen, a room as well. One with a real bed for Savout's sake."

Savout, the Patron Saint of Malhambria. The bartender didn't know (or care) of the saint's illustrious history but recognized it for what it was. Come to think of it he could see a streak of white hair coming from under his hood. Malhambrians were an uncommon sight at best in these parts, if someone came looking he might just make a few coins ratting him out.

"Yeah sure, nary a better room in the house. One directly at the end of the hall. You can get the key at the bar!"

Rich blanched, this bartender was a thuroughly unlikable person. He got up and picked up the key, requesting to have his meal delivered to his room.

The room was adequate, just what he expected for the price. Rich set at once to clean the stains of travel from his clothes and armor. His sheriff's armor, a gorgeous work of art: set with swirling patterns and engravings, tinged blue due to sediments in the Malhambrian iron mines, this was the armor of a genteel warrior. True, these days it gleamed less and some of the delicate patterns had been marred by the blows of swords and other implements of death but it remained amongst his few great treasures.

 

[SassyWench]

Though she had gone up the stairs, those who had witnessed her doing so assumed she had gone to bed for the night. Not so. The shadows enveloped her like a dark lover, caressing her body whilst keeping her hidden from plain sight. There was something about the Sheriff that had heightened her senses, warning her to be wary with this one around.

She played it off rather well down in the common room; however she would have to be careful now as she watches him ascend the stairs and locate his chambers.

As he unlocks his door and steps in, she draws further back into the darkened corner at the end of the hall; from the angle he was standing in, if he turned slightly, he may notice her shadowy form lurking in the darkness. She wanted to be sure; well sure to herself, that she remains invisible.

Observant. There is something in the way he carries himself, almost stoically. The way he seems to keeps a shadow on his face hints to Mikhayla that he's hiding something perhaps. Yes; she would have to be careful with this one.

The sound of his door closing signifies that she can step into the light, and so she does; heading to her own door which happens to be across the hall from Richard's and over one.

Once inside, she blows out any candles or lanterns that were lit prior to her arrival and heads to the window. Easing the curtain aside, she checks the lock. She didn't want it to be secured, so she unlatches it; never knew when one would need a quick exit.

Removing her cloak, she drapes it over the back of the chair that is set near a small desk. Untucking her billowly, black poets shirt from her pants then sliding her suede calf-high boots off, she turns and sits on the bed.

Mikhayla is weary. Long days and endless nights of running from a lynch mob has begun to take its toll. For now, she has put a few days distance between she and they; however, they would be coming soon enough.

Laying back on the bed, she sprawls out lazily and allows herself to drift off for a short while.

 

[IDreamofBunnies]

Rich had indeed noticed someone watching him, he wasn't sure who as the darkness concealed the features. Someone smaller than himself, probably a thief casing him for a robbery once he went to sleep.

Sleep, with one eye open and his Jallan knife under the pillow. This altered from his typical sleep routine in only one way: there was a pillow. Even though it was a poor example of a pillow: a sheet of sack cloth stuffed with hen feathers, it was better than the cold hard sod of Jalla.

At this hour sleep was pretty tempting, despite the glaring lack of a bolt on the door, the simple lock could have been picked with whittled stick. He set his armor aside and took from his pack one of his other scarce luxuries: the red silk sleeping gown that had been a Harvest festival gift from Geneviere Roosje, one of his adoring fans. Well, an adoring fan right up until she joined the angry mob that chased him from his homeland.

He put on the red trousers and jerkin and knelt to offer his praise and prayers to Savout.

"I offer my humble thanks to Savout the Wise and Mighty for granting me the wisdom and strength to endure another day. Praise be to Savout who died so I could live, praise be to the True King of Malhambria. Praise be to the King in White."

He climbed into the bed, pulled the sheet over his weary bones, slipped his hand under his pillow to grasp the handle of the knife and went to sleep. In his dreams he traversed the halls of Senusret, the Hall of Savout, where all brave Malhambrians spend their afterlife.

 

[poohlive]

A tiny make shift camp had been set up near the stream. Beaten horses who had spent most of the few days at a frantic pace, now relaxed and drank deep. Their coats still shining from the sweat, large indentations of the saddles still on their backs.
Verdin was carried to a pole that had been stuck into the ground. He got tied up there, his back sticking against the wood. It stung, but he felt better than what he had undured before.
A time to relax.
He saw two other men, each of them bloody and bruised as he was. One of them had a welled up bandage where his hand should have been. Verdin cursed the skies, but said nothing.
Only three, the rest were slaughtered.
They didn't want prisoners.
Verdin had figured that out a while ago. whoever had sent them didn't want prisoners, their lives were worth nothing, as the display of capture proved more than enough. They wanted information, nothing more.
He had a pretty good guess what information they craved.
As night set in, fires arose from the darkness. Meats and other assorted foods came out, being prepared. The men had been savoring this night, to be able to relax and eat in peace. The smell made his stomach cry out, but he could do little more than watch the others stuff themselves.
No one came over to them. Since he had been tied up here, no one had even acknowledged his existence. They went about as if he were a ghost in their presence.
It wasn't until the talk and fires had both died down that two figures came up to the three, tied and bleeding. They were nothing more than silhouettes in his vision.
"Where'd she go?"
The voice neither held authority nor persuasion. It felt more like a simple conversation over a mug of ale. Verdin felt sick to his stomach when he heard the man's serpent tongue speak.
"We no not. We all got seperated a long time ago. She wasn't with us when we ran."
Verdin spoke rehearsed words. At the end of the second day, he knew if he had gotten caught they would ask, and he had to be ready to answer.
Perhaps they would believe him.
A plate of food appeared. He didn't see it, but the smell overwhelmed even him. Saliva began pouring from his mouth. Sausage and biscuits, a true delicacy out on the road.
"I just want a direction, that is all. I don't need you, I don't want you. Tell me and you are free to go."
One of the others squirmed, trying to get closer to the food. Verdin shot him a curt growl, keeping him at bay. No simple promise of food and escape would divulge anything. He would be sure to keep that.
"I told you... we no nothing."
One of the figures shifted. Verdin tried to peer through the darkness, but his eyes only caught a change in position. For a brief moment, he thought perhaps the man was going to reveal more food.
He saw stars.
The axe, once again its blunt edge crisping coming across the side of his face, made him fall to the ground. His head rested on a plush pile of leaves, while the rest of him twisted in an agonizing way, still caught between the force of the blow, and his hands still tied to the wooden pole behind him.
He screamed out. Blood, spit, and dirt all flying away from his mouth. Something grabbed him, pulling him back up to an upright position.
He screamed once more, pain subsiding within him. Those bastards, they would pay, they would all pay.
"I'll even throw in your horses. Let you go wherever you wish. Just tell me."
Verdin spat out a tooth, not seeing, but knowing blood followed it.
His right eyes had been swollen up from the first blow, and the left seemed to be doing the same now. Despite the low visibility, he could barely see a thing.
So many promises, on such forked tongues.
Silence dwelled in the dusk showdown. Verdin lowered his head, not wanting to witness his next blow.

 

[SassyWench]

Darkness embraces her as she drifts further and further into her sleep; her chest rising and lowering gently yet rhythmically with evenly drawn breaths. If anyone had been in the room with her, they would have seen her body visibly relax and realize that she was deep in slumber.

Fur Elise begins to play, seemingly from far off. The musicians aren't seen just yet, only their song is heard; growing louder slowly as the soft lighting fills in the darkened shadows, illuminating the elegantly gowned women and the finely dressed men.

A synchronized waltz is taking place. The Lords admiring their lovely ladies as they sweep and circle them around the ballroom floor. Banquet tables adorned with food and desserts have drawn the attention of the mischievious young ones, one tiny hand sneaks a fresh strawberry and hurriedly jams it into his mouth as he snickers with his comrades.

Suddenly, that wonderful image is bathed in crimson. All she sees in this dream turned nightmare is the shimmer of silver steel as blades clang, clash and cut through the air; screams and shrieks of terror break the sound of the hauntingly sweet melody; the cries of terrified children cowering under the tables with their hands over their ears and tears streaming down their reddened cheeks, calling out for their mama's and poppa's.

In the heart of all the maddness that is breaking out all around her, there she stands; horrified by the sight of her King falling to the floor ... dead. In the blink of an eye, his wife, her Queen, is soon beside him; staining the white marbled floors with their blood.

The scene passes quickly, and next she is looking across the ballroom in the direction of the one man she's ever loved in her nineteen years on earth. "NOOOO!!!"

*******

Her own scream in her dream, sounds out into the quieted room she is in; possibly heard by the other rooms near hers. Bolting up like a bat out of hell, she's gasping for breath. A cold sweat dots her forehead, the top of her nose and along the sides of her face, up into her hairline. Dark strands of hair seem plastered there. Her eyes are wide as she looks around the darkened room, not recalling where she is at first.

Once she does remember, she hangs her head low and brings her hand up to press against her brows, rubbing them stiffly. After doing this for a few passing minutes, she lowers her hand to the bed and pushes herself off of it; padding around the room as she chews lightly on her thumbnail while thinking.

There had been several faces in that nightmare that she couldn't see too well; concealed by the shadows. Was one of them the one who set her up to take this huge fall from grace? Was her lover truly dead? Who killed him? Where were the others who did manage to survive? How had such an assassination and hostile take over been executed so perfectly? What.. when...

So many questions, so little answers. Perhaps she will have to begin getting the answers to these and more on her own.

Enough with running. It was time to plot and extract revenge. Yes, she'll move under the cloak of darkness, rest by day. Not yet, though. There was much to do and take care of before that day comes.

Walking to the window, she presses her palm against the cold, frosted pane of glass and circles it a few times, clearing it so she can look out over the snow-blanketed lands.

That is where she would remain -- silent and unmoving for the next several hours.

 

[IDreamofBunnies]

Rich awoke minutes before sunrise, an unusual omen but not one that he would worry about at the moment. He got out of the bed and stretched his arms towards the ceiling before rolling his shoulders back, producing a loud cracking sound. The slight glow of red and gold on the hill-spotted horizon attracted Rich's attention; he walked over to the window and put his hand on the ice cold sheet of glass. Glass, that was odd; this inn couldn't have been prosperous enough to afford glass. Not based on the crowd he saw anyway. Innkeeper probably has his fingers in something else, poaching perhaps smuggling? Maybe the guy was just a retired mercenary, who knows? Something to keep in mind but he didn't feel like investigating it.

He slipped out of his red bed garments and put on a fresh pair of trousers, with long breeches underneath to protect himself from the cold. A tough workshirt and a leather coat kept the rest of his body warm. After that he got into his armor, he had grown quite proficient at strapping on his own breastplate without the aid of a deputy and was soon done, adding the pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets was a snap. His heavy fur cloak hid the armor from sight (though not from sound).

He trudged down the stairs, found an empty seat and ordered a meal. The morning crowd was even smaller than the evening one, the cold must have been keeping people in their beds.

 

[SassyWench]

The sunrise truly was a majestic site to behold. Hues of reds and orange breaking over the snow-capped peaks of the mountains off in the horizon, the rays shimmering off the glistening crystals of the fresh snows that had hit the pass; now blocking it off completely until the spring thaws.

Three long months and she just might be stuck here in this god-forsaken town that she hasn't yet heard the name of; for if she has, she doesn't recall it now.

Pulling herself from the window, she walks over the bureau and pours water from an urn into a porcelain basin. Cupping her hands, she dips them gingerly into the water and splashes a bit on her face; the coldness snaps her fully alert. Grabbing the towel, she pats her cheeks while looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"So many deaths; so much blood spilled on our lands; the time of vengeance is at hand."

Dropping the towel, she walks over to the bed and dresses. She doesn't remember when she had stripped herself down to nothing, but she must have because her clothes were balled up at the end of the bed.

*******

The methodic placement of skilled and well trained footing is heard as her boot heels thunk gently against the wooden floorboards in the hall. Snug fitting black gloves grace her hands, black suede leggings and matching poets-type top tucked into it; black suede calf high boots and a long, flowing black cloak sweeps out in her wake. Though she feels and thinks far older that she truly is, she doesn't look a day over the age of nineteen years.

Down the stairs she plods, crossing the room gracefully with sure and precise footing until she reaches the bar. She and the tender exchange a few words. He's still drunk; she can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice and smell it on his breath; not to mention that its seeping from his sweaty, greasy pours.

His hand shoots up lightning quick, grabbing her around the back of her head, which he pulls close so he can plant a slobbery kiss upon her fine lips.

Oh, he was fast but not fast enough. In the blink of an eye she had her dagger, (which is crystalline with a hilt that bears the intricate design of a dragon's head; is sharper than any steel and just as strong due to a wizards spell cast upon it); is poised at the man's jugular, the serrated yet razor sharp tip threatening to embed itself deeper if he doesn't stay his intent.

"You'll be mine soon enough, sweet lass. Or perhaps I should turn ye into the authorities. Hm?" His smile was repulsive; rotting teeth darker than saccloth, his breath reeks of years of neglect. It was enough to make one gag, really.

"Release me and you'll live long enough to do just that." Cold eyes keep their lock on his as a knowing smile parts her lips; his hand slowly releases her and returns to the bartop.

"I'll be letting the room for the next few months." She informs him as she leaves enough coins in a pouch to cover the cost of the room on the counter for him.

Greedy bastard that he is, he just snags the pouch up lickety-split then returns to his duties. Mikhayla on the other hand, takes note of who is present at this early hour as she saunters out onto the porch.

There was scouting to do....

 

[IDreamofBunnies]

Rich saw the little display from his seat and smirked, typically he would get up and use his intimidating figure to simply make a bully leave someone alone. That monochrome girl didn't seem like the type who would have appreciated it though, so he simply continued to eat.

"Hellfire and damnation this food is bland, but then I guess you folks are more intrested in portions rather than flavor."

As soon as he completed the sentence a pair of burly looking locals stood up and starting walking towards his table. Shit, he thought to himself, I really have to remember the difference between internal and external diologue. Hope they don't really want trouble at this hour."

"You got a problem with the way we eat foreigner?"

Rich shook his head, "Not at all friend, just making an observation."

The larger one cracked his knuckles, "Obsur-vashun? Maybe you want to take that back foreigner?"

"Sure thing, didn't mean to offend."

The look of shock on the pair's faces was obvious enough, they had been looking for a fight after all. The smaller one attempted to salvage the situation and goad Rich into a fight."At least you know your place you cowardly foreign dog!"

Rich was annoyed but kept in stride, he had heard much worse on the battlefield and from drunks back in the old days. He leaned back in his chair until it tapped against the wall and then picked up his tankard.
"I guess I do at that."

But then there's just no pleasing some people, the larger one attempted to introduce Rich's face to his gnarled ham-fist. Rich, who had been awaiting just such an infantile attack from the start flicked his wrist, sending his drink into the man's face. In the momentary confusion that resulted he then kicked the table up, causing it to collide with the brute's nose. The brute fell to the ground, clutching his face.

"All right now just sit down and call it a day okay? If anyone asks I'll just say you were drunk or something. Good lord that was a waste of a drink."

The two still smoldered in anger but they recognized him as a true warrior and did not want to try their luck.

 

[SassyWench]

She heard the ruckus taking place inside. Well, that is to say she heard the table getting knocked around then a body hitting the floor like a sack of wet cement. T'was none of her business; or else she would have done more than to pass a casual glance over her shoulder towards the window.

Tossing her cloak back over her shoulders, she sweeps the deserted streets once with eagle-sharp eyes. Odd that there wasn't the usual bustling bodies out on the street, even at this hour of the morning. Usually vendors would be wheeling their carts to a location of their choice, hoping to have a good day of peddling their wares.

Ladies would be out, tending to morning chores and shopping at the local merchants for whatever it was they had mentally noted to pick up; perhaps some flour for baking that day's breads or cornmeal for feeding livestock with.

There was something in the air today keeping the folks inside. They were near, very near. Her heart skips a beat in her chest as flashbacks of the nightmare she fled from returns to haunt her.

"Merciless bastards.." she murmurs while stepping down from the porch and grabbing the reins from the hitching post. Easing up along the left side of her stallion, she wraps a slender hand around the saddlehorn and sets her booted foot into the stirrup; then pushes from the ground. Mikhayla swings a long leg over the saddle and mounts, easing herself into a comfortable position.

One more calculating glance is given to the tops of the buildings; one never could be too careful these days, especially with bounty hunters on your tail.

A few clicks of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a hard jerk on the reins to the right and her horse gallops off down the dirt lane towards the hills.

There's a hidden lil' cove tucked away up there; in the valley and deep in a small grove of trees that flourish there. First things first, she reminds herself.

The only sign of a rider on the trail on this morn are the plumes of dust and dirt kicked up by the galloping horses hooves; which, judging by how quick they appear, she's moving along rather swiftly.

Eventually she locates the cove and dismounts again. As far as she can tell, no one else has been here nor had she been followed. Leaving her horse to graze, she heads over to the inlte and strips her clothes off then eases herself into the warm waters of the natural spring. Here she can think, while relaxing and bathing at the same time.

This is where she remains for the better part of the morning. If the hunters were near, they'd make themselves known soon enough with one of their calling cards. A piece of parchment bearing the symbol of a blue coffin.