Private Tales 40 Years In The Taking

[Gerra]

“An amulet capable of summoning a legendary city-leveling creature is hardly a mere bauble.”

He eyed where she had so casually placed the chain with an expression that looked almost apprehensive.

“You’ve well reminded me that the only things you care for in life are fine wine and the mysteries of the universe. I believe this qualifies as such. Or are you in the habit of ignoring ancient and forbidden magic?”

 

[Fieravene]

"You mistaken me," the elf interjected, "I am born of ancient and forbidden magic, dear Gerra."

The smile she offered him was not friendly in the least, but it smoothed to something of affable nature as she supped of her coffee, "Your tapestries and paintings and statuettes are of no interest to me. I will give the amulet its due respect with a thorough examination of its properties for appraisal."

She leaned back, shoulders pitching backwards into a willowy stretch that sent a chorus of pops along her spine before relaxing once more against the seat of the bath. Yes, the bath house had been a good choice for her first order of business upon returning. A soak and an appointment with a masseuse couldn't agree with her more.

"Fair mention of wine. I would gladly pick through that collection of yours."

 

[Gerra]

"Of course you are," he rumbled, "And of course you would."

He rolled his eyes languidly and stretched, once more the lounging lion at the waterhole annoyed by a bird's pesky squawking as it tried to nibble at his kill.

"But will you be satisfied with sampling my selection, or are you going to demand increasingly absurd prices, hmm?"

The half-giant blinked lazily at her, then arched one dark brow.

 

[Fieravene]

"The only absurdity is to think that sampling wine would pay for 8 rings of power," she shot back at him, "I have demanded nothing but fair recompense for my work and here you act as if I am ... greedy, of all things."

Greedy for turning down his priceless art. Greedy for turning down unfathomable riches. Greedy for turning down an entire city.

And he had the gall to be annoyed with her. Honestly, she should have been offended.

 

[Gerra]

"Because you are Fieravene. Greed encompasses more than just material wealth."

He sighed, pushing off the wall and slipping deeper into the water, away from her.

"And I am a covetous man. I want the rings. I want collections of priceless artwork. I want fine wine. Why else do we live, if not to enjoy such things? It is no crime."

His lips curved in a humorless smile and he floated back toward her.

"Now, do you wish to go wine tasting, or shall we peck at each other here until the water becomes sour?"

 

[Fieravene]

Her own smirk returned as she watched the bloated hippo bubble off into the depths.

"Covetous is just another word for greed, darling."

Covetous though he may be, she recognized the itch of want in his annoyance. Perhaps next time they would settle on payment before and not after the fact. They could have, but Gerra had been too distracted with other things to give the mission the attention it was due. Perhaps he thought she wasn't actually capable of retrieving the rings.

Whatever the case may be, greedy or covetous or grasping or wanting, wine did sound good.

Her smirk shifted into something less biting, "Only if you're joining me." She did so enjoy their pecking, wine could only make it better.

 

[Gerra]

The emperor let the comment about synonyms slide. He may have grown up in Molthal, but he had taken the time to learn how to read, unlike some of his brothers. He knew what covetous meant. Or at least, he was pretty sure he knew what it meant.

Damn that woman.

Maybe wine would make her less acidic. She had been pleasant enough the last time they had met one on one. Although, to be fair, she had been expecting him to attempt to imprison her, or something equally underhanded. Gerra supposed in such situations the mere fact that he had not done so made him more palatable.

Now that she had the upper hand though? Less so.

Less so indeed.

He shrugged, then swam over to the lip of the pool and pulled himself out.

"But of course."

Water dripped down his massive, naked frame and made puddles on the floor as he walked over and took a towel from a rack against the wall. He tossed one to Fieravene and dried himself, then put on a simple black tunic and pants with matching black slippers that were on the same rack.

"Shall we?"

 

[Fieravene]

"Excellent." She liked her wine, of course, but she rarely partook alone. There was no amusement in that. Downing the last few sips of coffee, her empty cup found its way to the silver platter next to the amulet. Fieravene lifted herself of the water, making far less a puddly mess than the God-King, and nimbly caught to proffered towel.

While Gerra busied himself with dressing she calmly took up the amulet from where it sat and with a ambiguous gesture of her hands the trinket disappeared into a black wisp. A faint aroma of dark ether lingered in the steam. Moderately dried off, she slipped dark feet daintily into her dress, pulled the length of material up and clasped it into place over her shoulder.

"Shall we?"

Two hands lightly raked through damp black hair as she turned with an inquisitive glance at the man. She'd not bothered to peek at his naked figure - as she once told Aivrid, Fieravene preferred a healthy amount of mystery in her life. Considering Gerra's stature, there was plenty of mystery there to be had.

"Lead the way," so she followed, a step back and to the side and opting for a curious tune of silence.

 

[Gerra]

The eyes of the half-giant watched her shamelessly as she dressed. She did have a rather enticing physique. Very lithe. Supple, even. Unlike Fieravene, Gerra did not particularly revel in the mind's eye. He found materiality something to be enjoyed and admired - his gaze lingered appreciatively - in all its forms.

The moment was ruined as Gerra detected a smell that most approximated burning hair. He wrinkled his nose. Ether. Wonderful. He made for the door before the stench could permeate the humid room.

As they exited the bath house together, a phalanx of Immortals suddenly formed around them as the warriors detached themselves from the shadows where they'd been standing guard and surrounded their lord. The masked soldiers mimicked Fiera's own silence.

The night air was still, barely a breeze, and neither too cold, nor too hot. Simple bliss.

Gerra led the way back to his palace, managing to excuse himself out of several conversations on his way, until at last they found themselves within the palace wine cellar.

"I'm having deja vu."

 

[Fieravene]

Where the Emperor paused beyond the threshold the elf continued on. Quiet steps of leather sandals carried her languidly into the main hall of the cellar. Time in places like these always felt as if it were standing still - for when one appreciated wine with the same intensity as they did, one could easily lose hours here. Dark fingertips left paths of cleared dust in their wake as they gently skated across the necks of recessed bottles.

She stopped, carefully clasping those same digits around a bottle at random to pull it from its tubular grave.

Black currant from the delta. A 30 year vintage. Dark, most certainly dry, promising, but not quite what she was looking for. She put it back and then she glanced over her shoulder at the half-giant with an amused smile.

"Then let's experience something different, hm?"

Turning again, the dress swayed as she continued further down the hall, "Coming?"

 

[Gerra]

An arched eyebrow indicated the emperor's cynicism as he watched her slink off down the rows of wine bottles and vats, though the feeling of doubt was waylaid slightly by the intriguing view her retreating figure provided.

Hmmm.

"My lord?"

An Immortal looked up to Gerra, the rest of them waiting at the entrance to the cellar. The warrior was looking between his emperor and the dark elf and though the mask hid his features, his nervousness was betrayed by the way his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"It's fine, Imhotesh. Take them and wait outside."

The young soldier smacked a fist against his chest and inclined his head, then fell back beyond the doorway.

Gerra ran a thumb along his fingers idly, watching Fieravene for a moment before following her, his own steps surprisingly soft despite his large form.

"And what might that be?" Voice a low hum.

 

[Fieravene]

"Oh, I don't know," the elf's voice echoed back at him and his soft steps as she perused the stacks of bottle after bottle, "be we two capable, inspired individuals, I'm sure we can come up with something..."

A wayward glance found its way back at him, red eyes glowing balefully in the darker areas between lit braziers.

"Now where-" she stopped at a junction of rows and aisles, shortly looking from one to another, "is the not-wine section?" The expression on her face was equal parts challenge and mischief.

 

[Gerra]

The brow didn't lower. What game was she playing at? The way the darkness seemed to wrap itself around her. The way the torchlight played across her angled features. Mysteries hid there, behind those eyes, shrouded in danger.

He rubbed the back of his neck, where runes were inked into his skin. He wondered how much they would protect him if Fiera should try to kill him. They hadn't helped with Nymeasha.

Grimacing at the memory, Gerra waved a hand.

"Further down. What are you looking for, the distilled spirits? Those are quite valuable. The technique is not widely practiced."

If she drank or ethered his entire store of them... Gerra frowned slightly.

 

[Fieravene]

"Mmm," a ponderous inflection as she padded in the direction of the wave, "I'll know it when I see it."

Rows upon rows upon rows of bottles. Enough wine to drown a city. How far did the catacombs go, she wondered. How deep? Certainly not deep enough to dig up the bones of her ancestors. Deep enough to unearth an ancient amulet with the power to raise a city-leveling beast, perhaps.

"How is it you came into possession of the amulet?"

 

[Gerra]

"I acquired it," the half-giant replied, reflexively unrevelatory.

He walked slowly after her as she traipsed down the aisle like a mischievous child at market where all the stalls sold sweet rolls.

"The Shah of Ragash had amassed quite the collection of artifacts in his vault. He was a powerful man. It is why he held hegemony over the coalition that came against me at Ninagal. But I do not believe he fully understood the amulet's power, else Dahaka may well have appeared on the battlefield that day."

 

[Fieravene]

Likely story, in all truth. People like the Shah of Ragash liked to horde items of questionable value. Fiera casually strolled through the racks, red eyes bright in the spaces where the flicker of flame was not. How a man like a Shah might not have even been aware of what he held in his collection. Seemed the bloodlines of magic did not run quite so true in the desert anymore. Dried up like all the rivers that once separated the lanes like a spider's web.

But Gerra was not from here. He was Gerra of Molthal.

"And how did you acquire knowledge of the artifact yourself?"

Likely from one of his Court. Maybe even Medja.

 

[Gerra]

“Ava Gilleth found it after the battle. I was otherwise occupied. She brought it to me.”

He loomed behind her, doubtful of her intentions as she led them this far into the depths of the cellars. The air here was cold, but dry and rich with the scent of oak barrels.

“Do such benign details interest you? I thought you considered it a mere bauble.”

 

[Fieravene]

"Hm," a thoughtful noise. She'd not heard of Ava Gilleth, but then again she'd not actually spent much of any time with Gerra's Court at large.

"I never called it a bauble," the elf replied, turning into her next step to continue her progress walking backwards, facing him. A wry smile formed somewhere in the dancing shadows of her face as she gestured to all of him, "you assumed I did. I was referring to your art collection."

"But yes, stories interest me. They create the paths that lead me to all corners of the world and all kinds of people."

 

[Gerra]

She was walking backwards now, not even looking where she was going. Had it been anyone else, Gerra would have expected them to blunder into something, but not Fieravene. Despite her lithe figure, she was old. Old and dangerous. He reminded himself of this as she pretended to only be half-interested in his story.

"They do. You must have traveled many paths. I am surprised you're not bored of it all. There's the spirits up ahead."

 

[Fieravene]

"Boredom is a disease of the closed and stagnant mind," she replied, brows raising with interest now that they were drawing near to their destination, "something that, regrettably, the ancient elves are quite vulnerable to."

But not something she intended to ever suffer from. No, Fieravene would die before she settled down and let the years pass her by.

"Most of them don't care to hear the stories of the world beyond their realm. Especially not the ones that test, question, and challenge their beliefs or way of life. Oh - marvelous." She clapped her hands once together in delight, a broad cheshire smile overtaking her words and expression as she laid her eyes upon rows and rows of spirits.

"Do you have any dwarven make? I haven't had it in ages."

 

[Gerra]

"Mmmm, yes. Somewhere in here."

The half-giant ran a hand along the casks, feeling the wood slats and metal hoops slide by beneath his fingers.

Gerra did not care for dwarves. After Belgrath, well... it was just easier not to deal with their kind than to reflect on the matter.

He wondered at her as she reveled at the sight of the spirits. What past did she hide? Perhaps they were not so different.

His fingers stopped on a barrel. He tapped it.

"This one. Belgrathian '10."

 

[Fieravene]

"Belgrath..." the elf said breathlessly for effect as she blithely chose a nearby barrel to make her seat. With a hop she settled herself upon it, one leg crossed over the other and a thigh peeking out from the side slit.

"Now there's a place I haven't seen in quite some time. I hear it's not looking too well anymore..." she'd heard hearsay that the entirety of Belgrath was rubble, burned to the ground, but she'd not been to check the validity. Dwarves, however, seemed to be on the decline. There were less and less of them on the roads - were they a dying race or had they simply returned to their cities in the stone, waiting for a better day to make their comeback?

"Something of your doing?"

 

[Gerra]

"Hmm."

He grimaced.

"Some things we do in life are like drawings in the sand. Easily washed away by the coming tide."

The half-giant looked away from her, staring down the hall into deeper darkness, beyond the glowing torches.

"Others are etched in stone."

His attention returned to her. The barrel put her closer to a level with him. He pursed his lips and stepped closer, eyes wandering to the long, lithe expanse of skin peeking from her dress.

"Surely there are more pleasant things we could speak of."

The emperor stopped just in front of her, chin tilted down so he could stare into her crimson orbs.

 

[Fieravene]

Well that wasn't a no. Plausible deniability existed in the silence between his words. She wasn't so sure how it would hold up when consequences potentially came a'knockin. An unlikely impending threat, though, given the aforementioned decline of the world's dwarf population.

Not that she was here to be a killjoy, even if she found mirth in subjects that made the God-King uncomfortable.

"Of course," Fieravene relented, the points of her expression softening in tandem with her voice. Vintage red meandered over the figure that waded through the space between them and up to the man's face. It was a curious sort of experience, looking at him near to eye level. Did he ever tire of looking down upon his subjects?

"We seem to have conflicting definitions of pleasant so why don't you pick the new subject of conversation."

 

[Gerra]

An eyebrow lofted, mirth shimmering in the depths of his smoldering gaze.

"Oh? Do tales of conquest and destruction..." he ran a hand along the lip of the barrel she sat on, until it came to rest on her exposed thigh, "...excite you?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up in the faintest expression of mischief, like a mountain shifting in winter that made those below look up in fear of what might happen next. An avalanche? An eruption?

Who could know the mind of a mountain?