Private Tales 40 Years In The Taking

[Gerra]

The emperor snorted and held the door to the cabin open for her. They both moved inside and he shut the door. There was a table with an especially large chair that looked specially built along with two smaller chairs and a large swinging hammock in the corner. No room for a real bed. Not one fit for his proportions anyway.

Maps and river charts littered a desk in the corner, along with reports and letters detailing the attacks.

And, of course, there was a beautiful rug of Ragashan design on the floor. Otherwise the cabin was extremely sparse.

Stooping low, he moved quickly to the chair and sat down with an irritated grunt and a mumble about ceilings. He picked up the pot on the table and poured two cups full of a dark and steaming liquid, the rich, bitter aroma of which quickly suffused the air of the cabin.

“I brewed it in the Abtati style. Theirs is the best. The original.”

 

[Fieravene]

Fi paid the contents and decor of the cabin very little attention. Finding an empty corner to place the bow, she joined him at the table and took up a smaller chair as well as a cup of, apparently, Abtati style coffee.

The original. The elf refrained from snorting, eyed the man, "I'm sure it is..." and sank into the backrest of the seat with a low sigh. She cradled the cup in her hands, content to let it cool while the warmth spread through her fingers, "How much traveling have you done, Gerra?"

 

[Gerra]

He took a sip and set down his mug. The taste of coffee was bitter to his tongue. Of late he preferred wine.

"Enough to have seen both continents, from Alliria to Annuakat."

The emperor made no mention that his "travel" consisted almost exclusively of campaigns in the name of Molthal and his eventual flight from the retribution of Menalus.

No need to ask Fieravene if she had traveled much. The question answered itself. Traveling seemed to be all she ever did, never anywhere for too long.

"But in all my travels, I've never seen marks like those you carry."

 

[Fieravene]

So he did have a fair amount of dirt beneath his feet. That was good. Dirt elevated the elf's opinion of the man, not that her opinion mattered, and allowed her to speak a little more freely on worldly things. She sipped pensively, finding the Abtati Traditional brew to be lacking in boldness and depth of flavor. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't something she'd be making herself any time soon.

"You wouldn't," the elf replied, "they do not exist anywhere you would travel. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time."

Ages ago they had, back when the planet was young and the skies were dark and her people walked the Overdark alongside the God Creatures of the Vale. Back before the Eldyr Tree's sundering. Before the floating dwarven city in the sky. Before the Terretatek's first awakening. Fieravene hadn't lived those days herself, but the thousand-thousand Gods of Oblivion shared visions of the days-before-days.

"And what about your marks?" A quiet curiosity glinted in her red eyes, "Shields against those who would do you harm and yet..." they had run away from her like peasants from a werewolf.

 

[Gerra]

"Ah."

She had this distant stare in her eyes after her reply that told him nothing. And yet it told him everything. There were some secrets that could be shared easily. And others that, if shared, could destroy you. Gerra had such secrets, most of which only Maho knew and his brothers knew.

Perhaps, in time, she would tell him.

His own tattoos, however, were no great mystery.

"They are runic wards meant to protect my mind from magical interference. The ink contains a mixture of basilisk blood and other... less savory ingredients. The rune language is an ancient one. Maybe the creators of that language knew the makers of your marks. Maybe they feared them."

He took another sip of his coffee.

"Who is to say? Maybe they have the right idea. You are a dangerous woman, after all."

A leonine smile quirked his lips.

 

[Fieravene]

Fiera quietly sipped the coffee, nursing the drink in a way that only a morning begun with a hangover would cause her to. A smile pulled at her lips at his suggestion that those who crafted his own runes had known those who had crafted hers. Not likely. Feared them? Not unlikely.

"Maybe they did..." sip. Who really knew.

She crossed one long leg over the other, draped her arms over the armrests, and carefully held her cup perched on her knee. A faint expression of shock baffled the keen look in her eyes, "Me? I am gentile as a woolen lamb. How dare you insinuate such things..."

Roast lamb for dinner. Now there was a good idea. Perhaps she'd find one on the riverbanks to test the bow on.

 

[Gerra]

So deft at hiding the truth and diverting the conversation. Gerra could appreciate the art. The red-gold gaze dropped to her legs as she folded one over the other and stayed there for a moment as he drank deeply from his mug. He could also appreciate... other... things.

He let out a soft snort.

"Please. You are a wolf. And you don't even bother to wear the sheep's skin to hide it."

He met her eyes.

"Always looking for your next meal."

Truly, he thought there was entirely too much distance between them at the moment. And the door to the cabin was shut...

A single brow arched.

 

[Fieravene]

"Are you calling me a bitch?" she eyed him back, smirk supplanting itself halfway across her lips, "No need to wax poetic with me Gerra, just tell me how you really feel."

Something about the people of Amol-Kalit and poetry. Honestly, was no one here forthcoming? Uvogin, maybe, when he spoke at all. She'd have to sit in on one of his table game nights he'd invited her to...

 

[Gerra]

"Hmm."

The emperor set the mug back down on the table and circled the rim with an idle finger.

"Come closer and I will."

 

[Fieravene]

"I'm quite comfortable, thank you."

Sip.

 

[Gerra]

The corner of Gerra's mouth twitched into another smile and he played with a knot in the wood of the table. He watched the steam curl up from the surface of his coffee.

 

[Fieravene]

Ahhh, silence. She sank into it in a manner not so dissimilar from a cat sinking onto a warm spot of sunlight. Coffee at hand and a moment to gather her wits about her before launching projectile weapons into the air, Fieravene slowly finished her cup before speaking again.

"Well," dark fingers tapped at the rounded ends of the armrests before she smoothly rose to her feet, "that's much better. Time to test out this ... weapon of yours," a pointed brow arched at the man as she set her cup back on the center table and turned to take up the bow from its resting spot.

Fiera moved to the door, pulled it open and took two steps out to peer into the sun, "You there-" the elf accosted a deckhand walking by, "fetch me arrows for this beast," and off she strode to put the attendants into a state of discomfort with her mere presence.

 

[Gerra]

"Hmm?"

Like a leopard that had decided it had had enough sleep and that it was now time to hunt, she slinked off before he had a chance to inform her that no, the weapon was not his weapon but the Anirians and that she knew as much since she had stolen the damn thing.

He rose from his chair, bumped his head against the ceiling, and grumbled.

He would inform her later.

Or never.

One of the two.

Rubbing his head, but interest piqued, he followed after her at a lazy gait, wondering what exactly she planned on doing.

Attendants brought her three large arrows fashioned entirely from metal ore, from the shaft to the vanes.

 

[Fieravene]

The elf gave the arrows a look of mild distaste and said nothing. Full metal arrows - talk about overkill. She flicked them in her grip, testing the spring and finding it to be exceptional in the way that a an underripe piece of fruit was. Which was to say, not particularly much.

"Well," exasperated but not without a sense of determination to meet a challenge head-on, Fiera turned and gave her immediate surroundings a cursory glance. Her red eyes met Gerra as he stepped out from the cabin and followed him as he stood to his full height. She looked to the roof of the cabin, tall and pointed ears twitching in thought.

"Hm ... be a dear and give me a boost," Fiera nodded to the cabin top.

 

[Gerra]

"Oh?"

Gerra looked from her to the top of the aft castle. There were stairs, but...

"As you wish."

He picked her up - she really was quite light - and tossed her up over the railing with the kind of ease one could toss a pillow. The half-giant watched to see if she would land on her feet and prove once and for all that she was simply a cat in elfine form.

 

[Fieravene]

She did, in fact, land on her feet. Stooped for a moment, she shifted the arrows to the same hand that held the bow, and stood with a panning gaze. Her eyes morphed in nature, pupils pinning and crimson flashing beneath the light of the sun. A shadow shifted across her face, causing the contours to sharpen.

Or perhaps it was simply a play of the light as the boat passed beneath the umbrage of several large trees.

Fiera flexed her shoulders and glanced down at Gerra, "Pick a target."

 

[Gerra]

Pursing his lips, Gerra squinted and looked out over the placid surface of the river. He did not see anything especially interesting. A hippo or two here, a heron there, and a flock of ducks rising up from the water many yards away, but killing any of them for the mere sport of it did not seem pleasing to him. He had too many memories of senseless slayings by his half-brothers to enjoy being the source of an animal's death. And given that he was not particularly hungry, he did not see the point.

After a moment of futility, he looked to the deck of the barge until he found what he wanted: a simple wooden bucket. He picked it up, tossed it in the air a few times to test the weight, then lobbed it with the same absurd strength he had displayed before. The bucket hurtled out over the water, tumbling high, end over end.

He waited to see if she could strike it while it still hung in the air.

 

[Fieravene]

Patiently waiting, Fiera took those few short moments to stab two of the three arrows, point first, into the wood of the deck ... roof ... whatever it was she was standing on. By the time she returned her attention to him he had the bucket in hand.

Oh, well then.

Brows raised in curiosity, she watched as he tossed it and promptly lobbed the thing with all the strength of an olympic shotput with some impressive hangtime.

Fiera calmly took the remaining arrow in her hand, threaded it on the string, lifted the bow, pulled, and took aim. There was no hurry or fuss to the action, but a cool sense of practiced method. A breath, her figure drew tall and taught. A beat, the people on the deck of the boat paused as they watched with curiosity.

She released her breath and the arrow and watched it go streaming, gleaming, through the air after the bucket as it tumbled in the crossbreeze. The impact was abrupt, with the effect of shrapnel firework as the bucket exploded into splinters.

The elf smiled dolefully at the show as several cheers of surprise and clapping rose from the deck.

 

[Gerra]

Whump.

Shards of wood blew apart and the arrow sped off, not even slowed by the impact. Gerra thought he saw a splash several hundred yards away a heartbeat later, but it could have been a fish.

A smattering of applause greeted the feat and Gerra turned to see that the entire crew of all three boats had been watching with rapt attention.

"I hope the river beast has friends," he rumbled, "for his sake."

They all shared a laugh, then went back to poling the barges along and... whatever else it was that that was needed to keep the barge in order. Gerra had never been overly fond of boats.

Gerra put his hands on the railing and leaned forward, looking up at Fieravene, who was for once able to look down at him.

"It seems the bow is in capable hands."

 

[Fieravene]

Fiera gently set the bow's lower arm to rest against the floor, smile persisting as she looked down to the God-Emperor. To his compliment she offered a short bow of her head in gratitude, "Shame we haven't more buckets. That could make for an afternoon sport."

Add some drinking and it could make for an afternoon party.

The crew was back to work, the boats continued to peacefully skim across the river. Fiera's gaze honed in on a man two boats over presently admonishing some poor, young deckhand. She plucked a second arrow from the wood and knocked it on the bow, taking aim, "I bet I can knock his hat off his head..."

 

[Gerra]

"Mmm, yes it-"

What had she just said?

Gerra looked over sharply, saw where she was aiming, then his gaze snapped back to Fieravene.

"Madame."

The single word brimmed with disapproval and an unspoken command. Even if she managed to knock off the hat without injuring the man, which was entirely possible, the man could fall and injure himself. In front of an audience of nobility, such a display would be sure to cause a scandal. They were hard enough to herd without them braying about how the emperor allowed dark elves to shoot unarmed ferrymen for sport.

 

[Fieravene]

The look of mischief was sharp but brief.

"No?" she sighed and un-nocked the arrow, "very well." Seemed spending extended periods of time behaving like a civilized person was exhausting for the dark elf's nature. They still had the entire afternoon of lazily bobbing upriver before reaching their destination. Honestly, a bit of chaos would have been an improvement on this sober mood.

Ffff. Royals.

Fiera picked up the final arrow and gracefully dropped back down to the main deck, making a man walking by startle as she landed next to him. She blinked at him and watched him hurry off, "Quite the skittish crew you have."

 

[Gerra]

"They aren't immortal," Gerra grumbled, despite his relief that she had refrained from setting off a political incident.

No more coffee for this one.

He looked down at her. "A pity. I was hoping I would be forced to clap you in irons and confine you to the cabin."

Gerra stroked an ear in thought. "Then again, there's still time for you to commit a capital crime before we reach our destination."

 

[Fieravene]

"Hmph," brows furrowed in dejection as she eyed the skittish man, "that's hardly an excuse. Neither am I."

Idly running the metallic fletching of the arrows under her jaw, Fi larked a brow up at the soft rumble of words that followed from Gerra's mouth. A level sneer poured into her expression, "Honestly, it's as if you think I cause trouble on purpose."

He'd best take care who he granted permission to do just that. She could deliver for more than he might bargain for. Fiera leaned toward him just slightly, "But tell me more about how you intend to punish me for this alleged crime."

 

[Gerra]

A brow arched.

“Did you notice the iron loops in the floor of the cabin?”

He crossed his arms and leaned his back against the aft castle railing.

“No? Of course you didn’t. I would run a set of chains through a pair and fasten the rough iron cuffs to each of your wrists. Or perhaps I would fix them to the ceiling and let you hang.”

He tapped a forefinger against an arm, eyeing her up and down.

“After that, well...” his lips twitched. “I would take my time with you,” he said, thinking idly of what wonderful switches reeds could make.