Private Tales 40 Years In The Taking

[Gerra]

He reached out, picked up a piece of the meat, and pushed it into his mouth. As he chewed it became readily apparent to him just how hungry the hunt left him. He swallowed, took the tankard back, drained the water a second time, set the tankard down beside the bed, then lay back into the mattress with a rasping sigh.

"Perhaps I will," he rumbled, speaking to the regret she mentioned, "But not now."

Molten eyes stared at Fieravene as she loomed over him in her dark apparel, looking like no more than a specter save for those crimson eyes and wine-red lips.

The brush- no, more than a brush - his death left him wishing to experience all life had to offer even more than his normal self. Both because he knew how easily it could disappear forever and because he hoped it might blot out the memories of the Drowned God. He would have asked for hashish, but given her response to wine he thought he knew how that might be greeted. Instead, he changed tact.

"So, my executioner, what other means do you have to revivify me?"

A hand reached out and he brushed the back of his knuckles along her thigh as she stood over him.

 

[Fieravene]

Of course not now. He had nothing to regret now, but the dark elf held her tongue. Given her nature, her connection to the Elder Gods, she knew far more than she should. There were schemes afoot in Oblivion and Gerra would play a larger role in what was to come. Those crimson eyes had seen many futures to come, none of which bode well for the God-Emperor.

Scarlet cast balefully down to the hand at her thigh and for a brief moment she thought she felt some small semblance of pity for the half-giant. A moment to consider the feeling and she knew that wasn't it. Fieravene of Oblivion was a creature of bedlam and chaos - she fed the will of the moments that effected the lives around her.

"Eat," she replied to him, "devouring the heart of your assailant will restore your strength. Only then can I remove the Drowned God's mark from you."

 

[Gerra]

"Mark?" Gerra scowled, "What mark?"

Nevertheless, he took up the meat again and wolfed down the last remaining scraps. He had found too often that going against the advice of sages and seers led to ill results. Who knew what sort of ritual Fieravene had had to perform to bring him back from the dead.

 

[Fieravene]

"Anyone touched by an Elder God receives their mark," Fi intoned with a knowing glance at him, "look at your right hand."

There within the raw skin of his palm still bruised from the chain that had been wrapped around it was a rather curious sigil seemingly burned into the skin. A sigil very much like those that covered the dark elf from head to toe. It would not hurt as such, but the flesh was blackened and raised, merely looking at it would give the man flashbacks of his death in the waters.

She refilled his goblet for a third time and went back to cutting more pieces from the heart. He would eat his fill and then some, if she could help it, because Thousands Forbid this giant heart go to waste.

 

[Gerra]

Gerra frowned, turn his hand this way and that, examining the sigil seared into his skin. He... hadn't even noticed. It didn't hurt.

Strange.

He had never been burned before. Until now, he'd thought perhaps nothing could, but gods had a way of proving him wrong, time and again.

The emperor stayed unusually silent, frowning in thought as he drained the goblet a third time, then ate the rest of the giant crocodile's heart, methodically chewing through the gristle until none remained.

 

[Fieravene]

It took some time and some doing to cut the rest of that heart up, but Fieravene never doubted for a moment that he was capable of finishing that plate. Her modest help of a few bites hardly made a difference - such was the appetite of an elf.

"Rest now," her voice cut the silence once the platter was empty and the Emperor's belly filled with the heart of his reaper, "tomorrow you and I will venture into the bayou to have that mark removed."

 

[Gerra]

Fitful dreams troubled his sleep. He awoke in the morning bleary eyed and tired, but surprised even himself by pushing his body to its feet. Unsteadily, he dressed properly, grimacing as the soreness of his wrestling with the behemoth made itself known to him.

When he found Fieravene, the first words out of his mouth were, "What bayou?"

So far as he knew there wasn't a bayou around them for leagues. Not unless they crossed the ocean, or the continent. The word brought back memories of a simpler time in his life, when all that troubled him were necromancers and holy knights looking to make a name for themselves.

 

[Fieravene]

The hour was quite early when Gerra found her at the dock. Most of the expedition was still asleep either within an encampment along the shore, or on the remaining two riverboats presently rocking in the waves of the current. She was standing in a smaller boat, one belonging to a fisherman and more than likely commandeered for her own purposes.

As the half-giant approached she turned to look at him over her shoulder, red eyes giving off a baleful glow in the morning mists.

Fieravene smirked, "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling," and with a swipe she cleared the last of the fisherman's gear out of the boat to make room for her sole passenger. The elf gestured with a sweeping arm to the boat, "hop in. We're going on a little journey."