Fable - Ask A Frayed Soul

[Sarah Lindwell]

Sarah passed by the gathered tents. People moved to and fro around her. Some glanced, some stared. All shared a look of pity mixed with disgust.

It was understandable.

Icy blue eyes stared from behind long, twisting locks of pale hair. Her tanned skin contrasted terribly with charring of the right side of her face. Her left shoulder seemed perpetually twisted inwards. It gave her a hunched back. Her right arm, thin, with metal armour poorly fitted, was strapped against her chest. Her left foot dragged against the ground. The knee and ankle bent and healed incorrectly.

A black, ragged cloak was wrapped around her shoulders. Its hood was pulled up and over her head, hiding the extent of the dirt that infested her hair. Black brigandine, highlighted with flashing metal studs, could be seen between the edges of her covering. A gauntleted hand held onto the pommel of a worn longsword. It was strapped to her left hip. The hand pushed down on it just enough to lift the tip from the ground. Silver steel covered her legs and arms. It was dented, scratched, and rusting here and there.

Sarah had spoken with several travelers since arriving at the Elbion Stone. She had been disheartened when she learned that the closest seller of portal keys had just passed by with a caravan towards Elbion proper. As she had no other option, the cripple set out. The same foot slamming into the ground again, and again, and again.

And finally. The site of the city approached. She remembered being a young girl, back when her body responded correctly. Her grandfather had brought her and her brother to Elbion. He had sought to purchase a beautiful sapphire and silver necklace for their grandmother. He had found one too. Sadly, Gran passed several years later and the necklace was passed down to Sarah's mother. The woman smiled inwardly at the warm memories.

But crushing reality soon come forth. The oppressing din of the city poured out long before she reached the outskirts. The road had clogged itself on the carts and beasts of burden of the surrounding farmers. Those who traveled with little weaved their way between them, causing an even greater ingestion. Sarah merely took her time. It allowed her a moment of rest.

Instead, she kept her eyes and ears alert. The seller was a sand elf. Distinct enough in Elbion that she shouldn't be too hard to find. After a few hours of slowly trudging along, Sarah finally heard mention of her quarry. In the central markets, but closer to the gates than not.

Once making it through the gates, the woman slowly approached the markets. Her blue eyes scanned everything. Every bit of movement, every glint of steel. With only a few more moments she saw it. Or rather, her. A sand elf standing within a tent hawking her wares. A number of bone trinkets were laid out in front of her. Sarah, dragging her left foot, made her way under the tent's cover.

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

It was rare for Seretha to set up in Elbion's largest market square on account of their distaste for the finer wares she carefully offered to those whose interests were easily piqued by subtle creations, but she had more than enough in safe antiques - some magical, some mundane - to brave Elbion's interior and be available to a higher class of clientele.

Her canopy was small, a classic square with just one side panel. Her horse stood beside it, still as stone but for a carefully timed series of blinks and chest movements mimicking breath. That was an illusion, maintained by power from a skeletal claw battery of raw magic power which she had detached from her necklace. She fingered a second well of mana, constantly considering whether or not she should reinforce the illusion. She was certain that no one in Elbion could stop her from running away if the illusion shorted or was seen through - and it hadn't ever been seen through before, at least not by anyone who cared - but the risk was still there.

Really, the only more dangerous place to be would have been Vel Anir with her face and ears masked as human.

But she did that sometimes, too.

She had just finished discussing details of a contract with a client in search of a particular style of ancient ritual dagger and saw them off when a woman Seretha could have mistaken for some kind of ghoul dragged her way into the tent. The dead didn't bother her, of course, but being in the middle of Elbion she had to dismiss that thought. A ghoul would have been destroyed by now... though the burned nature of half the woman's face didn't exactly provide counterevidence.

She recovered quickly. "Welcome," she said, her voice steady and lacking in feeling. "Interested in antiques? Rare shamanic bone charms, knives... I have a particularly fascinating silvered mask from the last Age."

Sarah Lindwell

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

The bent woman chuntered. The mumblings were in a dialect that was unknown to this area of the world. Then the words shifted and a different language emerged. A particular dialect from the regions south of Elbion. They were all swears.

Making her way into the canvassed store, her eyes latched onto the back of the departing customer. An easy gait with head held high. They didn't look at the ground. Another, adorned in colors subdued, walked beside and slightly behind them. A noble? Certainly rich. Sarah's rumination continued for a moment longer till the shopkeeper's voice greeted her.

The words felt weird in Sarah's head. They were familiar in way. Not the words themselves, but the manner in which they were said. Her blue eyes sunk into the woman. An image, superimposed, crept up around her. There, in the eyes, she found it. She had seen them before. Only, they were the eyes of a man in the mines. He had been old. Had watched as all three of his sons had been butchered. And his wife used.

His eyes were empty. They lacked that spark that connected them with others. His words had sounded like the woman's too. Empty, not cold nor hot. Just, nothing at all. As if all that could have filled them had been carried off by the winds long ago.

When the image wore off and her mind returned her to the present, Sarah found herself sat on a chair in the middle of the tent. The Elf sat a scant couple feet away.

With an annoyance, Sarah jammed her gauntleted left hand between her knees, squeezing them against the metal. A small sigh of relief slipped from her as she pulled her hand from the leather and steel. Long fingers with near ivory skin and poorly kept nails appeared. Gripping the edge of her cloak she wiped the dirt and detritus from weeks on the road off her face. All it did was serve to smear the grime into different spots. But it did reveal that despite the charring of the right, the left side of her face had barely a blemish. Just several thin, white scars pressed into pale skin. There wasn't a single freckle.

With ease, she threw back the hood. It revealed long tresses of thick platinum hair. Despite it being clumped and dirty, it was easy to see that all it needed was a bath. Running her freed hand between the unintended dreads, those too were sent back with the hood. Her face, now fully revealed, was a sight to behold.

Sarah had been beautiful. In a manner that extended beyond her face, which was made clear as she slowly adjusted her sitting until she could force her shoulders into an approximation of straightness. With her long neck held up and her chin raised, she was transformed.

Yes, the burn and other apparent injuries made her ghastly. But the other side of her, hidden under dirt, was the cool water of the oasis after drinking nothing but sand.

"Apologies Lady Elf. I did not wish to waste your time when I came but," A small smirk appeared as she gestured to herself with her uncrippled hand. "I find myself in need of rest." With a moment's thought she responded again. "May I see that mask you mentioned? How about some other wares of yours?"

Despite her words coming out with an unexpected ease and poise, her freed hand soon found the pommel of her blade. Her knuckles turned just a shade lighter as her fingers wrapped around it.

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

The woman was, indeed, prettier than she had initially appeared, though Seretha had never been one to put much stock in those with the most ivory of skin - they quickly became burdens on travels throughout the daytime, especially in Amol Kalit. And there was still the horrendous torment she had obviously survived, though seemingly only just. Who only knew what terrors slept within her mind just waiting to trigger waking nightmares.

Seretha, however, was generally good at keeping her face devoid of tells for what was racing through her mind. Her eyes tracking over the woman's face, arms, and hands were the loudest speakers of her subconscious.

She sat on one of Seretha's camp stools, a bench made with a small, plain chest and two removable feet slotted into the sides. It creaked beneath the woman as she shifted around on it.

"Of course, feel free to rest. Would you like water?" Here in Elbion water was practically free, so it was an offer without any of the meaning it might have had in the south and west.

And then the woman asked about the mask, while at the same time resting her hand upon a hilt at her belt. Seretha was no stranger to watching her own back, and picked up the mask with one hand while placing the other at her own belt where sat a wickedly sharp, curved knife made of a black, glassy material.

"I should warn you, by the by, that my horse here...," she gestured next to her with her head, "has a particularly indefatigable bite. You may wish to keep a little distance. Why, its reaction times are as fast as I can think."

None of it a lie, but none of it revealing the horse's true nature, either.

She held the mask out, just out of reach, as though inviting the woman closer. "I didn't catch your name," she added.

The mask itself was a shimmering plate formed to fit its original owner but still workable for anyone with a vaguely elfen facial structure. It was deceptively plain but for its polish to a mirror finish and glimmer of the silver itself. But there was no flaw anywhere to be seen in it. It was a piece of master craft.

Sarah Lindwell

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

Sarah's left brow hiked up a notch at the woman's offer of water. While she was not as versed in the ways of the Abtati as her elder sisters, she was no stranger to them. An offer of water from a desert dweller was typically a sign of great hospitality or trust. It was also a statement of power. The one offering the drink was proclaiming to the other that they had plenty and that there was little the other could offer. It was one of the ways that the nomads could put an opponent on the back foot. And if it failed, they had always excelled in strength of arms.

She scanned the dark skin of the woman opposite her. Trying, and failing, to glean some semblance of an intention from the elf. Her blank face and near-dead eyes betrayed nothing. A number of thoughts flitted through her head. Was it an insult? No, the woman would have smirked or sent a glance at her injuries as she said it. Was it truly a mark of hospitality? Sarah didn't think so. The elf was too cold as a person and there was not a hint of pity or sympathy in her gaze.

That left only one option. That the elf thought nothing of the offer at all. As if it meant nothing. Which brought a slew of additional thoughts to Sarah's mind. Was she born elsewhere?Maybe she's a native of Elbion rather than the deserts proper? Perhaps she has lived away from them for so long that she has forgotten her people's reverence for the life-giving liquid. It would be strange since the elf still wore garments in the style of her people. But it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility.

Sarah was pulled from her thoughts abruptly by the woman's voice. She glanced at the horse. Confused as to why the elf would bring attention to the horse's bite or speed. Then her eyes followed the woman's hand and the shiny metal of a pommel glittered at her.

Her body twitched. A mark of inner condemnation. With seeming pain she drew her hand from the pommel of the blade. The tip of the scabbard hitting the floor with a light thud. She placed her bare hand flat against the top of her armoured thigh. The posture was reminiscent of a noble lady's, but her injuries turned it into a somewhat twisted mockery.

"I did not mean to cause concern. It has become a hard-ingrained habit." Her fingers twitched. The desire to place her hand back on the comforting steel apparent in the twitching of the muscles in her neck. But her hand did not move from its place.

"Though, it must be a special horse," Her eyes were glued onto the elf's face. Her piercing blue eyes were tracking every small inflection. "I have never known one to act as a guard dog or be protective of its owner's property."

Sarah saw no inclination of anything in the elf's gaze. Her good hand outstretched to accept the mug of water. Whatever it was, the gesture was still an uncommon kindness. Her guard mellowed slightly as the cool liquid graced her lips. Her head tilted back as the water dripped down her throat. A small smile formed as she brought her face back down.

"I did not give my name, Lady Elf. But if you must call me something, then you may call me Sarah."

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

"Merely a warning, my dear, I give them so often that I'll think nothing of it shortly. It is a special horse, indeed. Been with me for years and can practically read my mind sometimes." Seretha didn't like lying, and so avoided it whenever possible. Besides, why lie when the truth could be spoken simply and without any trivial details.

"Sarah it is, then. I think that's from the same ancient root as my own; how coincidental is that? Sarah, Seretha." She chuckled slightly, reminded of times throughout her youth - not to say she wasn't still barely an adult in her own culture still - when she'd met another Sarah here in Elbion, a young scholar who had taught her... well, many things, really, but the most relevant here was the study of etymology and the history of names. It hadn't been the most exciting of topics, but that Sarah had found ways to make it interesting.

Seretha held the silvered mask aloft, taking care to only touch it with a fine cloth to avoid having to polish it more later. She tilted it a little back and forth to catch the sun. Onto business; she did have places to be and money to send back home to her children. "My prices are quite modest for such baubles, even those with great history behind them. This was from the Forbidden City, one of the few Anirian expeditions with survivors as a matter of fact. The story of its retrieval is a legend unto itself, and resulted in the death of a Dreadlord of all things. Truly a fascinating piece."

Sarah Lindwell