Private Tales A Small Matter of Iron

[Iren Brightmane]

He waved his hand.

"Why do you think I gave you that advice, my dear?" Iren said dryly. "I would not be coming after you with relish and pleasure. I simply do... what I must to survive." It was fairness in a way. He knew that one day he might be pitted against his companions. The best he could do for them was to make sure they knew of ways to try and deal with him.

Even temporarily.

If they didn't, well, they'd already be dead and simply not know it yet.

That brand was of interest to him however.

"Upon death, huh?" He licked his lips as he sipped again. "That is a very specific way of phrase, darling. Do you want to be rid of this oath?"

 

[Iskra]

She could feel the back of her left hand itch, but she did not go to sate it with a scratch. Instead, she reached for her glass now, and took a generous swig of it. The burn allowed her to put away the thought of her hand, but her golden olive hues flicked back up to the vampire before her.

"An oath I had made as my first free choice in the Empire." And she had been so sure of it at fifteen. She had a power, a magic born from the Badlands and the untapped connection it bore unto Iskra. She had never returned to that place, but now... being here in Cerak, it awoken memories she had suppressed.

"Are you suggesting drinking from me again, Iren? Kill me here in this tavern?" Not only did death free her of her word, it freed her from being stranded in this backwater city. "Only you would make death sound so tempting..." He may as well have said he'd sell her off to Molthal and to that half-prince. Iskra snorted, downing her drink.