Private Tales A World Governed by Providence

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Among Marta Maisal's countrymen, there was a popular debate, one which attracted eloquent orators and rowdy drunkards alike to partake. And that debate was this: which was more so the center of evil on Arethil? That is, which propagated the use of blasphemous magic the most, thereby doing the most harm to the world? Elbion, with its renowned College, or Vel Anir, with its formidable Dreadlords? Among Gildans this debate could almost be a national sport all its own, each quite fond of his or her own side, many "games" held and many victories had.

It would be a lie for Marta to say that she had never participated. Yet in more recent times, after a number of her travels abroad, she found there to be a notable third option—and perhaps one that her fellow countrymen would never have suspected.

* * * * *

ALLIRIA


The great city of trade. The naval master of the seas. The center of the world.

Mayhap on the surface Alliria appeared innocuous enough. What argument could the kindly hearted person lodge against the cosmopolitan nature of the bridge between Liadain and Epressa? Yet beneath what glossy veneers which first attract the eyes, for Alliria was indeed a beautiful city, there hidden from view could be found some truly wretched innards. Yes, though not as prominent as Elbion or Vel Anir in magic, still there were schools devoted to such and its use was as openly on display as nearly any other city one could name. But it was not its indulgence of magic which to Marta made Alliria a sinister place. No indeed, the blasphemous use of magic was more a symptom in Alliria's case rather than the disease.

And the disease was vice.

What else could one, if availed of even the faintest notion of wisdom, expect from a city which had toppled the divine and put coin in its place? Yes, money was the god of Alliria. Gold and its acquisition sat upon the throne most high. And this, sadly, made for fertile ground for immorality of all stripes. Sin flowed through Alliria like the very waters of the Strait.

Therefore, what better place for Marta to be? What doctor spends her time among the healthy, and not the sick? To save a soul from unrighteousness, to bring them out from the shadow of displeasure of the gods, the faithful servant waits not to be approached but with a keen eye and trust in the gods does the approaching.

And, looking now from the back of the wagon on which with other travelers she rode, looking upon the Epressan gates of Alliria, Marta was especially interested in finding more of her kind—Letai—here in the great city. She could guide them into the light of Regel. She could show her fellow Gildans that, like Penitents, there yet could be found virtue in those of Letai blood; that she herself was no rare exception.

If but one soul could be so righted, then all would be worth the effort.

Emelia Atchins
 
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She went through the motions of her life each day, but with every successive day it felt ever more empty and without meaning.

It should have meant something. The void where her heart had been ached more now than it did before. Taking righteous vengeance should have made everything better. It should have put a patch over the hole that had been leaking her life away for two years. It should have stilled her rage and brought light back in its place.

There was no light. There was no rage. There was nothing. It had been a month since she had gone into the underbelly of the city and, well... spoken words filled with a power not her own. She had bargained for it, given up a piece of herself for it. Spite and vengeance had driven her to that bargain, and then had driven her to doing things she had never, ever thought she would do.

She didn't even know if she was the same person anymore. She thought not. She was no longer whole, rather fractured and brittle...

It was late in the day, the sun still two handspans above the horizon. The late afternoon light spilled through the gleaming windows of the Mistral Refuge. The name was especially apt today, as it was the northerly wind that turned the seasons that was blowing out of doors. The patrons that stepped through the door into the immaculately clean common room had donned light coats in place of vests.

She was working alone today. It was the middle of the week and there hadn't been much custom in the last several days anyway. Once, she might have expressed some interest in the lack of trade. Now? She simply wiped down tables and cleared away plates and cups from the last two who had arrived and headed upstairs.

She carried the dirty dishes back through the swinging door and into the kitchen. Her father was at work at the oven, tending to the meal that would be served in the evening. He looked up from the firebox as she entered and watched her as she glided through the room like a ghost, draped in the simple dress and apron of the house. Watched as she dumped the dishes carefully into the sink.

There were lines of worry etched at the corners of his eyes.

"Em...," he began. She stiffened for a moment and then went to work cleaning. She said nothing back, of course; she had no voice. It had been the price for her cursed gift.

"Em," he began again, straightening and closing the firebox. "I know it has been tough, but..." He shook his grey-maned head slowly. "I'm sure he'll come back. Sure of it."

He still didn't know. Her husband wasn't ever coming back. She had seen to that herself. She could still feel his neck beneath her fingers as she squeezed. He had raised his hand one too many times. And he had killed their...

Emptiness. Void. No heart to feel any more. The old pain did not steal from its place in hiding. Even that was scared of the coldness that had stolen over her a month ago.

She shook her head and shrugged. Father thought she had been sick and lost her voice then. He knew she couldn't speak, but he seemed to forget it on a daily basis. Sometimes she did, too. Her spoken words were as empty as she was, though. Funny that silent as she was now, she was still heard more often than before all of the dark business had gone down.

"Look, Emelia, I know-" he began, but she raised a soap covered hand to forestall the discussion. She didn't want to talk about it. The ringing of the bell over the door saved her from having to. Without a word, she dried her hands on her apron and silently slid out of the room to see if it was custom that had arrived without really caring.

So long as she didn't have to struggle through a conversation that she didn't have the energy to deal with. Paying guests were easier than this.
 
"Excellent. Where, then, would you like to sit and talk?"

"There's a place I occasion. Cozy. Quiet. Quieter than here, I'll tell you that. Let's meet there."

"Let us indeed. And what is the name of this place?"


* * * * *

THE MISTRAL REFUGE


Daelin was a Letai of elven heritage and mildly reptilian features. He stood tall, had a firm—if perhaps somewhat cold—gaze with those dark eyes of his, and Marta noticed early on that he had a habit, likely born of his lizard's kin spirit, of quickly, frequently, and subtly licking his lips. Certainly he was an Allirian through and through, at least at this juncture of his life, but for him to express an interest in further conversation was promising enough for Marta to pursue.

Many a troubled soul had wounds for which they despaired of a cure. And many of them hid it well enough to proceed with an ostensibly good life, putting on smiles whose weight was unbearable to hold. The most delicate part of all this was, in fact, presenting the cure for which these souls so longed, for the cure in question was as painful to apply as medicine was bitter to ingest. Many would shirk with all their strength the one thing they needed most.

So, promising. Yes, Daelin's interest was promising.

More surprising still, as Marta approached the Mistral Refuge, she saw that Daelin had in fact arrived first, and was waiting for her outside the front door. By the grace of Regel, how delightfully novel—usually it was the other way round! Daelin had a personable, even chipper, attitude when first they had met in the morning elsewhere in Alliria; mayhap this cheerful outward demeanor belied a man who harbored an eager willingness to imbibe the medicine of which he on his own could not avail himself.

"Evening, Priestess."

"Good evening, Daelin. Shall we go in?"

"Yes," he said. "As I mentioned, it's quiet. And you could get yourself a room here too, if you don't already have set accommodations."

"That I will, in fact, for convenience's sake."

And this, though Marta could not know it, was what sealed in the misfortune set to visit her in the night, for Daelin was counting on her doing this.

Daelin pushed open the door. Above, a small bell chimed from the motion. One of the innkeeps, a human woman of middle years wearing an apron, came out to greet them. Though it was not overly apparent, it seemed to Marta that the innkeep had traces of a severe countenance just behind her present expression. An ungovernable client mayhap soured her day, or something of the sort.

"Good evening, Emelia," Daelin said, this with all the politeness and scant familiarity due to an acquaintance of circumstance. He smiled. "Any vacancies this night? One room for the Priestess, if that's the case."

Her introduction done for her by Daelin, Marta merely nodded in cordial manner, hand preemptively upon the coin pouch within her robes.

Emelia Atchins
 
She slipped into the common room and stopped short when she was addressed by her name, giving a sharp look at the customer who had spoken it. She did not immediately recognize them. Didn't really matter, though. There were plenty of merchants that travelled the routes that took them through Alliria multiple times a year.

She thought nothing more of it.

She raised a wrinkled hand with all five fingers extended, and then closed her fist and raised another two. Seven room empty; the Refuge was practically as empty as it ever got. She moved with a sense of purpose to meet them at a distance. She indicated any of the tables that they would like, as all were currently empty. The scent of roasting beef wafted on the air, peppery and subtly sweet.

She cocked her head to one side and moved her lips silently, doing math in her head with the slowness of someone that had only the most basic of education. After a moment, she dug in a pocket of her apron. She withdrew a piece of wood painted silver and with her other hand, held up a finger. She showed copper as well and held up five and then three. She mimed taking a bite, and sleeping, and looked a question at the pair of them.

Her eyes swept over both while she awaited an answer, but there was little interest in her eyes. In fact, there was something missing in them. An echo of the void she felt in her heart.
 
Marta and Daelin drew near to one of the many tables of the common room; truly there was a wealth of choice on this particular eve. They stood each by their chairs as Emelia mimed her question.

"Just a dinner plate for me," said Daelin amiably. And with a glance over to Marta he asked, "Would you mind overly much if I paid for your room?"

"You are too kind, Daelin. Though I must decline your offer, for I have my own means, know that my gratitude is as it would be had I accepted."

"Very well," Daelin said, smiling and taking a seat.

Then to Emelia, whom by now Marta had gathered was a mute, she said, "Dinner and a room, please."

And then she herself took a seat. Payment, as was due for each of them, would then be arranged and transacted.

Emelia Atchins
 
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She nodded briskly and accepted the payment then turned and went back to the kitchen in the swish of skirts and unutterable silence. The coins she placed in a money box. She took the change that was due, and then went to her father in the same silence.

He looked at her with a pained expression, but she wasn't having any conversation just yet. She held up a hand with two fingers extended and hurried away before he could say anything else. She snatched up a couple of glasses of mulled, watered wine and then swept back out into the common room to deposit them along with a plate of bread and butter.

She then returned to the back and was annoyed to see that her father had not yet served anything.

"Emelia..." he said, wiping his hands on his own apron. She stood there with her hands to her sides, uncomfortable and unwilling to speak. She noted the cheap diary on the table in front of him, piece of pencil at the ready. He made to reach for it, but she shook her head.

Hard to make someone talk when they could not. Evasion was as simple as not writing anything down.

Father sighed, shook his head, and went back to work. He sliced and served meat and vegetables with a hearty gravy on two plates. She took them and offered him a forced smile that didn't reach her eyes before slipping back out into the room to serve the pair.

She slipped away from the table and took up station at the counter. There was no reason to go upstairs and turn down beds, and there was nothing else to do. Instead, she was left to her own brooding while she waited for the pair to need anything or for anyone else to arrive.
 
Away went the innkeep, and for a spell Marta and Daelin had the common room to themselves.

Daelin, either by intuition plucking the thought from Marta's mind or simply as a means to ease into the more serious conversation to come by starting with a bit of topical commentary, said of the innkeep Emelia, "She wasn't always a mute." He nudged his head in the direction Emelia had departed. "I come here, but I'm not a regular here. I'm certainly not suggesting I know her or her father or anything like that. But something happened."

"What? Some tragedy, come like a brigand upon the road, visiting misfortune with suddenness?"

Daelin shrugged. "I don't know. Sickness, I would surmise. Come like a brigand upon the road, as you said. Poor girl."

"Yes, poor woman. Though no man, nor woman, is burdened with more than they are by the grace of the gods fitted to bear, still it is that a malady which evades treatment is difficult to endure."

A queer thing, but not altogether unheard of, that some wound or sickness might be beyond the capacity of even ajam healers, those who often relied more upon heretical magic than of the natural gifts salted throughout the plentiful earth of Arethil. And this was Alliria, after all, where healers—be they magical or not—were certainly keen to ply their trade for a modest (or perhaps in many cases not so modest) fee. Likely it was that Emelia's ailment surpassed the skill of even these mercenary doctors.

A moment after, Emelia returned and served them both dinner. Marta offered her a smile upon receipt of it, a gesture small but perhaps not insignificant. Regardless the innkeep Emelia went away and left them to their meal.

Soon, whether by Daelin's own initiative or by Marta's gentle prompting, would her work begin—or so she thought. Daelin was a practiced liar, a man who effortlessly mixed in copious truths with his fabrications to achieve an end. He meant to entertain the priestess, string her along for a bit, and then depart on genial terms...knowing where precisely she would be resting her head tonight.

Exotic ones fetched a good price.

Emelia Atchins
 
She did the things that would be expected of her, even though time seemed to trickle by. She kept the watered wine topped, and eventually had to busy herself cleaning tables that probably didn't need it. She avoided the kitchen and her father at all costs.

Shadows gathered outside, and other customers arrived. There were only a handful of them tonight; most of the tables remained empty. It helped to keep the atmosphere subdued and quiet which suited her mood just fine.

It was one of the few that came in as the sun had turned the western sky into liquid fire that breathed a flicker of life into the emptiness within. Even then, it was but the barest hint of trepidation; some sixth sense warned her that trouble was afoot.

The new arrivals were clean cut and well dressed in clothes that were not quite black. They almost seemed like businessmen. Almost. They moved with an uncanny grace that she recognized from trained fighters. She could see no weapons on them. Didn't mean much; she too had no visible weapons on her. Except for the knife strapped to her thigh.

They watched her as she moved about the room, waiting on the handful of patrons. Unlike the one Letai that had come in, there was nothing friendly in their eyes or their words as they ordered the same as everyone else here.

Emelia couldn't help but feel that she had seen those two before, somewhere.
 
And so at length, and with much of their respective plates already emptied, did Marta broach the topic of Daelin's concerns. She had at the start briefly introduced the topic of shapeshifting, something which was borne in the blood of all Letai and proved a mighty temptation for many, and yet Daelin shrugged it off; he had, in fact, only done so "once or twice" and never found it to his liking. Color Marta surprised. What Daelin did have on his mind was this:

"Whoring."

"Whoring?"

Daelin sighed heavily and said, "Yes, Priestess, whoring and lechery. I'm afraid I'm a man who gives in easily to the siren's call of lust. I'll be honest: I never used to think it was a problem. And I can't rightly tell you when I started to entertain suggestions otherwise. There's been days when I'd go hungry just to...well, I ought not go into all those details, but I'll say it was an expensive habit. Call me a drunkard, but my drink was carnal delight."

After a small moment of consideration, Marta said, "Allow me to speak plainly, for here a certain openness is of the utmost importance. Would you find it more comfortable if I were to...withdraw myself from this communion? It is not my intention to abandon you, a soul in need, but in all journeys first steps are the most difficult; to borrow your analogy, I, sitting here before you, am like wine presented to the drunkard before he has been equipped to resist. It is not appropriate, nor fair. But fear not, I could return with a priest instead—"

"No," Daelin said, waving off her concern. "I'm not that far gone, Priestess. At least not in recent times. I had a few rude awakenings." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I'm just afraid I might fall back into it."

They spoke further, and evening turned to night. Daelin was resistant to the idea of any substantial change in his life, even to attending local Celestialism services. But he was interested in further talks, correspondences by letter as well. First steps were difficult, but, in time, mayhap a great many miles could pass by underfoot, unnoticed until the whim to look back came like an innocent breeze. If his heart was true, there was hope for Daelin yet.

Both Marta and Daelin rose. They said their goodbyes. Daelin turned and had a little fumble with a clean cut man, bumping into him, apologizing politely, and the man with stolid candor said it was alright; what truly passed between them was a covert signal, conveyed through the specific touch of hands and fingers, and this man (and his accomplice) were alerted that the job was on. Wait for the dead of night, that pendulum of stillness and dark between the waning day and the new. Wait, and then quietly grab the Priestess from her very room, disappearing her without a trace.

Marta knew none of this.

She went up to the counter, to the mute Emelia, smiling politely as she said, "May you show me to my room?"

Emelia Atchins
 
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There was a certain amount of frustration, not having much to do. It left one with time to think.

If there was anything that Emelia did not want to do at the moment, it was think. There were too many demons lined up and waiting for her attention. The rage in her husband's eyes. The agony in Korsk's, as he lay dying. The feeling of blood on her hand, and how unexpectedly easy it was to make someone...

...well, go away. Forever. Someone else and, by logical process, her own life.

Her eyes were distant, staring into unplumed depths, when the priestess spoke. She jumped a little, and then looked round guiltily. The only people left were this woman and herself; everyone else had already drifted off to bed or back out the door to wherever it was they called home.

Emelia took a calming breath, and then nodded to Marta. She took an unlit candle with her and headed to the stairs leading up. They were wide enough for two people abreast to climb them or for someone heading down to pass someone going up.

She gestured to follow, turned in a swirl of skirts and headed for the rooms above.
 
Marta had, apparently, caught Emelia by surprise; the wandering mind oft left one open to sudden startles. Together they ascended the stairs, leaving then the common to rest fully in the night's stillness.

At Marta's room, she placed her hand over her heart and bowed her head lightly—a common sign of respect among the Gildan people. "I thank you for your hospitality. Have a good night, Emelia." Though they were not familiar, Marta, nonetheless knowing Emelia's name, felt it personable to use it all the same.

She would after parting enter her room. She set her staff against the wall and her traveler's pack upon the small table; soon then would her white robe, neatly folded, join the pack. Then she would kneel and say a nightly prayer, her long fingers clasped together, eyes closed, thoughts upon Regel and the endurance of the Right Ordering of All Things. Shoes and shirt and pants all followed her robe until, in her undergarments, she crawled into bed.

Sleep came easily.

* * * * *​

Their names were Bodo and Waldemar. In their own room they passed the time with small entertainments, a long conversation over a slow game of cards, say. The dead of night came upon them when their hourglass ran out for the third time. This was it. They only needed a minute to pack up their things.

"Easy," said Bodo quietly. "In and out."

"She's not human," said Waldemar, the more cautious and wary of the two. "You see that tail? Those...whiskers on her head?"

"Antennae." Bodo bundled up his deck of cards and pocketed them. Then he took out a cloth gag from his other pocket. "And it doesn't matter. Same as always. If she can bleed, she'll do what we say. Lockpicks?"

Waldemar pulled out the very same from his own pocket. Held them up. Smiled with the confidence of a man practiced in the art.

"Then let's go make some money."

They left their room in casual manner. Shut the door carefully and quietly. The hall was empty and dark, as they expected; Daelin was right about this place, they'd be able to walk right out the front door, no fuss. To Marta's door, covertly spied upon earlier, they went. Waldemar didn't even need a full minute for his lockpicking, for soon the door gave way and both men entered. Bodo pushed the door almost, but not entirely, shut—they wouldn't be long. Easy, in and out, like he had said.

They found the Priestess sleeping on her side, nestled from the neck down in her blanket. She was fast asleep. Bodo prepared the gag. Waldemar took out a hidden knife. They moved in.

It didn't go perfectly to plan, and some of Waldemar's wariness proved true. As Bodo tried to clog Marta's mouth with the gag she woke with a wide-eyed suddenness that was typical in other abductions they pulled off, but Marta's waking was accompanied by a lightning-fast burst of speed. Like a striking mantis her hand slammed into Bodo's chest, not with any astounding levels of strength, but with its speed and by virtue of catching Bodo when his footing and stance were not prepared he was sent stumbling back. He caught himself easily enough...but not before his heel knocked into Marta's staff, leaning against the wall. The staff tumbled, hit the side of the table, and then bounced a few times off the floor before coming to rest. No grand commotion, this, but in the otherwise perfect silence and stillness of the sleepy night its meager clamor was amplified an arresting fold. All was silent and still again in the aftermath. Bodo and Waldemar listened intently, but they, so far as they could tell, could hear no curious noises elsewhere throughout the inn.

Waldemar, in all the meanwhile during the strike and Bodo's stumble and the falling of the staff, had pressed the cold blade of his knife to Marta's throat. And this, like many times before, had purchased her prudence and compliance. Her breath was caught in her chest, and her eyes stayed fixed on the blade in the dark before moving up to Waldemar as he whispered in the gloom.

"Stay quiet, do as we say, and you'll live."

Emelia Atchins
 
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"You can't avoid me forever, you know."

He sat on a stool near the oven. She had slipped in after the last of the guests had stumbled off to bed, bringing the lights in the common room low. The Refuge seldom accepted after-hours guests. They were not staffed for such things and, anyway, their niche was the merchant class. The variety that conducted its business during the day, at least.

Emelia let the door shut behind her and stood with her hands at her side. She looked at Papa with shadowed eyes, hooded with a mixture of fatigue and weariness. She managed to raise an eyebrow in question, but did not reply to him otherwise.

Of course.

"Have you heard anything?"

She shook her head, a twinge of guilt stinging her heart. Papa did not know the truth and would never know it, if she had anything to do with it. He didn't know any of the truth, least of all the final truth. Her father had assumed everything was well when it was all falling to pieces. Now, after her son was gone and Reph buried...

The numbness hadn't gone away. She could feel bright, hot blood on her hands. It had changed nothing. Or worse, it had hollowed her out and left her an empty vessel. It turns out that the only thing that animated her had been vengeance. Having watched the object of her ire die by his own hand had left her with nothing else.

Papa said nothing for a moment. Emelia took the time to shuck her apron and toss it into the wash bin.

"It'll all turn out just fine," he said finally, standing as he did. "Sleep up in the attic tonight, Em," he said. It was quite late to be walking alone on the streets of Alliria. Especially considering the kind of hornets' nest she had already stirred up. She nodded, and head out of the room and up the stairs.

***

Something woke her.

It was the dead of night, and the Refuge lay quiescent, its rooms and halls illuminated by silver light. The soft sounds of the city intruded, but it was the night sounds - the barking dogs, fighting cats, and the other random sounds of people living their nocturnal lives.

Emelia sat up, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. For a moment she sat and listened. She was unsure of what it was that had awakened her. Something like butterflies fluttered in her stomach, a sickening sensation that was inexplicable as it was sudden. She thought, for a moment, to just lay back down and go to sleep. Instead, she rose and left the room, climbing down the narrow flight of steps to the main hallway. She wore nothing but a linen shift and slippers. Both were nearly inadequate for the changing season.

She was just at the head of the stairs to the dark common room - a drink of some strength maybe being enough to help her return to sleep - when she heard the low voice come from one of the rooms. The innkeeper's daughter froze.

She was unsure of what she had heard, but she was sure that it was odd for anyone to be awake at this hour and having a conversation of any kind, especially hushed as it was. She stood at the top of the stairs, breath held and ears straining.
 
Marta stayed still. The residue of her dream was now departed in its entirety, leaving her starkly in what was happening without the recourse of nightmare—no waking would spare her. Her mind was blank, thoughts shed of representation in the form of words, reduced to the primeval mode of survival. She would act as needed.

And so with the tiniest of nods assented to the knife man's demand.

The second man, the one whom she'd struck, came forward. "Open your mouth," he said quietly, and Marta did so. The cloth gag was inserted, wrapped around her head, and tied tightly by him.

"Get up," said the knife man, "Slowly."

In a delicate tandem motion, the man keeping the blade to her neck and Marta rising and coming to plant her feet on the floor and stand, she was out of bed. The second man had gathered her clothes in the meantime and then thrust them into her grasp.

"Put them on," he said. "Nice and easy."

Marta did so with that same careful slowness. The knife man held her still at the command of the blade's deadly edge and the second man made the effort to grab her things, her pack and her staff. It would look, presumably, like she had vacated the room all of her own accord.

"Get the door," said the knife man to his accomplice.

"Yeah," said the second man.

He, Bodo, went to the ajar door and began to pull it open.

Emelia Atchins
 
She was rooted in place, an unrealized witness to the conversation taking place within the room. She had not noticed the door ajar when she walked by, but the words issuing forth from within...

In her own home, after a fashion. Someone was abducting one of her and her fathers' patrons, stealing them out of the Mistral Refuge in the dead of night. Fear lanced through her like an icy knife, slicing through her heart and freezing her in place. There were memories attached to such violent ne'er-do-wells, and recent ones at that. The feeling of hot blood on her hands, of searing pain in her flesh.

Of vengeance fulfilled and the emptiness that followed.

Fear gave way to anger, however. The fear lodged itself in the back of her head, a tenant that could not be evicted and was not welcome. It basked in the naked flame of anger, though.

They were here, in her home. It was unthinkable. A part of her wanted to rush through the open door and strike out. A part of her wanted to wait until they had stepped through it and into the hallway. Except... she was no warrior. She had spent no little time in the preceding months trying to strengthen her body, but without any formal training...

It galled, but she had to use her head. Violence had its time and place, but now was not the time. This was not the place, either; she couldn't drag others into this. Especially not her father.

What she should do is get the Guard. She turned on silent feet and hesitated. She should. But she wouldn't.

Instead, she slipped down the stairs on bare feet and down into the kitchen. She would have returned to the room in the attic to get her dagger, but that was too risky. Instead, she grabbed one of the workman-like knives from the kitchen, and then waited at the door into the common room and listened for their footsteps.

She would wait until they were a block away and then ambush them in the darkness.
 
Bodo scouted the hallway with two casual glances, then gave a quick upward nod of his head.

"Just walk," said Waldemar quietly to Marta. He was behind her now, the knife concealed between their bodies, but the point of it pressed to her back as a deadly reminder. "You play nice and you'll live."

Out of the room they went, going unhurriedly. A late night passerby who chanced across them might just walk past without seeing or thinking anything amiss, for in the twilight the gag could be easily missed and their procession of three—with Marta in the middle—showing no obvious outward signs of duress in such scant light. Marta tried to think but to no true avail. Thieves in the night! Assassins in the dark! These men had come with ill-intent like such lowly mongrels as these! What their true aim happened to be, Marta could not say. But Regel was with her, even in this dark and dire hour. And there was no evil which he bestowed upon his servants; helpless as her body presently was, her spirit and her mind were as free as doves, and with these she would keep the faith and watch for deliverance.

Down the stairs now, Bodo leading the way. The common room was clear—even if the kitchen was not, though neither the assailants nor the assailed knew it. Bodo went to the Refuge's front door, and as before he went out first to scout as Waldemar stayed inside with Marta. The signal from Bodo came but a few seconds later, and Waldemar prompted Marta out onto the Allirian streets.

The stars above seemed fitful, or so was Marta's impression. What moonlight could have been was instead now shielded behind a small contingent of passing clouds, as if the sky above were playing into her assailants' hands. A city like Alliria slept with one eye open, so it was said, but what lantern-lights or other lights there were in the street all chanced to be too far away.

Bodo and Waldemar navigated the ways of dark and shadow, staying off the larger streets whenever they could. Not that they had far to go, anyway. Daelin had said he'd have a horse and wagon parked at a stables near the Refuge. All they had to do was drop off the pink-haired Priestess to him, and that'd be a nice tidy sum for a quick and simple job.

In a dark alley they came to a halt, Bodo coming back and giving a swift shake of his head to Waldemar. Whatever or whoever was around the corner, they'd have to wait for them wander off. And so they waited a moment.

Marta glanced skyward again. The glimmer of Lessat gave a bright lining to the obscuring clouds as they were withdrawing and thus revealing the larger of the two moons. Just a peek of its light now like a silver dawn seemed to pass over the whole of Alliria.

Emelia Atchins
 
Anger tempered her fear, but even so she had to ask herself why she was doing this. She was clearly no saint, no hero; any illusion of such were put to rest when she remembered how much pleasure she had taken in a man cutting himself open right in front of her.

At her behest, and not his. She might as well have been the one wielding the knife.

Her heart stopped and her breath stilled as she heard their footsteps. Waiting was an agonizing prospect; minutes seemed like hours, ears straining for the sound of footsteps beyond the kitchen door. Or from behind her. Or from upstairs, as some innocent soul decided to head out of their room for whatever reason.

None of these came to pass. The Refuge remained as silent as a tomb, save for the breath of the three souls in the common room. After a minute, the absence of those soft noises announced that they had moved on. Trembling, still questioning why she would stick her neck out for someone else, she pushed into the common room.

And then outside.

Almost immediately, the magpie fluttered down from the roof above. The eldritch creature was possessed of power that she, Emelia, neither had nor understood. The bird had not arrived until after the pact with her Patron (she shivered a little at the thought, whether in cold or anticipation was difficult to say). It hopped from one shoulder to the other, head darting and twisting this way and that.

If only you could cloud their minds as you did the others, she thought to herself. The bird paused and stared her in the eyes with one of its own. There was a knowing glint in them, something that was not at all avian. It tipped its head back and laughed silently as it always did.

And then flew off, circling overhead.

Emelia shook herself, as if bringing her mind out of a daze. She looked down the street at the retreating backs of the thieves...

...and hesitated.

Why? A long moment, thieves slipping away into the night one step at a time as she grappled with the question

Because she smiled? Because she was friendly? Not enough. Because they were elements of the scum and villainy that rotted the city to its core? Maybe.

No, there was another reason. Hollow as she had become, there was one flame that she could still kindle. She knew why should would follow them, barefoot and armed with a kitchen knife: because they deserved it. Korsk gutting himself had been a start, but it wasn't enough. They had ruined her life (you ruined it yourself), they took her son and her husband from her (standing by doing nothing; the blood of the other burning burning burning).

With a silent grunt she began to pad down the street in silence.

***

Silver and black. Shadow and light.

The corvid had heard the silent plea in the one they were bound to. Words were not necessary in so intimate a connection.

The world below was all angles and lines, a world built by humans. The avian familiar rode high in the air, far beyond the sight of those it was following. Even as it glided in silence through the air, it wove its eldritch magic into the air. A subtle touch, undetectable save by the most adept of adepts, or those sensitive to such things.

Emelia was not the only creature bound to the Fae. Some fragment of their power resided in the black and white bird, too. Now, that power was flowing out into the world, seeking to snare the minds of those below.

Ease away suspicion. Dull the sharp edges. Muddle the senses. That sense of arrogance and pride at a job done easily and well? Ratchet that up a notch or three.

The magpie was a fae spirit in the form of a bird that anyone could recognize. Any that could see it for what it was - especially among mortals - would soil themselves in fear.

***

She moved as stealthily as she could. Fear remained and undercurrent to rage, but that rage had been tempered by a different flavor, now. A familiar, bitter one: vengeance.

The shift she wore made no sound as she moved. Her bare feet were as silent as an assassin - which she was not (yet). The knife, a reassuring weight in her hand, hung at her side.

They stood in shadows on a corner, the abducted woman between them and knifeman to the rear. The kind of things they would be doing this for ran through her head in a litany that only heated her blood more. That she could just as easily be captured and carried away had not crossed her mind.

Probably for the best.

Without a sound, she circled round to come at them from behind, hands burning with the heat of blood already spilled and anticipating more to come.
 
All Marta could do was wait.

There came a little shimmer of hope, though one quickly proven to be without substance (so she thought). Her antennae tingled with the sensation of magic. Marta's attention briefly piqued, for she was ready to grasp onto the slightest suggestion of rescue or opportunity of escape. But what of it? This detection of magic? The Allirian day had been full of it, and with the dimming of night came a dimming of the prolific use of nearby magic in the city, but it was not entirely come to cessation. This bit of magic was vague, any semblance of clarity frustrated by great distance, and so it seemed wholly a coincidence, and what excitement it encouraged only born so from wishful thinking.

Ever was the dutiful servant rewarded by her patience, she had to remind herself.

Bodo and Waldemar, meanwhile, luxuriated in their forthcoming success in shared whispers—this coaxed ever so gently by meddling strings cast down from the magpie unseen above. They did not lapse into complete carelessness, but a tempting surety relaxed keen eyes and keen ears and eroded the readiness of these otherwise trained men.

"Just some travelers starting some trek earlier than they ought," Bodo said. "They'll be off in a minute."

"Got a good luck moon tonight," Waldemar said. "No guard patrols, no mess."

"You should stick your nose into those astronomy books you've been eyeing."

"Maybe I will." Waldemar grinned. "Smartass."

Marta considered whether she should try for an escape. She could sprout her mantis wings and take flight—though limited, more like a great leap than gliding bird—it ought to be enough to extricate herself from these men. But the risk was great. The knife could be plunged into her back, mayhap even piercing a vital organ, at a moment's notice. Again she reminded herself of patience.

What she could not know, facing away from the silent approach of Emelia as much as Waldemar himself, was that the resolve of her two kidnappers would be tested by the same. It was to be the element of surprise pitted against strength and capability.

Emelia Atchins
 
The tension ratcheted up notch after notch with each step she drew closer. The fae spell that gripped the men also gripped her and drove her own confidence up a notch. If only for the fact that she knew she was no warrior (yet), she might have been as brash and bold and at her ease as they were.

There are some things that are not born of training, though. Some aspects of those who make their living by violence - either as soldier or brigand - are only earned by experience and age. Instinct is a thing inborn and honed by years practicing it; it is not taught or learned.

The ball of ice twisted her guts. She closed the distance enough to finally act. She hesitated a moment, on the precipice of turning and running. She didn't though. They deserved this.

Emelia struck.

She drove the blade of her knife upward in an arc that intercepted Waldemar. Everything fell apart almost immediately; the blade hit and caught something. She could feel whatever it was give and the blade slip a couple of inches upward and in before the entire thing snapped in half. The broken piece of the knife hit the street at the same time the cheap piece of light chain undershirt Waldemar wore beneath his clothes did.

For a moment, the barefoot would-be heroine stared at her the handle and inch of steel left on it in mute shock, even as blood began to run from her victim's wound. His non-fatal wound. He swore in shock and pain before whirling round to face her.

Emelia instinctively kicked at his groin. And, with a casual ease born of the instinct she did not have and that chilled her to her soul, he caught her leg before she could land another blow.

"Naughty, naughty," he rasped.

Fuck.
 
What fog of complacency had descended upon the men now vanished, much like darkness skittering away from light pouring forth from a newly opened door. That selfsame professional air, that uncanny grace, Emelia had sensed from them earlier in the Refuge came back to the fore. Effortlessly did Waldemar counter Emelia's attempt when the surprise was gone, and Bodo transitioned without a word to taking over custody of Marta while Waldemar was occupied. Bodo had drawn his own knife, one strong hand clamped to her arm while the other held the blade to her back. Waldemar, after his quiet taunt, slammed Emelia down to the ground and loomed over her, blade to her neck just as he had done with Marta prior.

And he said the same line to her: "Stay quiet, do as we say, and you'll live."

Without looking away he held his hand back, toward Bodo, palm open. They had but suspicions of Emelia's muteness, garnered only through observation while they had sat in the Refuge, but Waldemar, ever the cautious one, wasn't taking any chances. Not after this. Not while they were so close, too, only to have the serving woman of the Refuge decide to play hero. How she had discovered them was beyond him. But no matter. Daelin wasn't expecting two, but he was a crafty enough businessman. He could certainly sell both of the women on for a tidy profit.

Bodo didn't question Waldemar's caution here. He just pulled out the spare gag and stuffed it into Waldemar's awaiting palm. And Waldemar set to work on gagging their new quarry.

All Marta could do was watch on in sympathy and wonder. Emelia? The innkeep from the Refuge? The one of whom Daelin had spoken? Of all the unassuming characters that the imagination could present to the mind, Emelia was certainly foremost among them. The means of the innkeep's discovery of wrongdoing were of little significance to Marta; what truly kindled her wonder of this woman was the thought of the righteous flame bound within her breast which must have bid her to act so, and at no small risk to herself.

They would now both be caught in this villainy, it was true. But, as companions, they might yet see the light together.

Emelia Atchins
 
Waldemar was certainly not gentle as he went about his business. After swearing under his breath quite vehemently and roughly binding and gagging her - all the while ignoring the strange mix of fear and unmitigated rage burning in her pale eyes - he pulled her to her feet.

"Watch the bitch for a moment, will ya," he said. He took the moment required to address the bleeding hole in his chest that hadn't quite gone far enough to kill him. Still hurt like a bastard, though. Would likely require stitches too. He deliberately did not think about how close he had come to being left in the alley by his companion sans a pulse.

Emelia stared hatred at her captors, trying with limited success to push the ball of ice in her guts away. She couldn't help but find her pulse quicken, her breaths come quicker too. Her back ached where she had been slammed down - overwhelmed as casually and easily as a kitten and quite literally put down.

She did not look to the patron she had attempted to rescue. She could almost lie to herself and believe that she had done it for the sake of the woman - because she was a patron, or a woman being accosted, or any of the other reasons she could conjure up.

Didn't make her tremble any less. Didn't make her hate any less poisonous.
 
In short time the two men hurried Marta and Emelia along. The street was clear. They came to the stables, where a covered wagon was already parked outside and ready to go. And it was here that the betrayal was revealed.

Daelin. He stepped down from the driver's platform and looked both Marta and Emelia up and down, as if inspecting merchandise for damage. And at the sight of him Marta groaned into her gag. Trickery and deception of the worst kind! That of playing at good, of feigning atonement, and with willful mind and vicious heart knowing all the while that it is a sham. The gods abhorred the men of Daelin's ilk, and what small and fleeting profit his ways might garner him in life would prove a great poison to his eternal soul.

Two other men, both of whom were Kaliti, stepped out of the back of the wagon. A brief negotiation ensued between Daelin and the Kalitis, Bodo and Waldemar. Daelin was reluctant to buy both Marta and Emelia, but one of the two Kalitis coolly assured him that there was "a place" for Emelia too. An "inspection" was mentioned, and the Kalitis said that "Hof" hardly ever turned down good stock. Daelin at last agreed, whether by his associate's persuasion or in the interest of time, standing outside the stables relatively exposed as they were. Money changed hands between Daelin, Bodo, and Waldemar as the two Kalitis prodded Marta and Emelia to get into the back of the wagon. They too had blades, these of distinctively western make, which they used to assure the compliance of the women.

And the wagon started off.

* * * * *

THE CELL


During the ride in the wagon they were blindfolded. The ride was easily short enough for Marta to reckon that they were still in Alliria, but where exactly she could not say. Upon coming to a stop the Kaliti men with rough handling forced Marta and Emelia from the wagon, into some building from the sound of it, down a moderate set of stairs, and then when the blindfolds were finally taken off the dim underground cell was now plain to both women's eyes.

"There's a bucket there," said one of the Kaliti men, motioning toward the same, a dirty feature of the cell sitting there in one corner. And this was all that was said. The two men after a quick search left the women in the cell with but the clothes on their backs. A dismal lantern hung from the ceiling outside the reach of the iron bars, the only bit of light for the cell and the room at large. The stairs beyond the cell's locked door went upward into darkness, and only vague sounds from above—boots on floorboards, indistinct conversation—passed through that sea of black.

Along with the blindfolds, the gags had also been removed. And, to Marta, the very fact of the gags' removal meant their captors had no worry anymore of a wayward shout attracting attention.

Marta held her arms to herself, and then looked over to Emelia. Daelin had a liar's tongue, but on the account of Emelia he had been correct. Even so, though her comrade in fetters had no voice, Marta felt compelled to speak.

"I wish to...commend you for your bravery," she said quietly. "It is no small thing to take up a warrior's mantle without a warrior's armaments, and this you did, for it was you and you alone who witnessed the evil of these men and had the chance to act."

Emelia Atchins
 
What followed was a blur of indistinct and inconsequential cruelty. Emelia was familiar with abuse, at least. Their captors could hardly scratch the calloused surface of her soul. Whatever might be left of it. What were these new indignities in comparison to the things she had already endured?

Probably less terrifying than the indignities that were to come. Well, Reff hadn't managed to break her spirit. These new thugs wouldn't manage it, either.

Within their new lodgings, Emelia went immediately into a corner and sat on the cold floor, knees drawn up and arms wrapped round them as she stared into the middle distance. Her pale arms bore numerous scars, most of them fresh enough to be pink. Only a dab hand with a needle and thread saved them from being disfiguring.

At first, she did not acknowledge Marta. She was lost in memories of bruised fists being plied against her flesh. The memory of weakness and her inability to protect anything that she held dear, herself included. Slowly, her eyes focused, and they shifted to look at the woman she had ostensibly come to rescue.

She stared at her with deeply underscored eyes for a long minute and then she shrugged. She spread her hands, as though to indicate that the wages of bravery amounted to little. She shook her head in negation, head turned to the door with a cruel gleam in her otherwise empty eyes.

No altruism here, though. Seething rage battled with paralyzing fear for control of her mind. A bitter battle, wordless and silent from without; hot and nearly as spiteful as she had become since her little ones' death. She wrapped her hands round her knees again and rest her chin upon them. Her hands had gone white as snow as she clenched her fists tightly.

She could almost feel the burning blood on them again. It made her sick to her stomach. It had her elated for a chance to twist the knife again.
 
The shaking head seemed to suggest that Emelia did not wish to accept Marta's commendation—the shrug did not care much for accolades either. What remained was the sweep of the hands, bringing to attention and putting on display their small iron-ringed confines. The knife had bought Waldemar a painful wound, but had fallen short of securing the full due of justice.

All the same, the gods concerned themselves most with what the hearts of mortals contained. The hand which thrust the knife was of little matter, even the fruits of the hand's efforts, for the hand was compelled to motion or stillness by its master the heart—that which was more than mere flesh.

Marta came to sit beside Emelia. She sat cross-legged, and her mantis tail she flexed flat and upward against her back.

"What fell purpose these men have in mind one may need but few guesses to strike upon. Sacrifice. Slavery. Some base desire, most like."

Marta rested her head against the wall, looking upward with a calm demeanor. She even smiled.

"I shall not allow them to debauch me. If it is so that I must make the decision, that neither you nor I shall know escape before such time, then my life is mine to offer back to the God Regel. In death I will secure my chastity, my honor as a woman who preserves herself for rightful marriage. And what fear have I? What fear for what happens in only a moment?"

Emelia Atchins
 
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She was silent. Of course.

The innkeeper let her eyes slide without turning her head, but she did not move for a time. She did not really understand the rhetorical question that had been offered by the priestess. In fact, the ideals of the religious were lost on her in their entirety. Perhaps her life had been too hard, and her heart to bruised and too bitter to offer it to some unseen creature.

Even the pact made between her and the immortal Fae was not out of supplication nor a belief in godhead.

Emelia slowly turned to look at Marta. There was something in her eyes, or rather a lack of it. The emptiness that had overcome her soul still resided there. Right behind her eyes. Vengeance, once sated, had left nothing in its wake.

What fear happens in only a moment? A shattered life, the ephemeral dream of love and happiness. Fear? Waiting for the one you think you love, bound by the rightful marriage that Marta spoke of with little understanding, to come home and...

She shivered. She could still feel bony knuckles on her flesh, the sting of hurtful words slung by a lover turned into a devil that could not be reconciled. And worse.

Emelia laughed in silence suddenly. What could these creatures possibly do that would be worse than she had already endured? She hugged her legs closer and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
 
It seemed to Marta that the cold clutch of despair had taken hold of Emelia. Begin it did with a silent laugh, born of some hidden thought or spasm of wry humor, and end now with open weeping. How that cold clutch was able to gain purchase, Marta could not say with certainty; but she did suspect fault of her own, that what she had said, truthful as it may have been, was not the gentlest sentiment to be conveyed behind iron bars.

Marta without hesitation leaned over and rested a long arm on Emelia's shoulders.

"My words were severe, but may you listen to me? It is to be seen whether such a thing is ordained. I tell you that these men are afflicted by a poison, and that poison's name is surety. They think that their designs shall unfurl without intervention. They believe us to be cowed and compliant, and they know not whom they have captured—what do they truly know of you or I? I should like to inform them, when comes the opportune time. Merely a look between us, I say, shall be all that is needed to identify such a time, and to thus educate these men properly."

Regel willing, the two of them with violence of action and the fervor of women with nothing to lose might overpower one of these men, left in complacency by his lonesome, or even two of these men, trampled underfoot by the strength of surprise. Before the final option of which Marta had previously spoken, this chance had to be taken.

Marta's martial ability, her hand-to-hand capacity, was passable by War College standards, even if this was hardly the area in which she excelled. She would have to call upon all that her Praetor training had bestowed upon her.

Emelia Atchins