Fate - First Reply Ashes In The River

[Sylvian Artesto]

He'd always thought that after so many years, maybe he'd find just a little bit of peace. Perhaps, he'd hoped, if he turned his head away from the rubble of his old life for long enough, some unseen custodian would eventually get around to tidying it up, and the people who'd burned everything he'd ever loved to the ground would forget about him. It was funny, how somebody getting up there in years like him could still be so naively optimistic.

There would be no forgetting. Today had been a sobering reminder of Sylvian Artesto's reality. The flecks of ash that clung to his clothes and the smell of smoke that caked his nostrils like badges of shame as he floated down the river that flowed away from the burning remains of the freshly-razed city of Vel Farris. The city he'd helped found so many years ago, the place he'd called his home for the last decade and change. After so long, Artesto had finally gotten his hopes up, finally convinced himself that he no longer had to be afraid.

But they'd come for him. Sylvian didn't know why it had taken them so long, or what had tipped them off to his presence, but the Republic of Vel Anir had deployed a Dreadlord and a contingent of Guards to turn the entire city to ash. The small, single-person boat that carried gently down the river led him away from the massive smoke plumes in the distance behind him, the smoldering wreckage of yet another life they'd taken, another light they'd extinguished.

Why didn't he feel angry, he wondered. Why was all he could muster a sigh of resignation as he leaned back on the boat and readied his fishing rod, the only belonging he'd saved from the blaze? He supposed he'd always known that this would happen someday. It had been a matter of time until the tension and conflict of Anir found him once more. As he cast his line out into the river, he paid a thought to his son, Silas. Could he have been amongst the Guards that razed Vel Farris? He would be getting to that age by now, wouldn't he?

Such idle thoughts, the gentle lullaby of the water beneath him, and the fatigue from escaping the burning city he left behind him led Sylvian to fall asleep atop the boat. An aging man, covered in ash and soot, with a fishing rod hanging loosely from his hands drifted slowly down the river. Perhaps those Guards would find him there. Perhaps he'd float through a town, or even off of a steep waterfall.

These thoughts may have even crossed his dozing mind. What, though, did he have left to care for? Fate had found him, and now all he could do was let it take control.

 

[Shakarri]

If there was anything Shakarri had learned over the years, it was that life was a short, brutal road filled with disappointment and regrets. Through no fault of anyone but the enigmatic gods themselves, pain and misgiving was a common feature in the cruel fates given to every man, woman, and unwitting child. Even the beasts of the wilds and skyborn birds were not spared. It was the curse warranted by the varying species of a greedy, selfish, abhorrent world doomed from the start.

Such a waste…

Atop her massive, direbred panther, Shakarri stared at the plumes of smoke rising steadily from far, black and malevolent against the blue of the sky. She could smell, even from here, the sharp reek of fire and burnt wood and scorched stone. Black snow fell from the sky even now, ash sent loose seething hot into the air. Flecks of it landed on her bare cheeks, and she wiped it away absentmindedly, leaving grey streaks across her skin. Beneath her, Azura growled, his huge muscles rippling under his black coat as he shifted, impatient to escape the foul nature of this place. She loosened her grip on the nape of his neck, letting him move as eh pleased. The panther turned and padded silently next to the river they had stopped at. Despite the fire and destruction, the waters had had escaped relatively clean, bubbling and sloshing along with clear waves.

Shakarri hopped of her panther and walked beside the beast before taking a detour to a wet, rocky bank, kneeling down to cup some water in her hands for a refreshing drink. When her thirst was slaked, she washed her face before lowered her hands, sighing in relief. She cast her eyes over the rivers, back towards the receding city, far beyond anyone’s help. She had heard of the city, Vel Farris, a quaint, calm city of elves and known for the intricate scarves and delicate lace they knitted from wild spiders and special silkworms. She simply though it would be a nice spot to rest and perhaps buy a piece of that lace. Figures she’d come to see this.

Suddenly she stood up, seeing the shape bob up and down in the current of the river. It crept closer and closer. It was a boat. With a man. Both were streaked with soot, stained with ash and smelling rather awful. Shakarri hesitated, wanting to turn and walk away, leaving the man to whatever fate the river had in store for him. She knew better than to meddle… but she knew, too, that bad karma was all too real. If she refused to help, that bad energy would follow her around for ages. That, she didn’t need.

“Azura!” she snapped.

The panther leaped into the river and paddled towards the boat. With snapping jaws, it seized the collar of the man’s dirty shirt. His body weight dragged the boat along and so both were hauled back to shore. Heavy, but an easy task for the dire panther to achieve. Once the boat caught on the rocks and was secure, the panther shook itself dry and glared at Shakarri.

She patted the beast’s head. “Thanks, kitty.”

She looked over to the boat and the body, kicking the boat and slapping the man haphazardly across the face. “Are you dead? Come on, don’t waste my time.” She looked to the fishing rod. At the end of the line, still dragging in the water, a trout flopped and splashed.

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Oh, and what a peaceful rest it was. Perhaps it spoke to the perils that Sylvian had faced in his life that even in the wake of his home being burned to ash and dust, sleep came as quickly and as soundly as it did to a newborn infant. To face turmoil was simply his existence now, his default state of being. Artesto's mind had been faced with the choice to either adapt or perish...

A soldier always adapted.

Of course, his dreams made up for that ease by being relentless reminders of all his failures, every loss suffered and every tear spent. More often than not he woke up feeling just as if not more exhausted than when he'd laid down his head.

This, however, would not be one of those times. After all, it was difficult not to feel alert and awake when seized in the jaws of a beast and dragged into the frigid waters of a river. Even if Sylvian hadn't fallen asleep he'd have had no opportunity to prepare himself for the sudden jerk of motion, nor did he have any means of breaking free of the beast's grip.

So he simply did not struggle, save for keeping his lips tight and ensuring that he didn't inhale any of the water that threatened to swallow him whole, if the strange mammal pulling him to shore didn't deign to do that first. The water splashed into his eyes as he felt the teeth of the animal graze his flesh, the shore brushing the small of his back as he was pulled back to dry land.

His eyes were shut as he felt himself hit the earth, and even as the creature released him he did not open them. If he was to be devoured, he wouldn't force himself to watch it happen. The piercing pain he awaited never came, however. Only the sting of a hand against his face, knocking what little water had invaded his lips out of his mouth in an almost comical spout.

"Pthhbt!" Sylvian spat as his eyes shot open as he recoiled from the slap, bringing an arm to his lips to wipe at the stinging numbness the woman's hand had left behind. She was short and slight, dressed in what he would have considered to be ordinary clothes for a rogueish woman traveling alone. By her side was the creature who'd pulled him from his boat, a formidable panther that was almost as imposing to look at as it was to realize it had just had its jaws so close to his neck.

Propping himself on an elbow, Sylvian's eyes fluttered between the both of them, a brow quirking up as he wondered just why she'd felt the need to liberate him from the river, so to speak. "Rather rude to wake a man up from a nap and call him the time waster. No, I'm not dead. Not yet anyways." Bringing his other elbow underneath him, A coy smile grew on his lips.

"Unless that's what you're here to do."

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

Leaning back on one foot, Shakarri studied the mound of filth that used to be a man. Her eyes flickered over to Azura, who yawned, baring an evil set of fangs. Perhaps he was hungry? Shakarri attempted to quell the slight pang of disappointment inside her belly. If he was dead she could have been on her way, perhaps looting the body for whatever it had. Instead, she was here talking to a fool. She look again at him, and her lips curled in distaste at the smile. It was a smile that reminded her all too well of the monsters who'd ruined her life before it even began.

“Should've let you rot in the river, filth,” she growled. Straightening, she strode over to the trout splashing in the shallows. She lifted up the line, examining the fish. It was small. Pathetic. She seized the fish by the spasmodic tail and smashed it against the ground until it stopped moving. Then she removed the hook and tossed it to Azura, who caught it in midair. Chomp. Gone. She turned back to the Filth.

“What happened to the city over there?” she asked, gesturing at the pillars of smoke in the distance.“Vel Fannir, or whatever?” She paused, then added, “If you say don't know, you'll be a bad liar, 'cause you obviously came from there. Looks like someone got their ass kicked,” she smirked, then winced at her own tactlessness. If he was from there, elf or not,he'd probably just lost all his property, and by the looks of it, everything else too. And possibly everyone.

A pause.

”Sorry,” she muttered. “Uh, that was rude. Look, do you need anything?” She pointed. “There's a village that way, and you probably want to get away from here, if it was an invasion. You don't look like much, but you're a witness.” Witnesses to evil of any kind tended to a short life. Unless he wasn't a witness but a soldier with a bad day... but judging by his appearance, she doubted it. Just a fisher who couldn't catch proper fry.

“Come on, get up.” She didn't offer her hand. “Shakarri, most definitely not at your service. This is Azura. Don't piss him off.” Touch me and you're dead.

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Sylvian had thought his luck bad enough, but it seemed the fates intended to continue testing his will to tolerate fortune. It wasn't being plucked from the river that bothered him so much, it was the neurotic behavior of the woman who'd done so. The stranger almost seemed perturbed that he was living, stomping over to the creek's shore and taking out her frustrations on his catch like a petulant child.

By the time she was finished feeding the mangled fish to her pet and holding a decidedly one-sided interrogation as to what had become of Vel Farris, Sylvian had shaken off the cobwebs and managed to sit up. Whoever this girl thought she was, Artesto obviously wasn't impressed with her immature display. He'd met a thousand people who spoke sharper and acted meaner, this one certainly wouldn't get a rise out of him.

"Yes." He confirmed, slowly rising back to his feet and dusting himself off. "It was rude. But I've a feeling that manners aren't your strong suit, Miss Shakarri. Call it a hunch." He appreciated that she at least tried to rein herself in a little, but given her actions thus far, Sylvian was wary of giving her the benefit of the doubt. Pulling the rose-colored cloth from around his shoulders, he wrung the water out of it, grimacing as he tried not to damage the fabric too much. "Vel Farris was razed by the Republic of Vel Anir. Burned to the ground to stamp out any rebellious ideation."

Syl left out that he was the 'rebellious ideation' that they'd been looking for. This one didn't need to know that.

"You won't have to worry about me irking dear Azura. I've no intent to trouble you with my presence any longer." The words weren't spoken with bitterness or malice. On the contrary, he seemed rather unaffected, even wearing a slight smile as he draped the fabric back over his shoulders and wiped the soaking white hair from his face. Not once did he cast his stare to Shakarri or her companion, but he did offer them a wave. "Won't be long before they come looking for me. I don't intend to stick around. If I were you, I'd clear out too."

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

Far from stupid, the Filth’s words did not escape her any more than his lack of a name did. If the assailants of Vel Farris were after him, then he was clearly one of those very rebels spoken of. One eyebrow lifted as the Filth became slightly more interesting than some boring fisherman. Looking back at the plumes of smoke, she pulled herself atop Azura and nudged him into a slow, smooth stride that drew alongside the Filth. Riding Azura was much like riding a horse, if a horse was deadly silent with no saddle or reins, and its gait silkily even and straight. It had taken months for the giant feline to heel in giving her even a short ride.

“What do you intend to do now, Sir Rebel?” she asked, Azura growling softly as if adding an incomprehensible remark. “Are you headed to the village, then? I’ll show you the way, since I’m heading back as well.” It was true; there was nowhere else to go, and her provisions needed to be refilled after this remarkable waste of time heading to an unfortunate city. She only hoped the village would not be seen as a threat by the attackers of Vel Farris, though she doubted it would be. It was some distance away, with a local guard too small to come to anyone’s aid, much less harbor any productive ideas of avenging the elven population.

“What’s this Republic you speak of?” She asked as Azura moved slightly ahead. “I’m from Malakath. Looks like I should have stayed there, in fact,” she mused quietly to herself. It was too late now, but evidently the profit of being in this strange land was as dubious as her homeland. Mankind were the same everywhere, it seemed, burning and razing and destroying as wantonly as any group of bandits and slavers. No better than beasts.

“No, manners aren’t my strong suit,” she said lightly, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder as if proud of her tactless approach to strangers. “I’ve had little opportunity to practice. Azura has been my only company for a while, and speech isn’t a talent of his.” The slavers had taught her well, one of the kinder ones even showing her rudimentary numbers and her letters in between, but had never been exactly sophisticated.

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Shakarri had thus far shown herself to be little more than a brazen, crass, and rather rude stranger that had seemingly plucked him from the water out of sheer boredom. There was little about the woman that interested Sylvian in the slightest. At least, not in the rotten mood he was in. Usually, he was quite a personable fellow, but being burned out of his home and accosted by this lass and her pet had rather soured his temperament.

Then, she said something that brought him pause.

“What’s this Republic you speak of?”

Sylvian stopped in his tracks, his brow knitting in bemusement as he turned his head to look at the stranger. It made sense that she was from Malakath; it would explain her outlandish companion and unfamiliarity with these lands. Very few of her kind ever traveled to the mainland, and to thrust oneself into such volatile territory isn't something one would do voluntarily.

"The Republic of Vel Anir is one of the largest governmental bodies in the whole of Liadain. They control nearly a third of the continent." Sylvian tilts head down, feeling the slightest pang of remorse for judging her so, though it was difficult to feel bad when she'd treated him the way she had. "That city," Sylvian pointed to the black plume of smoke still rising up into the sky, "Was torn to pieces under the direction of a Dreadlord: A mage-warrior trained from youth by the Republic to be a walking weapon. A professional killer. And he was after me."

He hadn't intended to reveal that much, but he doubted it was anything she wouldn't have eventually gleaned herself. She was brash, but not stupid.

"So yes, I will be traveling to the next village to gather supplies and plan my next move." Artesto continued, biting his cheek and willing himself to calm. He was upset, understandably so, at his situation, but despite her manners, Shakarri was not his foe, and she'd not done him harm. Yet. His arm swung, gesturing her to lead as his shoulders dropped.

"If you wish to aide me, I'll not refuse you. Just know the danger you face in doing so, yeah? You're prickly enough without having a reason to be pissed off at me."

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

Any man or woman, even warriors, would have balked at the mention of such a deadly creature as the mentioned Dreadlord. But Shakarri neither paused nor flinched. She did lean back a little, a finger tapping idly against her chin in pensive thought. She wondered what this stranger had done, for conflicts that led to the razing of an entire city did not arise from the theft of a sweetroll or the robbing of a few precious gems. No, this Filth was someone important, or his deeds impressively heinous.

“I think you have enough people pissed off at you,” she remarked, a smirk spreading across her face. “I’ll not add to it. As for me…” she patted Azura’s flank, and if the stranger was sharp of eye he would spy the glimmer of a blade, sleek silver and steely grey. It helmed the head of a spear with a black handle barely visible against the thick ebony fur of the panther, lashed to an equally dark leather strap. “I can take care of myself.

“Next village is Hedgethorn Gate,” Shakarri said. “Not far... for me.”

The road was clear for the moment, empty of either those why might have successfully fled the Vel Farris disaster and empty of any who might pursue them. In fact, it was unnervingly peaceful, the only sign of disarray being the plumes of smoke that slowly vanished into the distance behind them. Shakarri kept a steady but fair pace, occasionally looking back at the stranger as it to make sure he was following, or perhaps hadn’t fallen ill from hypothermia. She did ask once if he was all right, though she showed little interest in him otherwise.

Despite her words that village was long in coming, and the sun was beginning a gradual descent when the thatched roofs of its various cabins and small shops came into view. It was not an impoverished town by any means, sporting even a bar for passersby and the small population, but it was a tiny mark on the map, a self-sufficient but insignificant farming community. A fence made of thorny hedges and a length of barbwire circled around the outer buildings, as much to keep out the unwanted as to keep the pigs, sheep, and cattle from wandering out.

A bored looking guard in modest yellow frock waved them into the opening leading to the village square. He perked up only slightly at the stranger and Shakarri’s huge cat.

“Best get you some fresh clothes and food,” Shakarri said presently. “You feeling good still?”

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

"That little place is still standing, hm? Figured it would have gotten trampled over at some point." Sylvian wouldn't admit it aloud, not yet anyways, but he was almost glad Shakarri had come along and decided to sic her big ass pet on him. He'd completely forgotten about Hedgethorn, and had been intending to take a much longer path into the Falwood in the hopes of maybe shacking up in Fal'Addas in a week's time. The problem with that was, all of the food and shelter he'd had to his name was back on that little boat of his. And that boat had been empty.

Chances are, he'd have starved on that river. Sad part is he wouldn't have stopped himself from doing it. Now that he had a little more clarity, it'd have been a foolish way to go out. Especially given all he'd endured to make it this far. That his new traveling companion could make the observation herself was enough proof that he'd jumped his fair share of hurdles.

"You don't know the half of it, lady. Spit in the air and it'll land on somebody who's tried to kill me, it feels like." A smirk seemed to suggest he was almost proud of that fact. Either that or he was so bitter about it that he'd looped around to finding it humourous. There was nothing humourous, though, about how empty the road leading out of Vel Farris was. Neither of them said anything about it, but Sylvian understood quietly what the lack of fleeing families from the smoldering city meant, something he'd feared, and perhaps even expected.

That damned Dreadlord hadn't left much in the way of survivors.

Of course, they weren't known to. To kill was their job. A pang of regret hit Sylvian square in his gut as they approached the humble little settlement of Hedgethorn. He should have stayed back, tried to help more people get out. The lives of the innocents who'd been taken was well worth more than his sorry remainder of an existence.

Another regret to tack onto his growing list.

"I'll be fine enough." Sylvian dragged himself from his remorse for a moment, turning his head towards the woman and her feline. The bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin suggested differently, but Artesto didn't seem keen on discussing his own well-being. "I suppose I owe you some thanks for accompanying me here. So... thank you." He offered, as they came into the square.

Turning to face her, Sylvian wiped some of the wet hair from his brow and looked her over once more, this time in the light of the torchlit town around them.

"So. What's your next move?"

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

Despite her initial attitude towards the Filth, Shakarri was not a normally rude woman. Uncouth, perhaps, but not all of it unshadowed by a bad hunt and disappointing day. She did feel a slight regret at treating the man in such an ill way, though she offered no apology for it. One eyebrow raised slightly as he asked her his question, this ragged, exhausted, drenched man who claimed his head to be wanted on a plate.

Shakarri had been raised in Malakath, among raiders and bandits who cared nothing for their looks, glancing only occasionally in the rippling tides of a river or bubbling stream. She herself never owned or wanted a mirror, much less any brushes or cosmetics. Her hair was untidy, a mess of knots and tangles; she was stained by dirt and rough travel, and her clothes were equally shoddy and scant. Yet underneath it all was an angular, beautiful face and a lean, rangy figure carried with confidence and a slight touch of arrogance.

“My next move?” She laughed, lightly if a little crudely. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.” She dismounted Azura, running hand through the thick coat as she leaned against the panther. She examined her nails, nibbled short so as to not hinder her grip. She crossed her arms. “I suppose I’m heading to a tavern. I’m getting food, a room if they have any, and a bath if it’s not too spendy.” Her nose wrinkled. “it's Shakarri. And please don’t say thank you. It’s so… sentimental.”

There was a tavern at the corner of the square. A roughly hewn sign swung idly above the uneven doors; the Trampled Tankard. It was unimpressive and simple, containing only the necessities to cook and produce drinks, but it was clean and boasted fresh food and inexpensive ales. Right now, it was well occupied with the folk from the village, and Shakarri took quick steps before all the tables were spoken for. Azura, knowing better, remained outside around the corner and sat against the outer wall. It laid down, paws beneath it in a loaflike fashion. It had already eaten earlier on a fat deer, and hunted for itself.

Assuming the stranger followed, Shakarri turned to him. “You have any money stowed away? Not saying you owe me for saving you from the river, though… I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have. But you do.”

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

If she thought that a simple thank you was sentimental enough to wrinkle her nose at, she certainly wasn't going to like his answer of what he planned to do next. Still, he found the crudeness of the strange beast rider to be almost amusing. It was nearly as if she'd arrived from another world, completely isolated in her goals and unaware of the happenings around her. That wasn't a point against her, either. Sylvian wished he could be so independent.

"Malakath is a harsh land, or so the stories say." Sylvian followed Shakarri with his eyes as she dismounted the massive panther and rested against it. That she hailed from there was difficult to believe, and if he hadn't seen how outlandish she was with his own eyes he wouldn't have. "That you've not only survived it, but made it to the mainland speaks to your tenacity."

Regardless of what she did or did not know about Arethil's politics, Sylvian was certain she'd handle herself just fine. Not that she seemed worried, sauntering towards the quaint little Tavern tucked away in the square as if she'd just returned from a triumphant battle. The older man shivered as his wet clothes sent another shocking chill through his bones, and reached up to clutch at his shoulders before turning to follow her.

"First thing is getting some dry clothes, then I'm going to scout out this town, see if any survivors made it. I can direct them to people who can help keep them fed for a while, keep them safe." A pang of remorse settled in his gut, twisting his lips to a scowl he hid by tucking his chin. "It's the least I can do for them." That Dreadlord had been after him, and the whole of the city had paid in his stead.

As they neared the tavern, Sylvian pulled the rose-colored shawl up and over his head to somewhat hide his face, grimacing as he immediately felt the soaked cloth begin to wet his silver hair. There was a chance that they'd be checking the surrounding settlements for him, and he wasn't risking anything.

Conveniently, Shakarri waited until they crossed through the doors into the busy bar room to ask for money, because of course, she did.

"I'll pay you for the escort, nothing more." He muttered back, though the smirk on his face suggested he wasn't too miffed at her for the boat incident any longer. "Put whatever you need on a tab for now, I need to get out of these rags."

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

A tad noisy, the talk and conversations of the tavern dimmed just a bit as the patrons took notice of the damp stranger in rags. Eyes looked up and eyebrows cocked as they took in his bedraggled appearance; one voice croaked out a chortle, with a comment on something about homeless vagrants and nearby rivers. Even those who did not cease in their chatter glanced aside, and there were groups who frowned at him and hunched closer together, their voices lowering.

Shakarri didn’t even return a single stare as she looked him up and down as the man said he would pay for her escort. Then she laughed. It was a tinkling sound, filled with ill mirth. “You? Sorry, how foolish of me. Any coin you have is at the bottom of that river, and any assets you own is…” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “… burning up.”

Straightening, she looked around, spotting the head counter, digging her hands into a rough bag at her side, though she did not procure any coin as she reached the bar and the tired but cheerful old man minding it. She leaned against the wooden stand and gave a smile. Not a beaming grin, nor a fool’s toothy leer, but a small smile showing just a hint of teeth.

To say it completely transformed her features would be an understatement. The bartender stopped what he was doing and stared.

“Hello, sir,” Shakari purred. "My brother and I need a room. One for him, one for me. I’m so sorry, he fell into the river west of here and ruined his clothes on top of it. Can you do something for us, please?”

“Oh my,” the bartender murmured. “Well, miss, ‘course I can. I can… let’s see. Three silvers for two rooms sound fair? I’ll throw in two baths for free. If you’re apt to spare another silver… I’ll spend one of the servers to fetch some spare clothes for your brother. I’m sure I have something about.”

“Oh!” Shakarri exclaimed. “That would be so wonderful. What’s your name, sir?”

“Nathaniel.”

“Nathaniel. Thank you so much, Nathaniel,” she smiled again as she slid four silvers over to the man. He took it with a modest smile of his own. At a gesture and a few instructions, a red-faced servant approached and gestured toward a length of stairs to lead them to a room.

“Come on, dear brother,” Shakarri said merrily to the stranger. “You’ll be right as rain soon.”

 

[Sylvian Artesto]

Sylvian didn't act to disrupt Shakarri's amusing charade, though he didn't look entirely impressed with it either. If the woman would rather use her wiles and charms, niche thought they may be, to earn them a room for a discounted price, then far be it from him to intervene. More or less she was doing work for him in this instance, as he would likely have pulled a similar trick, albeit with less fluttering eyes and more casual conversation.

As she slid the silvers forward, Sylvian stepped up to stand beside her, doing his best not to look like he was trying not to pity this poor bartender's gullible affliction. "Thank you, the both of you..."

He didn't need to do much to look or sound weak and pathetic; his soaked hair and clothes and the croak in his voice from the water and soot in the air did the legwork for him.

There was some pity in the barman's eyes, but they more or less remained on Shakarri as she led him away from the bar and towards the stairs that the servant gestured them to. There was much to be done, and Artesto didn't quite intend on settling down for the evening yet. Even so, he couldn't deny the call of a hot bath and warm clothes...

Once the servant left them in the hallway outside of their rooms, Sylvian dropped his pitiable expression and turned to Shakarri with a smirk.

"Pretty slick, I admit..." Sylvian reached under his shirt and, with a sharp tug, pulled out a leather pouch that had been tightly pinned to his clothing. Shaking it gently, the rattling of coins came from within. "...But you were so eager to show off your wiles, when I truly did intend to pay." Tossing the pouch up into the air, he catches and pockets it again. "No takebacks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a soak and a warm set of clothes."

Shakarri

 

[Shakarri]

Much as she wanted to, Shakarri held back the urge to slap the stranger, beat the shit out of him, and take his coin on top of it. No, no, no, she wasn’t that kind of person at all. Still, the scowl she sent his way was full of resentful poison. She felt as tricked as the bartender, and it didn’t help she knew it was because she had assumed too much of the stranger’s wealth. Well, fine.

“You’re excused,” she spat. “Let that be the last I ever see of you, Filth.” Turning, she swept into the room given to her and slammed the door shut.

The room was small, scant in furnishing and luxuries, but that was to be expected in a small village such as this. It did however sport a soft bed and, as promised, a wooden tub currently being filled with water from two servants carrying buckets of hot water. A few trips later they were done, and Shakarri stripped off her attire and slipped into the water, letting the warmth soothe her nerves. So far, she didn’t think much of Arethil’s mainland. She was starting to wonder If the lone hunter had played her false.

She wondered if she might ever see him again. A familiar ache rose in her chest, the same feeling she had as she watched him vanish back into the wilds of Malakath, healed from the wounds he said came from a botched hunt for boar. She smiled at the memories he gave her, relaxing in the tub. She washed her skin and hair, rinsing off the dust and grime from a long road. She washed her attire, and set them out to dry as she unpacked and dressed in a clean set of clothing. She was back in the dining center an hour later, perusing the small menu of food items scrawled on a board hanging above the bar. She felt starved.

Next door, the stranger would find his own tub filled quickly. Later, a young woman knocked on his door, leaving behind a set of plain, but dry clothes. They were loose fitting, and no richer than a servant’s. but free. If he wanted something fancy, he’d have to go search for that on his own.