Private Tales For What Do We Bleed?

[Lyssia D'avore]

Pain.

It flowed through her frail body in waves, originating at the wrists. Bound, bound by iron of all things, and the cursed metal burned her, and sent its waves of agony weaving through flesh that had already been through quite enough of recent. She could barely think through her suffering, barely see beyond the dimness of agony.

Darkness all around; another night had fallen. Overhead, the stars showed in patches as the clouds scudded across the heavens, and somewhere distant thunder growled low. Not here, though. Crickets chirruped in the undergrowth, mosquitoes humming around her head. They did not light upon her skin to feed, for her blood would not nourish them in the same way that the other prisoners' would. The scent of unwashed body hung in the air, of sour sweat and sharp blood, and of other odors even less pleasant than that.

Lyssia hung by her wrists from bracelets and chains of pure iron. Those had been hung on a spike hammered into a tree high enough that she could not sit, let alone lie down. And so, she hung from her restraints as waves of nausea rolled through her and blood slowly trickled from the abrasions on her wrists. Their captors were not interested in being kind and, if truth were to be told, probably uninterested in delivering their captives in anything remotely resembling good condition. At least they didn't beat her; the iron made any further abuse completely unecessary, sapping her strength away as surely as starving her would have.

She could just make out another shape nearby, a mound of shadow only barely distinguished from the surrounding gloom by the faint light of a campfire some fifty yards away. Somewhere near to hand and as yet unseen, a sentry stood guard over the prize they had works so hard to capture, indifferent to the suffering so long as it brought a good price.

Lyssia shuddered, dirty dress shivering on her scrawny frame...

...no alarum, only the sweet embrace of darkness in a room bordering on chilly. Three months since their flight from the capitol, and with little by way of progress in solving the problem of the impending coup, being so comfortable and at ease seemed a crime in and of itself. Elijah's comforting presence - and she did not know what to think of that - had brought with it a measure of security she had seldom enjoyed in the most recent years. Even so, even with the handful of names they had managed to gather, even with days of little else to do but think of a solution to the problem...

...they had managed nothing. Ki'onte still remained seated like a spider in her web, the Dynast trapped in the threads without even realizing it. And those threads comprised of portions of the army itself, other noble houses, commoners and merchants, and outside interests that all had a stake in overturning the current order. Such were what coups were for - to secure profits for the conspirators, and damn the cost to anyone else.

A shadow, moving in the austere room. She only just caught sight of it as she was preparing to close her eyes, and would have thought little more of it than a trick of the light had not a piercing shriek cut through the night...

She lifted her weary head and cast her eyes fire-ward. There were not many in this particular party, a handful of picked men and women - mostly women - who were all of top-notch quality in their chosen work. Bounty hunters, sell-swords, assassins...it did not matter to the one who sat in a camp chair looking into the fire, settled into that chair as primly as any queen. Occasionally, the woman in question would cast a dark look in the direction of the captives, and one in particular.

At least this time she was not the object of direst scorn. The fellow that megawatt glare was directed at was an unpleasant enough fellow in his own right, and had seldom given Lyssia more than two words strung together in the three days since her capture. The young sidhe tried to shift her position to look for the sentry, but it only brought with it a wave of agony and darkness, and for a moment she went limp...

...and recalled the sound of fighting, intense, in the little fortress on the border to Oban. With only a dozen or two soldiers of the Dynasty present in this distant outpost at any given time, it was unlikely to be more than a raid or...or perhaps...

A hand tried to cover her mouth even as she sat upright, and her cry of surprise was mirrored by the cry of pain as something cold and alien touched her skin. It burned, but the assailant had not anticipated their mark being conscious; she lashed out with a hand and struck something hard, and the assailant cursed and dropped the iron. The pain went away, as she scrambled off the bad and took off running, dressed in little more than a linen shift. Vehement cursing behind her...

She came to again, any sense of elapsed time lost. Still dark, still night, the sound of night creatures continuing on in their sonorous multitude. Someone moved near a tree within her line of sight, shifting their position to get more comfortable, before settling back. The acrid scent of smoke wafted across her, and the faint light of someone puffing at a pipe in the darkness.

Where are you, Elijah? Safety and comfort and a growing sense of...something, well...they teetered there, a flame of hope that had been guttering for a day now. She dared not think what would happen to her when she reached the capitol; torture at the least, for what she knew, before they simply snuffed her out.

Why was it she was more concerned about Elijah, then? When her own life was in danger but his...his was unknown. Dead? Alive? Hurt?

Alone in the darkness with a captor and a man who clearly thought less of her than a pile of horse manure, she was left to wonder that to herself, mind circling round that and her eventual fate.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

DAYS AGO​

They had no name. Not yet. Or perhaps they didn't need one at all. They were the free men of Dornoch, the free women of Oban, and in common cause were they bound together. By necessity they were few, for the plan they all wished to see brought to fruition required conviction and loyalty above all. Many were those who would have otherwise joined but lacked the will to see the plan through, even though the relentless march of time had proven it to be the only remedy left available.

Violence. This was the remedy for the ailing people left behind by the free men and the free women. Only violence on a grand scale was strong enough to destroy the enduring cage into which countless men and women became victim and perpetrator alike.

The journey had just begun. And each step needed either to be careful...

...or a calculated risk.

Before the gathered free men and free women in the cabin, Elliot said, "We're going to toss a bone to the she-hound. Keep her busy."

Protests. Doubt, as to whether this was the best course of action.

"She won't kill me. She'll want to, but she won't."

Not if he made himself "available" for capture. Gloria wanted that public execution in the middle of Dornoch, the recognition for her efforts, the validation from the Dynasty, that sweet taste of glory. She suckled on the teat of Dornoch from birth, and so she would until death. She was a tool and happy to be one, a willing part of the baleful tapestry that was the oppression pervasive throughout Dornoch, and in so being she could disguise the failings of her character in her devotion to a system built on the crushing of those beneath her and call it virtue.

"This is only going to work once. So our eyes and ears in Dornoch will have to make the most of it."

The free men, the free women, all of them asked how he planned to escape. Because, surely, if Gloria took him all the way to Dornoch, it would be over.

And at this, Elliot just smiled.

* * * * *

NIGHT EN ROUTE​

Elliot sat cross-legged on the ground, stripped down to solely his trousers and the irons which clamped his ankles together and his wrists behind his back. A thick chain ran between himself and four other men, binding them all together such that one of them could not go anywhere without the other four. From what Elliot knew, the other four men were petty criminals and outlaws, wanted by Dornoch but not nearly as much as himself or the redhead. At least two of the men were unlucky in that Elliot had specifically chosen to be in their company at the roadhouse in which Gloria's coalition launched their assault. An unexpected prize in the bunch--Gloria must have been thrilled.

Thrilled, if her smug attitude over the past days of travel was any indication. She let her allies in her coalition string the redhead up from a tree, but Elliot she preferred to keep low to the ground. Though she didn't engage in it herself, she watched with crossed arms and smirking satisfaction whenever any of the women decided to give him a sharp kick to the ribs, to the face, or to the balls. She liked to stand over him. Look down on him. Gloat from her position on high.

And Elliot took it all in silence. He said not a word in retort. He didn't need to. While the sheep-dog was away, the wolves dressed in sheep's clothing were sneaking into the flock.

Still.

The day would come when he could finally slip a knife between her ribs, or across her throat. He need only be patient.

Gloria had retired into her carriage for the night. The campfire had been snuffed out, the hour was late and the darkness was thick. Every now and again Elliot could hear the buzzing of a mosquito sharply rising in pitch and loudness as it flew close to his ear and then away. The posted nightwatch stood about the campsite, little more than vague silhouettes to Elliot--perhaps these were the full-blooded dark elves that were a part of Gloria's coalition. There were three that Elliot counted: two women, one man. And it was the man that earned Elliot's utter contempt. Gloria treated this dark elven assassin as she did every other man, and he dutifully went about his tasks regardless, submitting his face willfully to be stepped on by her boot. It was pathetic, truly, and there was nothing more so in all the world. If Elliot had the choice of whom to kill, one and only one, Gloria or the unnamed male dark elf, he would without hesitation choose the dark elven man. Such a wretched creature did more damage than a person like Gloria, for in his example would he sway the young, the unlearned, those unmolded by experience or proper instruction to follow him into obsequious bondage. That dark elven man stamped on the potential fledgling embers of freedom before they could catch fire and alight an ethic that could not be smothered, damning those around him to be chained with him.

Then there were those like Gloria.

And the redhead, Lyssia, who hung in irons from a nearby tree.

Only one of those two had gotten some small portion of what they deserved.

Elliot sat on the ground, head bowed in what looked like sleep but was at present mindful contemplation. He was not without good company, came the thought in his nightly meditation. Not so common a cause they shared, but they were nevertheless bound together.

Lyssia D'avore

 

[Elijah]

"I'll ask you one more time..."

* * *
​

Elijah was used to taking orders he didn't agree with. He had served in the Dynast's army since he was 18 years old and had commanders whom he would have followed into the maws of death and those he was glad to see go. No matter which he had had, he had always carried out his orders without opening his mouth to voice his own opinions. That wasn't what soldiers were paid to do.

But Lyssia hadn't paid him.

"This is a terrible idea," he muttered not for the first time as he patted Gypsy's neck in a reluctant farewell. She, along with the rest of their rag-tag team, would stay in the camp and await further instructions. It was only himself and two others who would accompany Lyssia on her fool quest into Oban through the final outpost. The deep-seated hatred of Dornoch's natural enemy had not left him even when he had found himself among the list of enemies Dornoch considered itself to have. He cast his eyes to the sky once more in the search of any of the Griffins who might snatch Gypsy from the sky and use as a lunchtime snack, then with a few harsh words demanding his mount be looked after, followed after Lyssia in a foul mood. It was a simple mission and he could understand her thinking after months of no luck with letters but that didn't mean he had to like, nor trust, it.

As soon as he had seen Elliot in that inn where Lyssia's contact had planned to meet them to lead them into Oban proper, Elijah had known everything was going to go south. He should have taken her out right then and there. He should have thrown her over his shoulder no matter her sharp words and accusations of cowardice. He should have...

* * *
​

"I'll ask you one last time, Captain," the woman in front of him purred, her hand fisting in his hair to yank his head back and force him to look up into those fire-filled eyes. "What were you doing in Teteht? Who were you meeting?"

Elijah spat blood at her feet causing her to grimace and let him go, returning to the table where her assortment of favourite devices sat. During the days as they marched the box they crammed him into was almost a comfort. At least there wasn't pain inside his cramped quarters. It was when night fell and he was hurled out and dangled in Gloria's tent that the pain begun again along with the endless questions. He was certain it was only the fact those higher than her wanted their turn at his hide that kept her from killing him outright.

"It might even be admirable, your loyalty to this woman, if you did not taint Samantha's memory by giving it to a traitor."

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Acid in the veins.

After enough time had passed - days or weeks or years, it was difficult to tell - it became easier to bear the agony. Mostly. A little, at least. Unlike Elijah, whom she was unaware shared a similar fate to herself, the wretched woman that headed this little excursion did not bother to speak to her at all. No words exchanged, no questions asked, no accusations leveled. After all, she was already guilty in Gloria's mind. She had been guilty before ever this whole sordid chain of events had come to pass.

Two years ago, in fact. When her mother and father were both slain, and she was cast onto the street to be worse than a beggar, less than the common criminals and less than even the men that everyone looked down upon for some reason.

That had never been her opinion. People like Gloria certainly existed within Erdeniin, certainly plenty of them...but she had never seen herself as better than men. No, her attitude had just been in being better than the common class of citizen period, male or female either way. Oh, how it had stung to be cast down through no fault of her own. And the trip down had never stopped, only grown more foul and painful and humiliating with every passing month, with every passing week.

Bedraggled and pained, the diminutive redhead looked up through the curtain of her own ruddy hair, and surveyed the surroundings. The one guard she could still see, though he had not moved in some time. Maybe she could try to get herself free again...

..and opening to the Prim, a trickle of sweet power. There was something that was...off with it, some sicklt taint that threaded through all of it. Lyssia was not familiar with it, and its presence made her feel sick to her stomach. For a moment she did nothing but hold that tainted flow; even soured as it was, it was still sweet enough to call to her.

It would have been wiser to hold it. Instead, she tried to turn that power to the iron chains that bound her, and with the the touch of that fae power to the fetters that held her, there was an explosion of pain. The mewl that escaped her lips might have twisted Gloria's lips in glee, but that worthy was otherwise occupied elsewhere.

Panting, wanting to throw up, the girl had little choice but to hang there. No strength, no magic, and above all else...no hope. Not for the first time, she considered the possibility that the untoward elements within Dornoch might finally have won. The elements that doubtless sided with Gloria and her twisted view of the world.

In the woods, oblivious to the thoughts inside the little fae's head, eyes watched on.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

"What happened?"

Elliot stood before his mother Athena Aldmar battered and bruised, caked blood around his nose and his lips. He was eight years old and half her height. She looked down at him, arms at her sides, face impassive instead of alarmed. She was more a stern teacher in that moment than a worried parent.

"I fought back," Elliot said. His eyes were rimmed with angry, bitter tears.

"And?" Still she looked down, her eyes peering from behind her raised nose.

"There were too many," Elliot admitted, tone laden with shame. "I punched that girl, the big one--"

"The surly one," Athena observed dryly.

Elliot nodded. Continued, "And then her friends called in the boys. There...there were just too many." Elliot bit his lower lip, and his brow curled in dismay. "Why do we have to live here, Mom? You told me of those other places. Here I just..." A shrug, heavy with despair, "...suffer."

Athena slowly descended down to his level. Crouching. And for a moment Elliot feared that she might slap him again.

But she did not.

She drew him in close. Hugged him dearly. Cradled the back of his head and rubbed his back. Elliot was shocked by the tenderness of the moment. From his mother, it was uncharacteristic. She wasn't like father. Not at all. She'd never shown this much affection for him before.

Athena said quietly to Elliot, "You have to suffer. It makes you who you are. Who you ought to be, Elliot. Soft experiences create soft men. Hard experiences create hard men. Not always. Some break. But mostly." She paused. "You'll understand when you're older."

She squeezed him a bit tighter. He could feel, faintly, her heart beating--strong and steady. He raised his arms. Tentatively, at first. Then hugged her back. The flood of emotion was released, and tears rolled down his face.

"I'm proud of you. What you've done today," she whispered. And it was the second best thing she had ever said to him.

Followed then by the first.

"I love you, Elliot."

* * * * *​

Elliot glanced up vaguely when he heard the mewling from the redhead hanging from the tree.

"Be quiet." Disdain, bright as a bonfire, alighting his voice. "Have some dignity."

But perhaps that was too much to expect from a person of D'avore's class. Soft experiences, soft woman. The entire apparatus of most civilizations ended up becoming elaborate cradles in which a handful of disillusioned babes could become fat from luxury and think themselves conquerors of natural law. D'avore had been one such infant. And now she was discovering just how real the world she had hidden herself from happened to be.

Elliot could not imagine a justice more fitting.

* * * * *​

Gloria Stannis entered the tent, eyes adjusting to the soft lantern light inside. And there he was. The wayward Captain Elijah.

Truly, she was a genius. Truly. Her proposal had worked nicely, turned out quite a few rats in the rug, and the Dynast was sure to be pleased. Why, it really was a simple solution. Dornoch had a number of elements operating independently of one another, all talented in their own right and skilled in particular lines of work. So why not combine them for a coordinated venture? A force suited for a multitude of tasks from the diverse array of skillsets that was contained within it. The most difficult part, of course, was actually convincing these separate elements to come together. One had their pride to maintain, after all, Gloria herself included, of course, she was modest enough to admit that. Easier was the hiring of the usual muscle--sellswords, bounty hunters--to bolster the ranks. And this was standard enough. These men, brutes and oafs all, performed with a modicum of admirability when (and only when) they were overseen by a smart and capable female like herself and the other heads of her coalition.

Which led her to Captain Elijah, of course.

You see, it was not necessarily his fault--what he was doing. No. Not necessarily. How could he have known any better? He was merely a man, after all, lacking the grace of wisdom that would forever be beyond his masculine capacity to possess. A dog without a leash went astray more often than not. Worse, though, was when that leash was held by someone who didn't have the dog's best interests in mind. And who was the current holder of the dear Captain's leash? Why, it was none other than Lyssia D'avore. The traitor.

Or.

Maybe it was the Captain's fault? Maybe he had a small streak of Elliot Aldmar within him, a foolishly rebellious, droolingly savage streak, entertaining the sheer audacity to be an antagonist against his benevolent betters. What a troublesome bother. This. This was why men should only be permitted to be fodder within the military--it was all they were good for (and even then). But did anyone heed Gloria on this matter? No. Oh it was sad to say, but, most unfortunately, there were some women who rivaled men, what with the tenuous grasp of wisdom they had. And lack of control. Captain Elijah wasn't terribly bad looking. Handsome, Gloria would even say. But some women let their urges get the better of them, stepping disgracefully down to the level of the men they bedded. How did this man Elijah even become a captain anyway? Who the hell did he sleep with to get his position? Pah. Nevermind. It hardly mattered now.

Gloria glanced to the other woman in the tent, one of the heads of the coalition. And Gloria could tell by the look on her face that she hadn't gotten anything from the dear Captain yet. Elijah wasn't Gloria's quarry, but it irritated her to no end that he dared resist falling in line.

Gloria raised her hand and snapped her fingers. Said to the man who'd come into the tent with her, "A chair, please."

Robert Venoche, Gloria's right-hand, dutifully fulfilled her command. He grabbed the simple wooden chair from elsewhere in the tent and set it down in front of Elijah--slightly beyond where he'd spat blood at the feet of the other woman.

"Thank you, Robert. You may go," she said, with all the tight formality of a superior deigning to even speak to an inferior in a manner one could loosely call "cordial."

Robert nodded, and he departed from the tent.

Gloria came forward. Sat in the chair before Elijah, crossing her legs primly and straightening out her traveling dress. Then she entwined her hands and set them to rest in her lap.

"See that, Captain? A good man is one who knows his place."

Was it even worth trying to salvage this pile of gutter rubbish before her? There would be plenty of room beside Lyssia once they arrived to Dornoch and their inevitable sentences were carried out.

"I know you're not a bad man."

Tiresome pretenses. None of which would be necessary if only his mother had raised him right. Alas, here Gloria was. Having to pretend like she placed any amount of worth on the man before her.

She canted her head forward. Down. A sickly sweet smile accompanying a judgmental gaze from beneath her brow.

"But have you forgotten your place?"

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

"I know my place."

Six times he had been put in the dreaded box and seven times he had been put in this chair with his hands bound tightly behind his back. The enchanted braces he had worn around his forearms had been confiscated along with his other weapons and armour. All that was left to him was the shirt and kilt he had worn underneath it and that was dirty and soiled now. The thought of a bath and ridding himself of the lice he could feel crawling in his hair made him almost delirious with desire. Yet that nor the threat of going back in that box would loosen his tongue. Ironically, it was duty that kept it fastened shut. The duty they tried to throw in his face or claim he had tainted in some way. He lifted his head from where it had been bowed against his chest to look the woman across from him squarely in the eyes. His own face was a mask of pure, self-filled righteous serenity.

Anyone might have thought he was having a pleasant conversation over tea about the weather.

"It's protecting the Dynast from all threats against her, both seen and unseen," he said it almost like how a prophet or a priest might recite some holy mantra they had unwavering conviction in. There could have been no doubt that Elijah would die willingly for his beliefs.

"Do you know your place, My Lady?" he looked at her with a pitying frown. "I am not too sure how happy your superiors will be knowing the lengths you have gone to to secure a criminal as worthless as Elliot Aldmar. One might almost think you had a ... personal connection to the thief with how you've pursued him so doggedly."

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

"...," was the only reply that the brute got from her. At least for the moment, at least while she reeled from her misguided attempt to free herself. She was not privy to the thoughts inside his head - anymore than any other person would be to that of others around them. She would have laughed in his face if she had heard him opine so.

It was difficult to comprehend such a terrifying fall. Whatever Elliot thought of her was wrong, if not on every single level than quite near to it.

Her thoughts drifted in that direction, nevertheless. The whole situation defied belief. That she had been captured was not entirely surprising; ever a burden, never a boon, she was always the one finding herself in trouble. Hurt, wounded, ill, pursued...cast down, cut loose, set adrift. Forty years of life within the estates of a Bursar, trained to pick up the reins of power and everything that went with it...all of that, dashed upon the rocks.

Home, family, fortune...gone. Some of those things hurt more than others.

Alric. Dignity. Well, he had always been the dignified one. Her elder by years - and among the fae, twenty years really amounted to very little - he had always been possessed of a quiet power all his own. More collected, cooler, and smarter by far than she had ever been...

...and in the end, it didn't matter. Better than she had been, but still every bit as much dead. She could still feel his blood staining her bosom, burning hot. Filled with the shame and the horror of watching the last person she cared for die...because of her. Nay, not only because...but for her sake. Hanging their like a beaten dog, she had to wonder what it had all been for. For her? She had never done anything worthy of it and, in all likelihood, never would.

The vain sacrifice, the empty promise of a tomorrow that would have been better had she simply...faded, and he with her. The same sacrifice that drove her forward, the reason that she had yet to simply surrender herself and be done with it, and all the misery.

That...and perhaps, another.

Something touched her, but she had not the strength to speak. The iron would slowly poison her to death, if the powers that be allowed it so; it disrupted the magical energies of the would and denied them to her, much in the same way that trying to work upon iron with magic was a fools game.

Touched her again, and then placed a gloved hand over her mouth. In the preternatural gloom of the night, indistinct shadows made up the entire world. Poisoned as she was, she could barely make out anything...but even so, she drew a sharp breath at the familiar contact. In other circumstances there might have been rage...but here there was only fear.

"...say nothing," a voice whispered at her ear. Male, young, confident. The hand did not leave her mouth. "Nod if you understand," they said, and she slowly nodded though it set her stomach to lurching.

A moment later, the hand fell away. Time stretched...and then suddenly she was being lowered to the ground, someone working on the manacles that bound her wrists. Fresh fire raced along nerves, part the returning flow of blood and part the brutality of the iron as it touched and enflamed new flesh.

"I will need a moment to unlock this," said the voice in the darkness. She simply lay there, unable to move while the torrent of pain washed over her. Whatever they did and whoever they were, she was completely at their mercy. Giving assent was unimportant. She could only hope they would remove the damned chains.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Trust in the plan.

Planning, careful consideration, thoughtful deliberation, these were the ways to victory. Blindly lashing out was a fool's game, achieving nothing, complicating matters in the long run--Elliot knew. In his nightly self-reflection, which he was now currently engaged in, he acknowledged his good fortune in finding the Dreng'toth, in establishing a firm ethic where once there had been only loose, disorganized nascent principles.

And the plan was necessary, for the grand task that it served was large, complex, and brittle--it could be foiled in any number of ways before could even begin. He considered then the value, once his escape from Gloria's custody came, of also ensuring the escape of D'avore if it was not already ensured. Internal strife within Dornoch served him well; eyes turned inward could not see the wolves gathering around the periphery of the flock. Perhaps D'avore's status as a traitor would have been commendable, if she had followed it up appropriately, which she did not. Yet she could, inadvertent to her own actions, be of use to him. Dornite resources tied up with her situation were resources which could not simultaneously be used against him and his free men and women.

Elliot was thinking of this when, upon opening his eyes and looking up again, he saw the black silhouette of D'avore not hanging from the tree, but on the ground. With another black silhouette. He'd not heard anything spoken (clearly, anyway) by this other person.

Elliot didn't think much of it. He thought it to be one of Gloria's goons, sent to fetch D'avore and to take her into same tent that the military-type man she'd been captured with had been taken.

So he said nothing, and went back to his nightly self-reflection.

* * * * *​

Despite the calm exterior, Gloria was fuming internally. How dare this wretch even consider talking back to her in such a manner?? And with that smug face no less, as if what he was currently engaged in would somehow lead to Dornoch's very salvation and not the catastrophic fruition of a traitor's gambit. She ought to--

Now, now. Ease, Gloria, be at ease. You're in control here. There is a table full of reasons why the dear Captain would soon regret his words right behind you, and there's a capable woman ready to administer his appropriate punishment. And look, the fool already made a mistake. Worthless. Capitalize on it.

Gloria smiled. "Typical. Your loins prevent you from reaching anything resembling a deep thought, and base risqué insinuations remain the extent of what flutters about in that vacant skull." Cognitive dissonance perfectly screened her from the hypocrisy of similar insinuations running through her own mind of Elijah and how he had attained his rank moments prior. "I should have known not to expect anything better, despite your...supposed station."

Her shoulders relaxed, and she raised up her chin again. "Yet your answer reveals much, Captain. True, Elliot Aldmar is worthless as a man, certainly as worthless as they come, and he will not be missed once he is swinging from the gallows. But, his crime..."

Gloria looked to the other woman in the tent. "The dear Captain here seems to think that the murder of an Erdeniin Dynasty member isn't worthy of having justice pursued for it. Such a man, at the same time, believes that he is 'protecting the Dynast', and this while having fallen in step to a traitor's tune." Gloria scoffed, grinning, incredulous at it all. "Unbelievable, is it not?"

Gloria looked back Elijah. "You were certainly right about Aldmar as a man. And you've much in common with him in that regard, Captain."

She thought, briefly, off having Elliot's humbled hide hauled in here and thrown before Elijah just so the Captain could have a glimpse at how low he, too, could fall, should he continue to hold his loyalty to "Lady" Lyssia D'avore. But Gloria was certain that the dear Captain, dense as he was, would be immune to such a brilliant, psychological play. Therefore...the table.

Gloria stood up. Stepped aside. And glanced to her fellow woman in the tent. Physical torture was not part of Gloria's skillset, but she enjoyed watching practitioners do their work on acceptable targets. Hers was...oh, there was no modest way to say it...hers was a more refined method. The aforementioned psychological pressure. When she had been brought on to investigate Aldmar, she had called in his father, Ormarel Dez'Synth, for questioning on several occasions. It was clear that he didn't know anything of use during the first session, but...as much as Gloria liked watching physical torturers do their work, she enjoyed more exerting her power and influence over people like Ormarel. She enjoyed squeezing him with words and implications alone, holding his livelihood in her hand like a fragile glass bauble and threatening to let it slip and fall at any moment. She loved being in total control.

But this, the physical torture? It would suffice.

Gloria, looking at the other woman, gestured a hand to table, and said, "If you would help the dear Captain come to his senses..."

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

The barbs thrown in his direction missed their mark. Not a flinch, not a twitch, now the narrowing of brows disrupted the perfect, icy gaze Elijah levelled in the pathetic woman's direction. He had seen her type before amongst the pecking, squabbling hens who were vying for the Dynast's attentions. Perhaps Gloria thought that by retrieving a would-be assassin would win her some honour and in a way, Elijah was disappointed he wouldn't get to see the look on the woman's face when the Dynast did nothing more than glance in her direction for her service to the crown. Eli himself had bought ten assassins to her over the years. Men and women who had snuck past the guard, one who had even drawn blood, and the woman had done little more than sniff in his direction.

Telling her that her time and effort was wasted in this futile search would of course fall only on deaf ears and so he didn't bother wasting his breath on her. He would need his strength for other things.

"As always, a pleasure to speak to you My Lady," were the only words Elijah offered to her back before settling his gaze on the woman who would wield the stick now the carrot had not worked again. His body was criss-crossed in barely healed and badly healed wounds from the days prior. Burn marks, cuts, bruises that mottled his skin. He tossed back his hair and bore them like a proud lion baring his teeth in front of the captor.

* * *
​

Three days the men had waited, loyal to their Captain, before beginning the hunt. Gypsy had been chomping at the bit to go sooner but nobody really listened to a pegasus, even when said pegasus knocked the supposed leader to the floor and snorted in their face. But the winged horse had led them straight and true to the caravan that had been holding Elijah and the woman-who-gave-apples.

A warm nose gently brushed against Elliot's cheek and gave a sniff, before withdrawing and snorting in irritation. There was a stamp of a hoof and then a quiet word.

"Easy, we'll find 'im. Who do you suppose they a.. why am I talking to a fuckin' horse," there was a kiss of teeth and then a 'oof' and a "sorry" from the same voice, if slightly wheezy. Not soon after a rattle of tools and the voice began to pick the locks to the manacles at his wrists.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Muttering under breath their breath, the man who held her manacles worked on otherwise silently. It was clear there was no key in his possession, which was complicating things a great deal. Somewhere else in the darkness, the sound of people shifting around under that comforting cover as thye worked about their own tasks.

"Damnit," the voice said in quiet frustration. "I'm going to have to get the key to unlock this," he said. A pause. "I'm sorry about this," he said.

Pain. An explosion of white light behind her eyes as he lifted her up and replaced the chain and its burden where he had found it. The mixture of hope and fear surged and then faded away, replacedb y the same black despair that she had wallowed in before the unknown ally had come along. Was it more of Gloria's tricks?

She didn't have time to consider it before darkness swallowed her again.

----
The day before...
----

...awareness returned, a brutal kick to the ribs when no foot had been raised. Only the damned iron, burning where it touched her wrists, and the breath being driven from her lungs as she was unceremoniously dumped on the stony ground in front of her captor, the flames of the fire casting that worthy in flickering light that made her more terrifying for the play of shadows than she would otherwise have been. Outwardly, at least. Inwardly, the woman was dangerous beyond belief, and Lyssia knew it. Bound by iron, she could do little more than lay there in a boneless heap, eyes glazed by pain staring at an awkward angle at Gloria.

Gloria waited.

Oh but of course she did. One of the best displays of power was making whomever stood (or, in this case, lay helplessly) before you wait. Because they were on your time, your time was the valued commodity here, and you only engaged with them when you so deigned. True, yes, that she'd nothing else to do but sit and lord over the unexpected prize her coalition had brought in--a two-for-one, counting the Captain. But she made the traitor Lyssia D'avore wait anyhow.

Finally, she spoke. "You know, among my more envious contemporaries, they ascribe to me a most unflattering description of my occupation. Do you know what it is...Lyssia D'avore?"

She waited further. Smirked, in time.

"A ratcatcher." Gloria inhaled, and let out a satisfied sigh. "It seems that in this case, this description is quite apropos."

"...," was the only response that Gloria received. Lyssia simply stared at the woman, stared hard with eyes filmed with pain and made of ice. The game of waiting was an ineffective one for someone who had been born into the noble strata of society, and to whom the methodology was known. World weary she was not (yet, at least), but the art of using silence as a weapon was one that she knew all too well. In fact, it was one she was using even now, albeit the upper hand was clearly not on her side. (edited)

Gloria made a fist and rested her cheek against it, elbow leaning on the chair's armrest. "Hmmm. Nothing to say for yourself?"

Lyssia D'avore wasn't her target. But Gloria had it from her fellow women of the coalition that she could be very talkative, once a certain fire was lit underneath her. And that fire was comprised solely of a single emotion.

Anger.

"You don't have to do this to yourself, Lyssia. You truly do not. Is the Dynast not merciful? She knows that you are not your mother. You were absolved of involvement in your mother's treasonous affairs, were you not? So, all you have to do...is denounce her, Lyssia. Say that your mother's execution was deserved. Say that she died a traitor's death, and that you spit on her memory."

She smiled. Sickly sweet, with promises made acidic by their prices at the tip of her lips.

"Go on. Say it."

"As if," she began thickly, the pain clear as sweet honey to Gloria's ears, "you have that sway," she finished. Gloria had missed her mark; her Mother's death certainly stung, but there were other members of her family that stung worse. She was not wrong that her temper was a well defined, well-known weakness, but only if it could be kindled. "And even...even if I did," she said, and swallowed as nausea washed over her. "Even if you did...I do not believe...." A cramp seized her jaw, forcing her to omit the last part:

...you would turn me free, or that she would, either.

Gloria flashed her immaculate white teeth.

"You need only the guarantee of restitution to denounce the D'avore name? Splendid. I'm glad that we could place a price on it. Mayhap it is that you miss the title of Erdilynn that much. Beautiful city, Erdilynn. Simply gorgeous, especially from the Bursar's manor. Why, with only a few arrangements on my end, a denunciation on your end, it will only have cost you your entire family."

Gloria feigned recalling some fact, canting her head upward and tapping at her chin with a finger.

"Oh I forget the number. Remind me again how many feckless sires and sordid bitches were in the D'avore family? It does become taxing trying to keep track of that many traitorous dogs."

"...!" She tried to say something, but the cramp held her jaws shut. For a moment. All she could do was mewl in pain, try without success to escape the cursed touch of the iron. All great theatre for the vile human in front of her, she would have been sure had she been able to think clearly then.

It felt like an eternity, but it was only moments before it passed. "Your words....paint pretty colors on the wind," she panted, a hint of that anger finally showing itself. Other emotions, too, but they were buried more deeply. "Just because...you would sell your soul...to help enemies of the Dynasty plant a knife in her back...does not mean I will...sell mine... ...!" She had to trail off, to master her temper. And to go round the other side of that statement.

Would she sell her principles for a return to how things had been? It was so tempting...but then, things would never be the same. Even if this snake of a woman could return to her the things her cohorts had robbed her of, Alric would still be dead. Her mother too, but her brother most of all. Sitting in the manor, restored, would be as ashes in her mouth.

Gloria covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers and laughed lightly. You might even say politely. Why, how else would you describe entertaining the fanciful notions of a traitor? She was pitiable, in a way. Once a proud woman, Lyssia, now reduced to projecting the crimes of her own family on a phantom enemy. Onto Gloria herself, even. The traitor pointing fingers, calling anyone and everyone else around her traitor. She simply could not cope with her own failure. The D'avore plot against the Dynast had been foiled, and now little Lyssia had enchanted herself with the fantasy of playing some kind of hero. Quaint. Her fractured mind resembled her appearance: childlike.

Gloria rose from her chair. Stood over Lyssia, fists on her hips, looking down over the bridge of her nose at the sidhe.

"Look at where I am, and where you are, Lyssia." Her smirk lifted her cheeks high in triumph. "This is the difference between loyalty, and the lack thereof."

A look off to the side, as if something unseen had caught her attention. And then Gloria looked back down. Asked a simple question.

"How much do you care about Captain Elijah?"

So much training in schooling her face, in hiding her emotions. She should have been exceptionally good at it, given her age - older than the woman before her, if younger in mind and body. But whatever else she might be, she was still but a girl as her people reckoned things, and not all of her growing up had been done yet. A panicked look crossed her face, fleeting but there, and the paling of her already too-pale flesh did little to help her hide the answer.

An answer that she did not know herself. Or, rather, one that she did not know in and of herself.

"Look where I was, and...and where I am now...," she said, ignoring the question leveled at her by Gloria. "Those that are...mighty are not...immune to the fall..."

"You flaunt your shortcomings as though they are a mark of honor," Gloria said, her tone light and airy with amusement.

From the information passed onto her from the others of the coalition, it was clear that Lyssia had some manner of relationship with the Captain. The exact nature of it could be anything, so far as Gloria was aware. Nevertheless, it was a potential avenue.

"Funny, though. That you should mention falling. Perhaps you want company in your downward spiral? Perhaps you don't mind if the Captain falls down with you..."

Gloria started to pace around Lyssia. Musing aloud.

"So you wouldn't mind if he fell with a few less teeth...a few less fingers...and how much does he really need his kneecaps?" She stopped for a moment. "See, we agree on something there. He is just a disposable man."

That ball of fire, ever so close to erupting, flared in her eyes. She clenched her fists so tight that the bones in them crackled, and struggled to master that awe-inspiring rage. It was impotent rage, after all; what could she possibly hope to achieve, trussed as she was, helpless and vulnerable?

What would you do even if you weren't? The traitorous voice in the back of her head breathed its poison to her. Nothing, that is what you would do. You are a coward, and it is just as well that D'avore fell when it did. Better an ignoble - and sudden! - fall, than the slow, spiraling decay of a feckless woman.. "Make your...threats all you like," she managed, the seething rage beneath clear as day. "There is...nothing you can take from me...but my life," she snapped, odd with the thickness of pain choking her words. She wanted to hit this woman in her face so badly...but knew she wouldn't, even if she were unchained. My life isn't worth the rags I wear, but his...

Gloria circled back around to the front, hands folded behind her back. She leaned down. Looked Lyssia in the eye.

And said one word, "Nothing?"

That smirk of the victorious returned.

Gloria left the tent promptly. That was a good session. Fulfilling. And now she knew to ensure that, tonight, Lyssia hung close to the tent in which Elijah was going to be...vigorously persuaded. Such that she could clearly hear everything. Dornoch was still many days down the road, and that left many a night indeed to subject Lyssia to tasting the agonizing fruits of her stubbornness.

In lieu of parents, siblings, a husband, or children, Captain Elijah would just have to do. Well. He'd chosen his lot, hadn't he?

----

The gentle shaking stirred her from her torpid state, and the first thing that she noticed was the absence of pain. The sluggish feeling in limb and mind still remained, a heaviness that did not bear much thinking upon...but the fire at her wrists was gone.

The diminutive little fae blinked against the darkness, and raised her head slowly, waiting for a blow that did not come. She couldn't see so clearly in the dark, at least not with the lingering effects of cold iron still plaguing her like the poison it was.

"I've only just taken them off," said the voice, close to her head. She blinked, but did not respond. "Take a moment to recover...and then we need to get the Captain out," he said, and her heart lurched.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

The last thing Elliot expected tonight was to hear the quiet clinking sound of his manacle locks being picked.

The second-to-last thing Elliot expected was the smell of a pegasus and the touch of its nose on his cheek.

The thought which came unbidden to mind was that it was the free men and women, perhaps having acquired the intelligence they needed from Dornoch sooner than anticipated. That they had hatched a plan to free him themselves from Gloria's custody. But with the presence of a pegasus that was highly unlikely. And, judging from the actions of the dark shape across from him where D'avore had once hung from tree, it wasn't the free men and women--they wouldn't have freed D'avore as well.

There came a release of pressure about his wrists and ankles, a muted clatter of metal, and Elliot was released. And the man got to work on the manacles which bound the petty criminals who'd been chained to Elliot as well, some of them groggily being roused from their slumber.

Elliot glanced about the darkened forest campsite. Where were the guards holding the night watch? He wasn't one to question this supposed fortune (it, at least, opened a precious few new options), but the circumstances were a cause for suspicion.

Elliot didn't get up. He stayed seated, rubbing his wrists. And looked back to the man who'd freed him, to the pegasus (of all things) nearby, and he asked softly, "What happens now?"

* * * * *​

Sometimes as a bounty hunter, you had to get...creative.

And Taros Athos had quite the clever imagination, and he didn't mind saying so himself. He knew about the bounty for the dark elf named Elliot Aldmar, sure. But na, not all the ones widely available to the public in Dornoch; this was a special bounty. One for a friend. A good friend. Taros had a strong, profitable working relationship with her. He didn't step on her toes, she didn't step on his--they got along. This was for her. This was a...personal thing for her. Taros had lent his ear like any good friend would, so he knew what the deal was between her and Elliot. Of course, she was also paying him, so Taros wasn't about to say no to that.

Now, it wasn't like he was out specifically looking for Elliot all this time. Na, that was for somebody like the Bloodhound of Dornoch herself, Gloria Stannis. Just so happened that the very same managed to actually catch the slippery dark elf in question, and Taros got wind of it through some third (or fourth?) hand information exchanging.

So. Guess what. Time to play a pirate's favorite game--stealing from another pirate. He wasn't a pirate and neither was Stannis, but the sentiment was about the same. And, well, one of the best things about maintaining a low profile (some bounty hunters just loved to shout to the high heavens about who they were and what they did) was that he could blend in anywhere.

Like here. Now. With this little band of do-gooders who wanted to free Lyssia D'avore. Hmm, D'avore. Taros knew he had heard that name somewhere, but he really couldn't be bothered to place it. Oh, it was her and a Captain of the Dornite Guard too. The more the merrier, Taros supposed. Damn, if only he could be there to see the look on the Bloodhound's face when she got the news about everyone escaping. Nothing quite like getting one over on the competition.

As Taros worked to unlock the manacles of the petty criminals, Elliot, calmly, just sittin' there, asked him, "What happens now?"

"We're about to live happily ever after," Taros whispered back, smiling in the dark. "All due seriousness: we all have the same enemy here."

Well wasn't that a pretty little lie? All Taros wanted was Elliot. Alive. Maybe roughed up if need be, but alive. Sure this particular bounty for his friend somewhat blurred the line between "bounty" and "personal favor," but let none say that Taros didn't help out a friend in need.

* * * * *​

Gloria watched until she tired of it: oh, she did need to get some sleep, didn't she? Wouldn't want to spoil this ingenious mind of hers by fogging it up with fatigue. And, while the dear Captain labored under the terrible affliction that was vacuous male stubbornness, she knew that Lyssia would eventually crack. All she needed to do was keep letting Lyssia hear the Captain's torture, see the progressively worsening toll it was taking on his body, keep driving like a stake into Lyssia's mind the association that her unsatisfactory answers were the direct cause of Elijah's continued suffering.

With a dismissive wave, she said to him, "Think hard on your choices, Captain. You haven't much time left."

And with that she left the tent, and proceeded to her carriage. One of the horses was sleeping, the other with its head bowed and nose poking at the ground. Robert Venoche stood dutifully by the carriage, and opened the door for her, shutting it after she climbed inside.

Elijah Lyssia D'avore

 

[Elijah]

It was a part of most soldiers training once they got to a certain level to withstand torture. Getting to the rank Elijah had brought with it its own inherited list of enemies who, unable to get directly to the dynast, would go through those with the most information on her. The Captain of the Pegasi arranged her security and knew her movements down to every fine little detail. There was a reason none of his predecessors had ever gotten a chance to retire. His ability to keep his mouth shut despite pain might have been high, but Eli was still human and pain was pain.

As always he started off with a few grunts or tried to lock his jaw shut to stop himself from crying out, but as always the slashes got deeper or the blades were heated. Nails being pulled from the flesh and the breaking of fingers always drew out those noises the woman seemed to delight so much in: it was the only time he ever saw her smile. Other than that she seemed to retain a constant expression of a pouty, sullen child trying to decide what doll to play with.

By the time Gloria called his night of punishment to an end Elijah barely hung to consciousness. He had been taken from the chair and pulled up by the wrists much like Lyssia outside. There, hanging like a slab of meat in the butchers shop, he dripped blood onto the floor. His head hung low and his hair hung limp around his face. His hands had suffered on precious nights but tonight his torturess seemed to have delighted in the idea of wreaking his ability to walk. Toes were twisted in mutilated angles and several full nails lay on the floor of the tent in a bloody mess. His whole body quivered but he found the energy to spit on the floor as the bitch left.

* * *
​

Gypsy seemed to eye up both men in front of her like any human might a piece of horseshit they had found on the bottom of their boot. That, to her, was exactly what these men were. With her ears pinned back the white horse stalked onwards. She froze when the woman emerged from the larger tent amongst the cluster and put her head quickly down next to the other horse tethered nearby. In the darkness she would hopefully blend in behind the larger horses outline. But once the door clicked shut her ears perked and she begun to creep a little closer to the tent...

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Whispers of the pain she had heard sang their poisonous song to her as she sat there, mind muddled by fading pain and the very real poison she had been subject to for days. Her connection to the flow of the Prim had been restored, and with it sweet vitality flowed back into her frail, ravaged frame. It would be days or weeks, perhaps, before she fully recovered.

She did not have even days. After a few minutes, she managed to get to her feet, swaying slightly. The night felt abnormally cold, and she rubbed her arms briskly, wincing internally at the feeling of the scars her fingers ran across. She hated them, hated them with a passion...but her vanity had no place here. Of course...it wasn't just vanity.

It was a physical representation of her apparent helplessness, her inability to save herself.

"Who...are you," she asked of her savior at last. The man grunted, and shook his head. "Friends," he answered in a brisk, business-like manner. "The old Bloodhound didn't get everyone, and some people are quite keen on retrieving the Captain," he said. The Captain, but not her. She didn't blame them for that, though; at least the Captain had some worth.

Shaking her head, she looked towards the camp proper. With only one exception, Gloria had not let Lyssia see the Captain. The one exception had been to let her see some of her handiwork, as well as let her know he was in truth here. Not letting her know anything beyond that - only hear it in the howls of pain - only served as a further cudgel for the bitch to get what she wanted.

The trouble was, Lyssia didn't have anything that Stannis would want. What would the Bloodhound do if she gave up the names of the conspirators that sought to take power in Dornoch? She would either believe is lies or else was a part of the conspiracy herself.

"He is over there," she managed to say. "That woman....has been doing things to him of a night..." A faint hint of some unfathomable emotion lay beneath her words. The nameless man shrugged.

"Well, we ain't doing anything about it just standing here. Come along, then," he said, and made his way to where the petty criminals were being held. He stepped over the prone shape of a man - one of the watch, lifeless eyes staring into the canopy - before reaching Taros and Elliot. The little redhead followed, carefully picking her way in the darkness. She came within sight and earshot of the others in time to pick up on the tail end of their conversation, whispered among each other.

"...about seven or eight of them still, two on the tent and the rest scattered about the camp," her rescuer said to Taros. "Unfortunately, most of 'em are awake. We won't be able to just sneak over there and take care of business without busting a few heads," he added.

Lyssia remained silent.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

It wasn't often that fortune could be relied upon. Yet here it had come, seeing to his freedom before he could see to it himself. He had no way of knowing if it was too early, if the free men and women had enough time in Dornoch without the Bloodhound's presence, but it was certainly better than being too late. They were right about one thing, certainly: if Gloria had taken him all the way to Dornoch, it would have been over.

But Elliot wouldn't blindly thank his lucky stars, as the saying went. Sometimes an apparent "fortune" was no such thing at all, a coincidence anything but. It was easy for his rescuer to say that they all had the same enemy, and perhaps that was true. But why did he free him? Him and the petty criminals? Elliot did not put much faith in the supposed charity and altruism of others in situations like this.

He would need to keep his wits about him. Things would become immensely more difficult if Elliot found himself in a set of manacles owned by an unknown faction.

Another rescuer, the one who'd gotten D'avore down from the tree, came over. Spoke with Taros.

...We won't be able to just sneak over there and take care of business without busting a few heads.

"Then give me a weapon," Elliot said.

Without missing a beat, Taros replied, "Oh I can do better than that. One moment."

He finished unlocking the manacles binding the petty criminals, all of whom were awake now and thoroughly confused, glancing about at each other as if none among them could believe they weren't in a dream. They had the energy of men who wanted to take off running, but who weren't quite sure yet if they could do that and actually have it end well.

Taros stood back up. Went somewhere off to the side, brushing past another shadowy figure (yet another rescuer, it seemed), and grabbing for something behind a tree. He came back around. Dropped Elliot's gear on the ground before him: his gambeson, leather chestpiece, weapons.

"Get yourself dressed to the nines. Wouldn't want to show for the dance looking lackluster, right?"

"My kind of dance," Elliot said, a slight smile showing in the dark. He knew three different styles of dance: slow and high-class, fast and commonfolk, and wetwork. And the latter of the three got things done. Here, he was keen to cripple Gloria's capability, but not to kill her. The last thing he needed right now was new and inflamed attention back on him, and aside from that, killing her here would be counterproductive to the whole plan of the free men and women gathering intelligence in Dornoch. They needed a devil they knew. They needed a devil they could exploit in the future.

Taros, meanwhile, didn't mind so much in giving Elliot his armor and weapons back--he trusted in his own ability to disarm and subdue him when the time was right. What he did do was dump out Elliot's pouch of bone dust; it was troublesome to deal with magic, and he'd rather not if he could at all avoid it.

As Elliot was dressing himself and securing his weaponry, Taros said to Lyssia's rescuer, "How's she doing? Is she going to be alright?"

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

"She'll be fine," came a breathless response to a shadow that detached itself from the darkness which had surrounded the main tent to reveal a slim centaur woman dressed in the green uniform of a Dornoch army scout. She tossed a braid over her shoulder and fixed the two men with a peculiar look; clearly she wasn't too keen on having to employ the help of criminals to rescue her leader. "The Captain is in the tent over there," she nodded in the direction Gypsy had gone. "There's two guards on the door and an inquisitor inside," she spat the name with disgust. Questioners were universally hated no matter the rank or station. Once in their hands it mattered not who or what you were.

"We need everyone who can hold a weapon for this," she made sure her voice carried over the other petty criminals had been freed. "As agreed, once you've helped us you'll be paid," the offer of gold stalled any mutterings or grumblings most would have had.

"Get up girl," with a huff the centaur hurled Lyssia to her feet and set her down gently. "I'm not as lenient as the Captain. You pull your weight or you get left behind."

A sudden cry bellowed across the campsite followed by an eerie silence.

* * *
​

Elijah gasped as icy cold water hit him and hissed when he realised it had been laced with salt. It stung every open wound that lined his torso, arms and face.

"I didn't say you were allowed to sleep, Captain," the Draconic woman hissed, fork tongue lashing between her teeth. She wore the hooded cloak of a Questionner with the crossed tools of her trade embroidered on the chest. Above it sat a crown, marking her as one of the higher ranking members of her guild. Elijah watched her through blood shot eyes and slowly raised his head if only to spit out some of the blood that had filled it from biting his tongue as she shattered his knee cap.

"But I think we are perhaps done for tonight," she sighed forlornly and stroked her instruments like a mother would a child's cheek.

"What a... shame... I was... beginning to really... enjoy... our... time," the woman sneered, or at least, he thought it was a sneer. It was hard to tell with all those teeth.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

The rough handling would have earned a cutting remark at one point, but the pain stilled her tongue before she had a moment to use it to ill effect. She felt something hot and wet running down her left arm, and realized one of the scars had split open again. That was not the source of her misery - that was the result of the burns on her wrists where the iron had rested for many days.

After the sickening stab of pain passed, she shook her head to clear the fog from it. "What do you want me to do," she began, speaking to the centaur. The lilt of her upbringing was there, though it was a mere shadow of what it had been a few years before. "Bleed on them? They tied me in knots once..." The realization that the soldier meant that she was supposed to go in and fight alongside them made her sick to her stomach.

She was not a soldier. She was not a fighter. The one time she had killed someone still made her sick to her stomach - the feel of hot blood washing over her arms still seared the flesh there. The last time she had thought to fight someone, she had nearly been killed herself, and the lattice of scars on her arms where she had desperately defended herself by shielding herself with those very arms...it filled her guts with ice.

Coward. You're a goddamned coward, that voice whispered to her, and she looked away from the centaur - who towered over her more than twice her height. Among present company, she was the smallest, the weakest, and the most useless. Even more so now than ever before, as the poisonous touch of the iron made her already tenuous grip on her magic even more-

The cry cut through the darkness. Lyssia stopped moving, her head snapping towards the sound.

"Elijah...", she whispered to herself...and then without warning, made to take off in the direction of his cry, heedless of the danger.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot was fastening his belt when the centaur made her presence known from the murk of night. She wore the familiar uniform of the Dornite army, which was to Elliot detestable in its own right, and yet...her disposition was something that he could not fault her for. The terse, practical, disciplined demeanor she displayed was one that Elliot admired wherever he could find it.

D'avore, of course, could hardly be expected to fight. Even if granted perfect health from her injuries, still she would be lacking in spirit. A moral failing of the highest caliber, in Elliot's estimation.

Taros, meanwhile, said to the centaur concerning Lyssia, "Oh come now, Winnipeg, we mustn't be so hard on the poor thing." Ah, Winnipeg. His favorite race horse back in Elbion. Won quite a few docatto off of her. Anyway, "Do you've any idea what she's been through?"

"Ablative armor," Elliot said, putting on his boots.

"Pardon?"

"She can be ablative armor," he wryly said again. It was a practice Elliot had seen in a few mercenary companies, mercs patching up their battered armor with salvaged scrap until more proper repairs could either be found and/or afforded. The added scrap was only really good against one or two hits--knocked off, shattered--and then the patch job would be rendered useless, that layer "ablated" away. Some mercs took to cynically calling bystanders in an urban battle ablative armor. Good for shielding themselves or their buddies from an enemy, one or two hits, and then rendered useless. Fit well enough here.

"In any case," Taros said, and he gestured then to the petty criminals (who bore all the reluctance of men who clearly didn't want to do what was being asked, yet had no better choice), "with all of these fine chaps here, along with our esteemed brigade, we ought to be more than capable of giving Stannis a run--"

Lyssia started running.

Taros blinked. Smiled the open-mouthed smile of a baffled man and said in general, directed after the retreating sidhe, "I didn't mean you, dear."

Elliot stood. Armed and armored, what wounds and soreness he bore to be endured until the task was done. He looked to Taros, the centaur, and back to Taros, and with a casual shrug said as if vindicated, "As I said. Ablative armor."

Taros sighed and ran a hand through his hair, placing it onto his sheathed shamshir after. He started forward. As did Elliot, Black Bow in hand, a few arrows between his fingers, one of which was readied but not yet nocked. Elliot, at least, fully intended to keep to the darkness, watch how the situation with D'avore played out, and strike when some of Stannis's goons were occupied with her.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Nemythia sighed the long suffering sigh of a woman who had been too long in the company of men.

"Fools," she muttered beneath her breath, hefted her crescent moon axe over her shoulder, and then started off after the others.

* * *
​

The Draconic woman stepped up to where Elijah hung and with unnerving gentleness stroked his sweat-slick hair back from his face.

"I will break you," she murmured, her head canted to once side as her clawed fingers ran under his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes once more. "I hope not too soon, it's been a long time since I've had someone who screams so beautifully." Elijah refused to give her the satisfaction of a retort and with a laugh she let go of him to turn for the tent door.​

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

She heard neither the mercenary nor the scofflaw's comments. Blood flying from the never-healing scars from her last real fight, she pelted along through the woods like a ghost. She was, after all, light on her feet, slight of stature and as imposing as an ant.

In fact, she had given little thought to the unexpected and mostly unwanted companion behind her. The centaur's disdain for her was evident, as was Elliot and the others. Not entirely unwarranted, but unwanted all the same. Her life had been difficult enough these past years - past days - without being made to feel entirely useless. An anchor stone dragging everyone else down; it was a notion she already struggled with mightily without adding more stones to the pile.

Right now, all she could think of was the Captain. The man had put himself in danger on her account often enough, and often enough there had been no consequences to it beyond some bruises and a cut here and there. This time, though...

The thought of the suffering that he was being made to endure on account of her own weakness, on account of her, twisted her insides into knots. As she ducked round a bole, ignorant of those behind her that had more sense than to bull there way forward - and likely thankful that she would flush any flunkies of the damnable Stannis as she went - she could think of little else than the cries of pain. Cries that were her fault. If she'd but had the decency to simply slip away those years before...slip away and find some ignoble place to curl up and die...

Black thoughts. Black thoughts that had once brought her right to the very precipice. Were it not, again, for the Captain. Forestalling the guillotine she had hung over her own neck, the thing that would have brought the blissful darkness mere weeks after the last of her kith and kin had died for her.

Mother, father, brother...all dead. The former two as part of an elaborate scheme, and the latter to save his sister - the Gods alone knew why. And now, it seemed, Elijah would suffer the same fate as all those others who drew to close to her. There existed within her a black void of despair, and within it a spark. The prim, undulating and struggling to find purchase in her flesh. The errant threads of the poisonous iron still coursed through her veins and made what should have been a mundane and simple task nigh unto impossible.

Lyssia burst into the open space before the tent. There were a few women there, all of whom looked up from the tasks they had been working on, first in annoyance, and then in shock. But Lyssia did not remain still. No, she darted straight for the tent that Gloria had recently departed from. Pelted in, through the flaps...

...and then bounced off the draconic woman, who barely even shifted as her light weight struck her. That worthy blinked back in surprise, a curse on her lips, before her eye focused on Lyssia.

"....you!" she hissed. And reached for the errant sidhe.

Like swimming through molasses, that spark flared, and power flooded into Lyssia the barest moment before the woman could collar her. It was a sickly power, this; tainted by that which poisoned her blood. Lyssia wanted to throw up right there and then as her stomach churned; she wished to shout to the heavens for the pure joy of that sweet flow, sweet despite the rancid edge.

But she had little training in combat. Her skills lie elsewhere, and the sudden and urgent desire to defend herself was given no strict form, no order. Chaos poured into the world, the raw prim with no guidance or flavoring of a living mind. The air became a sickly thing, charged with energies that were anathema to the living.

And then the tent exploded.

It wasn't exactly the spectacular explosion of a firework, but more a muffled thump that billowed fire everywhere. The flames bathed the sidhe in her prisoners garb, singing and blackening the fabric even as it knocked the questioner back, her hair aflame. The tent aflame, the furnishing aflame, and parts of the camp outside also aflame. The only thing not on fire was Elijah where he hung in iron. That, and Lyssia who, despite smouldering from her own impromptu fireworks, remained blessedly free of flames. Part of the tent collapsed, and for a moment Lyssia shrieked as fiery fabric draped across her back before fighting her way free of it, back into the clear space where the draconian woman rolled to extinguish herself and where Elijah hung.

Chaos gripped the camp, and then things got really hairy.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Both Elliot and Taros slid to a halt when the tent erupted into flames, and orange light splashed across the dark. Night had turned to day, and this hellish daylight reflected in each of their eyes as they watched, both outlaw and bounty hunter staring with some measure of stunned surprise at the fire.

"Well, she did more than bleed on them," said Taros.

"I'll take it," said Elliot.

Someone among the camp blew a horn, sounding a general alarm--though it was hardly necessary. Men and women of Stannis's coalition, Dornite loyal and sellsword alike, rose up from their sleep or moved from their posts, drawing weapons and readying spells, and they engaged with their assailants. Long shadows born of Lyssia's fire swung wildly in the orange-soaked arena, clashes of metal on metal as the melee began. The elements of Stannis's coalition were highly-skilled and well-equipped all, but they had been set upon in such a sudden and fierce manner that their skill was diluted by their confusion and surprise, their equipment mostly negated as many had not been on watch, only just having risen from sleep.

Taros disappeared somewhere in the chaotic shuffle of dueling bodies. Elliot meanwhile had not approached any closer from when the tent had ignited, and had sought cover around the back of a tree, nocking and loosing arrows whenever clear shots (as "clear" as a shot could be in this sort of fight) presented themselves. One of his arrows sailed close by Lyssia, close enough that its sharp whistle might well catch her ears. It struck a man who'd been charging at her from behind and to one side, pierced through his leg. He gave a yelp, stumbled, and Taros emerged with his shamshir and slashed at the man and down he went, collapsing right beside Lyssia.

The faintest sound among the clamor of battle. Something close. To Elliot's right.

He turned.

Someone pounced on him. The Bow fell from his hands and they went down to the ground. A flash of steel toward Elliot's neck and he whipped his hands up and caught the blade. He felt the sting in his palms, his gloves having been cut through, and the warm rush of blood. Elliot held his foe's blade at bay with one hand, reached for one of his own daggers, drew it, and thrust it upward into his foe's body. A jerk and a spasm. Elliot stabbed again and again.

And then tossed his dead foe off of himself. Looked over at him on the ground.

It was the dark elf assassin. Elliot, through his panting, sighed. Said, "You loved your chains...and died in them."

He sheathed his dagger, and started to get back up. The fight wasn't over.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

What... happened...

Elijah blinked away the spots of light that danced across his vision caused by the sudden brightness of the flame that had ripped through the tent. His mind reeled as it tried to comprehend the events he had just witnessed in his half-conscious state. His jailer had been talking and he had been barely holding on to the edge of wakefulness when someone else had entered and the world around him had been sent up in flames. Once they had died down and the darkness begun to creep in to fill in the gaps between the spots of fire still burning, gnawing away at tentpoles or fabric, Elijah tried to hang on to consciousness. Perhaps he already was in the darkness of dreamless sleep for he had sworn he had seen Lyssia standing there at the heart of the inferno and that could not be. They had told him she was bound. Had confessed to her sins and would be hanged like her mother.

And yet, who else...

"Lyssia?" he croaked. Even attempting to lift his head felt like a mammoth task.

* * *
​

Outside the tent was chaos.

Nemythia yanked her axe from the skull of a fallen woman who had galliantly tried to run her through. The ceantauress could always respect the fierceness of her advisories. She didn't pause to think much else however as she leapt over the body and took another's head from his shoulders before he could aim his bow at one of those fighting on her side. She wouldn't be too sad if it hurt certain ones in her group but she knew the Captain would be. He found the tiniest scraps of honour even in thieves and murderers and honoured it. But she would respect it, for he was her leader and had proven himself countless times. With a deep, long suffering sigh, she sought out her next opponent.

"DON'T LET ANY OF THEM GET AWAY!" They didn't need a loose tongue alerting their true leader to what was happening here in case more soldiers came.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Deaf to the shriek of pain from the draconian woman. Deaf to the cries of anguish and rage that rang out in the woods all round her. The arrow that cut through the holed fabric of the tent was only noticed briefly, and as though through another persons eyes, and the shuddering gasp of the victim behind her with as much awareness.

All she saw was Elijah, hanging like a side of beef that some particularly vindictive child had gone to work on with a butchers knife, and that without bothering to kill the poor beast before beginning their grisly work.

Her head still spun from the poison, still pounded with the insistent beat of the prim, tainted, coursing through her veins. Even so, the pain of her own suffering paled in comparison to the pain she felt in her heart at his suffering, and the tidal wave of guilt nearly drowned out her rational mind at the thought of what he had endured. It did not matter that he would have done it had she not been round and he had but known of the plot against the Dynast...it was the fact that she had brought him round to this point.

She got to her feet, oblivious to all else, and stepped over the writing questioner. That worthy had stopped screaming, and it would not be long before that ruined visage got round to rising and delivering justice for the wounding done to her. Lyssia went straight to Elijah, pain writ large across her face. "What...what have they..." She shook her head, and stepped forward, holding his head in both hands. The torrent of rancid pour flowed through her, carrying the last of the taint away from her.

Curdling her stomach. Sticking knives in her flesh, tearing that flesh as it passed. But the flow had a purpose, and while she had little control over the flames that had consumed everything, this was different. The flows were given the form they required - a blend of every element, hammered from the chaotic sea of the source - and slammed into Elijah's flesh like a tidal wave. It coursed through every sinew, bone, and fiber of his being.

Being healed like this was both blessing and curse. Flesh knit before the eye, broken bone shifting and setting and then healing in an eye blink. Blood, lost to the knife, burst from the marrow, and revitalized anemic organs and limbs.

And, at the same time, pain on a level so many tiers above that which the draconian woman had managed slammed into Elijah, one unending torrent of agony that stretched on for eternity - lasting a second in truth, but without end internally. The ghastly wounds healed...but the memory of the wounds persisted, a phantom pain that would linger for days, weeks even. Couple that with the majority of the strength coming from Elijah himself and not from the magic coursing through him...

Torture of a different kind.

Lyssia sagged against him as she the flow abated, shivering and then coughing raggedly into his chest as the flood receded. Blood. Blood marred his chest, but it was not hers, and it mottled her lips as well.

Behind her, the draconian woman stood even as part of the tent fell away, ashes on the wind and allowing the night air to flow through.

"You are a dead woman," the questioner said, a queer slur to her speech. In the fiery light, her face looked like a vision from hell.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot took off his gloves and quickly fashioned wraps around them. Stinging and painful were the wounds on his palms, but his gloves had afforded him a modicum of protection, and they weren't as deep as they otherwise could have been. With the wraps tied, Elliot slipped his gloves back on. The wounds were going to make drawing his Bow to its full power difficult, and fighting with his daggers probably worse. He'd have to rely on adrenaline to numb what measure of the stinging that it could.

Elliot collected his Bow from the ground and stood upright just in time to see, far off to one end of the camp, a carriage hastily being drawn away from the battle. A couple of the Dornites had grabbed hold of it and swung themselves up onto the roof of the vehicle, firing off arrows and a flinging bolts of raw arcane energy back at the melee as the carriage retreated.

Stannis. Elliot smirked, satisfied to know that she would be livid. Satisfied further that the time would be approaching when he could come off of the defense, and launch himself into the offense.

The big tent that had been set ablaze partially collapsed as the support structures gave in, drawing Elliot's attention. D'avore was in there, so was the military-man she'd been caught with, and a Dornite draconian was staring them down. (Taros, unseen by Elliot, had rejoined the general melee after intervening on Lyssia's behalf).

Elliot didn't look for long. He deigned to let D'avore and her associate handle themselves, and thus turned his gaze back to the melee, nocking and loosing another arrow (delicately so, as his hands could only tolerate so much) when an opportunity presented itself, catching a Dornite sellsword in his hip.

* * * * *​

"What are we even paying them for??" Gloria shouted within the carriage's interior. She needed someone to whom she could vent, and Robert, as always, was that man, and he endured it with a haggard and plaintive look on his face. Gloria knew that it wasn't the fault of her Dornite assets, no, but those imbeciles! The sellswords and bounty hunters! Why, it was an absolute fluke of fortune that any of them had survived long enough to even have the privilege of being recruited by her!

"This is ridiculous!" she continued. The carriage bumped something along the dirt path leading back to the road and she was briefly tossed upward from her seat. She shifted then to speaking of the attacking force, "Who were they?? Who could they have possibly been??"

Robert tried to mention the detail of the green scout uniforms he'd caught a fleeting glimpse of, "I--"

"Shut up! What I know for certain is that outside help might as well be no help at all! Worse, even: a hindrance! I simply cannot believe that my prize, MY PRIZE, has slipped from my grasp AGAIN!"

Gloria clutched at her temples and hunched forward in her seat. Think. Think! Don't fall into the trap of letting anger cloud your good senses, that is for men to suffer. Plan, Gloria. Plan your next move.

Plan your counter to this play.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

The Captain's cry as Lyssia's magic flooded him was far worse than any of the screams the Inquisitor had managed to wrangle from him. It felt as though he were reliving the agony of the past few hours but in the space of a few seconds rather than a few hours. Bones made sickening noises as they snapped back into place and there were audible pops like firecrackers as his fingers were relocated. Cuts seared like an iron poker as they knitted themselves shut and it felt as though he were burning from the inside out as those internal problems were righted. And then, just like that, it was over. In a way the absence of the pain only made it worse. His yell had died off in a ragged manner and he hung, supported only by the binds about his wrist, panting and delirious as the magic coursed through in like waves across the sand.

He couldn't have done anything to help Lyssia even if he was aware of what was happening.

* * *
​

Gypsy had been watching the chaos for the opportunity to help her companion. The Pegasus pranced with nervous agitation just out of sight of the tent as first Lyssia went in and then when the tent went up in flames. It was only her masters scream that broke her resolve to wait until she was needed. Tossing her mane back and pawing the ground she cast around for someone - anyone - to give aid. From what little the horse knew of combat Lyssia would not be enough on her own. It just so happened it was the elf they had freed earlier she first spied.

Breaking into a sudden gallop across the clearing she sent beasts, men and women flying from her path as she hurtled towards him. Pegasi were trained in the art of war from younglings and taught to bite and strike with hooves with enough force to cleave a trolls skull in. It was the latter which she did now, rearing up onto her hindquarters and kicking out towards an attacker who had been behind the elf. With a cry she fell bloodied to the floor never to rise again but Gypsy's attention was already on the elf.

Without a second of hesitation she clamped down on the mans shoulder and all but began hurling him towards the tent like a lioness might a helpless cub.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

The words of the draconian made her snap out of the torpid state that her spellcraft had left her in, albeit briefly. That brief delay was enough, though, for the seared woman to charge and slam into the much smaller woman, barreling both into Elijah where he hung and snapping the tent pole on which his manacles were hooked. Flaming fabric fell round all three of them, the muffled duality of pain and triumph escaping the questioner's throat as she grappled with Lyssia.

There would be no long, drawn out suffering here. Only death, as quick and as sure as she could bring. She knew her hurts, knew them permanent, and the little witch would pay for the ruin she left behind.

Hands found her throat, and Lyssia choked and thrashed wildly. It was impossible to believe how much she squirmed and threw herself about, all to get those hands from her throat. So great was the effort that even the questioner could scarcely hope to contain her. Her hands broke from the pale flesh, and Lyssia fell back, scuttling back as quick as her kicking legs could push her.

Searching, stretching for the power that had fled her mind the moment the draconian had hit her. For the barest moment, the sweet flood of the prim made her whole again, a giant among men. Fleeting. She was not trained to fight, and there was a certain degree of concentration required to actually utilize magic in this situation.

She opened her mouth to call out for help...and felt a fist plant into the side of her head. Dazed, she slumped over as the draconian woman slid up to her, wrapping and arm round her neck and squeezing with all her might. Spluttering, spitting up blood, Lyssia struggled.

Unfortunately for the questioner, one arm was close enough, and Lyssia did the only thing her fading consciousness could muster - bit her. Hard, hard enough to tear flesh and fill her mouth with blood that was not her own for a change. The questioner shrieked and released, and then it was the sidhe's turn.

A fruitless effort. She got her small hands round their throat, but the woman easily overpowered her and pried her hands away. In a panic, Lyssia managed to secure the flow again, and with the errant flow of uncontrolled sorcery - sorcery that made wood crack, fabric fray, and grass and leaf turn brown - a burst of wind ripped the obscuring fabric from the three - Elijah where he had fallen (and she was keenly unaware of that worthy's location now) and the two women rolling around on the ground in a rather one-sided fight.

And then the other gasped in pain, as Lyssia had found a piece of shattered tent pole and rammed it into her chest, picking up splinters herself in the process. The woman exhaled a cloud of blood into the girl's already bloody face, and managed to get her hands round her throat again. "You...go with...me...," she managed, a sickly grin on the ravaged ruin of her burned face.

The sidhe could only scrabble at her hands, the only hope of breaking free being the woman dying of her wounds before she herself expired from asphyxiation...