The town of Marseyelle looked far more majestic than it had any right to be, blanketed by the hues of an autumn's setting sun.
From the open road Vida had watched as the irrelevant little trading port slowly, ever so slowly mushroomed into view. She thought it an apt descriptor: A little mushroom, more of a glorified settlement than all the swaggering exaggerations of it being an 'essential port for any aspiring Cortosi sailor'. In all reality the place was an arbitrary affair of red tiling and clay rooftops dotted across the countryside and its stunted cliffs adjacent to the coast. Most of the timber-frame housing and occasional terrace stood no taller than the sloping, rounded hills that surrounded so much of the town. No different than any other hamlet, or no different from the ones she'd seen so far.
There was nothing about the place which evoked any degree of majesty or fanfare to her, though she could understand in a way how the people who called Marseyelle home could delude themselves otherwise. As it did have its... rustic charm in the way small towns on the sea do, she had eventually concluded.
Whether that was at all to the dispassionate woman's taste? Another question entirely.
"... Madam?"
She certainly couldn't imagine how it could make up for the nauseating homeliness of the day-to-day where the only occasion for excitement came from... what, a harvest festival? An occasional visit from an alderman? How terribly stimulating. She didn't find it to be any wonder why she was chomping at the bit to get this job done and well behind her, but how the wait was agonizing.
An hour of mediocrity was no different than a day of well... anything else really. Anything that even vaguely resembled the creature comforts of the larger cities she could remember visiting in the mainland. The little mushroom of a town was populated by simple, happy folk who liked to take their time with things; their lives moved as slowly as their accents. No thank you.
She was quite alright leaving her nose out of the dirt.
"Madam? May you be excusing me in asking how long you and your company mean to remain?”
Vida looked up from her rambling observations, chin no longer disinterestedly propped upon her knuckles as she turned her attention to the proprietor - and one of the only other inhabitants of the establishment - as it happened. As woeful and endlessly apologetic as he was about the state of his business, the truth was that she actually considered it a small blessing. The absence of anyone else other than the occasional traveler dropping in for a warm mug before hurriedly making excuses to be out the door again served her purposes well enough.
She had her doubts the genial innkeeper saw it in the same lights; lost in his despair over how many seats remained empty and overturned onto equally abandoned dining tables. She took a quiet moment to observe the nervous little thing while he looked this way and that, worried eyes never in one place for terribly long. He had a perpetual air of a harried thing, which in turn made her feel almost as anxious.
As if he spread it like some plague, infecting her through his constant agitated movements, the brisk way he spoke. The way he sweat.
What she found was a small, beak-nosed man with the unfortunate airs of a plucked vulture; featherless, wan, with thin and bony fingers that tugged endlessly on the fraying threads of the apron tied about his waist. Equally unfortunate was how the innkeeper, whose sole traits stood out all the more to her in his proximity, found the absence of any other clientele as the perfect excuse to have more than the infrequent small talk he might otherwise have with a patron.
To her he just seemed desperate to talk. With anyone.
The key phrase being 'anyone'. Since she often found herself the only guest, that 'anyone' always happened to be her. No matter how politely Vida redirected, nor how impolitely for that matter.
"... Not long, I'm afraid. Another day? I couldn't tell you in all certainty."
"I see. Moving on then," came the awkward, stilted reply only meant to fill an uncomfortable silence. He felt something atavistic rattling in his ribcage, the way the sellsword regarded him. "Marseyelle hardly has a tavern to its name in the city proper, but you'll find boarding. There's plenty o' decent families. More than decent, they've always got spare rooms to let.”
And with the conversation came all the questions she was growing more and more weary of answering. Not just about how much longer they might stay - as she had already given him her answer - but what her impression was of the fine mushroom they considered a town? Did she have family in residence? What were all the frightful swords for? To her credit she answered with a toneless neutrality which... genuinely surprised her, to be honest. All the embellished little stories and forced smiles was not exactly something she was ever known for, didn't want to be known for.
She had to force her drifting eyes away from the window again, returning the surprisingly steady gaze. She watched the sweat beading on his undisguised brow, watched as it joined the rest of the moisture on the man's ruddy face. Wondered for a moment why he was so insistent on talking up the locals. Did he suspect something, perhaps?
"Have you grown tired of our presence here?"
It wasn't quite a challenge, even if she found it difficult to conceal the creeping amusement sneaking up her throat at the way he looked just then.
From her lips it was no doubt a disorientating emotional limbo for the innkeeper, who found himself caught between her usual stoicism and the depressing ghost of a smile forming on her lips; she wasn't even sure if she knew how to make those anymore. Her cheeks ached with the unconscious effort.
The innkeeper, wringing his pockmarked towel with gnarled hands, was not entirely certain what to make of it, neither would he ever claim to be enough of a social creature to even try. He enjoyed the simplicity of things in Marseyelle; enjoyed the absence of unreadable faces. Therefore, not willing to risk endangering his only clientele, the inn's proprietor erred on the side of caution, gracing his reply with a dose of apprehensive consideration.
"A-a-ah, no, never. I don't mean to give you any impression like that, you're always welcome," He answered judiciously, complimenting the rest of his apology with a laughably over-exaggerated bow of his head. Vida arched a brow in reply, honestly not certain if she'd ever seen this kind of repentance outside of a chapel. She let him continue, her silence as implicit permission. "Always welcome, and please, you might stay as long as it serves, if there's anything..."
"I'm certain there won't be."
The jangle of tack and bridle filtered through the gaps in the window's shutter. She swore she saw the innkeeper's ears prop up, like some overexcited puppy.
"... anything, should it slip my mind..."
"I doubt it will."
Finally, Vida had won her victory. Her foe beat a hasty retreat for the door, no doubt to intercept his latest guests. She could breathe again.
***
They discovered her in the tavern; sitting, sweating, looking downright miserable. Her plight hadn't yet transformed into hissing rage and gnashing teeth.
They discovered her in the tavern; sitting, sweating, looking downright miserable. Her plight hadn't yet transformed into hissing rage and gnashing teeth.
Not yet, but soon. Very, very soon. Probably any moment now, judging from the way her eyes all too quickly hunted them down the second they crossed the door's threshold. They could no longer flee screaming for their lives. There was no avoiding this fate.
The taller of the two interlopers graciously stepped forward, tempering a little of her ire through the sole virtue of (arguably) being the closest thing she had to a second-in-command. Someone who could even be called a comrade if she was feeling downright sentimental. Someone she didn't outright despise, at the very least.
It went a longer way than one may think.
As an example as to why she tolerated him more than most, the drow's subsequent greeting was exactly what she expected it to be: Bored, blunt, entirely lacking in inflection beyond what was necessary to convey whichever words he may have chosen. When he spoke, it was with an unconscious conviction in ensuring no word was wasted in dallying. "Vida."
Vida enjoyed that particular habit of his, the lack of pretense. In their line of work? It was surprisingly refreshing. Not to mention where he lacked, she had more than enough of to go around. It was obviously much easier for her to interact with someone who didn't share the habit of weaving complicated subterfuge around every single social interaction there was, dancing rather than speaking plainly. Getting to the point was a prized trait few possessed.
Coincidentally, she found she only enjoyed those things when it was just her doing the steering, so his plain answers were very much to her liking. Vida didn't think she'd have the wherewithal to argue with another her, or even tolerate another her, for that matter. She wouldn't at all be surprised if that irritation eventually evolved into murderous intent. Nobody ever told her that she 'grew on them'.
Exemplary unwillingness to engage in introspection aside.
Not wishing to be outdone, Vida demonstrated her own admirable lack of inflection. Her next question was rhetorical, bordered with harsh, dangerous edges:
"You came alone."
"No, not quite. You told me not to return alone," the drow replied, not bothering to factor in the smaller of the two recently arrived guests. "So I didn't."
"It's what I bloody paid you for. I should hope so, Varnehy."
Attempting to suppress an inquiring brow in regards to the... uncharacteristic invective was already a duel lost by default, his brow raised anyway. All he could do now to salvage the grave error of making a strange face at his paymaster was to remain decidedly quiet about it. Considering it unwise to put any of his thoughts to words, with the way she now looked questionably at him.
Somebody was clearly in a foul mood.
Varnehy had worked with the woman in question long enough to know how valuable she'd consider his input on the matter. Which was to say, not at all. Not that it took a great deal of familiarity to discern her mood at the present. He steered the safer course instead, continuing his report. "The nordling woman I spoke to you about should be arriving in her own time, presumably before the sun sets.”
He gave the sky an evaluating glance through the window nearest. “I would think.”
Vida leaned into the high-backed chair she was currently in questionable possession of; the leather straps of her gambeson creaking with the effort of making herself marginally more comfortable on the poor, battered stool. It tottered on unequal legs.
Her two companions stood wordlessly by the entrance, obviously waiting for her to work through what she remembered of the Norsewoman her lieutenant had spoken about. She'd given it very little attention at the time - practically no attention - were she completely honest with herself.
All Vida could think to recall pertained to the circumstances surrounding the manner they found the Norsewoman, little else otherwise. Certainly not anything pertaining to her as an individual. She hadn't been all that giddy to ask for details. Even less so upon hearing it to be some gruesome looking nordling.
Then again, how complicated could she be? They were renowned as an uncomplicated people.
The circumstances of the chance encounter were... interesting, Vida freely admitted. Only yesterday she ordered Varnehy to strike at a caravan on the outskirts of the mushroom crowned Marseyelle, knowing full well it would cause a stir. She was hoping it would in turn draw some of the local garrison to disperse through the countryside, chasing after shadows. It was a sound plan. What didn't go as expected was the fact it wasn't a caravan at all; it was a prisoner wagon.
Not quite what she originally had in mind.
Not quite what her vanishingly empty pockets expected, either. They growled menacingly back at her.
Thankfully as any reliable second-in-command would, the drow simply found a way to improvise and adapt in order to fulfill the orders he was given. After all, they were both wagons of a sort, what was the difference? Vida would get her distraction regardless the contents of the cart. And presumably he'd make a fun day of it considering his profession in question. Vida didn't have a clue what went on in that head of his; didn't think to ask.
The result? Freeing some violent, troubled Norsewoman who would no doubt go on to terrorize the countryside.
Vida honestly wasn't certain what to make of this particular gift horse.
"I'm thrilled to hear that, should I ask why she isn't with you already?"
She was desperate. As yet, nobody else had taken the bait she dangled for the upcoming job.
"The nordling did not have a horse, I informed her of where she should go and an approximate time of our meeting."
He didn't simply abandon the newest hireling for the second time in as many days, did he? He did realize the other half of his task involved finding a frightful sword for hire. Gee, perhaps a Nordwiir?
"You didn't think to wait on the woman?"
“The thought hadn't crossed my mind. She seemed to prefer solace to company.”
He did not.
“I also prefer solace to company, especially after hearing that sad fucking excuse. She can read a map, I hope? You couldn't imagine finding her a spare mount?”
Another, newer voice finally thought it was time to join the fray… even if it was more pandemonium than fray at this point - with Vida's voice raising an octave or two the longer the back-and-forth carried. The woman sidestepped around the drow to present herself fully to the sellsword sitting ramrod straight in her seat.
"Whatever for? She plods on like some dumb, placid ox. Always with that same silly expression fixed on her face. I doubt she minds."
Masile. The alchemist. A woman of about Vida’s age and weight; though where the latter of the two was tall, almost entirely composed of musculature and little excess fat - the former was incredibly short, almost cherubic in a way that made Vida vaguely uncomfortable. The pale woman's oval face was neatly framed by dark, blunted bangs while the rest of her otherwise straight hair was a questionable affair of interspaced braids, sporting little decorative blue beads, ribbons, and whatever else she might have secreted in that nest had Vida bothered to pay more attention.
She had long abandoned the attempts at aesthetic advising, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation.
Vida had nearly forgotten the other woman's existence. Which wasn't as difficult as it sounded, honestly. It was made even easier when in contrast to the drow at her side; who in turn expended very little effort in absolutely overshadowing the tiny, unassuming woman in stature and presence alone. He was almost her opposite in every way from complexion to height to... well, it was a rather long list.
As for Varnehy? She didn't know. He looked like any other drow, perhaps a little greyer around the gills than most. The only thing to surprise her were the lines weathering his face; the kind everyone said gave men, even drow men, some essential character. Vida's opinion was that it merely made him look weary, but the old (do drow even get old? She had no frame of reference) sellsword served her well enough over the years.
Vida had no doubt of her own complicity in adding a few of those lines. They took a lot of risks in their line of work.
However, if there was one thing she could say in favor of both - they dressed smartly. She supposed they finally caught on to all her hints, though to call them hints would be a bit of an understatement, if not gross exaggeration. Vida had a way of playing fast and loose with the definition of words, in this case it was with her hints.
If they hadn't caught on at some point, she'd feel a keen disappointment in the faith she placed in their mental faculties. Like worryingly disappointed.
Vida's two companions both wore embroidered blouses as undershirts. Hers a blue so pale as to appear grey, little frills garnishing the neckline; his an accentuating white to his sharper, darker features. Masile with her apron dress, or hangerok, also a blue - Vida was beginning to notice a pattern here - though much more of a vibrant, fun shade; Varnehy with his brocaded coat of subdued burgundy and silver stitching. The drow with spurred riding leathers; the alchemist with the surprising mix-up of buckled shoes with a suede finish, making her for all the world appear as some flower shop woman. They both wore plain breeches. Boring, practical.
They also happened to notice her rather… intense observations. Vida finally permitted her eyes to cast lazily aside.
Something about Masile’s earlier tone when she spoke of the newest sword-for-hire popped up in the silence that followed, reeled her in.
"What expression was that?"
Masile could only look vaguely confused by the abrupt change in topic, having already forgotten the depiction she crafted of the Norsewoman.
Varnehy interjected before anything else could be said, always quicker on his feet: "Something I liked in her."
"She must have left an impression then."
Vida blinked, mentally shrugging at the assertion. She would meticulously file it away in the back of her mind for future reference. It wasn't worth the effort of asking for clarity; she trusted the drow's instincts, he knew her well enough to know what she liked. If she couldn't entrust him with finding someone respectable enough for the task at hand, the drow would quickly find himself replaced both literally and figuratively - Vida expected quite a bit from her 'number two'.
Then, once appropriate time had passed for them to forget the uncomfortable ocular assessment, she returned her exiled gaze from her cup to her companions standing in the doorway. Her fingers drummed the tankard of a sour tea she only drank out of desperation, untrusting of any accommodation other than equally sour selection of ales.
There she waited for the next person to walk through the door, prepared for what was to come in her leather ensemble.
Her oiled riding boots strummed the floor, her scabbard got caught on every corner and angle it could.
The sky was purpling like a long forgotten bruise beyond the walls of a nameless tavern. The receding sun releasing opaque shadows entrapped by a long, lazy day - now it was their turn to play. Vida was done with this town, with these people, and with this bloody weather. It was time to act.
Unpleasantness had come to Marseyelle.
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