Fate - First Reply The Beast

[Hahnah]

The Stone's Throw Inn loomed just ahead, shadows stretching long about its face from the sparse firelights of the night in Oban.

Profane men awaited inside. Humans, Elves, people of all kinds had within their hearts a shifting line between good and evil. This Hahnah had come to know. But these were men who thought nothing of taking a daughter from her mother and her father. They were men whose hearts had become thoroughly profane.

And of profane things, she was the cleanser.

Hahnah did not have any weapons on her person--neither did the man leading her to the Inn, whose name was Tangir. Both she and Tangir were part of a plan. A plan which Hahnah herself did not conceive. No, she had to trust someone. A human, a man who wore armor and whose name was "Lieutenant" Laython, who was one of the men called guards here in the city of Oban. There were more profane men than just those in the Stone's Throw Inn, and to find out who they were, Hahnah needed to follow Laython's plan. That plan included her having no weapons, not cleansing the profane men immediately, and letting Tangir "sell" her to them. Once she was brought elsewhere, once the other profane men were discovered, then she could kill them. Laython wanted to capture them, yes, but Hahnah wanted to kill them.

How she was going to kill them, she did not know. She did not have the knife she had come to Oban bearing, and the gift of magic from the Dying God still had not returned to her. But she would pray to the Dying God, pray as fervently as she had ever prayed, for deliverance.

Because this was not merely about cleansing the profane. This was about saving the sacred. And Mina Stonemason, the child Hahnah had seen taken from her family, was who she meant to save. Hahnah had traveled with them, the Stonemasons, for much of the journey to Oban. She had seen the love Nicholas and Rachel Stonemason had for each of their five children, and they for them. That love was worth saving. No matter what she had to do, no matter what she had to go up against.

Tangir was talking to her as they grew closer to the Stone's Throw, but Hahnah was recalling her parting words with Lieutenant Laython.

"Alright elf, here's what we're gonna do," said Tangir.

What does that word mean? Investigator? she had asked out of curiosity.

"Keep yer head down. Look scared," said Tangir.

It means I find the men who prey on innocent people for their own gain, Laython had answered.

"Let me do all the talking," said Tangir.

These men are full of sin, Hahnah had stated plainly, a sense of duty, of kindling purpose, sparking in her chest.

"Once they take ya, keep yer wits about you," said Tangir.

Sin. Now that's a good way to put it. I deal with the worst humanity has to offer. That's the beast I contend with.

"And with some luck, you'll be eatin' breakfast safe and sound with the Lieutenant," said Tangir.

Hahnah had spared a moment's consideration. Then said, This beast I wish to fight as well.

Tangir and Hahnah approached the Stone's Throw Inn. Someone else entered first, briefly holding open the door for them. Tangir muttered a quick "Thank you," and then both he and Hahnah entered.

* * * * *​

The elf was, perhaps, just what Lieutenant Investigator Laython needed.

Tracking down smugglers, traffickers, they who would despoil the streets of Oban by covertly dragging innocent men, women, even children, off to the very harbor that was the lifeblood of the city, this was the domestic duty by which Laython had distinguished himself. But there had been whispers and reports most concerning, about the very soldiers of Oban's military also participating in this vile trade. Some small unscrupulous handful of them likely, but just one corrupt soldier was one too many. Laython was determined to see them hang. Not just because this would likely mean a promotion from lieutenant to captain for him, but because his blood boiled at the thought of Cerak At'Thul, of Molthal, profiting directly from Oban's fair ports.

And to that end, this elf Hahnah could be useful. She was a willing outsider who clearly understood the importance of the mission at hand. She had been stopped at the gates of Oban and brought to Laython's attention because of the wounds on her face. Waylaid by Obanese soldiers, she had said, who beat her when she tried to stop them from taking a young girl named Mina away from her family. Speaking at length with Hahnah revealed to Laython that she was incredibly naïve of anything outside of Falwood, but that she was earnest and forthright beneath her prim and soft-spoken exterior. She had said that she tried to fight those Obanese soldiers, yes, but Laython couldn't imagine her so much as harming a fly. Yet, despite feeling quite certain of this...there was an intense iciness in her eyes which made him doubt his own conclusion.

Still.

She had agreed to help him. She was very happy to, as a matter of fact--that earnestness shining through. Hahnah didn't even ask if she could have her wounds tended to, which suited Laython's plan well enough (even if he felt guilty for using the elf's misfortune in this manner).

The plan was thus: Tangir, a criminal that Laython had flipped over to his side on the promise of amnesty, was to take Hahnah to the Stone's Throw Inn. This Inn being one that Laython had suspected traffickers used for their "in-transit" wares as they awaited for certain ships to make port at the harbor. Tangir, knowing all the code and signs the underworld-types used, would try to sell her there. And then it was an observation game. See where she was taken. See if any Obanese soldiers showed at all.

And if something went wrong in the Stone's Throw? Laython awaited in an adjacent building, a shop with a "closed" sign on its front door, with a contingent of guardsmen, ready to pounce if they suspected trouble. It wouldn't net them the most profitable information and the most notorious culprits, but it would be something. And Laython didn't want to put Hahnah (or, begrudgingly, Tangir) in the way of undue harm.

The plan was in action when he saw Tangir leading Hahnah toward the Stone's Throw Inn.

Now came the waiting game.

* * * * *​

The Stone's Throw Inn.

Dimly lit from a few ceiling lanterns, table candles, and a hearthfire. The lobby boasted six poorly cleaned and poorly maintained tables, all of which had men (and a few women) sitting at them. Eating. Talking. One table playing a game of cards. The innkeep stood behind the bar counter (the selection of drink nowhere near as extensive as an actual tavern) and he was leaning against the staircase wall, nose deep in a news pamphlet passed out earlier by a city crier.

Of the seventeen people sat in the lobby, nine of them were civilians, eight of them were traffickers.

And all eight of them were keenly aware that Tangir, that fucking weasel, had just come in. They knew that he'd been flipped. But he didn't know that they knew. Nor did the eight know that Lieutenant Laython and a contingent of guardsmen were next door.

The eight traffickers subtly cast eyes Tangir's way, Hahnah's way, the other person who'd held the door open for them, yeah, their way too. The eight pretended to eat and drink or play their card game, but muscles were covertly tensing. Sheathed weapons on their belts were feeling heavy in the anticipation of a fight. Because they didn't expect Tangir to go quietly at all, and they didn't know if there'd be any "charitable souls" among the other people in the Stone's Throw Inn who might try to help Tangir or that blonde elf he'd come in with.

The cozy, quiet atmosphere was but a thin veneer.

The lobby was moments away from erupting into violence.

Spoiler: Secretly

Elsewhere.

The Dying God's plan was close at hand.

 

[Oleg]

Oleg stuffed his face full of food. For its simplicity, the palette was digestible. He gorged on commoner's diet of meat, gravy, potatoes, and whatever scarce greens the cook could produce. It came as no surprise when the disdained looks of patrons found him, for Oleg cared little of tableside manners and as such managed to put off even the inn's relatively poor and dirty frequenters.

"Sir-" choked out one of the employees whose courage seeped out by the second as he realized the difference in size between his and Oleg's frame. The comparison was laughable. On one side, Oleg, standing comfortably above two meters in height, and the employee whose head barely reached Oleg's upper chest. It didn't take much thinking to guesstimate the shorter man's poorer genetics and stuntedness produced by inferior diet and lower upbringing.

"Hmhm?" Oleg couldn't speak, courtesy of a hanger steak half hanging from his mouth. Instead, he made do with hand gestures and gesticulations. Alas, the employee understood little of what Oleg was trying to say, uncomfortably shuffling his feet as he waited for the tall man to finish chomping down on the overcooked hunk of beef.

GULP

Oleg comically pounded on his chest, not unlike a bizarre, hairless gorilla of some kind. In truth, the improperly chewed meal all but restricted his airway, choking him until Oleg grasped the nearest water jug, downing it in one go, much to the owner's concern.

"You were saying?" Oleg's hooded eyes averted from the now emptied plate and onto the employee, fixated by middling interest. They were unusually sharp, with slitted pupils and yellow-ish hue to them. Though, it was hard to deduce whether they were yellow, green, or both simultaneously.

"Could...you stop with that?"

"Stop with what?" Oleg cocked a brow, totally oblivious to the situation and its merits.

"This!" The employee flung his hands forward, pointing at various bits and pieces of gravy-covered food littering the decrepit wooden table. "Could you kindly not eat like a pig? Your antics are making our other customers uncomfortable, not to mention that I'll have to clean it all up."

Oleg cupped his chin at the request, leaning forward with his elbow resting upon an unstained patch of wood. With his muscles straining against his leather jacket, Oleg appeared to be in deep thought, contemplating the answer to a rather mundane request. Then, out of the blue, he turned towards the employee and ripped out a guttural burp, shocking those in his immediate vicinity.

"No can do, chief. It's just a way I am." Oleg got up from his seat, hands pocketed and spine slightly bent, hunching forward. His nostrils flared, sniffing around the rapidly disengaging employee who did his best to step back and get away from Oleg's presence that he perceived as threatening.

"Plus, ain't no man who smells like damp soil and mushrooms got any rights to criticize the way I eat. Get yourself a bath before worrying about me."



Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah did as she was bidden. She kept her head down, but her eyes did not meet the floor. Around the lobby of the Stone's Throw she looked, taking in the number of people, the confined space of the lobby which to her seemed to shrink the world into a box (much like the Temple), and the sharply angular features of the corners and where the two support pillars met the ceiling. It was the people that concerned her the most.

For it all came to trust, this general trepidation of villages, towns, cities, with their mass of people concentrated into small areas. She knew that some of them were the profane men. But how many? Which? All of them? Most of them? She did not know and could not say.

Trusting the man whose name was Laython was easy. When she arrived at the gates of Oban, she had been taken aside by the guards present, asked about her black eye and about the scrapes on her face. Then she'd been taken into Laython's office. There, just her and just him, she could speak with him in a comfortable setting. She could pay close attention to the details of his expressions: the light of admiration in his eye when she spoke of her efforts to rescue Mina, the gentle smile of a kind heart when she spoke of traveling with the Stonemason family, and the determined and respectful crease of his brow when she said she did not care about the danger in the plan he proposed. In this way she had come to trust him. A small, quiet conversation, between her and him, with all the frightful qualities of the city far and away from mind. It was how she had as well come to trust Griffyn, Tinus, Alden, Kyla, Idreth, those precious few.

To her shame, this was something she did not do at all when she was a human slayer. She did not speak with them, those humans who were her victims, nor did she observe their actions (and if she did in either case, she always assumed malice). She merely judged them all to be profane, and the sole proof was that they were in her wrathful path. Kylindrielle and Elurdrith had saved her, with love and with kindness, from becoming a monster...but the moment they were gone, she had become one anyway.

At least here, in Oban, she could be a monster who did something good, and see Mina returned to her family.

Hahnah glanced about the lobby from behind Tangir. There was that table with men playing with "cards" (she did not understand it), a table with laughing men and a plump woman who were attempting, poorly, to sing, another table with a handsome man courting a pretty woman, yet another with three hooded men who were quietly discussing some political point, a table with stern men and a stern woman loudly discussing trade issues with a place called Dornoch, and lastly a table with a tall man making something of a mess as he ate.

This last one caught Hahnah's attention--and Tangir's as well. The apprentice innkeep was trying to convince the tall man to not "eat like a pig." The tall man responded with a loud belch. Standing up.

Tangir sensed opportunity, a fluid way in, and guided Hahnah over. And to the apprentice innkeep he said, "You heard the man--it's just the way he is. So mind yer own business, would ya? There ain't nobody in here made uncomfortable by it, so go make yourself useful elsewhere."

The apprentice innkeep, already intimidated by Oleg's impressive stature, took the opportunity to mumble some small words of agreement and depart back behind the bar counter.

Tangir took Oleg's measure. Hell, now he was a bruiser if he ever did see one. So he just needed to sell the elf Hahnah to this musclebound smuck and then his part was done. Done. A deal was a deal, so Laython wouldn't be able to toss him in that stinking cell--again.

Tangir stuck out his hand to shake. Provided Oleg took it, Tangir would tap with his ring finger three times on Oleg's hand. A subtle sign in the Obanese underworld, one that indicated he was looking to sell some wares. The "wares" in question, of course, being the elf beside him.

"Name's Tangir. Bit of a regular around here. The Stone's Throw'll save you some coin, but...eh, ya don't need me tellin' ya it's for the dogs." He flashed a merchant's genial smile. "How about I buy ya a drink? Wash that unwelcome rudeness down with some ale, eh?"

Hahnah just stood beside Tangir and before Oleg. Silent. Head bowed. Eyes looking upward but, because of the proximity and Oleg's height, unable to meet his own. In Oban, this sort of posture among women was not so uncommon.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

Oleg, for all his height and mass, didn't look as bulky as Tangir thought him. He had long limbs and a long torso with proportionately distributed musculature. It considerably lessened the visual broadness of his frame.

"Eh?" uttered Oleg in all his confusion, attempting to discern what had just happened. Gazing to his side, he noted the presence of a shady-looking man who, for all intents and purposes, might as well have materialized out of thin air. Once over initial puzzlement, Oleg leered forward, further hunching to meet the faces of Tangir and his female companion.

"Awfully nice of you to stand up for me, a total stranger." There was the barest hint of skepticism underlying Oleg's statement. He hid it carefully, behind a rapidly descending expression of sheer, emotional blankness. Reluctantly, Oleg extended his hand, grasping onto Tangir's, engulfing it entirely while applying no insignificant amount of force to the shake. Had he wanted to, there was no doubt that Oleg could've yanked Tangir's arm right out of its socket. Thankfully he let go of Tangir before anything of the sort could happen.

Picking up on the sign's sinister meaning was beyond him, but he felt it nonetheless, silently perplexing over Tangir's intent. By all means, the stranger approached him in need of something, a fact further reinforced by his shady mannerisms and assassin-like entrance.

"Oleg, Oleg Orlov. At times people refer to me as O and nothing more. Though I don't think we are at that level of familiarity quite yet, innit right?"

He burped again, unintentionally this time, followed by a loud-ish hiccup. "The food is...edible." And edible it was, which was coincidentally the highest praise Oleg could sincerely give it. In reality, he found the meat a shade less chewy than a boot sole, and that alone spoke volumes of what Oleg was willing to eat once pushed to the brink of hunger.

"Free drinks, you say?" Oleg's upper lip twitched, giving barest hints of his above-average-sized canine teeth. "It'd be rude to refuse. I can't say no to charitable strangers, can I?" He could've, and likely would've if not for the elven girl that caught his eye. It was neither her looks nor modesty that enticed him but the sweet aroma of raw magic lingering on her frame. He could all but smell it.

Oleg's upper body took a sharp dive, leveling itself with Hahnah's face, allowing him to maintain unbroken eye contact with the tiny female. "And who might you be, missy?" Questioned the delighted male, his pupils dilating as the various capillaries encircling his sclera intensified, glowing so dimly that only she could discern it.

Oleg blew a puff of heated air straight out of his nasal cavity, regarding Hahnah in much the same manner a hunting hound would a fox, predatory.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Alright, good. Good. They were getting somewhere. Tangir had come at it a bit--how'd them fancy types say it?--inelegantly, but opportunity was opportunity. There wasn't anything more awkward than a cold open. And damn did this big fucker have a big hand to boot. Oleg, huh? Tangir hadn't really seen him around Oban, but that didn't mean too much. There were regulars he dealt with, but there were also plenty who came and went; low profile pirates all the way from Cerak At'Thul, and human intermediaries serving the orcs and fire giants of Molthal. Others, of course, but those were the "Big Two" in the trade.

I can't say no to charitable strangers, can I?

"What can I say? I'm a neighborly guy." Then Tangir glanced over toward the bar counter and snapped his fingers twice to get the apprentice innkeep attention. He called for three beers. The apprentice innkeep, a bit hesitant to come back over so soon, was nevertheless prodded along by the lazy innkeeper, who barely lifted his nose from the pamphlet he was reading.

Hahnah, meanwhile, came face-to-face with the man whose name was Oleg when he bent down. Their eyes met. And his...they were glowing. Faintly, but they were, she could see it. They were glowing like hers once did. Before her transformation.

She had been told by Tangir to look scared. And with the way Oleg was looking at her, this became much easier. She felt the kind of fear she had keenly felt when facing down armored men--men who were mostly invulnerable to her sorcery. That time was in the past for several reasons, but that fear had come bubbling back up. And she did look scared. She was determined to cleanse the profane men, to rescue Mina, but that didn't mean she was without fear. Especially since she had no weapon nor magic available to her.

"My name is Hahnah," she said, barely above a timid whisper. She'd been told to let Tangir do the talking, but he didn't seem to mind this.

The apprentice innkeep came back, a sheepish expression on his face, and set the three beers on Oleg's messy table. He scuttled away quickly once done with it, Tangir's coins in hand.

Tangir prompted for Hahnah to sit first. She did, and she sat with her back straight, chin level, heels together, and hands primly atop one another in her lap. Perfect posture, with the sole exception of her downcast eyes. And then Tangir sat next to her, waiting for Oleg to join them.

Tangir cast a wide glance about the lobby, and then centered in on Oleg. "Awfully lonely at this table, isn't it? Before we came along."

And then he lowered his voice.

"Maybe you want some company, Oleg."

* * * * *​

The traffickers kept up their pretenses. Playing the card game, pretending to be a courting couple, singing like drunkards. But they were all keeping an ear out on Tangir, Oleg, and Hahnah. They couldn't hear everything that was being said, some of it too quiet amidst the other conversations of the lobby, but they were listening nonetheless. Listening and casually observing. Nothing too out of the ordinary--no overly long looks that would betray their interest.

They were tensed. Ready.

But they needed the perfect moment. They didn't want this to get any noisier (or messier) than it needed to be.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

Alright, good. Good. They were getting somewhere. Tangir had come at it a bit--how'd them fancy types say it?--inelegantly, but opportunity was opportunity. There wasn't anything more awkward than a cold open. And damn did this big fucker have a big hand to boot. Oleg, huh? Tangir hadn't really seen him around Oban, but that didn't mean too much. There were regulars he dealt with, but there were also plenty who came and went; low profile pirates all the way from Cerak At'Thul, and human intermediaries serving the orcs and fire giants of Molthal. Others, of course, but those were the "Big Two" in the trade.

I can't say no to charitable strangers, can I?

"What can I say? I'm a neighborly guy." Then Tangir glanced over toward the bar counter and snapped his fingers twice to get the apprentice innkeep attention. He called for three beers. The apprentice innkeep, a bit hesitant to come back over so soon, was nevertheless prodded along by the lazy innkeeper, who barely lifted his nose from the pamphlet he was reading.

Hahnah, meanwhile, came face-to-face with the man whose name was Oleg when he bent down. Their eyes met. And his...they were glowing. Faintly, but they were, she could see it. They were glowing like hers once did. Before her transformation.

She had been told by Tangir to look scared. And with the way Oleg was looking at her, this became much easier. She felt the kind of fear she had keenly felt when facing down armored men--men who were mostly invulnerable to her sorcery. That time was in the past for several reasons, but that fear had come bubbling back up. And she did look scared. She was determined to cleanse the profane men, to rescue Mina, but that didn't mean she was without fear. Especially since she had no weapon nor magic available to her.

"My name is Hahnah," she said, barely above a timid whisper. She'd been told to let Tangir do the talking, but he didn't seem to mind this.

The apprentice innkeep came back, a sheepish expression on his face, and set the three beers on Oleg's messy table. He scuttled away quickly once done with it, Tangir's coins in hand.

Tangir prompted for Hahnah to sit first. She did, and she sat with her back straight, chin level, heels together, and hands primly atop one another in her lap. Perfect posture, with the sole exception of her downcast eyes. And then Tangir sat next to her, waiting for Oleg to join them.

Oleg followed in step, pulling up the chair to sit on, its size barely adequate for his elongated frame. He found no accommodation in it, and it wasn't comfortable in the slightest, but Oleg bore with it for the sake of conversation.

"Hahnah, you say? That's a pretty name if I've ever heard one." Oleg was smiling from ear to ear right now, a big, goofy grin threatening to engulf him whole. It was dangerously broad and almost inhumane, betraying the presence of Oleg's sizable canine teeth, four in total, two for each jaw. "Well, you see, I know little to no one here. Think of me as a tourist at best and a trouble seeker at worst."

He glanced at Tangir, then at Hahnah, gauging their reactions. As far as Oleg was concerned, they could've been robbers intending to drug and rob him, and Hahnah was the lure. Still, the girl's meek demeanor struck him as abnormal. She neither advanced nor backed down from him, hence why Oleg found it hard to see her as a harlot.

"This place...isn't very inviting now that I think about it. On the brighter side, at least it doesn't reek of undeath." He was, of course, referring to the living dead, of which he had seen many, all in different shapes and forms. Oleg's chin sank onto the flats of his palms. Following the motion, the small necklace he was sporting began wobbling, showcasing its rainbow-like, brilliantly polished gemstone. It caught the rays of tavern's artificial light, refracting them in the strangest of ways.

"I mean, Oban is a wealthy city, but its walls are offputting, and it all-around lacks the kind of homey feel I am used to. Compared to Alliria, its nature is lacking. It suffocates me a little knowing that what surrounds me are imposing walls of granite." Oleg licked his lips, reminiscing of his home, looking in no particular direction and with no deducible intent.

Tangir cast a wide glance about the lobby, and then centered in on Oleg. "Awfully lonely at this table, isn't it? Before we came along."

"Sounds about right. I hadn't run into anyone talkative so far, buggers. Something tells me that people who frequent these places aren't exactly friendly." Oleg snaked his arm around Tangir's shoulder, pulling him into a side hug. Bringing his head closer to Tangir's, Oleg blew a puff of hot air onto the smaller male's face, tickling it. "Not that you are much different, approachability aside. So, what is it that you want from me, businessman?"

And then he lowered his voice.

"Maybe you want some company, Oleg."

​

"Oh, so you are a..." it took him a moment to conjure up the correct term for the kind of morally dubious activity Tangir was partaking in, "pimp, right?" There was no doubt in Oleg's mind that Tangir's offer had to do with the timid blondie sitting few feet away from him. Still, he wanted to make sure, stealing a grimaced, slightly pitied glance at Hahna's posture.

"No offense, she's a pretty girl, but I don't like paying for my women," he stated, referring to Hahnah, obliviously disregarding the presence of prying eyes and ears. "Maybe we could make a different type of bargain?"

 

[Hahnah]

A pretty name. That was something Hahnah did not expect for this human man Oleg to say. Was he one of the profane men, ones that Laython had called "traffickers and slavers?" She was not sure. Tangir was talking to him, and since he was supposed to be talking to one of the profane men she thought this meant that Oleg was one. Yet she trusted Laython, and so would stick with the plan. It remained her best hope of finding Mina and returning her to her family, before she was lost forever.

Tangir just gave an amicable smile when Oleg said that he was a "a trouble seeker" at worst; sounded like this Oleg guy definitely wasn't local, but, still, all he had to do was sell the elf, and then his part would be over. Hahnah gave a tiny inquisitive turn of her head when he'd said it.

And another such turn, when Oleg mentioned that at least the Inn did not reek of undeath. Hahnah was vastly unfamiliar with the things that were called undead--her brief visit to the strange town of Strahlvel notwithstanding. There had been a few vampires there, but they had looked very much like humans to her. Except they had fangs when they smiled. Like...a little like Oleg, now that she thought about it.

More surprises came rolling in. Oleg spoke of a feeling of suffocation within the towering walls of Oban, and upon hearing this a light of recognition sparked in Hahnah's eyes, for she knew instantly that this way of saying it encapsulated the very feeling that she herself felt within the city. Suffocation. To Hahnah it always seemed that the whole of any settlement she entered loomed large over her, the mass of people within slowly constricting her like two enormous grasping hands.

Tangir didn't seem to mind the side hug from Oleg. He kept right on track. It was good that Oleg called him a pimp--that was how it was done, at least with the females. Exchanges made in plain sight, because no one paid any mind to such sordid business going on. Prostitution happened everyday--in the right places it did. Except, in a small number of these cases, the "harlot" wasn't a harlot at all, she wasn't going to be taken to any bed, but instead was going to disappear from Oban altogether, the rest of her days to be spent in one of the Big Two.

Tangir kept his voice down. Seemed there was some interest, so he needed a little plain talk to seal a deal. "She's not a harlot. She can be if you want, but she's not. She's merchandise."

Hahnah merely glanced Tangir's way: "merchandise" was a word that she was unfamiliar with in Common.

"But yeah," said Tangir, quietly still, "maybe we can strike a different bargain. What do ya got in mind, friend?"

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

"Merchandise, really now?" A cursory look told him that the girl had little clue what Tangir meant beyond the fact that he was trying to rent her out, or worse, sell into slavery. Oleg licked his lips, eyes bouncing up and down in excitement.

"I mean, do you peg me as a dumb guy just because I'm tall and muscular?" Oleg brought Tangir's head uncomfortably close to his own, fingers wrapped around it as if it were nothing but a tennis ball. "No criminal worth his salt would casually approach a stranger and offer to sell them what's, in essence, a glorified slave."

He chuckled gutturally and with no small amount of enthusiasm, unhanding Tangir before any harm could come the man's way. There was something about the two's shrouded dealings that tickled his interest. "So tell me, what is it that you are truly up to?"

With his legs crossed and arms danging by the sides, Oleg observed them, both the timid girl and her less-than-honest partner. The possibility of being spied on by outside forces crossed his mind, even if only briefly. It died with the rapid realization that no figure of authority gave as much as a superfluous fuck concerning the morally unhinged and likely illegal nature of Tangir's proposal.

The inn's owner sure as hell wasn't a type to eavesdrop on others judging by his lack of focus and outright disinterest. Even the staff, undertrained as it was, seemingly knew better than to infringe upon the personal dealings of their customers.

"And, before you ask why I need to know this, well, it's simple," The male made no haste with the consumption of his freely-acquired beverage. Tipping the already compromised chair back, he gripped the tankard, making it look somewhat small in comparison to his disproportionately sized and unusually bone hands. "I am bored, and there wasn't a whole lot to do around here, so if you guys have anything worth my time and assets, then shoot your shot."

A sip of the cheap ale was all it took for him to make a funny face, tongue sticking out in displeasure. Passable as their food was, these people had no taste whatsoever when it came to alcoholic beverages. Had they the ability to hear his thoughts out loud, there'd be much grumbling and displeasure coming from other patrons.

Before Tangir had much if any chance to respond, Oleg pointed his index finger at Hahnah, disregarding the girl's thinly veiled unease. "And you, don't you try to hide it. You reek of the supernatural, lady, and I can almost taste it at this distance." No real subtlety or consideration was lacing Oleg's words. Not that he cared, as there was a certain yearning and an inclination to elicit a sliver of emotion from Hahnah, preferably an emotion unrelated to fear and worry she's been exhibiting so far.

"And truly, the supernatural is what I've been looking for. I can't wait to ascertain your origins. My brain is already spinning a spacious web, of which each strand represents a possible answer."

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Tangir had an idea that this was going downhill, naturally, when Oleg said Do you peg me as a dumb guy. Well. Shit. He really ought to have slid out of the engagement and tried another prospective client when Oleg didn't return the triple ringfinger tap. Just so caught up in gettin' this done, weren't ya Tangir? Oh, sold a bunch of wares to a bunch of people, this'll be nothin', and besides, everybody at the Stone's Throw is in the know, right? Complacency's done old Tangir in again.

Damn it, why couldn't Oleg just buy the damn elf? Now that hardass lieutenant was going to give Tangir some hell...if he couldn't salvage this. Oleg here wanted to know what was really going on? Sure, you want it, you got it. You help out the lieutenant. But Tangir couldn't say anything about the lieutenant's plan here. He didn't even want to risk whispering about it.

Tangir was about to speak, but...Oleg wasn't done. A sip of the ale, and a second later he had his finger pointing at the elf.

And Hahnah was taken aback. She jerked back slightly in her seat, gasped, a hand rising from her lap and hovering above her breast. Unconsciously, she sniffed--once. She saw Tangir in the corner of her widened eyes, mouthing the words in Common, "...the fuck?" but she disregarded his reaction. She was focused on Oleg.

Supernatural. She had not ever thought of herself as supernatural. Not specifically that, no. She knew that she was different. She knew that she was not like Kylindrielle or Elurdrith. At most she had referred to herself as "a strange elf" when on those rare occasions she was asked what she was. And that was the extent on her thoughts about herself, how she had come into being, why she looked as she had when she was born and why she acted and felt as she did, why only she could feel within her heart the Dying God's presence. Strange. No stranger than the things she herself thought strange in her travels.

Then, after the initial shock at the unexpected confrontation, came what Oleg was looking for. Another emotion, getting the better of her.

Anger.

Hahnah whipped both of her hands up and then flattened her palms on the table. She leaned forward with a cross look. And demanded in a hissing whisper, "Are you one of the profane men who are called 'slavers?'"

Tangir, alarmed and after glancing about the lobby, kept his voice low as well and said, "Hey, hey, hey, shut the fuck up, what're you--!?"

"Where is she? Where is the girl named Mina?"

"Hahnah, for Astra's sake, shut--"

Hahnah clapped a hand over Tangir's face, cutting short his protest into unintelligible muffles.

She glared at Oleg. Her heart pounded with fright, but her veins burned with ignited hatred. He had to be one of the profane men, this man named Oleg. He had to be.

* * * * *​

Things were overheard.

Not all.

But some. Enough.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

Tangir had an idea that this was going downhill, naturally, when Oleg said Do you peg me as a dumb guy. Well. Shit. He really ought to have slid out of the engagement and tried another prospective client when Oleg didn't return the triple ringfinger tap. Just so caught up in gettin' this done, weren't ya Tangir? Oh, sold a bunch of wares to a bunch of people, this'll be nothin', and besides, everybody at the Stone's Throw is in the know, right? Complacency's done old Tangir in again.

Damn it, why couldn't Oleg just buy the damn elf? Now that hardass lieutenant was going to give Tangir some hell...if he couldn't salvage this. Oleg here wanted to know what was really going on? Sure, you want it, you got it. You help out the lieutenant. But Tangir couldn't say anything about the lieutenant's plan here. He didn't even want to risk whispering about it.

Tangir was about to speak, but...Oleg wasn't done. A sip of the ale, and a second later he had his finger pointing at the elf.

And Hahnah was taken aback. She jerked back slightly in her seat, gasped, a hand rising from her lap and hovering above her breast. Unconsciously, she sniffed--once. She saw Tangir in the corner of her widened eyes, mouthing the words in Common, "...the fuck?" but she disregarded his reaction. She was focused on Oleg.

Supernatural. She had not ever thought of herself as supernatural. Not specifically that, no. She knew that she was different. She knew that she was not like Kylindrielle or Elurdrith. At most she had referred to herself as "a strange elf" when on those rare occasions she was asked what she was. And that was the extent on her thoughts about herself, how she had come into being, why she looked as she had when she was born and why she acted and felt as she did, why only she could feel within her heart the Dying God's presence. Strange. No stranger than the things she herself thought strange in her travels.

Then, after the initial shock at the unexpected confrontation, came what Oleg was looking for. Another emotion, getting the better of her.

Anger.

Hahnah whipped both of her hands up and then flattened her palms on the table. She leaned forward with a cross look. And demanded in a hissing whisper, "Are you one of the profane men who are called 'slavers?'"

He relished in their confusion, lips curling upwards into a Cheshire grin. Hahnha's reaction only served to nurture his interest, furthering it until Oleg could no longer help himself but reach out, intending to cup her face, stopping mere millimeters from fulfilling the passion-driven act.

It was then and there that an electrifying sensation would unfurl across the surface of Hahna's cheek, zapping her with enough intensity to make its presence known. Oleg's skin crawled up a mutual sentiment of acknowledgment. He knew, and so should've Hahnah, that both of them had an explicit set of supernatural gifts, yet the girl's expression betrayed her obliviousness to the matter.

How could she not know when a novice like Oleg all but tasted the very essence of her being with a single touch? The question plagued Oleg's mind, its rabid unfatomableness unnerving him, and he found himself wanting to grab Hahna's head and shake it rapidly for the perceived slight.

"I am no slaver, lady. What makes you think I of all people would be into the idea of trafficking people?" He shot Tangir an undereye stare, hand still tingling from his previous escapade, a welcome feeling as far as Oleg was concerned.

"It's a spineless job," he proclaimed, anticipating Tangir's overt displeasure. The resolve behind his mocking tone was clear as day. "I, on the other hand, live by virtue of my abilities. Which are to say, decidedly not cowardly"

Tangir, alarmed and after glancing about the lobby, kept his voice low as well and said, "Hey, hey, hey, shut the fuck up, what're you--!?"

"Where is she? Where is the girl named Mina?"

"Hahnah, for Astra's sake, shut--"

Hahnah clapped a hand over Tangir's face, cutting short his protest into unintelligible muffles.

She glared at Oleg. Her heart pounded with fright, but her veins burned with ignited hatred. He had to be one of the profane men, this man named Oleg. He had to be.

* * * * *​

Things were overheard.

Not all.

But some. Enough.

Oleg

"Ooooo~" Oleg's mouth gaped, excitement seeping through to dispell the atmosphere of gloom and doom. "Lemme guess, the Mina girl is someone close to you, a friend, perhaps relative, a kidnapping happened, and the abductors intend to sell her into slavery?" He was practically feeding off the reactions given by the bewildered due, intrigued to no end by the prospect of an adventure regarding a criminal case.

The confirmation of Hahnah's supernatural nature and the subsequent info regarding a possible kidnapping mashed well with his urge to get into trouble. And troublesome they felt, especially Tangir, who must've been a serious goon to try and peddle Hahna as merchandise, even if only for the sake of convenience.

"You are shit out of luck Hahnah, or maybe not, depending on how you go about handling this situation." He took the half-empty tankard, flinging it overhead, behind his back and into what little inhabitants the inn had, splashing half-a-dozen of them with a liquid that smelled like dirty socks. "You never know. I could be on your side."

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah's eyes tracked Oleg's reaching hand, looking at it as if its mere touch could well be corrupting. But she couldn't pull back in time. There was no touch. But a feeling that Hahnah had trouble describing (like pain? like the warmth of a fire? like the tingling of an insect's legs, only sharp? all of these things?) bolted through her cheek. She gasped again, and--

(the entity that was her Living Armor squirmed subtly beneath her skin)

--straightened her back as if sternly disciplined. She touched her cheek. Pulled her hand away and snapped a glance to it. To Oleg. Back to her hand.

Then Oleg said, I am no slaver, lady.

Already confused about what had happened with her cheek, she gave a bewildered, sidelong glance to Tangir. He was supposed to be talking to one of the profane men. That was the plan from the man Laython, the man whom she actually did trust.

With her hand gone from his face and touching her own cheek, Tangir was free to explain, "That's what I was gonna say, Hahnah. He ain't one--bad call on my part." And, unnecessarily, he added, "Now keep your voice down."

Tangir didn't take any offence to Oleg's slights against his occupation. Hey, he'd been called a lot worse, and anyways, a man had to make a livin' somehow, right? Just wasn't enough honest work to go around in a big city like Oban. All he really cared about was staying out of that cell the lieutenant wanted to toss him in again. This "supernatural" stuff Oleg was talking about with the elf? Tangir sure as hell wanted nothin' to do with that. Oban damn sure didn't like no women with magic just walkin' about.

Hahnah, meanwhile, had a small moment to consider just how much she was out of her depth here. She had no shortage of determination to rescue Mina, but the means of doing so were mostly beyond her comprehension. Simply put, the city was not the wild. The enemy she sought was not so easily discerned, and could hide in plain sight, hid even among others who were innocent. Her hasty mistake with the man whose name was Oleg made her reconsider what she effectively could do on her own.

And to Oleg's long question concerning Mina, Hahnah answered simply, "Yes."

Oleg tossed his tankard, splashing the table with the hooded men, whose discussion of Obanese politics came to an abrupt halt as they, flabbergasted, surveyed their now damp clothes in surprise. Surprise that would soon start to inflame into indignant anger.

Tangir held up both palms, trying to beg for peace from Oleg, "Hey, hey, tough guy, take it easy. Take it easy."

I could be on your side, said the man Oleg. And at this Hahnah gave a slight cant of her head, a motion not too far removed from that of an inquisitive bird. "Do you wish to fight the profane men?"

Tangir made an even more exaggerated up-and-down gesture with his palms, hissing in a whisper to both her and Oleg, "Listen. We have. To talk. Elsewhere. Okay?"

The hooded men who had been splashed all came up to the side of the table then, all of them looking at Oleg expectantly. One of their number said to him, "You want to apologize for that, friend?"

Hahnah shot a glare up at trio. And Tangir laid a quick hand on her wrist. Shook his head vigorously.

* * * * *​

Now civilians were getting involved. Shit.

But the traffickers knew that they needed to get this done. They couldn't let the night go by without Tangir dead, or everybody could be fucked because of that rat. And Redoric wouldn't like that.

Well, if something got started over there, that'd be as good an opportunity as any.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

Oleg nearly laughed at her answer, all-too-proud of his foresight. "Was guessing as much, but you don't strike me as a charitable type. It's a surprise, but a welcome one." Tangir's words fell on deaf ears as he did his best to silence Hahnah, clearly afraid that someone or something would overhear their conversation. Oleg assumed it to be other criminals, perhaps competition, colleagues even. Yes, he already formed a firm belief that a person of Tangir's merits wasn't above selling out their own.


"People usually don't risk their hides for the well-being of others. Hell, they called me crazy a couple of times for the same reason." He looked at Tangir as the man-made desperate attempts of shutting him up, alas it was to no avail. Oleg enjoyed running his mouth, and there was little to be done about that. Whether by words or force of arms, Tangir couldn't quell the flow of their conversation.

"Also, calling them 'profane' doesn't do justice to their profession," the corner of his right eye caught glimpses of approaching figures, three in total, all men and all with disgruntled expressions. "Name them as what they are lady, slavers, and criminals. Using fancy words will blow whatever cover you and your buddy," Oleg pointed his thumb at Tangir, "are preserving."

"But Tangir is right. We'll talk outside." As Oleg was getting up, he sensed the trio's proximity, one of them standing dangerously close to him, his hands balled into fists. Oleg gave a goofy smile, unknowingly mocking the three ale-soaked men. Much of the liquid had stained their loins, conjuring up an image of a person whose sphincter didn't quite work properly and who had soiled themselves.

Oleg whistled, and the men glared, all three at a time. He found it hilariously odd that the trio shared a nearly identical set of facial expressions. Deep scowls, furrowed brows, and trembling lips graced their features, and Oleg could've sworn that the one who addressed him spoke through gritted teeth, spittling as he went.

"Why the long faces? It's just a bit of ale. You guys fear getting wet?" The biggest of the trio, and presumably their leader, didn't take well to Oleg's inquiry, reaching forward with his arms outstretched, intending to seize Oleg by the collar.

Oleg made no effort to stop the advance until the man came astoundingly close to touching the material of his leather jacket. Before much could happen, Oleg pressed the sole of his foot against the table's dull edge. In a swift kicking motion, Oleg exerted superhuman strength far in excess of what his body should've been capable of. Muscular or not, no mundane human had it in them to send a 150 kg table flying across the room, but he did, pinning two of the three men under its crushing weight while displacing much of the inn's decrepit furniture.

All-out chaos erupted mere moments later as both the inn's staff and patrons jumped to their feet, glancing at each other with frightful accusations. Only a few of them saw what Oleg had done, and those who did had no intention of getting involved in the ruckus. As such, they left the rabble to its own machinations. There was shouting as the inn's owner, an olden man, came out of the woodwork with a loaded crossbow, pointing it indiscriminately at the shouting masses.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Slavers and criminals. These and other words in Common which to Hahnah were mostly unfamiliar, they described the type of men that Hahnah at one point thought represented the whole of Humankind. To her, anyone who so allowed their hearts to be overrun with cruelty was profane, no matter how many other words in Common described them. Yet...Lieutenant Laython had looked at her oddly when she had first said "profane" when referring to these slavers and criminals. The people who lived in settlements, she realized, were as unfamiliar with the word profane being used in such a way as she was with the terms slavers and criminals.

So, Oleg was right. She needed to adapt. She did not have the hide of a skinned animal to risk, but if she did, she would risk it for the well-being of Mina. And for Mina's sake, adaptation was necessary. Otherwise, she would remain out of her depth, lost and in need even of a dubious man like Tangir to guide her.

Then had come the hooded trio from the other table. Splashed and damp with ale on their cloaks. Hahnah had glared at them, and Tangir had tried to steady her. Sure, Tangir knew that the lieutenant wasn't far, but by the time the law got here, he could've eaten a few good punches by then. And that was something he was trying to avoid.

Tangir didn't get his wish.

The table was in front of Hahnah, in front of Tangir, they were sitting at it...and then it was gone. A rush of air accompanied the table's sudden departure, whipping Hahnah's hair about and making Tangir instinctively shield himself with his arms. In that lightning flash of a moment the table had sailed across the lobby of the Stone's Throw, and two of the three hooded men were gone, the last of them left in shock.

Shouts of alarm laced with profanity sprang up from the other patrons. Many of them had leapt to their feet and scurried back from the thrown table and from Oleg, casting eyes that were either confused, apprehensive, or outright fearful. Hahnah as well had gotten to her feet. But she wasn't looking at Oleg. She was glaring still at the third hooded man.

"Are you a--?"

Something moving out of the corner of her eye. She glanced and saw the downward swing of a small club just as it struck her forehead. White stars violently clouded her vision, and crackling pain raced down her body. A rough hand grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her down and away, and her face smashed into the edge of a nearby table on the way down to the floor.

It had been the "courting couple." The handsome man and pretty woman had gotten up when the chaos erupted, the man with a previously concealed dagger and the woman with a previously concealed club, and had rushed toward their target. The woman struck Hahnah, the man had tossed her out of the way, and both of them looked to Tangir. Tangir, who was still sitting. Petrified.

The woman lunged at Tangir, while the man lunged at Oleg, trying to cover his accomplice for those precious seconds.

* * * * *​

Lieutenant Laython had heard the clatter of the table being thrown, the alarmed shouts from within the Inn, and he knew that his fear had come to pass. Tangir had fouled the plan, somehow, even when his own self-interest was at stake. But now wasn't the time for irritation. He had to move fast, or they wouldn't get anything.

"Let's go," he said urgently to his men. "You five. Cover the back door. The rest, on me. Weapons ready!"

* * * * *​

And it was then, when the woman lunged for Tangir and the man for Oleg, that the front doors of the Inn burst open, Lieutenant Laython and his squad of guardsmen flooding into the already crowded and chaotic lobby.

"By the authority of the King, everyone halt!"

Laython's words did no good. The civilians were now intensely bewildered or outright panicked, the traffickers at the singing table and card game table were drawing their concealed weapons, the TWANG of a crossbow being fired--on purpose or accidentally--sounded, and the melee within the lobby began.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

Oleg couldn't help but admire the determination of his assaulter. For all its futility, there was a certain level of courage required to rush in so brazenly with the intent of cutting down a martially superior target.

The dagger's edge glinted, its length attached to a wooden handle, held tightly by a callous hand and aimed towards Oleg with malicious intent. Oleg studied the dagger carefully, eyes brushing over it in those fair few seconds it took his opponent to cross the distance and take a stab at him.
It was indeed a pretty tool, expensive-looking too, its edge polish speaking volumes about the kind of person using it. Hell, the level of fine craftsmanship combined with impeccable ornamentation almost made him feel sad about what was to transpire.

A metallic sound tore through the inn's bounds, temporarily silencing the auditory rampage caused by its rowdy patrons. The dagger-wielding man looked at Oleg, whose arms remained spread apart as if he were inviting him. Glancing at the dagger, he found its pointy tip struggling against the surface of Oleg's pectoral muscle. Much to his surprise, not only did the lethal implement fail to kill Oleg, but it barely got a millimeter or two past the surface layer of his skin.

"That's it?" wondered Oleg, aloud, arms limply falling to the side followed by his tone of utter disappointment. Oleg's eyes bore down on the shorter man, expressing shameless, pitied disgust. "Come on, do something. You are boring me."

His opponent, no, attempted assailant, must've been horrified by the prospect of something or someone impervious to his hand-held armaments. He put his free hand on the dagger's hilt, pushing it with every fiber of his being. It did nothing, and Oleg didn't budge a centimeter despite having another full-grown man leaning most, if not all, of his body mass against him. To him, it felt like trying to breach the surface of granite, or worse even, plate armor. But Oleg was neither stone nor metal, but assumingly flesh, and it terrified him.

"Genuine question, but do they even pay you for this?"

The man shook, registering Oleg's mouth that was now close to his earlobe, too close for comfort. And as he contemplated his life choices so far, Oleg's wispy breath tickled him in all the wrong ways.

"Hey! Pay attention. I am talking to you." Oleg was now raising his voice, shaking the man back and forth like a ragdoll, intensifying his single-handed grip. No sooner than he did that did he feel his fingertips tearing through muscle tissue and cartilage like styrofoam, prompting the one being held to yip-yap and pull away from Oleg's mildly surprised self. It was an otherwise sickening but not unfamiliar sensation. He had seen, smelled, and been in contact with broken bodies before, the only difference being that they were already dead, unlike the retreating man.

"Uh oh," Oleg brought the digits of his dominant hand to his face, checking for signs of blood. "Just for the record, that was an accident," he said to no one in particular.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Ringing.

The sensations of awareness returning. First in a slow trickle, then a tide.

Hahnah's eyes creaked open, one followed by the other, and the lids of each were laden with disorientation. From the floor she heard the shouting, the commands, the insults. She heard glass being broken, wood crashing and metal clashing, and Oleg speaking.

Only feet and legs she could see, all struggling for position, shifting frantically. She lifted up her head, groggily. Blinked. Slowly touched her face and her forehead. And there was blood on her palm, her forehead having been split open from being struck with the club and hitting the table.

She started to stand. She reached up. Grabbed at the table's edge and took hold and pulled herself up, flattening her forearms on the table once her chin crested the edge. She saw before her Laython and his guardsmen, fighting with some of the humans of the lobby and shoving others to one side. The guardsmen were winning handily.

Hey! Pay attention. I am talking to you.

Hahnah glanced back over her shoulder as she clung to the table. Oleg had a man, a man with a weapon, in his grasp. (A thought, emerging as thoughts do in their sometimes disconnected ways, that Oleg seemed even taller now, as she held to the table's edge, not quite on her feet).

And Hahnah saw as well a woman. Her back to Hahnah, mounted atop Tangir. Her club was repeated striking down, Tangir's legs sometimes twitching, sometimes not, as each blow landed.

Hahnah breathed rapidly, steeling herself. She pushed off of the table and up onto her feet. The dagger-wielding man Oleg had been clutching went stumbling backward, and Hahnah staggered through that gap between him and Oleg. She fell onto the woman's back, forcing the woman to fall to one side with her. Hahnah was flat on the floor, the woman atop her facing upward. Hahnah had the woman's arms bound up with her own, and the club-wielding woman kicked her legs about and tried to roll but Hahnah held firm, keeping her restrained. But she might not be able to for long.

"...Oleg!"

* * * * *​

Lieutanent Laython and his men had dealt with three of the other six traffickers. Two were dead, one incapacitated. The other three were frantically holding their own. The Innkeep, in the confusion of the brawl, had had a bottle smashed over his head and was slumped over the bar counter.

Tangir lay still on the floor. His face was unrecognizable, beaten into a bloody, pulpy mess. He was dead.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

The man fled, or at least tried to, running face-first into a contingency of armed guards. He was no longer Oleg's worry but theirs, as much of a worry as a weaponless person with a single functional arm could be. There were, speaking from a technical standpoint, no exits left for him to exploit due to the inn's cramped nature. The guards advanced rapidly towards him, arming swords reared, intending to skewer him should he attempt to engage them.


Oleg winced at the beatdown that was to ensue. To say that his attacker stood no chance against better trained, better equipped, and numerically superior foe would be an understatement of the century. A hearty chuckle did escape him when one of the guardsmen whacked the would-be assassin over the head with the pommel of his sword, sending him stumbling backward and over the nearest table.


"Eh?" Hannah's pleas for help caught him off guard. Oleg presumed, no, was assured of her magical nature by this point, yet she still seemingly struggled to overpower a mundane human female. Oleg crouched next to the struggling pair, keeping his hands pocketed in great anticipation of what was to transpire.

"C'mon, seriously, you need MY help?" He wasn't directly mocking her nor showcasing overt disappointment, but Oleg's voice did crack halfway through the sentence. He was impatient, growingly so. "Against her?" Oleg wagged his index finger in front of the unknown woman's face, a woman, that on a good day, might've been a little over a third of his mass. She attempted to bite him, failing due to her preoccupation with Hahnah and the whole grappling ordeal. Neither her nor Hahnah's form gave him an impression of skill. As far as Oleg was concerned, the two were cat-fighting, and he thought it comical.

"You don't need me, do you? Just immolate her, or remove her soul, or tear her body apart. Hell, whatever your magic does, do it. I wanna see!" It became increasingly clear that Hahnah wasn't going to do any of those. Her strength waned as the seconds passed, prompting Oleg to go WTF.

"Uh oh." With a flattened tone, he grabbed the other woman's ankle, yanking her off and away from Hahnah. Oleg kept her dangling mid-air, upside down, a gesture that only further amplified the visual size disparity between her and himself. From the eyes of onlookers, he must've been nearly two whole feet taller than her.

He treated her not dissimilarly to how a child would a toy, shaking the woman with just the right amount of strength to make her whole frame wobble. There was a certain air of indifference to the action since his eyes remained affixed to Hahnah, seeping into her with great interest.

"What are you?" he inquired, for the first time since they met. Hahnah could've been a fae, a sorcerous elf, or even a shapeshifter, yet it made no sense when judged through the lenses of her actions. She took no steps to defend herself from a marginally life-threatening assault beyond what he would've expected from an unassuming mortal. It boggled and bothered him simultaneously, and if he weren't currently restraining a mutual enemy, Oleg would've reached down, shaking Hahna's silly head back and forth.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah nodded vigorously (as much as she could nod, with the back of the club-wielding woman's head in her face and the hardwood floor beneath) when Oleg had said You need MY help, taking his question as straightforward and genuine.

Immolate her? Remove her soul? Tear her body apart? Hahnah could not do any of those things, even though each would be useful in fighting the profane. Her gift of sorcery from the Dying God was gone, gone ever since the siege in Menura, and she did not know why. She had several thoughts--all of them frightful, all of them concerned for the Dying God's well-being--but she did not truly know why. If she had access to the Elemental Hatred, she could have ended the profane woman. The criminal woman. But she did not. And with her Living Armor inside of her body, with even the knife she'd come to Oban with left in Laython's office, she had nothing but her meager strength.

I wanna see!

"I am sorry!" Her apology came out quickly, between grunts and growls of exertion as she struggled to keep the club-wielding woman restrained.

Then she need struggle no more. The woman slipped away from Hahnah. Up and away, as if her foot had been caught in the maw of a giant beast and it was hauling her upward, preparing to eat her. Though it was no beast, it was a giant. Oleg had taken hold of the trafficker woman, lifted her up high by the ankle, and the manner in which she dangled was not unlike someone caught branch-suspended snare trap.

Hahnah propped herself up onto her elbows, looking in fascination at the sheer strength on display by Oleg. It was as if he were a troll or an ogre, yet in a human's body. A tall human's body, but a human's body. She blinked. Wiped away from her eye some of the blood that had trickled down from her forehead's gash. Did he feel a loving God within his heart too? One that had blessed him with a gift of strength?

What are you?

She had little time to answer, but she did. Quietly given, the only answer she had ever known to this question asked of her. "I am a strange elf."

"Put the woman down!"

"Drop any weapons!"

"Act slowly!"

Three of Laython's guardsmen had finally made it over to them, one with a shield in front and the other two behind him and to either side. If they were afraid, they didn't show it. Except one. The one behind and to the right, Hahnah noticed, the one who'd said to Act slowly. His brow was creased with worry, trepidation, as he looked up toward Oleg's full height, and saw the full-grown woman dangling in his single-armed grasp.

Hahnah snapped forward her hand in a desperate gesture for peace. "No! Do not! He is good! Oleg is good!"

The three guardsmen, even knowing who Hahnah was, were nonetheless a touch bewildered. Lieutenant Laython himself rushed over (the rest of his men securing those traffickers they'd incapacitated, four in total including that daggerman who'd attacked Oleg, and corralling the frightened civilians). He said to his three guardsmen there, "Stand down, guardsmen. Stand down."

Laython got a look at Tangir. Shook his head ruefully. Said, "Godsdamn it. That craven fool."

Hahnah sat up, used the momentum to get onto her knees, and again to rise back up all the way to her feet. She held her chest as if to soothe some pain upon it. And she said of Oleg, making her case to Laython, "He is not one of the criminals. He wishes to help fight them." She pointed to the daggerman with her other hand, particularly to his injured shoulders, saying earnestly, "And he wishes for you to know that was an accident."

The guardsmen with the creased brow glanced back toward the injured daggerman. Laython, meanwhile, ignoring the last part of what Hahnah said, focusing on the he wishes to help fight them part. Well. With Tangir gone, one could say that a new spot for outside help had just opened up.

"That so? Oleg, was it?"

Oleg

Spoiler: Secretly

Elsewhere.

The Dying God knew that it was time, and had begun to enact His plan.

 

[Oleg]

The woman's squirming came to an end when Oleg struck her belly hard enough to force the air out of her lungs, winding the female. She went limp nearly instantly, and he dropped her face fart onto the wooden planks, sighing in utmost disappointment. She was the one furthest removed from the concept of a challenging opponent. Oleg reconsidered, throwing her body across the room but banished the thought as they needed her alive for intel extraction.

Hahnah distracted him, as did the steadily advancing stream of armed and armored men, few of whom had the guts to point their weapons at him, unafraid. "You aren't going to stab me with those pointy things, are you?" Oleg was, of course, playing coy as he innocently drove the pad of his middle finger against the nearest sword tip. He didn't bleed, not a drop of crimson despite seemingly squishing his flesh against sharpened steel.

"Eh, good? Guess you could call me that." Hahna's bewildered utterance charmed him. The girl was naive, but Oleg couldn't find the root of it. By all accounts, she looked and felt older than him by a fair bit, but her mannerisms didn't mirror his assumptions. Not that she was childish in any capacity, just...a little strange.

"But I digress. The folk say you can be an antagonist in someone else's story without awareness or acknowledgment of it. Fun stuff, right?" Oleg's eyes trailed across the unconscious woman, her form unmoving but alive. She was breathing, thankfully. An aura of smugness radiated off him in waves. He silently admired his total martial superiority over these pigeon-hearted criminals.

"I ought to be a villain from their point of view," Spoke Oleg, confident in his remark to the point where he flung it directly at Laython. "Yes, I am Oleg. I am not from here, much less criminally affiliated with slavers. As such, I traffick neither people nor organs, although you can expect me to have a fleeting infatuation with supernatural artifacts. Can't help it."

Oleg's nose twitched and scrunched up, assailed by the sudden onset of heavy, acrid air. It had a metallic, coppery tang like someone had burst a blood vessel and was spraying their precious ichor all over the place. Whatever it was that provoked him with its pungency decided to settle in the back of his throat. The dryness was unbearable.

"God damn. It smells like a slaughterhouse in her-" Just as he was about to try and wave off the cloud of noxious smells away from his face, Oleg saw Tangir laying motionless, head, or what was remaining of it, caved in like a ripe tomato.

"Agh, and I only just met him." There was an undeniable whiff of the annoyance lingering in the statement's aftermath.

Oleg marched over to the woman, putting two and two together based on her weapon of choice. With a swift kick to the chest, he sent her skidding across the inn's wooden floorboards. The move hadn't killed her, but the frightening speed at which she slid away from him implied either Oleg's overwhelming strength or her lack of mass, possibly both at once.

"Sorry, you were saying?" His back broad, muscular back was now facing Laython, fingers diddling with a piece of white cloth that Oleg had snatched from the counter.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Something was wrong.

Hahnah did not know what, but she could feel it. Within her chest. Within her very heart, it seemed. Still she held her hand over her chest but it did not do much--it was as if Oleg had punched her instead of the club-wielding woman. It had started, very faint at first, when she had regained consciousness after hitting the table. And now it was slowly getting worse, that black core of pain was seeping down into her belly, up into her arms, spreading methodically through her veins, alighting them with a pain that was not physical. Not entirely. Different in character was it from the throbbing gash on her forehead. It felt as if...she were twine...about to unravel.

She pursed her lips. Held it in. Tried, and succeeded (briefly) in keeping her composure.

I ought to be a villain from their point of view.

Lieutenant Laython just gave a stout nod in response. He'd have it no other way. For scum like these traffickers and slavers, whomsoever they regarded as an antagonist or villain had to have the right of it. Perhaps it was some sort of backwards honor to be considered as such by these cretins.

Oleg's mention of the supernatural, though? Peculiar, but...interesting. The man had reached out and touched one of his men's swords and drew no blood upon his own finger. It was good that such magical power was not in the hands of a woman, that much Laython gave thanks for. King Dinfar of old had set the example, the Obanese way, and the city had greatly prospered from it.

Laython flicked his eyes over to Hahnah. The poor elf. A lot of heart in her, but she'd gotten herself injured further, and she looked as though she might get sick or faint--she was sweating terribly. Perhaps his earlier thought had been correct, and she whilst she had a strong conscience, she didn't have the stomach to so much as hurt a fly.

Laython tapped one of his men. Said, "Clean her up." And the guardsmen produced a cloth and stepped forward and dabbed at her bleeding forehead.

The tall man, Oleg, noticed Tangir. Dead. And Laython clarified, "Our asset. For as ineffectual as he turned out to be."

Then Laython, the guardsmen around him, some of the civilians watching, even Hahnah as she glanced, were all shocked to varying degrees when Oleg kicked the club-wielding woman clean across the lobby, seeing her flounder as she slid to a stop. Laython was briefly stunned. The man's further display of strength was astonishing, to say the least, and highlighted the great disparities of Arethil. But such a man, if he was truly willing, would make for a godsend of an ally. Someone whom the slavers could not kill so easily--like Tangir--if he were discovered.

Sorry, you were saying?

Laython gestured to the elf. "Hahnah vouches for you, and I trust her. I do not know all that she has told you of the task at hand, so I will briefly speak on it. Hahnah informed me of the abduction of a little girl, Mina Stonemason, at the hands of Obanese soldiers. I have been investigating this scourge of corruption for some time now, and her story I believe is quite genuine. She knows the faces of the soldiers who took the girl. However, Oban is home to a good many legions of soldiers, so it would be best to get her to the right place, where might these few corrupt soldiers could be found amongst their sordid, criminal ilk."

A tiny voice. Interrupting. Hahnah, now with one hand over her chest and one over her stomach, nearly doubled over, saying, "I-I do not feel well..."

Laython snapped a glance over to the apprentice innkeep. "You. Where is the privy room?"

The apprentice innkeep, alarmed by the sudden attention, stiffed harshly, bumping into the guardsmen that held him restrained. "Oh, oh. Um. There. Hallway. Around the side of the bar counter."

And Laython said gently to her, "It's alright, Hahnah. Go."

Without further word, Hahnah rushed across the lobby, hurried down the hallway, frantically looking for the door to the place called the "privy room," and because there was only one door that wasn't locked (the other being the storeroom) she by chance stumbled into it. The privy room's door slammed shut.

Laython shook his head. He felt even worse now for allowing the elf to go along with this, and for knowing that he would use her again if she so agreed to it. The girl did indeed have heart, but...apparently she could use some of Oleg's grit.

"If we're to recover the girl, we don't have much time," Laython explained. "And a man like you could make a hell of difference. What do you say?"

Oleg

Spoiler: Secretly

What was given.

Must be taken.

 

[Oleg]

"All the difference, hm," he hummed, moving in to drape the sheet of white cloth over Tangir's mutilated face if one could even refer to it as such. The white material sank into the crevices, soaking up blood to the best of its ability. It turned a particularly dark shade of crimson within mere moments. Oleg assumed it oxidized from the exposure to the inn's musty air. An unsettling sight for sure, not that it seemed to phase Laython, though.

"I already offered my help to that pipsqueak of a woman, Hahnah. Going back on my word would be," Oleg paused, looked to the side, and grinned at the subdued rabble. The chaos they had left in their wake was nothing short of impressive. Broken tables, deformed chairs, and bladed weapons sticking from the walls, crossbow bolts included. "It'd be kinda embarrassing. Plus, I am angry. Look at what they did to him."

Oleg prodded at Tangir's corpse with the tip of his boot, rocking it back and forth. "He could've been a fun guy to have around. Not to mention that I needed a guide to show me around and the bastard seemed well acquainted with this place." It was no secret that Oleg wanted the body up and away from him, his superhuman sense of smell having picked up on its repulsive odors. Tangir might've died minutes ago, but his blood was seeping through the cloth, which did a poor job at containing it. Oleg grimaced, shifting his gaze to the man with one functional arm. He was still squirming despite the handicap.

"Man, if the local law enforcers didn't need you, I'd open you from your belly to your brain and feed you your intestines. You nasty, child-diddling fucks."

The man visibly recoiled at Oleg's words, going limp against the closest armored personnel who, regardless of their martial training and physical conditioning, struggled to keep his saggy form erect. Oleg stuck out his tongue at him, a feral expression gracing his sharp features.

With his canines bared, he watched Hahnah awkwardly jittering past him, sending uneasy vibes straight into the pit of his stomach.

Hahnah's temporary absence left a feeling of emptiness in his chest, worry even. The elven woman moved as if she were on the verge of puking, forcing Oleg to wonder about her overall health. She didn't look overtly ill earlier, but still...


"Oh yeah, you reminded me." Oleg snapped his fingers as a metaphorical lightbulb materialized above his head, shinning at full brightness to signify the turning cogs of his curious mind. "The girl, Mina, is she someone close to Hahnah? A relative, friend perhaps? I can't imagine someone going to these lengths to save a stranger or someone who wasn't immediate family/companion."

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

What has happened...

...to me?

* * * * *​

Lieutenant Laython gave a solid nod when Oleg mentioned that he had already pledged his offer. When first he had heard the commotion from the Inn, he feared the loss of all his progress, that his hand had been tipped concerning the Stone's Throw and now the slavers would know that he knew of it and disappear. Disappear, of course, without fucking Tangir having placed Hahnah into their possession and giving him an opportunity to track their movements to other places of interest.

At least here, with how things turned out, he had a formidable ally in Oleg and some of the slavers taken alive. True, that these slavers had proven to be an exceptionally tight-lipped bunch (as if they somehow feared that Menalus himself, or Alarak himself, might sail forth from Molthal or Cerak At'Thul and personally take vengeance upon them for loosing their lips), but there was potential. And if that potential was struck, Oleg here could protect Hahnah once Laython thought up a new plan...and he wouldn't need to feel so awful about putting the elf in harm's way.

Oleg prodded Tangir's body with his boot. Yes, the man was scum. Smuggler, charlatan, shady merchant, go-between for the traffickers and slavers, Tangir had never done an honest day's work in his life, so was Laython's estimation. But he still didn't deserve to have his face cratered inside the dilapidated confines of an inn such as the Stone's Throw. He deserved the appropriate justice as prescribed by the King's Authority, and he had been denied that, being sentenced much more harshly by his own sordid peers.

"Tangir had usefulness left in him. Sadly..." Laython merely gestured with an open hand down at the man's body.

Laython made no outward comment on Oleg speaking to the injured daggerman. But it was clear by his restrained expression that, to some degree, Laython shared the sentiment, even if he was bound by law and procedure to exercise temperance.

The captured traffickers in the lobby were all quiet, down on their knees and kept there at swordpoint. The civilians were compliant with the commands of the Laython's guardsmen, even if a few of them were jittery and frightful and couldn't stop talking, professing either their innocence or how they couldn't believe how fast everything had happened. One of the guardsmen was rousing the injured innkeeper, lifting the groggy man off from the bar counter and back onto his feet, while another couple of guardsmen had extracted the hooded man who'd been pinned under the table Oleg had flung. There came a muted THUMP from the privy room, a nearby guardsman to the hallway gave a brief glance, but otherwise it went unnoticed.

Laython crossed his arms as he explained, "From what the elf has told me, the girl Mina is exactly that: a stranger. Not immediate family nor...particularly close friend. I don't know how close one could get with someone after only having traveled with them for a few days. But that is what it was. Hahnah had met the Stonemason family out on the road, they gave her a ride in their wagon, and they had been together for those few days before our corrupt soldiers in question accosted them. Well..."

He thought on it further, reconsidering, "I suppose that despite the brevity of their shared time, Hahnah and the Stonemasons had indeed grown fond of one another. That, perhaps, and most certainly an admirable sense of justice."

* * * * *​

Sweat dripped off of Hahnah's forehead, as did the blood from her gash. Dark stains coated her shirt, her pants, as if she'd been running a marathon under a hot summer sun. Her nausea worsened. She reached out with a hand to stabilize herself against the wall of the narrow privy room. She clapped her other hand over her mouth and let out a stifled cry into it.

Something caught her eye.

Her finger, just beneath her nose. Tiny wisps of something like steam had begun to rise from it. From her glove yet more "steam" was leaking out. From the collar of her shirt and cloak yet more. Hahnah's eyes widened in horror once she saw it then.

Her finger. The fairness of her skin was peeling away. Evaporating. Leaving black flesh behind.

And then it began. From underneath her skin came a great stabbing through, an emerging, a bursting forth. Up from beneath came the myriad strands of her Living Armor, sprouting from the soil of her flesh and returning to the surface; her thighs, torso, and biceps were all covered. The black strands pierced through the tiny gaps in the weave of her clothes, sundering the cloth as each of the legion pulled and ripped. In a rain of countless tiny, fragmented pieces her shirt fell away, her pants and belt and cloak following. The Living Armor even stretched to attack her gloves and shoes, tearing the leather apart and rendering each as bare scrap which fell away all on its own.

Hahnah's Living Armor had emerged. And all the while the elven essence from Zael was burned away with agonizing rapidity across the whole of her body. Her flesh and hair darkened, her ears shrank and rounded, her height shortened and she lost mass, and her eyes alighted to red scleras with the embers of orange as their pupils. Gone even were her wounds. Her transformation in Strathford had been undone, and she had been forcefully reverted to the form she had been born with.

As she was reeling, her back suddenly and violently arched, and for a single fleeting moment as she was falling her face was turned toward the heavens above and all seemed still.

(Тэд чамд юу хийхийг хараарай)​

...Came a deep, eldritch voice from inside the very core of Hahnah's heart, those words echoing up through her very blood and pulsing through her veins and thundering within the darkest recesses of her mind and in those words was held the wondrous and infinite depths of divinity, with all of its splendors and all of its horrors, the colossal grandeur which the mortal mind could not possibly fathom, the overpowering rapture that was the terribly arresting and euphoric feeling of awe in its truest sense.

And then Hahnah fell onto the hardwood floor with a flat THUMP, landing the pile of her ruined clothes.

Staring upward.

As a quiet thought touched her mind: What has happened...to me?

Oleg

Spoiler: Elsewhere

The Dying God had made a mistake.

He had given her a gift and bidden her to walk among them. He had thought this would increase her hatred of the creatures called humans. It had not. It had led her away from what He needed.

Away with the gift, then. Now, in the center of this great hive of Humankind, let her true form draw their ire, and let it rekindle her hatred.

 

[Oleg]

"He, without a doubt, did, doesn't change the frankly underwhelming events surrounding his undoing." Oleg planted his palm firmly against the wooden counter, leaning all of his overwhelming mass onto it. Every crook, cranny, and imperfection upon its olden surface, he felt them all flooding into his mind, accompanied by an unfamiliar sense of melancholy.

"A shame, really. I am, but a stranger here, and the locals don't seem too kind on my ilk, gloomy types all of them." The male opened his mouth, intending to say something, but instead decided against it. He reached into his pocket, producing from it a fist-sized sack of coins. The metal rattled and jingled in his grasp as he shook its structurally compromised container. After all, cloth sacks had their fair share of purposes, but storing metallic objects wasn't one of them.

"Oi!" shouted the tall, dirty-blonde man, catching the innkeeper off guard with his levelheaded gaze. Appalled, the elderly man looked aside, preparing for the worst, having already seen the destruction Oleg brought to his establishment some minutes ago.

"Oi oi, look at me. I don't bite," Oleg gestured at the sack of cash, earning himself a reluctant, sideways glance from the innkeeper.

"See this?" he placed it on the counter as the air of temptation grew palpable. The rabble was still rowdy, albeit mostly subdued, but it wouldn't take much to get them going for round two. Financial incentive, perhaps?

The innkeeper nodded, mustering enough courage to look Oleg in the eyes. He could've sworn that the pupils were slits, daggerlike, borderline snake-ish.

"Yes...?"

"Good. It's, uh, compensation for the damage your establishment has suffered. Had I wanted to, the situation could've turned out better."

The innkeeper blinked, eyes bulging out in confusion. Not that the staff looked any better, they were for better or for worse, entirely dumbstruck by Oleg's change of heart.

"My humble donation is unlikely to cover everything, but it's all I can offer at the moment. Hopefully, you can get this place up and running with it."

Rubbing his eyes, wondering if they had played a trick on him, the short, balding man rubbed his hands, hesitantly creeping into Oleg's proximity. In one quick motion, he reached out, snatching the bag of coins before shoving it deep into the recesses of his woolen vest.

"I'll take it," was his statement, filled with a sudden rush of boldness that bolstered the man's previously diminutive self-esteem. In return, Oleg smiled, waved the man off, and that was the end of it.

"Ah, phew. That played out better than I expected it would." Oleg pursed his lips, exhaling sharply, switching from reaction to reflection. With the weight of consequences off his chest, he acknowledged, that for once, he wasn't the party at fault, and the realization filled him up with outwardly seeping rectitude.

"People 'round here would kill for some coin, wouldn't they? From the looks of it, your city suffers some abyssal wealth gaps amongst its populaca. Wouldn't you agree, Laython?"

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah lay on the floor on the privy room. Just staring upward for a time. Eyes open and frozen. Breathing.

Then she slowly lifted a hand up. Looked at it in the scant light of the dingy lantern hanging from the ceiling.

Black.

Her breath stilled in her chest, and she sat up. Looked quickly to her biceps, her torso, her thighs. All covered in her Living Armor. Her toes, skin as dark as midnight, wiggled as she bid them.

She reached up and touched both of her ears. Smooth and rounded.

Her horror, briefly interrupted by intense sorrow. Her ears, her elven ears--

(i was like them. i was like kylindrielle and elurdrith. i was what i had always wanted to be. and now it's)

--gone.

"No..." A quiet whimper in a quieter room.

* * * * *​

Laython watched patiently Oleg's exchange with the innkeep. Hahnah had been right, even if the man himself wasn't so fond of her assessment. Most of the other assets (non-guardsmen of all stripes) that Laython had worked with wouldn't have so much as tossed a half-hearted apology the innkeep's way, much less made their coin pouch lighter by way of compensation.

Let there be no mistaking it. This man Oleg was loose sword, rough around the edges. He wasn't guardsman or military material, but that was not a fault--plenty of good men weren't. And like those other good men, Oleg could nonetheless contribute to a worthy cause, in his own way with his own unique skillset and natural talents.

Tangir? Well. Laython could have said more, but he didn't want to go spitting on a dead man's grave overmuch, even in Tangir's case.

Wouldn't you agree, Laython?

He gave a firm nod. "The result of a number of factors, only a scant few of which I have some influence upon."

It was time to get moving. With each passing hour, the girl Mina would be dragged deeper into the shadowy depths of the slavers' world, and it would become harder and harder to extricate her. Until it became too late.

Laython made an upward twirling motion with one hand. Said to his men, "We're taking everyone. Assailants and bystanders. Weapons on the assailants, escort the bystanders." They, of course, needed to detain temporarily the bystanders to ensure that they were in fact bystanders. Such determinations usually did not take very long, but Laython could not yet release them without due questioning.

There was a guardhouse not so far down the street from the Stone's Throw. That would do.

Laython's guardsmen started their work, beginning first with moving the bound assailants out of the inn.

* * * * *​

The sorrow passed only when the fear came echoing terribly back into her heart.

They would find her. And they would fear her, seeing her as a monster. They would become aggressive and hostile, as they always did.

("See what they do to you." That is what He said. That is what the Dying God said. Is this--?)

She was here. Here. In this enormous city that was called Oban and in which she was completely unfamiliar with the layout. Where she could find her path effortlessly through a forest, settlements of any size had always given her trouble in navigating. And she couldn't even begin to visualize the path which led back to the gates and out of the city.

B-But Mina! What could she do? She couldn't be in the city like this! She couldn't even hide herself beneath the clothes she had worn. Laython! Laython was still expecting her. He was expecting her but he was not expecting her, how she looked now, she was not an elf, not anymore, something had happened, why had it happened, what about Mina, what--??

Hahnah clamped her hands to her head, trying to calm herself and failing.

Until she thought of Oleg.

That is right! Oleg! Oleg had said that the supernatural was what he had been looking for. He wouldn't be afraid and he would not be hostile! He would listen to her. He could understand. He was her only chance to escape from here. Or else--

Hahnah shot up from the floor and onto her knees. She slapped her hands together fervently and held them close to her neck, her upturned chin. She looked upward. And prayed with a quiet, trembling voice.

"Please watch over me. I love You."

"Please watch over me. I love You."

"Please watch over me. I love You."

Silence. The Dying God had spoken to her only moments ago, but now...silence.

Hahnah rose to her feet and took a spot beside the door, in the corner where, if the door was opened, she would be shielded from view by it. And she began to summon in her palm Orbs of Elemental Hatred--

(It had come back to her. The Dying God...gave the gift of sorcery back, and yet...?)

--in rhythmic fashion. Summoning it, dispelling it. Summoning it, dispelling it. On, off, there, gone. Doing so intentionally. As if sending a signal.

And she was. Or attempting to, at least. Oleg had sensed her strangeness when they had been sitting down talking together with Tangir. She did not know how he did, or what the limits of his capability were, but maybe he could sense her magic. Sense the peculiar way it was appearing and disappearing and come to investigate.

If not, she'd have to try something riskier.

Oleg

 

[Oleg]

"'Tis a shame, but oh well. These people aren't going to help themselves, though." He shrugged, rolling his shoulders, their accented muscles moving fluidly as Oleg backtracked. Oleg did his best to dissect the atmosphere preceding the violent assault, but little came up, for he had neglected to open four eyes and four ears.

The guards escorted people en mass, some willingly and some by force of arms. Laython's men spared little time on the rabble's bothersome grumbling, squirming, and even an occasional slur hurled their way by one of the local drunkards. The taking was indiscriminate, disregarding gender, age, or appearance; men and women, both young and old, walked in step under the watchful eyes of armed sentries.

And although numbering only two or three dozens, the inn's suffocating nature conflated the number in Oleg's eyes. At that moment, an icy hand gripped his heart, injecting it with fear, not for himself but those unfortunate many dragged into this messy case. He knew it to be his fault, at least partially.

Oleg shook his head, inwardly berating himself for doubting Laython, a man who had so far done nothing to deserve anything but the highest of praises. Laython was a professional, and so were his men. Surely they'd do everything within the scope of their jurisdiction to keep the innocents safe and sound, to weed them away from the unruly and possibly criminal horde?

Right?

He banished the thought as soon as it assailed the deeper recesses of his consciousness, detecting a sudden, unexplainable onset of supernatural energy irradiating the very air around him. Laython couldn't sense it. No average man would. Unfortunately, or perhaps less so, Oleg was nothing short of abnormal.

Whatever Oleg had sensed was seeping through the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. Not quite an invisible gas that Oleg would've described it as, but dangerously close nonetheless.

"Laython," he addressed the man with an electrifying smirk, all too eager to explore the otherwordly intrusion's source. "I should probably go check on Hahnah. Take a leak too. My bladder is killing me." Oleg was only half lying in his statement. He was going to check on Hahnah AND get to the bottom of this. Two birds with one stone.

"Mind if I? From the looks of it, you don't need my help right now."

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Lieutenant Laython gave a nod when Oleg asked about the elf (the part concerning his bladder was of minor, natural, consequence). It was likely for the best, as Hahnah had looked frankly awful when she rushed off to the privy room. Nausea or shock, probably the potent mixture of the two. Though Laython needed her, an obvious outsider who could play the part of a potential slave and who was quite willing to work with him, it...well, the feeling of guilt had culminated when he had seen her ashen face. Perhaps he would need to have a talk with her at the guardhouse, see if this was something she still wanted to pursue, having now been in the center of this sordid and chaotic affair in the Stone's Throw. Sometimes the heart had the resolve that the stomach lacked, and you never did know until you faced something real, immediate, and undeniable.

"Go ahead. I'll be here."

And Laython continued to direct his guardsmen and the civilians/assailants they were escorting out of the Inn.

* * * * *​

Hahnah could hear them out there, through the privy room. The armored men called guards, curtly giving their commands, the exact form of their words masked by the muffling of the door. Oleg. The men and women of the Inn as well--some among them had noticeable voices because they would not stop talking. Footsteps she heard, the commotion of a couple dozen pairs of feet moving about on hardwood floors, the clanking of metal sabatons and the thuds of boots.

They were out there.

And it was the only way out. Out through there. The lobby. The window in the privy room was barely a slit in the wall, high up from the floor and hardly wide enough to slip even a single finger through. That other door in the hallway (the storeroom, though she did not know it) had been locked when she tried it earlier.

Her hands trembled as she continued to summon and dispel Orbs of Elemental Hatred in her palms. She was terrified. Of this small room. Of being cornered. Of being forced to kill in order to defend herself. Before Strathford she would have relished the slaughter of every human in that lobby, but she had been wrong, her ways had been wrong, her view of the world and of people of all kinds had been wrong. She didn't want to go back to that. She didn't want to be the monster they said she was and she knew she had been. She didn't want to. She wanted to be better. She wanted to be good. She wanted to be someone that Kylindrielle and Elurdrith could be happy to say was their daughter, even though they were elves and she was strange.

(Mina...I am sorry...I do not know if I can...I do not know...)

Someone was going to come through that door eventually. Oleg or...not Oleg. Whoever it was, the very first words out she would say once they saw here would be an emphatic and beseeching, "Please do not hurt me."

Oleg