Private Tales Trouble on the Drawa

[Valgir]

Far to the east, across the Spine, are the Blightlands of Molthal, a forsaken plateau. Travel south, past the Drawa, and the lands become humid, muggy, and full of enormous reptiles and insects.

It was here that the Lady Nath'iarra and her sole surviving warrior, Valgir, fled. Behind them lay nothing but desolation and a field of the dead. Defeat tasted bitter in Valgir's mouth, but in the Lady's service he was well used to such a wretched taste.

They'd managed to cross the Drawa. Fortunate enough to bathe in it. But it no longer mattered. The air here was so humid that Valgir's clothing stuck to him, drenched in his own sweat. He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead, blonde locks plastered to his face.

"Curse this land," he muttered.

He was of the Tundra. Of the ice. He did not belong in this land where the air itself sought to drown him. They were fortunate enough to find a road headed west, though it was mostly overgrown, it once might have been the highway of some vast empire. Valgir didn't know and he did not give two shits. He just wanted to be out of this heat. At least when they crossed the Spine he'd get some mountain air again.

The jungle loomed in around them on all sides, a nightmare of green in a hundred shades. Half of them poisonous.

Valgir stepped away from an anthill that towered nearly to his knee and trudged on, glancing at the Lady Nath'iarra. He wondered if the heat of this miserable jungle afflicted her as well.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

It did.

Not the most serene of countenances in the best of times, the Lady Nath'iarra looked perturbed. That was a nice word, a fancy word, a word that -- if uttered in her presence and in this context to describe her -- might earn only a hand being removed and not the head. She was not of the tundra, Nath'iarra, but rather of the gloom. She liked it dark and cool. The exile's flesh, usually a subtle purple, was flushed, to the point that her aristocratic cheekbones and nose looked freshly abraded, and her platinum hair stuck to her forehead and cheek and neck as if emerging from a night of enthusiastic passion.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

"It is already cursed," Nath'iarra muttered irritably. She had to unclench her jaw to say it, which in the unclenching made her realize just how hard it had been clenched. She might have chewed through a nearby tree. "Would that we had traveled west by the river," said Nath'iarra, not for the first time. Not because it mattered -- manifestly it did not -- and not because she was confident that she was right -- she was not -- but because it was something to say that didn't involve her dropping to her knees and screaming her rage into the sunblighted sky.

At least the river could be cool. At least it could be drunk. At least she could have thrown herself into it and let the tide take her to the great hereafter and away from the treacheries of this life. Perhaps that was why her thrall had advised against it. She could have compelled his obedience -- otherwise what was the point of having a thrall? -- but he knew this world, this cursed geography on the surface of the earth better than she. It made sense to trust his judgment.

"How long?" she demanded, a question posed by her aching feet and aching back more than anything else.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

"Too long," he replied, knowing any amount of time would meet with rebuke, whether it be two days or two weeks.

In truth, it was far longer. They needed horses. But rare was the horse that would seat one of his kind without contention. Valgir ground his teeth, gray eyes the pallor of drawn swords flicking up to the sky above, trying to judge the time of day through the thick canopy that crowded his view of the sun.

A sudden rustling in the ferns to their right snapped his attention back to solid ground. He didn't stop immediately. That would give it away. Instead his hand came to rest on his belt as he walked, near the haft of his throwing axe.

All at once, the undergrowth exploded into motion around them as strange, scaled creatures resembling serpents with two humanoid arms burst out into the road. They wielded obsidian spears and a macahuitl.

Valgir's lips curled into a growl.

"Naga."

The snakemen of the wretched Island of Nagai. He didn't know they ranged so far north in the Wilds. But of course they did.

"Ambush!" he bellowed, even as he whipped out his axe and hurled it into the reptilian face of the nearest snakeman. The axehead buried itself into cartilage and skull with a sickening crunch and a pink misting of blood.

His other hand dove for his shortsword and he drew the blade swiftly, barely having time to repel a thrusting spear aimed at Nath'airra's torso. They were all over the pair, at least a dozen snakemen. Maybe more.

Poor odds.

Valgir let out another blood curdling roar and swung his shortsword, wading into the thick of them fearlessly, the battle thrill rippling through his veins.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

Nath'iarra might have laughed. Of course there would be some hideous little beastie trying to make a meal of them. Why wouldn't there be? When everything else had gone so badly wrong of late? She watched as her sworn soldier hurled an axe at the nearest Naga came slithering uncannily out of the underbrush. "Oh, gods be damned," Nath'iarra hissed, quite as serpentine as anything looking to take bites out of them.

She didn't notice the flung spear aiming at her chest before Valgir's muscular arms swung his shortsward enough to deflect its path, sending it wide, twisting it so the spear dislodged from the Naga's grasp, falling to the wayside. "Good man," Nath'iarra bit out, some genuine fondness under the back-bitten rage. It was the least she could do for such a service.

Slim fingers yanked a long dirk from its holster and she brandished it in front of her. As Valgir went pounding into the thick of battle, Nath'iarra followed his wake, where his large body had flattened down some of the underbrush. There were a handful of spots where the underbrush began to wriggle after Valgir waded through, and Nath'iarra plunged her blade into one, two, three of them in turn, until they stopped struggling, and her hand and blade were covered in blood.

She drew her blade from the last and straightened. She went to where the deflected spear landed, picked it up, turned it in her grasp. "On your left," Nath'iarra gasped as she darted behind Valgir -- well outside the range where he might accidentally strike her with his shortsword, but the warning was to keep him from moving into her line of fire. She sized up a shot, lined up hand and arm, and hurled it with all her might.

The spear sailed like a javelin, landing true in the throat of one of the potential assassins. Nath'iarra gave a livid grunt when she felt a pressure at her arm, and she looked down to see blood pouring from a slash on her lavender flesh. Vision swam a moment, and a moment later she forced her eyes to focus on the Naga that had nicked her. One of the ones she had stabbed but was less dead than previously expected.

"Bastard," she hissed, driving a kick at the Naga's wounded underbelly. It grunted, roared, recoiled, and Nath'iarra pushed the advantage, sending jabs and slashes and thrusts, overwhelming the Naga's attention and focus until she cut it again and again and again and it shrieked and collapsed, subconsciously coiling before it finally died.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

He took a wound on the arm from a glancing scimitar, then an arrow hissed from a crude shortbow and struck him in the chest, deflecting off his lamellar with the sound of a stone smacking metal. The impact felt like a solid jab, but left no more than a dent in the steel band.

The same could not be said for the second arrow.

It hissed fast behind the first and found a gap in his armor, glancing up and in and jabbing beneath his tunic to stick into his flesh perhaps no more than a fingernail's length. Valgir snarled and ripped the arrow from his body, flicking it aside.

The wound stung. Stung far more than it should. And the intensity only increased.

As he swung his sword and hacked down another of the Naga, his blood pumped furiously through his veins. And he became dizzy. The sting in his gut from the wound turned into a searing hot pain.

Shit devils.

Just what he needed. The arrow had been poisoned.

Valgir ground his teeth together.

"Why are you toying with them? They've no mage. Send them all to Pandemonium."

That would earn him a rebuke and maybe a whipping later. Or would have. He didn't know anymore. He was her only surviving thrall warrior. She had no one else but him. And she knew he would not have barked at her so without reason.

"Strike!"

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

Nath'iarra had magic.

Of course she had magic.

Imagine, Lady Nath'iarra, not having magic. I bet you can't do it, can't even imagine such a world. Nor can I, really. Magic and Nath'iarra are like chocolate and peanut butter. Good by themselves. Better together. But she had perfectly appropriate and lore-credible reasons for not using the magic until now, which this exposition will explain.

Nath'iarra was a denizen of the underrealm, and her experience with the sun-blighted hellscape of the surface was mercilessly limited. Therefore, she did not know the rules of magic in this place. Would using it get them seen? Get them captured? Get them jailed? Get them killed? Some heinous combination of all of those things? And with things having gone from bad in the underrealm to worse here, she didn't want to tempt the fate of Whoever from High Atop The Thing, and kept her magic under wraps.

At least until her very insolent thrall shouted at her. Normally that would have earned him a striping, but even she had to admit he was quite right in this situation. If they were killed by these snake-beasts it would be no better and probably worse than being captured, jailed, and possibly killed by some other force. And so, reluctantly but with conviction, the Lady Nath'iarra reached for the Power and fed her rage, her despair, her unquenchable fury.

Flames erupted from before her hands, billowing forward, vaporizing the few monsters close enough to really take the brunt, and setting fire to most of the others, as well as the trees, the grass, the ground, and several birds that traced smoky patterns into the sky, shrieking, until one by one they fell silent as the fire claimed them and they plummeted back to earth. The fire, much like Nath'iarra's rage, was indiscriminate and cruel, chewing through foliage and snake-man alike.

She had to force herself to relinquish it, to let the power fade from her. Intoxicating it was. Made her feel power when she had felt powerless. Hard to give that up voluntarily, but to continue would drain her. She had already used a significant portion of her reserves conjuring the flames.

Panting, Nath'iarra turned to Valgir. "Are you all right?"

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

Valgir raised a hand before his eyes as the torrent of flames burned a brilliant red-orange in the jungle depths, bright as a bonfire. When he lowered his hand, nothing but blackened corpses and smoldering undergrowth remained. Smoke curled into the air. Tongues of flame flickered in the smoldering remnants for nearly thirty feet before Nath'iarra. The scent of smoke was joined by that of roasted meat and charred scale.

Swaying, poison pumping through his blood stream, Valgir kicked at a cooked snakeman's head. The skull tore easily away from the flesh of the neck and bounced away.

"Scaleheaded worms," he growled, turning to his liege lady, then glancing down at his arm. Blood trickled from the scratch on his forearm, but it was a mere fleshwound. Not poisoned like the arrow he'd taken earlier.

"They're using venomed weapons," he swallowed, throat tight, "I can weather it."

Nordenfiir were hardier than most. It would take more than a single poisoned arrow to bring him down. But it would slow him.

"We should move," fresh sweat broke out across his face and he could feel it running coldly down his back as a fever gripped him, "This was a... a scouting party."

Valgir bent and pulled his axe free from the skull of the Naga he'd slain. The steel head came free with a sucking noise.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

As the taste of magic subsided, as the overwhelming power ebbed and receded from her, Nath'iarra felt a sudden chill. It should have been a boon, a comfort in this ghastly humid hellscape, but no. This felt like the effects of a fever. As long as she could remember, magic withdrawals had followed particularly strenuous uses of the power. She would pay for that little display sooner than late.

"Yes," she said, so simple and blunt as to almost be a grunt. Her crimson gaze lingered on Valgir, clocked the increasing rate of beading sweat on his brow. Oh, he would suffer for his injury. She didn't like to see it; even a woman as stony and removed as Nath'iarra did not enjoy the sight. Not just because he was her most loyal -- currently, her only -- servant. Sentient suffering was only useful when it was useful. This was not useful.

Her fingers itched to weave a spell, something to bring him comfort, but already the power was out of her reach. Besides, it would get worse before it was better. Perhaps later, when the fever was boiling him from within and he could but to beg for release, she would be able to bring him some comfort.

Perhaps.

A thought occurred, miraculous as it may sound. "Are there settlements nearby?" she asked him. "The locals surely would have something to treat what the local monsters use." She had limited gold, of course, but that didn't have to be an obstacle. She was just as happy to steal it as to pay.

"And horses," Nath'iarra added after a moment, resisting the urge to feel some kind of optimism.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

The effects of the poison seeping through him turned him sluggish and he shrugged a shoulder noncommittally.

"Hells if I know," he stumbled forward, dragging one foot in front of the other. Forcing himself to march, like he'd marched through the frozen tundra nearly twenty years before. A boy on the barren ice, to kill his first wolf.

He grit his teeth and pushed himself forward, words slewing from his mouth without thought.

"Never been south of the Drawa. To this damned jungle. Never fought the snakemen."

Though he'd heard of them and their accursed isle. They grew with age, with the oldest reaching absurd proportions and needing a dozen warriors to take down.

They kept going down the road, Valgir trying to stare through bleary eyes at the jungle growth around them, wary of another scouting party bursting forth. But none came.

If they were going to find a settlement, it was clear Nath'iarra would have to figure it out on her own - until her thrall regained some semblance of clarity.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

Nath'iarra was not used to such a tone from Valgir, and the sharp look she gave him had more to do with his physical condition than with his tone. If it were up to her, then they could start digging their graves now. She had lost everything in the underrealm -- the land, the money, the connections -- and when she remembered it it was like a cold knife in her gut. The insecurities didn't show on her face, butt hey were there, not buried especially deep, not for her.

"Fret not." She swallowed audibly and reached over to put a hand on his 'good' arm. "I will get you somewhere safe," she said stoically.

It felt like a lie.

But, she reasoned with herself as they proceeded, roads didn't exist in a vacuum. This one had to be going somewhere, as surely as it was coming from somewhere. They would get somewhere, sometime, or they would die in the attempt. Cold comfort, maybe.

They trudged, and the sky moved in the sky, and Nath'iarra watched and waited. The shadows lengthened. Had it been two hours or three since the Naga strike, Nath'iarra wondered, her eyes tracing a rare straight vertical line in the distance. She took out the small flask from her belt and unscrewed the top. The water was warm by now and tasted faintly metallic, but it was wet.

"Here," said Lady Nath'iarra, holding out the canteen to Valgir. She would brook no argument.

But something was bothering her, like trying to remember the name of a song or the answer to a question she had once known well. She turned, glancing back to where she had been looking before. Her golden head tilted this way, then that. She was sure, then, that there was something there. She didn't quite know what but it was at least something to investigate.

Raising a slender arm, she pointed at where, to her eyes, it looked like there had once been a clearing. "Something over there." A pair of grown-over ruts may well have been wagon wheel tracks, judging by the distance. If you didn't look at it too closely you could easily miss it. Without waiting, she stalked across the road and began to slip between the brush. She must have delved several dozen meters into the foliage when at last she emerged into a broader clearing. It was showing signs of overgrowth, but a stone structure sat in the center, apparently untouched by the growth, at least two stories, with a rotting wooden door at the center of the bottom floor.

Curious. She looked over her shoulder to see if Valgir had followed, fully prepared to go back to fetch him if he hadn't.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

He was right behind her.

Well.

A dozen paces.

Maybe two dozen paces.

Valgir cursed mentally and swore he would hack to bits any Naga he came across from this moment forward in repayment for their kin's attack. He seethed, but as the hours past the effects lessened. The water helped, but they had precious little of it left, so he did not drink as much as she might have thought.

He pushed through the foliage and found her in a clearing, a stone structure with a rotted door in front of her.

The nordenfiir eyed the door suspiciously.

"Abandoned?"

Nothing for it.

He crashed forward and kicked in the door with a boot, it swung open violently, shivering loose debris and splintered, rotted wood, revealing what lay inside. He squinted, eyes adjusting.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

"Looks it," the Drow responded, her crimson eyes looking for signs. And then her fever-addled companion hurled himself at the problem like he would have hurled himself at danger. Endearing, perhaps, but also slightly deleterious to the purpose. If, for instance, the door he had just bashed to pieces had been stretched across by cobwebs, it would stand to reason no one had passed it recently.

Still, there were other ways.

"Do not be so hasty," she called after him, exasperated until she remembered that any attempt at stealth was for naught now, anyway. "Wait for me!"

She stepped up to the door beside him and looked around. The light from the door carried, but not far, mainly across a threadbare rug and flag floors. She stepped over the threshold and looked around briefly. Her eyes lit on a candle sitting, apparently for this very purpose, on the table directly adjacent to the door. She picked up the holder, groped for the power, and a moment later the candle kindled, a little spark of home.

It was noticeably cooler in here, for lack of the sun, at least. Not comfortable by an stretch, but less aggressively hot. She crouched and let her eyes trace over the floor, dragging a finger across the stone. It created a dark mark where she had whisked away the dust. "No one has been in here -- at least, right here -- in some time," she informed him. She found another silvery candlestick and touched her candle to the one in it, then handed the second to Valgir.

"Maybe we'll find a cellar. A little wine would make this ordeal that much more tolerable." And perhaps if this were a dwelling of some kind, there would be a water pump. Some medicaments. A map of the area. Oh, dared she hope?

On the wall to the right of the entry door stood a broad pair of doors, apparently built into pockets, for when she touched the handle they didn't swing but moved laterally. She pushed one open to see a dining room there, table empty but for a pair of candlesticks like the one she held, and a white vase gone grey with dust, bearing a collection of flowers so dead as to have nearly entirely decayed. There were six chairs around the table -- one each, head and foot, and a pair on either side.

Moving anti-clockwise, she went to the door opposite the entrance and pulled it open to reveal a small cloakroom, still stuffed with cloaks and coats. Lastly, she went to the door left of the entry door, pocket doors again, and pulled them open to reveal a broad sitting area. Two chairs faced each other in front of a hearth, opposite which sat a small sofa. A book was left on the table that anchored the seats, an teacup, and on the seat of the far chair, a wooden hoop, across which was stretched a white linen. Half-finished heliotropes crawled across the fabric, languid.

"A lodge of some kind?" she asked Valgir quietly, nodding to the taxidermy head of a Naga over the fireplace. "Or a farmhouse? The forest took back the field?"

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

"Quaint as fucking gnomehome," Valgir muttered, sparing half a glance for the room's contents, before hounding after the cellar she spoke of. Wine. Or ale. Or even better, mead. Wouldn't that be something.

Stepping back outside, Valgir looked around, then spotted a pair of double doors overgrown with plants that rose at a slant. He tore away the plants, then ripped open the cellar door with a grunt.

"What do you know."

He waved a hand at the smell that wafted forth. Putrid.

Valgir gagged a moment, then raised an elbow over his mouth and ventured inside. The foul air was oppressive and in a moment he saw why. Three bodies lay in a pile, no more than skeletons now. Valgir's eye went to a dagger that lay in the pile of bones.

"Hm."

Made sense.

He stepped over the bones, glancing around before he found a bunch of jugs vaguely reminiscent of... something. Maybe not wine. Fuck. He couldn't think straight. Grabbing three of the jjugs, Valgir made his way back up to the abandoned cottage.

What an odd thing in the jungle. He sank back to the ground when he got inside.

"Here."

He set two of the ceramic jugs down, then uncorked the third and sniffed. Yes. Definitely alcohol. Of some kind.

"To the dead."

He tipped back the jug and quaffed deeply. The contents seared his throat like sweet fire before settling in his stomach with a warm glow. His eyes widened.

Wow.

"Not bad."

He handed the jug to Nath'iarra.

 

[Nath'iarra]

Crimson eyes watched as the Nordenfiir man left in search of a cellar. She wanted to be sure that the place was empty before she slaked her first, so she continued a survey of the house. A creaking wooden staircase led to a small second story, where a pair of bedrooms flanked a small central room that might have been a library. Shelves of books, a broad dark desk. She tried the desk drawers, but they were locked.

A problem, but a problem for later.

Nath'iarra ducked her head into each bedroom. One was larger, with a broad canopied bed, a copper bathtub in front of a fireplace, and a set of armchairs facing each other over a black-and-white checked marble tabletop. She looked around, pulled open wardrobes and chests. She found some decent clothing, some jewelry of indeterminate quality, and several small bottles of potions and other medicaments. She made a note to study them, see if any of them might be helpful against what was infecting Valgir. The other bedroom had two smaller beds, behind screens, and more wardrobes with clothing of varying sizes, books, toys.

Blowing out a sigh, she came down the stairs to see Valgir entering, arms full of jugs. She watched him, approaching, took the jug from him when he offered. She took an experimental sniff and her elegant nose wrinkled. She took a swig and nearly choked. "Bloody void," Nath'iarra grunted into her wrist as she stifled her cough and held the jug back out at him.

"Could we use it to disinfect your cuts?" she asked him curiously. "Tastes like it could strip paint. The place is empty, by the way, if that's of interest. Might be able to rustle up some supplies or information. Maybe sleep here tonight? I don't want you pushing yourself with your injuries."

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

"If that's your wish, Lady."

The taste of alcohol drove some clarity back into his skull and he remembered his place. The way he'd spoken to her earlier... it was a wonder she hadn't sought to lash him for the insolence. But she had patience. Occasionally.

Valgir wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, smearing away the alcohol.

"Some sort of fruit liquor, I think, but not surprised the place is empty." He jerked a thumb. "Whole family is a bunch of corpses in the cellar. If that's what they were. Looked self-inflicted."

He shrugged.

These things happened. Especially in a jungle full of strange gods and snakemen.

Valgir's eyes panned to his arm and the cut she mentioned. He grunted. "I'm fine. The poison is wearing off anyway."

Wandering over to the sofa by the hearth, Valgir collapsed into it. A puff of dust rose. He ignored it and leaned back his head, closing his eyes, a jug of the alcohol in his hand.

It had been... he didn't even remember how many days since they'd last stayed somewhere that looked the least bit civilized. A place with chairs and a sofa seemed too good to be true.

"Anything else good in this place, Lady Nath?"

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

Nath'iarra wandered after Valgir into the little drawing room -- that's what it felt like, or the closest thing she could think of -- but did not sit down. "Keep an eye on it, Valgir," said Nath'iarra. There was softness in her voice, but also steel. She wasn't making a request. "If it starts to flare or if it becomes infected, we will need to take steps."

And people said Lady Nath'iarra didn't care.

"Odd," she said after considering his findings. "This place looks all but untouched but the whole family is dead. Self-inflicted..." Her voice trailed off as she found her gaze lingering on the painting over the hearth. Odd. The whole thing was odd. "Well, suppose we'll just have to look out."

She set one of the candles on the table next to Valgir so he wasn't drinking alone in the dark; that would just be sad. "Some clothes, some jewelry, some potions and lotions and whatnot. I'm starving, but given the age of the dust, I'm not sure there's anything that hasn't been rotted to the ninth hell, but I haven't found a larder yet. Maybe there's some jam or something potted." Nath'iarra took her candle into the dining room, took it to the door in the back that opened into a kitchen. A pantry showed remnants of food, long-since rotted to smears of what had once been fruit, maybe potatoes, on the shelves.

Opening the hatch to the root cellar, she peered down and held the candle down, then climbed down the ladder. It was much cooler down here. Almost like the underrealm. The shelves were lined with small jars and parcels tightly bound with waxed paper and tied tight with twine. She picked up a few of each, as much as she could carry and still climb the ladder, and then carried it up to the kitchen, where she could see a little better with the dying sun filtering through the trees and windows.

The jars were filled with berries submerged in honey to preserve them. And the waxed paper parcels? Dried and cured meats. She rummaged, found a few spoons, and carried a jar and a packet of dried meat back to Valgir. "Are you hungry, aada'aethan? I think this is still edible."

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

The thrall shifted on the sofa, expression twisting as she used that name. But then… it was only the two of them left now. No need to continue to conceal some secrets.

Valgir’s eyes opened and he turned his head to look her direction.

“Starved,” he replied, his gray eyes glinting like light off a sword.

He didn’t mention that nordenfiir famously loved berries in all forms, especially berry wine. His mouth watered at the mention of jam. He sniffed the packet she offered. Cured meat. His stomach rumbled.

“What a feast.”

After days of only their road provisions, the idea of honeyed berries and alcohol did more than assuage the pain of his wounds. It put him on a positively good fucking mood.

Valgir sucked on his teeth and took another swig of the fermented… whatever it was - waiting for Nath to stop investigating and sit down for a spell.

“I figure maybe two weeks,” he said after a moment. “Two weeks and we can hit the Spine. If we move well and don’t keep running into snake men.”

@Nath’iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

The Drow's lips twitched downwards at the edges at the way Valgir's face distorted. She swallowed and half-turned, setting her jaw before turning back to him, her features fully under control.

Nath'iarra handed him the jar and a spoon before she settled in the chair adjacent to his position. It wasn't until she was seated and she lifted her feet onto the small coffee table that she became aware of the aches. She ached all over. Surprisingly, the slash wound on her arm, which cut through the leather of her sleeve and into her lavender flesh, hurt less than her feet. Walking miles would do that to a body.

"Two weeks," the Lady echoed, her voice grey and stoic. "To the Spine."

And gods knew how long to get up and over the Spine. Crimson eyes swept the room. Maybe she should just stay here. Gorge herself on honey-smothered berries and wine and die in this room. Seeking vengeance seemed so exhausting from here, where she sat, not on a throne but on a simple chintz armchair.

She reached over for one of the strips of cured meat, studied it dubiously, and then tore a piece off with her teeth. It wasn't great -- quite salty -- but her stomach felt immediate gratitude when she swallowed. How long had it been since she ate, anyway?

"Fine," she said. Both of them knew if it was two weeks or twenty, they would put one foot in front of another. Or did they? Her eyes settled on him, and her jaw worked thoughtfully. She wondered idly what would happen if she released him. Would he walk away, leaving her alone? Would he stay?

Would he kill me? she wondered, eyes lingering on Valgir's jaw. Would I deserve it? Would I mind? She tried to put the thought out of her head for the time being. There would be a time to let Valgir choose his own path. Someday.

"We should see if we can find a town. They might be able to direct us to a portal stone." She paused a beat. "It's worth a try to see if you can use it, if it doesn't take us out of the way too much."

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

A portal stone.

He’d heard of them, never seen one - much less traveled through it. The kind which were known about were highly controlled and expensive.

However, rumor was that a portal stone existed in the Ixchel. Ruins somewhere west of the Drawa. Not exactly the most useful location, given the immense jungle that indicated.

But there had to be a way to locate the ruins…

Somehow.

Maybe later, when he could think more clearly, after the poison flushed from his system.

Valgir grabbed some meat and shoved it in his mouth, chewing. Unlacing his boots, he started to tug them off one after the other.

“A solid plan,” one boot thudded to the ground, “At least we will have a bed to sleep in tonight for once.”

The other boot thudded to the ground. His gaze flicked up to her.

“Er.”

His eyes ran down the length of her, pausing on her legs and feet, likely more sore than his from the days on the road. He was more used to campaigning after all. Valgir’s eyes shone in the dark.

“Beds.”

He washed down the meat with more of the alcohol from the jug. A warm glow suffusing him.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

"There are three beds," Lady Nath'iarra said conversationally. "You must choose whichever you would find the most comfortable. I intend to be in the one in the room to the left at the top of the stairs." There. No pressure, one way or another. Only the slight compulsion that he do what suited himself. She might have ordered him to be the big spoon, but she remembered that look -- a grimace, was it, or something more benign? -- as a response to her affectionate pet name for him. No, that wasn't what she wanted for him. Nor for herself.

She took another bite of the meat stick in her hand; feeling it shred between her sharp white teeth was satisfying in a way nothing had been since she had been forced to flee the underrealm. Perhaps it was that she had foraged it for herself. Perhaps it was that she could almost feel her stomach digesting itself out of hunger.

"There's a locked desk up there. I'm going to see if I can find a key before I turn in. There could be... maps... journals... something," said the Drow Lady once she'd finished chewing and swallowing. She rested her cheek against an upturned palm and allowed her eyes to close a moment. "Should do... something... about the door," she said, her voice rising on a stifled yawn before she continued: "you so politely knocked on."

Her mind swam, picturing -- somewhat hilariously, as it turned out -- them turning the broad dining room table on its end and nailing it to the wall over the doorway. Ridiculous. A faint giggle escaped her throat, a sound that she almost didn't think herself capable of these days.

"Aad -- Valgir," she said quietly, about to request that he pass the honey-berries, but somewhere between his name dripping from her lips and the thought that followed, she dropped into shallow slumber, the only thing keeping her magnificent head up right the delicate balancing act of hand, wrist, and elbow stacked upon a cushioned chintz armrest.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

A moment passed after the dark elf fell asleep, where Valgir simply ate another slice of meat and a few berries in silence - draining half the jug in the process to wash it all down. And to quell the nausea left by the poison.

Steadily, a humming glow suffused his whole being, bringing back something like strength into his form. He coughed at the last gulp of the draught, then set the jug aside.

Rising, he walked over and scooped the Lady Nath up in his arms, as if she weighs nothing at all.

Holding her to his chest he padded through the overgrown, dusty shack until he reached the room on the left up the stairs. Eyeing the bed suspiciously, he shrugged then set her atop it.

After which he settled onto the floor, stretched out his legs, and leaned his head back against the bed frame. He closed his eyes and dozed off, one hand still on the bed, resting lightly on her calf.

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

Nathi'arra became vaguely aware of what was happening, not fully awakening but becoming cognizant of movement, pressure, warmth. "Don'," she mumbled, shifting -- well, trying to shift, but without being able to find purchase there.

A sigh. By the time Valgir had carried her to the top of the stairs, she had been jostled awake. "I'm disgusting," she protested. Not quite an order to put her down, but certainly encouragement, at the very, very least -- permission.

He didn't. A few moments later he deposited her on the bed. It felt impossibly soft after the hours on the road. Nath'iarra's hand slid down his shoulder, down his bicep and forearm as he withdrew from her and a moment later settled on the floor. She propped herself up on an elbow for a few moments, eyes settling on the shadow of his shape. The last of rays of sun were dancing on he windowpanes, but it might as well have been the middle of the night.

His hand found her leg, and with a certain reluctance, Nath'iarra flipped her pillow so that the less-dusty side was facing up, and then tossed the other one down to Valgir. Whatever point he was trying to prove, he could certainly do so without getting a bruise on the back of his head. The Drow turned onto her side, facing the Nordenfiir's position on the ground, and shut her eyes.

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

The cushioned blow of the dusty pillow against his body woke him from the half-daze and he started awake, then glanced between her and the pillow.

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and got to his feet.

“I’m taking a bath.”

Storming down the stairs in his bare feet, he stalked out into the absurd humidity of the jungle heat. Not that the interior offered much respite. Normally a hot bath would be nice, but they didn’t exactly have heating here. Nor did he want to start a fire and wait. Thankfully, there was a well near the overgrown house. He grabbed a bucket, hooked it to an ominously old winch and rope, and began the arduous process of hauling up bucket after bucket.

The first he splashed all over himself after giving it a suspicious sniff. The cold well water brought sweet relief from the cloying, sticky air.

The rest he proceeded to haul back and dump into the copper bathtub inside the overgrown and abandoned home until it was full of cold and relatively clean well water.

Relatively.

Stripping, Valgir scratched at his new wounds - already healing - then sighed and shrugged, before dunking himself into the tub.

How or why someone managed to lug the monstrosity out into the middle of the Ixchel Wilds he didn’t know and didn’t care. All he cared about was the cold water that soothed away the aches and washed away the grime.


Leaning his head back, Valgir waited for a minute, then called out, “it’s a pretty big tub.”

He shifted, sloshing water.

“Room to spare.”

Not exactly an invitation.

Not not one either.

Maybe she was asleep and hadn’t heard at all. Probably for the best…

Nath'iarra

 

[Nath'iarra]

As if a person could sleep with a Nordenfiir thundering up and down the stairs like a man possessed. She sat upright at the first sound, wondering what in the nine hells Valgir was doing. Did he say he was taking a bath? she wondered, and a moment later the question was answered when he came up with a pail of water and dumped it in the copper tub.

By then, darkness was growing thick. The Drow sat up and fumbled on the bedside table for a small lamp. She shifted it, shook it, to see if there was oil inside, and there seemed to be. She conjured a spark and the wick took. She adjusted it so that the room was diffused with a soft golden glow. Not much, but enough at least that the Nordenfiir wouldn't trip.

Or at least, wouldn't trip for lack of seeing.

Nath'iarra set the lamp on the dresser near the door and returned to the bed, flicking the blanket once, twice to get most of the dust off. She didn't fancy laying in whatever had gotten on her armor -- blood, dirt, Naga venom and gods only knew what else -- so she began the laborious process of unbuckling, unfastening, unbuttoning, untying, until she could slither out of the leathery armor.

For the sensation of softness more than for modesty, she thought, Nath'iarra pulled on a dressing gown that had been thrown over one of the chairs. It was slightly short on her, but not prurient. She settled on the edge of the bed, legs crossing, and watched. Valgir kept coming. And he kept going. She wondered if it would have been more economical to haul the tub out into the yard and fill it directly, then haul it back upstairs. Maybe he should just leave it outside. Who was there to see? Would the Naga be voyeurs? Surely they had seen a man before.

But she said nothing, not until his non-invitation. Nath'iarra moved to stand at the other end of the tub, near where Valgir's feet stretched. She allowed her pale purple hand to delve into the water, then flinched. "Freezing," she muttered. But then again, of course it would be. And the Nordenfiir would probably see it as something approaching home. Even Nath'iarra, who loved a hot bath, found the cold slightly invigorating.

The Drow picked up a bundle of cloth from where it hung over the fireplace screen. Someone had clearly used the screen as a storage and drying rack for washing flannels. Nath'iarra set one over the rim of the tub near Valgir. "I thought you'd never ask," she told him.

Once the robe was placed over the fireplace screen, she delved one of the remaining flannels into the water and then used it to give herself a rigorous scrubbing, shuddering violently at the cold of the water, and trying to ignore the gooseflesh and other consequences the temperature wrought. Even if she was going to sit in the water on her own, she wouldn't want to bring whatever was on her into it. Doubly so her aada'aethen, with his open wound and his body already contending with the after-effects of Naga poison. She used the other flannel to rinse down, wincing again at the cold as it carried away the lion's share of the grime that collected from the road journey.

Only when she felt she was not like to offend did Nath'iarra slip into the tub at the opposite end, settling her slender form against the gentle slope of the copper, her knees drawing up so that the caps emerged like little islands in the lake between herself and Valgir. "Gods, that's good," she sighed, her hands settling against the cool copper, made cooler by the water. "Brilliant idea. I was too tired to think it through." She smiled tentatively at him, then reached back to unpin her platinum hair, letting them tumble back before she rested her head against the edge of the bathtub.

"How's your cut?"

Valgir

 

[Valgir]

One eye opened to watch the dark elf scrub herself free of filth. Smart, Valgir thought. He should have done that. But then, he’d have to care more about such things. And he did not.

The cold water soothed away his pains and the longer he sat the calmer he grew, all the pain and vitriol of the ambush and its aftermath washing away.

His gray eye watched her climb into the bath after she finished scrubbing. Something between curiosity and hunger in his gaze.

The water level rose, displaced by the second body in the copper tub. What was once spacious was now crowded.

But Valgir couldn’t say he minded.

His other eye opened owlishly as her knees came to rest in front of him, his legs stretched out to either side of them. In the coldness of the water, the brush of warm flesh made him shift.

The Nordenfiir looked up at her.

“Barely broke the skin,” his lips curved away from his teeth, a ferocity underlying the expression. “Always think better after I drink. Isn’t that what I say?”

Was it? He didn’t recall.

Mostly because once he started drinking, he didn’t tend to stop.

Had he left the jug downstairs or… no. His hand found the stem of the clay jug sitting just outside the tub. He lifted it to his lips and took another long sip before setting it down.

Something lurked in his gaze.

Something of the bear within.

“You?” He asked idly. One hand shifted in the water until he found her ankle, pulling it toward him. Then his thumbs began to knead the sole of her right foot. “These falling off yet?”

Nath'iarra