Private Tales Virtue and Valor in Shades of Scarlet

[Sir Alaric]

Alaric slumped low in the saddle. He'd ridden fully for three days, sleeping on horse, but could feel his great beast and friend tiring.

"Aye, Thunder," he croaked, bone-weary.

The horse snorted, lathered with sweat and trembling with exhaustion. He was bred for war and brilliant charges, not slogging across hill and dale for days on end. They needed to stop and soon, else he risked losing the horse and their quarry both.

In the distance, he spied the outline of a great manor. Surely, the lord of such a place would not turn away a knight in need? Alaric nudged Thunder in that direction, his eyes swimming. As they came upon the manor, dusk fell swiftly. How strange, he'd spotted no tended fields outside the manor, nor any servants coming and going. As he drew toward the door, no one came out to answer the clop of shod-horse. Alaric's tired mind could not work out this mystery.

Exhausted, he slid from the saddle with a groan. He should not have worn chainmail on such a ride. His tabard, normally white and emblazoned with the brilliant sun of the Radiant Church, was caked with dust. So too his locks of golden hair. Resting a hand on the hilt of his sword from comfort, its presence at his hip reassuring, Alaric lurched forward and pounded on the door of this manor, fearful it might be abandoned.

"Hello? I am Sir Alaric of Cortos. I beg shelter for the night."

No answer.

He pounded on the door again.

"Please, let me speak to your lord. We only need room for the night and we'll be gone. I beg of thee."

Evadne

 

[Evadne]

The knock at the great oak doors of the manor shivered through the empty halls, startling the lone candle by which Evadne sat. She stilled, cup of dark wine poised in her hand, head tilted to listen.

A man’s voice. Worn, desperate, yet steady still..

She heard more than his words. The groan of chainmail as he shifted his weight. The rasp of his tired breath. The horse outside, trembling on the edge of collapse. And beneath it all, the beat of his heart, young, strong, achingly alive.

Hunger twisted inside her, sharp as knives. How long had it been since she fed well? Too long. This place was her prison, and nobody ever came here. Not anymore. Her tongue pressed to the back of her teeth, and her grip on the cup tightened until crystal creaked. One taste would silence the ache..

She rose, shadows unfurling with her as though eager to hunt. Candlelight caught the pale fall of her white hair, the silk of her dressing gown clinging where it plunged low, leaving nothing to the imagination despite the icy cold of the manor. When she drew the door open, she leaned lazily against the frame, cup in hand, gaze upon the knight who stood on her threshold.

“My Lord is not home,” she said, voice smooth as velvet, though her eyes slid past him to the storm gathering swift and black across the hills. “But the night grows cruel, and you… you are far from shelter.”

Her gaze returned to study him, exhaustion carving harsh lines across his handsome face. Temptation made flesh. A beautiful thing, beneath all that dirt and sweat. Under that sun that burned on his chest...

Evadne sipped her wine instead, letting the silence linger just long enough to sharpen the air between them. Then her lips curved faintly.. "I am not supposed to open the door to strangers.. But, I am sure that for a knight, it would be alright to make an exception.." she said softly, and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

 

[Sir Alaric]

The knight felt a surge of hope as the door finally swung open, then he saw her. At first he thought her some apparition of the mist, pale of hair and pale of flesh and clad only in a wisp of a gown that draped her curving figure in ways that drew the eye. But ghosts did not speak so, with words languid as dripping honey. Nor did they lean lithe bodies against doorframes in such a manner.

Alaric stiffened and looked away from her, to some middle-distance just over her shoulder.

"My lady," he bowed, eyes darting toward the ground, but finding no relief at the glimpse of bare ankles. He studied a crack in the floor, then rose and met her gaze with gentle brown eyes. Something pulled him in that gaze of hers, drawing him in. "My sincerest apologies. If your Lord isn't home - I shouldn't."

And yet, she bade him enter.

He wet his lips and tore his eyes away from her to glance over his shoulder at Thunder, who stood lathered in sweat and so exhausted he could barely stand. If they left now and tried to find somewhere else, Thunder would not last more than a mile. The realization struck Alaric as sure as a sword edge and he winced.

"But my horse and I need shelter... if you're sure it's alright..."

No, boy, I won't make you suffer further.

The horse needed rest. And food. And not in an open plain or wood where the wolves might come.

Reluctantly, the knight crossed the threshold and entered the manor. The air was no warmer inside, but an odd chill that he felt even through his layers of cloth and chain. His eyes looked around the interior, avoiding dwelling on her. Honor demanded he look elsewhere.

"What may I call you, Lady? Will your Lord return soon? I don't wish to impose."

Evadne

 

[Evadne]

The knight’s bow was almost quaint, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Evadne let the corner of her mouth lift, faint and sharp, as if she were in on some private joke. She trailed one finger along the rim of her wine cup, her pale eyes following the tremble of the horse beyond him, then returning to Alaric with a languid sweep that left little doubt she was studying him.

“He has been gone some time, I'm afraid I'm unsure of when he will return” she said at last. She stepped back into the shadowed hall, allowing him passage with a gesture as fluid as water. “But you are not imposing, Sir Alaric…” her eyes lingered on his weary frame, the golden locks dulled with dust and sweat, the stubborn pride in the way he held himself upright though exhaustion dragged at his limbs, “…I am not so cruel as to turn a knight of Cortos from my door. You and your beast may rest in shelter tonight.”

How long since I spoke thus to another? Since I offered shelter rather than ruin? He smells of steel, of sunlight, of dust and salt sweat. Warmth clings to him like a cloak. How easy it would be to strip it all away, to drink him dry and let his bones cool beside the horse in the yard. Just one taste…

The thought twisted in her gut, sharp and hungry. She pressed her lips against the rim of the cup, letting the wine soften the ache, though it did little more than sting.

“You may call me Evadne,” she said, finally giving him her name, though the words left her lips like a sigh, weighted with something unsaid.

Her gaze lingered, pale and piercing, before softening, just slightly.

“Come. You look near to falling where you stand. I'm afraid I do not have much to eat, but there is plenty wine to warm you, and water for your steed. That much, at least, I can promise.”

 

[Sir Alaric]

"Wine and water would do well, thank you for your kindness, Lady Evadne."

In truth, his stomach yearned for a hot meal. What he would not give for some roast venison topped with stewed carrots and a slice of manchet.

The knight met her gaze briefly and felt a tingle shiver up his spine. He must have imagined things, for he thought for a moment that her eyes glowed in the dark with a strange light.

In the chill air, the sweat on his brow cooled and he felt the weight of the road in the grime matted in his hair and in the layer of dust and dirt on his tabard and boots. He must look a sight.

"Your Lord must be a kind man to let a stranger in at this hour, as are you. I am in your debt. May we send for a servant for my horse?"

He looked around, stepping deeper into the manor, frowning e'er so slightly at the furnishings lit by soft candles. Trying to avoid thoughts lingering on the way she'd stared at him and on the state of her dress.

Evadne

 

[Evadne]

“Yes, yes, rest assured, someone will tend to your horse,” she promised smoothly. Her tone carried the weight of certainty, though there was no bell rung, no servant summoned. And while his weary eyes wandered over the faded grandeur of the hall, candelabras weeping wax, curtains heavy with dust, a darker shape peeled from her own shadow. It moved with a liquid grace, hips swaying as though in mimicry of her own, and slipped silently out into the storm to lead the beast to the stables.

Evadne alone remained. She always did.

Once, this manor had teemed with life- twenty staff bustling through its corridors, laughter echoing from dining halls, children’s footsteps on the stairs. But time had hollowed it. Or perhaps she had. The house still stood in its finery, but it was a finery that grew brittle, tired, and neglected. Unlike her. Evadne had never changed.

She led him into the main sitting room, the hearth roared to life, flames licking eagerly at logs that had been cold but a moment before.

“Yes… kind,” she echoed his words, a dryness in her throat as she gave him the faintest smile, too tight around the edges. “Of course he is.” A lie, but one she dressed in silk.

“Please,” she gestured to the fireside chairs. “Sit. Warm yourself. I can have a bath drawn in the guest suite, if you wish…” The words came like an afterthought, though her hand lingered as she poured a generous goblet of Obanian red, the dark liquid rich as blood in the firelight. She pressed it into his hand, her fingers cool against his skin.

Then she reclined in her own high-backed chair, sinking into it with effortless grace. The fire caught her eyes. Crossing one long leg over the other, the silk of her gown falling away to her upper thigh, a casual unveiling, though nothing about her gaze was casual as it lingered on him.

“Seems like you’ve travelled far, Sir Alaric…” she said, her tone lilting into a question as she raised her own cup. Wine touched her lips, but it was not the drink that made her throat work in a swallow.

Gods, the warmth radiating from him. Dust, sweat, steel, blood, the scent of life itself clinging to every inch of him. I can hear it, pulsing through his veins. So close, so temptingly close. He does not see the hunger in me. Or does he?

She sipped again, her eyes never leaving his.

 

[Sir Alaric]

A frown creased his brow and he watched with a mix of relief and confusion as the silent servant whisked off to tend his horse. How strange, he hadn’t been able to make out their face in the candlelight.

Words and wine drew his attention back to her and he gratefully accepted the glass. Their fingers grazed as she handed him the wine. Sun above. Her touch was ice cold.

Adjusting his scabbard so he could sit down, the knight did so but only at the edge of the seat. Back among polite society, he felt self conscious of the filth costing him and the smell of horse and sweat in such company.

“A bath would be sublime,” he confessed. “I apologize for my present state, as you say… I’ve traveled far.”

His eyes moved inevitably to her where she reclined, legs crossed, clad only in that thinnest of night gowns that did nothing to conceal her figure. She was exceedingly beautiful, with white-gold hair cut short past the chin, exposing a bare, ivory neck and framing high cheekbones and eyes that possed an alluring, feline languidness to them.

Sir Alaric hurriedly took a sip from his wine, focusing on the rim of the glass and the taste of the red.

“Oban vintage,” he remarked, surprised. So far from that city. And the taste… he’d had worse at his uncle’s in Torleon when dining with the Duke.

He glanced up, once more distracted by her beauty, which she made no motion to conceal.

“I have woken you at an unseemly hour. You must be cold,” he thought of her fingers earlier, chill as a corpse’s. “Should I fetch a coat for you, my lady?”

Evadne