...must come to an end.

...must come to an end.

Postby Serrus » Mon Mar 02, 2015 3:33 am

All Good Things...

Red. Scarlet red roses upon cherry blossoms, a great crimson stained her eyes before darkness, and she gasped, sheet wrapped about her in a great priestly shroud, though she was as far from a priest as one could be, a woman of iniquity and squalor, a cripple and a whore, what a jape she made, she often thought. But she thought of nothing now but the red crimson, the black shroud, and the voice, the voice that left her breath gone, her body in a a cold sweat, a shiver down her spine.

Ella... Ella I'm sorry.

She knew it, knew it in her bones, knew it in every fiber of her being, but her mind would not accept it, would not want to believe it so. Years upon years travelling together, the great mummer's farce, the joke of the downtrodden, jeers and sneers toward them, and lewd gestures. 'He is but my friend, and no more, despite what you would think otherwise', she'd spat at another man. From Thessilane to Derry, from Derry to Myrken, from town to town, slum to slum, each night he would perform his art, and she hers, and they would convene together again, laugh, drink and sleep, and no more would come of it. Let us make the mockery no more than it need be, she'd told him once. But he had not come home this night, unlike every other night since they had found their pocket of ruins in the older parts of The Hollows.

Ella...

Bare feet pressed against wet, worn timber, and she felt across the bedsheets, then stood, walking to the other side of the room to where he oft slept upon the couch, to him, it looked like a king single in comparison, a place he'd normally fall into a drunken stupor, where she'd find him snoring. But he was not there, and she knew he would not be there, and knew he would never sleep there again, but she did not want to accept it, not admit it. Almond skin shifted under the sheet, brown hair falling in loose trails as she walked shakily to peer about the door, to the kitchen, to the hallway.

"Haydon?"

Her voice was met with silence in the hallway, a flickering candle. Dawn had not yet broke, still dark outside, the amber candles a flickering dance of light. She stepped inside again, shutting the door as she began to dress quickly, a frock and loose gown of bistre and forest green. Must get ready for work, must -- no. She needed to find him. Had to find him. He was somewhere, asleep in an inn, with a whore, with the sellsword, asleep in the small old theater... He was in this town somewhere, and she wold find him. The brush worked swiftly, knotted ends smoothing, and she tossed it aside and hurried down the hall with a pitter-pattering of small shoes down the hallway to the stairs and out into the late night, a time she often started her work, when men were too drunk to care about the ghastly socket left from a gouged out eye of years past.

"Ain't seen 'im," said the tender, kicking at one of the stray dogs that prowled the Uwe's Udder when most of the patrons had fallen to a drunken stupor. "Ain't seen him since you was playin' with 'im in 'ere last night. 'Ave y'checked the brothels?"

The brothel girls she knew, knew them all too well. They were sympathetic, but unhelpful. None had seen the halfling for weeks, and only made suggestions of places she'd already looked, which only served to greaten her exasperation.

The hollows were under the light of dawn by the time she began to feel desperate, cold and tired. The snows and mud had blistered her feet to a frostbitten blue, and her hands were numb and red from the cold, the thinnest and most tattered of cloaks about her person.... business had been scarce for her in the winter, men were indoors. Men stayed home, did not venture into the lesser reputed areas of town. She trudged through mud-soaked streets, the dirt caking her up to ankles, the dim streets of the markets a cacophony of noise as peddlers set up their wares, the golden light of the dawn sun rising over the city walls and buildings. He always liked to play in the markets, it drew some coin from those who weren't determined to spit on him or kick him to the earth. Yes, she would find him here. She pressed on, a shivering shroud of brown, bronzed eyes looking about. A figure moving among men, ginger hair, a green doublet. Her heart raced as rushed foward, hand reaching to squeeze the diminutive shoulder.

"Haydon--"

A child turned, looking up to her, and noting the gouged eye, gasped with notable fright, a parent stepping in protectively. A man of raiment -- a nobleman.

"I'm.. forgive me ser. I thought... I mistook him..."

There was no answer from the noble, only a cold glare as the child was led away hurriedly, and the one-eyed whore left among a sea of people.

Ella... Ella I'm sorry.

No. No, he was here somewhere. She would find him, and soon. Then she could teach him the song of the woman of the sands again, and then perhaps perform at a more finer establishment. He promised he'd find them a place. A place fit for kings.

"Haydon..." she called out to the crowd, but the halfling did not answer.
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Serrus
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