by Carnath-Emory » Thu May 12, 2005 5:22 am
Give her an enemy to fight, and watch him bleed. Point out an opponent, and see murder done. But who is she -- sellsword whore; insignificant -- to direct the Governor's fate? Poison is a foe she cannot butcher; Dhrin is an enigma she cannot dare trust --
I cannot make this choice.
He offers water, this lovely creature, and she must struggle to keep the astonishment from her face. That impassive mask is her saviour once again, for the offer seems so unlikely, so misplaced, given the circumstances, that she'd almost laughed. Almost. Limp, dark hair clings to the nape of her neck, yes; her brow glistens with a light sweat, molten iron lurking eagerly just beneath the surface of that clammy skin. Even the pretty silk of her garments clings to her sticky flesh. She hadn't noticed, until he mentioned it.
"They say the crops will fail," she answers Dhrin, just to have something to say, words to fill the silence as she thinks. Her throat aches, as parched as her dry lips -- and when she rises at last, it's to make for the room's door, and there speak her request to a passing girl. Water, to satisfy her lovely tormenter, and she lingers at that threshold a moment longer than is necessary, simply to luxuriate in the sight of the world beyond Bromn's room. Escape lies that way. Escape, and the Governor's certain death.
It requires every ounce of her self-control to close that door, and quietly return to her seat.
"I..."
They are a xenophobic lot, the people of Northern Dauntless: a newcomer is spotted within minutes of his approach, and few of them linger long. They find the stares uncomfortable; they read the unspoken threat in every eye.
"I..."
She is true to her heritage, if only this aspect of it. And in any case, there'd been ample opportunity over the years to learn the wisdom of suspicion, the folly of too much trust, given too soon. Fear the stranger. Shun the outlander. This choice is impossible.
"Where lies your home? How far from Myrken Wood? For we shall travel there once this is done. I will not have the Doctor go without the means to cure this, in future days. See to him," comes the sudden rush of hoarse words, with a flick of her hand towards the Governor's prone form, "and we will reckon the cost for it after. It will not be he who pays it."
Reckless offer. Reckless bargain, spoken by a woman who prefers anger over fear -- and cannot rightly afford to indulge in either. Not that this matters. She has, by her reckoning, just signed her life over to the creature.