Private [M] The Carousel of Hearts

[Rois Sinclair]

"Night over the poor district" by Ortsmor, Digital, 2013​

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Overwhelming feelings beneath Khurun’s teeth, keep up, stay upon your toes or fall victim to the ever-spinning carousel and its many, many emotions. It seeks to strand you amongst intense sentiments.​

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Munas kuvak, for all its ruggedness, is like the coming of a holy angel in a moment of deep, dark despair.

The road has been perilous, the free states and their love of anarchy are proven true. If it is not for the sharp inclining of stone outcroppings it is the torches in the night casting shadows against billowing tents, the spurring of horses rushed through tightly growing pines and the silent, eerily dead forest; banditry is as rife as the evergreen needles speckling the rocky floor. They are not there to pillage villages for there does not seem to be any, the treacherous path she walks sees the skeleton of one burnt to its pillars when a hill is crescented but that is all-- the villainous clashes with each other are plotted in tent-holds furnished at the mouth of caves and fought where the maimed losers could never hope to crawl brokenly towards help. No salvation awaited them. Every now and then a body picked clean of clothing and steel appears suddenly from the dense wilds as a reminder that this is a land locked forever in battle, be the scale grand or tiny.

And it is of little wonder why no-one sought to settle upon such bleak territories, for there has been neither river or stream for miles upon the next hundred miles, the necessity of wells was understood by the simplest of men, but firmly affixed to the highly-prized idea of dragging water to the surface was the importance of knowing how to build them-- whatever water rushed beneath the surface was left entirely untapped by the unskilled. No water, no life. It is the reason for the quietness of the trees, animals flourished not when deprived of all but rock and fern. This was all the doing of the mountains afar, their presence encapsulated the beauty of glittering snow upon the jagged rising of ancient crests… and the death so often associated with the cold. Even in summertime those mighty peaks reminded the land at its feet that though their summits possessed limits they were endless below. This would always be a land of stone.

The mining settlement is first spied by the whirling of black smoke heavily dashed by the tenacious winds above, it is a blanket of smog that obscures the lowest peaks like a veil of shadow coming to lie restlessly against them. Finally a path appears after two moons of trudging precariously by way of star or compass or map, the points of interests were all rocks of various unique shapes standing solitarily amidst deep browns and cool greens; Munas kuvak appears on an upward slope that the buildings all oblige with. They rise steadily to meet a mountain-foot baring the great halls of a looming abode, a noble building quite different to the ones below it, from afar it is but another monolith vying for attention against the jaws of the peaks behind it.

The town is grey, grey and more grey. Old buildings look ready to fall in on themselves, she arrives just before the setting of the dying sun and so there are many wandering about the cobblestone of well worn streets, eager to either get home after long hours in the mines or ready to start the night shift, shops selling rocks of all kinds are closing and the street-lighters are up on ladders bringing the warm glow of lantern-light to those whose eyes are not so attuned to the darkness… there are notably not enough lamps for every street. There would be long stretches of darkness in the hours to come, thankful are the creatures who needed those shadows for foul-play. There are blacksmiths everywhere still working keenly at forges, apprentices are taking notes, some are already banging shapes out of metal whose purity could only be found so close to mine-shafts; to which there are many of them, holes upon holes puncturing through the rock up above at the very top of the town, too numerous to count. Wagons of raw material rattle all about, the hissing of cooling steel is constant, the air is thin yet peppery with the smell of burning iron being the primary scent of the wind.

There is something that stands out, however.

Every now and then comes the beige poster marked with the insignia… of a crocodile sitting atop an arrow. Left. Right. Forward. Left. The closer she comes to her destination the more Osytha realizes that this town is very much occupied by the non-human races, and in some of their arms are bundles of brown paper tied together with string. It is all but confirmed when she passes an Orc taking tusks to what appeared to be an entirely raw cut of glistening human thigh without a care in the world, gossiping idly to Dogfolk who have the reds of blood upon their muzzles; they are here, and they have been working. A small feline licking the bone of a lower arm with a raspy tongue, clothes covered in the smearings of coal. A fox smith chewing upon a degloved hand as he hammers the curves of horseshoes. There is no fear here, the stigma of the meat meant nothing to hungry workers desperate to take bone-crunching teeth to anything but the usual soups and bread… so though Munas kuvak is grim in its architecture and extraordinarily dirty, the atmosphere is almost jovial. The woman is even greeted by a loud wolf-whistle as she passes by a bench occupied by Devahni metalsmiths enjoying the end of the day.

Before long she is delivered before a building that is quite unlike the others simply due to the fact it stands alone and is not conjoined to some other business ventures; the bones of a stall were here, said pillars bare the small banners of the crocodile. There are no words upon the pricing board. These were beings who knew little in the way of reading or writing and so everything is done by illustration and words, one board bears the drawing of a dissected human, and another, a deer. The produce is not out upon icy trays like it would have been an hour before, there is someone at the stall but the male appears to be merely making sure no-one runs off with the glistening trays before him… black, forwards facing horns. Black skin. Black blades, the curves of shotels, snug inside silver kissed sheathes… he is not dirty. The man’s clothes are fine despite their lack of colour, and halfly glowing eyes would capture the wayward knight without emotion or speech, content to simply… watch from afar.

The door of the lone establishment is guarded by an orc donned in armor reflecting similar wealth. It is not his clothes that are notable however, nor the oversized scimitar at his large waist. The beings head… was obscured by an executioners hood baring the small sparkle of unreadable eyes watching for trouble to come forth. Dual guards for a very important venture… protecting someone (self-assuredly) important within. A cool breeze briefly carries away the scent of meat and metal and coal. The town works loudly in the background, but in that moment there is a fragile, tentative peace; the feeling that the silence could easily be broken by a single foot trodden in the wrong direction.

 

[Osytha]

“Right. And we’re here.” Caravan master Lydik hops off the front wagon and walks his way down along the train, his big gnarled hands smacking at their wooden flanks. “All you hangers-on can fuck off now. Shake a leg!”

People don’t seem to need much encouraging. Most of those already familiar with the viper’s nest of Munas Kuvak — couriers and envoys, seasonal workers, maybe some shady characters who use this place to lay low from time to time — had already split as soon they drew level with the amalgamate abodes beneath their distinctive, cloying black cloud of smog. A few other folks had lingered. Typically, these are the caravan guards like Volmar, whose work protecting the inordinately valuable sacks of grain and potatoes are far from done, or fresh-faced newcomers to the forge town; lost little lambs like the woman drawing tight the undyed, brown hodden mantle across her shoulders. When it shifts, her cloak reveals a slip of the orange-pink surcoat and deep burgundy kirtle beneath. But the hood she keeps lowered, not hiding her dark hair banded with a lone white badger stripe, its waves put into a compact Heidi braid, and her large, slate-blue eyes peering out over the linen kerchief tied around her lower face. She’s far from the only one wearing such a mask around here, and no one’s really doing it as a fashion statement.

The woman steps away a short distance, giving the caravaners room to start unloading while she spends a moment taking in the town. They’ve come up one of the main thoroughfares, a cobbled strip with enough importance that it warrants its own street lamps, which are just now being lit one-by-one in a race against the sickly-looking setting sun. As for the structures themselves… there’s an ad-hoc feel to the place; a town which has grown up organically, bits tacked on when and as they’re needed rather than according to any overarching city plan. Layers of a vile black pearl forming around one singular purpose: the central piece of grit which is the Grand Forge. These high-gabled buildings here seem to mostly comprise pinewood and stony debris, both of which are a little too plentiful in these surrounds… but caked by charcoal-grey grime as they are, it’s difficult to say exactly what the materials are in each case. Every structure suffers from the smog’s paintbrush to one extent or another, giving Munas Kuvak a dreary, monochrome character which seems to devour the light.

“Still keen on stayin’, girlie?” That gruff, hearty voice sounds from behind the young lady. “Not too late to head back with us — if you got anythin’ left to pawn, that is.”

Brycen glances over to see Lydik grinning toothily at her as he trudges by, a hefty burlap sack hugged tight to his stocky form. She turns and sort of follows along beside, to where the actual caravan employees are shifting some of their cargo to early bird buyers and their carts. The stout blackthorn stick in her hand clacks heavily upon the patchwork of soot-washed stones underfoot.

For a moment, her eyes meet Volmar’s. The stern, blond man regards her coolly back, before his gaze slides off toward the darkening weld of structures all about.

When Brycen reaches the wagon column’s rear toward where this open square joins street, the spot where coin has just begun to exchange hands between Lydik and buyers who’re nervously eyeing the fading sky overhead, a weak, pale ripple draws her attention over to the nearby wall. She approaches, and that stark oblong resolves itself into a poster — marked by a very familiar-looking crocodile sat atop an arrow inviting her down the street. It’s pointing toward another one further off in the gloom; a little breadcrumb trail for her to follow. How thoughtful.

Lydik makes an irritated noise beside her. “He’s here, then,” the man grumbles.

She looks back in time to see him spit to his side before immediately going on to haggle with a craggy-faced runefolk. Both sides are in a hurry to perform their transactions, yet Brycen finds a few gaps in the haggling to press Lydik on the matter.

“Who do you mean?” she asks.

“Eh, you don’t wanna know,” comes Lydik’s cryptic reply. Though, he does flash her another nasty grin, and continues: “Let’s just say he’s someone else who helps keep this shithole fed. Or rather,” and that evil smile widens, “he’s in the business of fattening folks up.”

That poster draws her gaze once again. “Another food merchant?” Brycen remarks. “It sounds like you lot do pretty well here…”

The man notices her thoughtful look, and he actually barks in laughter. “I know you need work, but I would not recommend it.”

“Well, I… I suppose I mightn’t be that qualified, depending…”

“Oh, no.” Lydik gives her a very deliberate, head-to-toe sweep of his gaze. “You look like you’d be exactly what he’s after. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, girl.”

But he can’t blame her, he supposes, half-watching the maroon-draped woman head off along the path pointed out by those posters. There’s no charity to be found in Munas Kuvak. You either work, or you starve. And a position with the merchants who make a killing by importing food sounds a whole lot better than hanging around the bloody forges all day, or worse, choking on dust in the mines. Shame, he reckons, turning back to business. Young thing like her — what a waste. But, oh well. He’ll still see her around. You know… here and there. In bits and pieces.

As ‘Brycen’ meanders along the ill-kempt streets, her stick punctuating her progress with its solid, rhythmic, thunk, she realises those posters are a little redundant. All she’d have to do, she reckons, is look at where these gourmands gnawing on their suspect meats are coming from. She passes an orckin and some canidfolk with their faces buried in cuts of flesh, their mouths gushing with gore and singing praises at the joy of finally getting proper, fresh meat for a change. A felid-looking type further along, satisfaction writ bold across their face, has flensed their own joint down to its gleaming white bone.

Others, however, owe their high spirits to more… conventional leisures. The giddy freedom of a freshly-finished workday, mugs full of beer and, if the vociferous attentions which Brycen attracts from a a group of sweat-slicked devahni smiths is any indication, the prospect of more carnal delights. Sorry, lads, the woman thinks, as the whistling continues appreciatively at her back. Not today. Got an appointment… I think?

Well, she’s about to find out on that matter.

The guards she hasn’t seen before: a jet-skinned devahni with a pair of sharply-curved, short yet wicked blades, plus a sturdy, armoured and hooded fellow with a sizeable shamshir at his hip who’s actually guarding the door. Quite a different reception than last time, Brycen notes. These two seem a little less bubbly than Feliene. But at least she’s sure she’s found the place. Between the banners with their crocodile motif, the grisly display board, and that unmistakable aroma from the trays of Mr Crocodile’s wares still sitting out, this building really couldn’t be anything else.

She walks up toward the orckin at the door, stopping short by a reasonable distance. Not exactly keen to give either of these two cause to draw their steel. Nor does there seem much point in trying on her ruse with the Crocodile Butcher’s employees.

“If you please,” she says, propping her stick out in front of her and resting both hands on the top, “could you inform Mister Crocodile that his knight in shinin’ armour has arrived?”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

No doubt Rois would have been coloured by glee if he’d have heard the brave chattering of the wagon men, this would not be the company's first time beneath the mountains and it would most definitely not be the last; notions, rumors and reputation of the violent kind were a veil of protection about the markets workers, and the disparity of the hungry was far too profitable to exploit. It was not he that opened the door, however.

Osytha’s confident words do not see the Orckin moving, but they certainly cause the devahni to shift with a sword-like glint coming to gleam in already narrowed eyes, spitting harshly to the side with the whip-crack of a lithe tail against stone as he turned a length away from her disguised form… a frosty reception. Another one with a distaste for the word ‘knight’. At least the horned one sought not to take blade to skin at the announcement, and it seemed that the orc would follow suit, large hands seek not the hilt of the curved great-sword and instead rise to knock upon the door he guarded without a single sound-- knuckles never reach the objects threshold. It is swung open with great enthusiasm (and a little effort), and there, beneath the crumbling stone door-way, a far more friendlier sight meets the clouded sky of the woman’s gaze. The slight shuffle of the guards-orc fully out of the way,

“I heard-- a knight, yes?”

Feathers, gartered legs in white lace and a sweet little bib of the same fashion, falling short of 5ft tall is a beastkin that greatly contrasts the other animals haunting the darkening streets. Safya is a peahen with emerald eyes bright regardless of the dull colouration of the females plumage, warm greys and browns with the snaring of muted greets at a long neck. Atop her delicate head a crown of fluffy feathers like the plume of a dandelion bearing seeds, as soft and as dainty as her heavily accented voice, wing-hands not meant for flight beckon her within the dimly lit abode with haste,

“Rois said maybe a knight is coming, I wasn’t thinking it was true!” Pillow-soft trilling, cadence like the crescendo of a song rising and falling with every sentences start and end, “Come, come-- is not being safe at dark for ladies like us.”

Woman, dark hair, white streak. Osytha’s distinctiveness and tenacity told the birdkin that yes indeed, this was ‘her’. There is a scent far kinder than the outsides biting of steel to the nose or coal-fire speckling the lungs, something aromatic and foreign and delicious, the draft of the building carries it through the doorway like a welcome as rich as the birdfolks sing-song itself; and just like outside, the reception is pine beams and stone walls. The tables are meticulously crafted by stone-masons to imitate the furling of leaves crawling up their thick legs and the lengthy sofa is but a slab adorned with the purple-red of elongated, stuffed cushions, the interior styled itself as an open-planned meeting place clearly intended to be hired as a whole building and not as rented single rooms. Four doors, shadowed steps afar to the upper floor and a smouldering hearth burning low, the source of the spiced smell was a tin kettle bearing steam upon its iron stilts. It is not attended to immediately.

Safya floats over to the main table with no great rush, taking wing-claws to gently flip a small stack of papers over for privacy, pinning them there with a beige abacus; the ink-well and blotched feather rising from its lip were testimony to the fact that the small thing had been working prior… so it is with happiness for the break that she would address Osytha once more with large eyes gentle,

“My name is Safya, it is pleasure to be receiving you on Sinclair’s companies behalf.” A slow, very much unpractised bow to pair well with the confusion about what titles really meant, “What am I calling you, S… syr? ... I apologize, I am never meeting knight before, so to call one properly… I will try my best.”

Determination sweeps away the uncertainty of the little birds gentle cooing as her head turns to the likewise trilling of the kettle warmed to bubbling-point, prompting the beastkin to add with a smidge of restrained excitement--

“I am hoping you like Eastern tea… you must try.”

She is fetching two egg-white coloured tea cups from the hearths side, one normal, one abnormal-- if one has ever spent any time about beastkin then the couple that possess half-spouts are for the beaked and lipless, a given for the numerous animal clientele of Munas kuvak-- to deliver into their concave hearts a ruddy-red liquid strained through the speciality kettles silver nose. It is presented to Osytha by the main table encircled by the aged pine chairs and their somewhat soft toppings, an indication for the knight to sit… strong notes of mint barely beaten out by spiced cinnamon and burnt sugar dancing as one, the brazenness of its fragrance its underpinned by the floral herbiness of rosemary.* A luxury indeed, one clearly carried by mule-carriage to the mining town and not found amongst the outer parade of rough men and their taste for anything that could lull their mind into a fuzzier state!

*Badawī Bedouin tea, an old traditional tea, no doubt from Suldaza.

 

[Osytha]

Osytha gives a little nod toward the two guards, before shuffling inside at the striking woman’s invitation. The door closes behind her, and with that, Munas Kuvak might as well be on another planet to this cosily-lit foyer.

While Safya gets a few odds and ends in order, Osytha rests her stick beside the door and unties her cloth mask, grateful to take a few breaths of this relatively fresh air. Though, not without her eyes also taking note of the layout of this space she’s just entered. Pine supports, fine decorative stonework softened with plush cushions, four egresses not counting those stairs — all considered before some motion draws her attention back upon the peahen lady; Safya having just introduced herself as such, and straightening up from her bow.

“What am I calling you, S… syr? ... I apologize, I am never meeting knight before, so to call one properly… I will try my best.”​

The white-ish square disappears into a pocket-hole, and Osytha tries to offer an assuring smile.

“Much obliged, Safya,” she responds, smoothing out her usual Leah drawl into something more comprehensible. Rather than a bow, she bobs a little curtsy instead; it’s not often she wears a dress, and Osytha feels like she might as well lean into it while she can. “I’ve been going by ‘Brycen’ here — order’s orders — but my real name’s Osytha. The ‘syr’ part I’ll leave up to you, though. I en’t especially bothered either way.”

It’s not really that kind of knighthood, to her mind. No fief, no vassals, no liege lord as such; not the kind of knight who slots somewhere into Altalusia’s feudal system, whose title has been increasingly appropriated by the nobility. It’s closer to the knights of old, what these days they call a ‘man-at-arms’, so to Osytha, using ‘syr’ is more a matter of protocol within the order rather than a courtesy to demand of people in general; more military rank than honorific.

Well, that’s how she feels about it nowadays, at least. Can’t deny there was an Osytha who used to crow over being called ‘syr’ by people she’d not spare a thought for the moment they left her sight…

It’s an awkward little moment, perhaps, but quickly remedied as Safya broaches the subject of tea. Osytha visibly perks up when she hears the word. In fact, a little part of her had wondered hopefully about that herby, welcoming scent as soon as she’d walked in, and now she can’t quite hide her eagerness as she shrugs off her mantle and rests it over a chair.

“I’ve never met a tea I don’t like,” she assures Safya, and plants herself down on the pine seat. “Thank you. I’ve been dyin’ to have a cuppa for more’n a week now. Not much chance to boil the kettle on the way here, you ken.”

They knew it would be a tough trek to reach Munas Kuvak. Astenvale didn’t have too much information on the town, but they at least knew that. Inhospitable, near-waterless stretches of pine forest, plagued by banditry. Lydik’s caravan had moved as hard, fast, and quiet as it could, and didn’t stop to make a fire. It was better not to give away their position like that. Whenever it felt like complacency was setting in, they’d pass the remains of some unfortunates who’d fallen prey to the wilderness’ dangers, and that made them remember well enough. One or two such victims had actually found the caravan instead, though Lydik’s guards made short work of those again-walkers.

Osytha watches her hostess begin pouring out two cups of piping hot ambrosia. “How about yourselves, though?” she asks, thinking about one or two faces she has yet to see again. “Did you all make it here safe enough?”

Probably they’re all fine. Seems like Mr Crocodile and co. are no strangers to the route, and they would have been pretty well defended. Still, there’s always a few idiots willing to try their luck, and with enough of it, you never know what kind of damage they might manage to do before they’re taken out.

Porcelain clinks down in front of her. Little white godsend filled with clear, steaming, auburn draught, which strikes her sinuses with a delightful medley of bright herbs, spice, and — she notes with relief — burnt sugar. On the one hand, sugar in tea verges on the sacrilegious for Osytha, and her peasant palate doesn’t handle the stuff too well in any dish. On the other hand, though, burnt sugar avoids this problem by trading sickly sweetness with characterful bitterness. And hey, different tea, different recipes. Variety is the spice of life, right?

She picks up the cup in both hands and holds it under her face, smiling happily as she simply basks in its gorgeous aroma. Safya is doing a good job of making Osytha feel at home, here. In these otherwise grim surrounds, the little peahen is a very comforting presence. Disarmingly so, perhaps.

Feliene had been a bit like that — harmless-seeming, endearing. But Osytha hasn’t forgotten. “Anyone who is Mr’s enemy is our enemy as well!” Crocs still thinks of her as his foe, she’s pretty sure about that, and as welcoming, hospitable, and kind as some of these people may seem, at the end of the day, they’re his people. And she, the outsider.

As Osytha picks out the smells of mint, rosemary, cinnamon, and caramelised sugar, she also wonders if there’s anything in there she can’t smell. An ingredient she won’t notice until it’s too late. She kind of got the drop on Crocs last time. Now, though, he’s had time to prepare. Plus, he knows she’s a sucker for a good brew. Not a bad way to slip her something potent if he really wanted her unable to fight back.

Or, maybe it’s just a perfectly normal cup of tea. She’ll find out soon enough either way.

Osytha lifts the cup and takes a little sip. She closes her eyes as the flavour hits, lets it all just sit there for a blissful few seconds, before swallowing. And with that, long-held tension evaporates from her every muscle, disappearing into the ether along with a deep, contented sigh.

“Oooh… I needed that.” She opens her eyes again, and gives Safya a grateful look. “It’s lovely. Thank’ee kindly.”

Then, she lowers the cup back down, still cradled there in her palms. Finds her eyes drawn to its ruby-red depths.

“I’m guessin’ if Mr Crocodile was expecting me, there’s some sort of plan or itinerary,” Osytha says, her thumb idly rubbing the hot ceramic. “But before all that… are you comfortable with sharin’ a bit about yourself, Safya? Like, how’d you come to work here?”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“O-sytha here… Brr-ycen, elsewhere. I understand, thank you, Syr.”

The smoothing of Osytha’s natural drawl was very much appreciated. If birds could stretch the static corners of their beaks and really smile then the peahen would have done so in the moment, and if the desert reds of the tea held any sinister secrets then sickness would befall her too, there is no hesitation in partaking in the liquid as well; the grooved, spouted cup fits the upwards turning of a beak perfectly, and with delicacy Safya drinks whenever the good knight sees fit to speak. Tenseness was to be expected. The little ground-fowl did not think of it as an emotion that could stem from any sort of danger or weariness about them however, and sees the vague moment of Osytha’s well rectified stiffness as a sign of worry about the streets instead. What female of any kind would feel safe within a working town stuffed to the brim with men stranded far from their lovers, toiling day in and out without the softness of arms to return to at night for weeks at a time…? It made them hungry. Made them desperate. This inn was a sanctum, and Safya wished for it to be seen as such, obliging the others questions with the gentleness that was almost motherly.

“You will not be finding more tea outside, Syr, so I am glad it is your liking. This is home of men, and men are not understanding what fineness is, yes? All ale, sharp-- blunt tongues, luxury is wasted on that gender.” She chortles with mirth and outstretches a little wing to brush the top of Osytha’s arm with a gentle feather to indicate that she is halfly talking in jest. Perhaps less than halfly. A turn for seriousness however, “We make it here slowly… mule move very carefully, ah, like is crawling? No trouble at all. But while here, we are under orders, do not leave this place without a man close… this is where trouble is. I know you are being a knight, Syr Osytha, but… especially come moon-rise, it is dangerous. Of course you are being a free person and can do what you like, but you are also a girl. Law persons guarding will not be taking your side if something awful happening.”

The notes of concern are as genuine as they are soft, almost whispered to the woman in a hush, afraid that their voices could be carried beyond the walls of the hired inn to spill out onto the streets afar. Women looking out for women. There was only so much steel brandished in the direction of ne'er-do-well’s intent in hilting their ‘swords’ deep in the belly of a victim, especially when they moved in packs to shadow their acts from prying eyes; and speaking of orders, Safya notes in a far less dismal way,

“Rois was mentioning, if you appear, there is job for you to be doing… but he was not saying what that is.”

And this was never mentioned anywhere before.

In fact, the vague ‘invitation’ had simply been, ‘we are going to be here, if you are near that is where you’ll find us’. It had not been an offer, not an instruction, just a statement thrown aloud like a hook to a fish. The bait had been taken. No indication came to whether this ‘job’ would even be voluntary, but the expression whirling in the peahens eyes are that of a muted sympathy for the fact that no more information could be bestowed upon Osytha in the moment. Whatever he wanted her for… it was between them alone. Another delicate sipping of the strong tea,

“Mm, I would not worry, though! I am sure there is reason he was picking you for a thing, and not us.” An attempt to undermine any tenseness by gracing the other with a short trill of airy laughter! Osytha is a thinker, perhaps that it what sets knights apart from the ordinary, she can see the gaps in the lapses of speech from the woman as moments of contemplation and finds no awkwardness in it; the human hides the emotion of those thoughts well, they scroll across the breadth of her steely-blue eyes as redacted statements. Safya would not pry. It was not the beastfolk’s place to.

“Oh, Syr, my story is not secret. I was maker of Maqluba* for restaurant in Mal-sha’ik, in Kaikias.”

These unexplained foreign words are of no real importance compared to the latter span of the statement, spoken both with ease and ponderment as a free wing-feather taps the edge of her beak in thought.

“One day I am taken for Wahsh souq al-lahm… is like, well, kind of like what we doing here. Market, live market, for peoples like me. Beastfolk buying other beastfolk to be eating. Yes, they are kidnapping me to be selling, ‘ah, buy this bird, delicious, delicious’! Maybe it is shameful… but no-one is wanting me. I was not so young, and not so fat.”

There is no hesitation in stating these words; the suggestion is that this was normal within the realm of Suldazan animal-peoples, something a continent away that simply could not be helped. Slavery. Kidnapping. Beasts buying beasts to slaughter. Safya continues with sadness that specifically seems to be surrounding the fact that none wanted to eat her wiped clean and replaced by a smidgen of gratitude,

“But I am cheap, only fifteen silver. When I see a big man-- not clawkin buying me-- I am curious, humans are having lots to eat and not usually buying beastkin for foods… so, yani, I worry just a little. But Rois, he crouch and ask me, bird, can you count? I say, yes, master, I was Maqluba seller, I count well. I get order to be working till I repay fifteen silver, then I choose; I follow Rois… or I go back home.”

The tipping of her head to the side, the fuzzy feathers atop her crown dance elegantly.

“... So I pick! I follow Rois. He is my owner, yes, I wanted to see world outside of Kaikias, and I have. Am being very proud to be accountant for company for four years now. I am good at it, Syr." A proud air overcomes her tiny form, eyes sparkling brightly with the happy emotion. "You understanding that you are woman, but to others... I am no woman. I am dumb animal, I am food, I am thing to be used, and master never saw me like that at all. He said count, so I count. Now I am employed, I have friends, good boss, money, much travelling and no danger. And now I serve tea to knight… I am very lucky bird, very, ah, word is, marmuq. Important.”

An extended arm, cutely painted claws in saffron capture Osytha’s picture at the table.

“Just like you!”

*'Maqluba' is a rice dish that looks like a sort of 'cake', topped with spiced meat and fried vegetables!
'Wahsh souq al-lahm' is a meat market that butchers specifically attend. 'Yani' is a filler word, sort of like 'like' in english. 'Marmuq' means prestigious.

 

[Osytha]

“I know you are being a knight, Syr Osytha, but… especially come moon-rise, it is dangerous. Of course you are being a free person and can do what you like, but you are also a girl.”​

And to that, Osytha simply nods. Safya isn’t wrong. Circumstances depending, she can fight off two or three, maybe four people at once. But even against just one, a single slip or bit of bad luck means it’s over, and the more times you tempt fate, the more chances you have to lose the lottery. General consensus holds that the best way to survive a fight is to avoid it altogether; not so chivalrous, perhaps, but they do say the better part of valour is discretion.

“Thank you,” she tells Safya — again. “I’m grateful for such hospitality.”

The teacup lifts for another sup, deeper than the last; a more thorough venture into its palate. Fresh taste of mint, the curious savoury-menthol duality of rosemary, depth and warmth from cinnamon, grounded by the burnt notes… Osytha’s not usually one for herbal teas — finding them but pale pretenders at the title worn by glorious Camellia sinensis — but she’s been coming around, lately. And this, well, this isn’t bad, honestly. In fact it’s quite nice. She just isn’t ready to think of it as real ‘tea’, is all.

Then Safya goes and mentions that Rois has a job for her.

Osytha blinks down into her shai, and ruminates on that one. This must be it, she considers. The real reason I’m here. Question is, for what end? A test, perhaps another chance to toy with me? Is it as simple as a genuine work offer, or something else? Whatever the case, there’s really only one surefire way to find out. Playing coy with Mr Crocodile doesn’t really work, as she’s learned. The man’s remarkably perceptive in some ways, and he seems to put great value in honesty… as well as in not having his time wasted. Nothing for it but to bite the bullet. Again.

Besides, she trusted him before, and he’d not betrayed her. Osytha believes she can trust him again, wants to trust him again, and see where it leads. That might sound like an odd thing to think about someone she suspects may have spiked her tea. Osytha, however, would argue to the contrary: that surely you need quite a lot of faith in someone in order to willingly drink their poison.

Which she happily continues to do, though she’s beginning to suspect its most sinister ingredient really is the sugar. The level in her cup drops steadily as Safya moves on to the subject of herself, and how she came to work for Rois. Osytha is quite well-studied in Ilica’s regions and peoples, but those of the lands east of here are a gap in her knowledge she’s still working to fill, so some of the vocabulary goes over her head. Nonetheless, Safya makes sure to explain the important parts. Like what a ‘wahsh souq al-lahm’ is, and on which side of the exchange she’d been on.

Were Osytha in a different line of work, she might be stunned by the inhumanity of it all. But as Safya speaks, the knight’s expression, while grave, isn’t especially surprised.

“Just like you!” her hostess concludes, and Osytha lets a matching smile flicker over her own face at that. She takes another pull of tea and sets the cup down with a soft clack, while muted townscape sounds muffle through the walls; their diminished nature somehow only serving to enhance the tranquility of this space.

“That’s quite a turn of fate,” Osytha remarks. “But you know, I get the feelin’ you’re not the only one here with a story like that.”

Feliene, that effervescent elvish youth, white dress wending amidst the butcher’s off-cuts. “… You and her share something in common, then,” Rois had said of her, and nothing further. Does he have a habit of picking up such strays? If so, Osytha can only speculate as to his motivations. She met the man once, for an hour maybe, over a month ago, so it would be a bit foolhardy to jump to conclusions just yet.

Either way, there’s now at least one soul still chugging along when they otherwise wouldn’t be. Altruism, idealism, or opportunism; how much do the reasons matter when the result is the same? And, in a way, the help he offered was the best kind: the practical kind. Osytha could go out on the street and give alms to the needy until her purse runs dry, but in a week or two, that coin will be all gone and those poor hungry sods right back where they started. Not Safya, though. Give a birdkin a fish and you feed her for a day; teach a birdkin to fish and you feed her for a lifetime. Or just, skip all that bother and pay her to take over the books so you’ve got more time to go fishing, kind of thing.

“Alright. I’ll hear out Mr Sinclair regardin’ this job.” Perhaps she ought to be more apprehensive about this mystery gig. Their last encounter was hardly… pleasant. So why, then, does this feel like just what she was hoping for? “I was wantin’ a chance to speak with him, anyway.”

A little Pandora’s box to unpack there later, maybe. For now, Osytha’s mind drifts back Safya’s own story, and her fingers begin caressing the white porcelain absent-mindedly. Not an especially nervous fidget, but still the kind which betrays when a person has something on their mind. Something a bit too heavy to be easily loaded into words and shipped out from a troubled tongue, perhaps.

“I’m guessin’ there are still… some things you cherish from your old home,” Osytha ventures carefully, almost hesitantly. “The tea, for one.” She looks up into those brilliant, emerald eyes on the other side of the table. “What’s it like? To just, up and leave it all behind?”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

‘But you know, I get the feelin’ you’re not the only one here with a story like that.’​

“... We are all… I guess, like pack of dogs. All different looking, all different sizes and ages. What matters most is that we are together.” Safya’s voice wavers a smidge, verdant eyes down upon her cup, the sadness there has become foreign. The emotion isn’t for her, she is not the one who feels like her story needs sympathy, when one dwelled in the darkness it took but a few steps to stumble upon another and another soul clinging to something to survive. Drowning, so many slipped beneath the waves to never surface again, one could only take upon themselves a mantle of light-bringer, raise a torch amongst the huddled masses and hope that its flames keep them afloat in the tragedy that they called ‘lives’... and the birdkin realizes suddenly she has paused for too long. In the unspoken moments a subtle tension has built, the peahen wants to say something but cannot and instead settles back into a pitched and airy tone in an attempt to smother any and all negative emotion.

“As long as you are in circle with people you love, then even our homes, and the physical things, and the past do not matter. Not even if it is tea.”

Something she wished a certain someone would believe above all. But it wasn’t just him… Osytha had deduced right.

All of them had stories like that.

Maybe in a better world, one not so thin with the cruelty of war and the crouching of old men in chairs deciding the fates of the insects teetering about their gold-capped shoes, there would be no need for strays to hope for the snagging of their scruffs to drag them waywards into the flittering light of normalcy; they would just be, they would just live without scars that did not fade. They’d always be there against the heart in the way of memories… and no amount of scrubbing or talking or trying could ever rid the parasite known as ‘pain’ from crawling about the ribs with pinprick feet, remember when? Every heart beat a reminder.

Remember when?

A quick waving of her claws as if physically trying to banish the palpable sadness, shoo, shoo, light danced upon the edges of features in prismatic teals against autumn shades,

“I apologize…! Is nothing, yani-- we do not get visitors at all, so lots of feelings and thoughts stay inside too long.” A single claw-point rims the delicate porcelain to produce a sound like the singing clarity of a bell. The ducking of a feathered head, a seated half-bow, “I am very sorry, Syr.”

… It becomes painfully evident that this poor creatures chattiness and kindliness was the mark of a woman who had not had the company of any others for many, many moons and was now almost desperate in her attempts to disallow the good knight from thinking of her badly. But the moment was not lost, no, she gathered up the fragments of her prior joy and pieced them delicately back together with vigor, suddenly a petite wing is indicating the rows of doors, the darkened stairs, light has gathered back within the ovals of those eyes with pupils ever-sharp and shifting in the manner that birds often did,

“You will stay here with us, yes? Overnight? There are only being eight of us and twenty rooms, so it will not be trouble at all.” Eager, but there are no hints of shadiness or foul play afoot, it simply made sense that Rois would want to hire a nice building that had too many rooms because luxury and space and outside, here be monsters, the one within the walls was more knowable than the ones scraping work boots outside of the stone haven.

“I will make you breakfast in the morning, Syr, and will be asking of you a little favour… in return for my story… I would be loving to hear yours! Not just me, I know the girls will want to ask, how did a knight end up coming to place like this, to see people like us?”

She chimes with mirth, genuine excitement at the prestige of the lonesome woman and her title, adding with haste--

“We are forbidden from going too far north, so--”

BANG.

There had been a note of importance there. A dangling thread ripe for taking. The statement, however, does not get finished and dies in the aftermath of the violent noise. The sudden loud swinging of a door cracked against stone causes the poor bird much alarm, she flits from her seat like a prey animal in no planned out direction with eyes like emerald moons and beak open in alarm; and the notes of worry do not leave Safya when she sees who was responsible for the sudden ruckus. Outside, the shadow of the Orc can be seen bent towards the window now, black head and yellow eyes like coins peaking through at the abrupt commotion (and very clearly making sure Osytha was not the cause of it); he quickly returns to his post upon understanding the situation.

The lady standing there was very much a courtesan… sweat clings to her like a veil; the prior activities are obvious. Pale, pale skin absent of coal-birthed blemishes, rosy shoulders adorned with threads of walnut coloured hair that spilled about her as water fell from a fountain. The clean cut tips brushed the peaks of bare, flushed breasts that danced atop a heaving chest, thin fingers barely kept the loose lace of black panties at her reddened thighs, the fabric there was toyed with in anxiety. Beautiful. She was beautiful from the soft, dark curls of her nether-regions to the fullness of swayed hips, eyes like the deepest shades of ice upon the mountain… a blue one could set sail upon. The emotion sparkling there was acute distress. The smooth plains of her lower belly… were marred, very much so, two deep holes at a set distance and scrapes both threatening to spill more blood as the beginnings of rosey-black bruises began to eat away at the corners,

“I-It was a mistake. I swear it was my fault.” She uttered hurriedly in fear, hitching underwear up just a touch further as if to hide the unmistakable pinks of her lower half, “I-I flinched, he didn’t mean to. I… I can’t stay, I apologize greatly ma’am, it hurts. It… really hurts.”

Safya skitters with the tapping of claws against sanded stone, her head gently shaking as she addressed the frightened girl with practised ease, she whose shifting gaze from the knight to the accountant bared not shame but the minute glazing of tears beginning as ripples to the icy lake of sapphire hues.

“Shh, shh… pretty thing, you are not in trouble. Not at all.” The beastkin lends the downy underside of her wings against the working ladies arm, she is as understanding and as kind as ever. “Gather your things, and do not be thinking of returning money to us. My boys will make you get home safe, love.”

The courtesan spares the small woman a grateful yet skittish bow and disappears promptly through the door to a room upon bare feet, softer now comes the clicking that signals its closure. Safya… does not look rattled by these events. Not. One. Bit. She merely feels sorry for the dear, turning to Osytha with yet another apology to be glimpsed in a concerned stare. Words come quietly, mournfully.

“... Well… the master is free now, I am guessing.” … It almost sounded like Safya wanted to desperately roll her eyes in sparse annoyance, a rare moment of sassiness from an otherwise polite lady, “Are you still wanting to speak…?”

 

[Osytha]

“I apologize…! Is nothing, yani — we do not get visitors at all, so lots of feelings and thoughts stay inside too long. I am very sorry, Syr.”​

Safya’s crest sways back and forth in a microcosmic mimicry of her contrite little bow. Osytha watches for a moment, the soft sound of keening glaze in her ears. A claw like the petal off a marigold conducts that teacup voice through the kitchen’s sudden, tender silence.

“In truth, you’re not who ought to be apologisin’ here, Safya.” Osytha speaks gently, without reproach. “I’m the one who brought it up. All you’ve done is answer my questions, even though it seems a difficult matter to speak on. Sorry about that. I won’t press any further, but… thank you, for tellin’ me as much as you have.”

Despite the discomfit, Safya continues to prove a gregarious and giving hostess. Which is just as well for Osytha, because it’s now rather too late to be wandering around looking for a place to stay. Lydik had mentioned Munas Kuvak boasts a single inn where she might try her luck, but navigating these unfamiliar streets in the growing dark is not a risk she’s willing to take. Bed and breakfast for the price of a tale? Now there’s a bargain, to be sure.

I just probably don’t want to think too hard about the ‘bacon’, is all.

Osytha’s ears are already primed and pricking at the next curious titbit Safya drops on her — so the noise of that slamming door hits like runaway cart. The knight whips out of her seat to face that ruckus, only to see… well, not quite what training and experience has taught her to expect to see. Simply a very alarmed, very attractive, and very naked young woman, who also appears very much to be bleeding from some nasty punctures on her stomach.

She assesses that damage a moment longer, while Safya flutters over to console the poor lass. Osytha’s eyes, a softer, more overcast blue than the vibrant skies of that other woman’s, then shift toward the room their surprise visitor has just barged out of. Yet, no second figure materialises in the door frame, to follow on her heels.

The rye-haired woman dashes off for her things, leaving a concerned-looking Safya to turn her attention back on Osytha. Those plumes are set to bobbing in a dance of exasperation.

“… Well… the master is free now, I am guessing. Are you still wanting to speak…?”​

But Osytha gives the vacated room a sceptical look, while her hands dig through her pocket-holes. “Happen I can give Mr Sinclair a few minutes to put his kegs¹ on,” she counters, pulling out a plain little satchel; her little first aid kit, and a knight’s best friend. She starts toward the door through which the commodity² had fled. “Right now I’m more worried about that wound…”

“Oh, no need, syr!” Safya gently shakes her head, and raises a feather-draped limb to gesture the other way. “I shall tend to the young lady, fear not. You are welcome to remain here until the master is… presentable, if you would be more comfortable. But he is not so concerned about such things, if you are not.”

Osytha halts. Then, she just gives a tiny shrug of acknowledgement, and stuffs her medical kit back beneath the voluminous flare of her skirts.

“I’m sure it won’t be the worst thing I’ve seen,” Osytha states. She gives Safya a smile, adding: “I’d be very glad to take a room for the night — and to share that tale with you all. Thank’ee for the cuppa, Safya.”

Dust-hemmed burgundy and apricot skirts ripple around her feet as she steps forward, into the butcher’s den.

---

¹ ‘Kegs’: trousers.
² ‘Commodity’: a (female) prostitute.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

‘I’m sure it won’t be the worst thing I’ve seen.’​

Safya hopes that, too.

“I’m sure it is... nothing too startling to you, Syr!”

A medley of emotions, pleased that Osytha would take off the easily offered room in exchange for words, but somewhat worried about the womans… well. The knight talked in a manner the birdfolk would usually hear from the mouths of the less fortunate, the every-day man or woman in the closeted villages that never dared to wander forth into the worlds many cities, no matter how close they were; but how could that be? A knight? The title did not stumble upon the lower class so readily, this uniformed curiousness was the root of her desires for tales, but the contrast caused yet another bout of stress. Was she… proper? Did she delve into depravity? They are walking through the door that the working woman had exploded from, a length of stone stairs leading downwards to a short passage way. A door at the furthest end, and three directly facing them. The occupied one was obvious, it was the nearest one with an eerie white glow beneath the gap at the floor, not big enough for spying eyes but old enough to see its weathered edge glow with the intensity of light within-- there was, of course, the shout out also.

“SAFYAAAAA.”

A deep, guttural yowl that echo’d about the stone violently from within the room, the peahen pauses before the door with the slightest release of an uneasy laugh,

“Master!” Coo’d back, “Before you are saying anything too mean… Syr Osytha is here to see you.”

A pause. A long stretch of tense silence and almost palpable thinking. Safya waits for permission with baited breath, fingers entangled and eyes nervously glancing between the door and the waiting lady--

“... Ha. Come in, then.”

The door is pushed slowly (and tentatively) open.

Now, for any other inn, it probably would be surprising that there is a sex dungeon beneath the hearth room, such spaces were usually just storage or cells to kick bums who had drank too much into so that sobriety could remind them of their manners. The building was not just an inn, though. This was-- for the ruggedness of its location-- a luxury setting, a hireable resting place for the rich who wanted to play and eat and fuck and sleep without worrying about the acrid smell of coal or the dirt of both workers and the streets alike. A beautiful haven encircled by forge and filth. So whilst sex dungeons usually belong in the depths of shady, unmarked brothels in cities afar, the fact that there is one here feels less surprising and more… ‘ah, so this is what wealthy people get up to behind closed doors’.

The only luxury glimpsed in the rectangular room however is in its tools; it is supposed to look like a dungeon, after all. Rough cut stone squares are the walls covered in the thin lines of white scratch marks, the similarly coloured floor is reminiscent of cobblestone scuffed, no rugs or fabrics come to lend any air of elegance to the cold and unforgiving atmosphere-- this is all in contrast to the spread of tools hanging from gleaming silver rings. The leather is black and glossy, whips with multiple tails down to single bars with flattened tips, the loop of a collar juxtaposed to the silliness of a single, beautiful feather mounted upon a stick, that in itself contrasted by a selection of long, thin knives. A dog muzzle, a ball gag, a short table with a jug of water plus glass cups beside clean linen clothes in a tidy pile and a light from above, something new, Munas Kuvak did have some magitek after all… the floating crystal is silver-snared and hums with magick, completely absent of the warm oranges a flame could give. Despite its visual coolness, however… the room is warm. Very much so. Heat rolls over them as if the door had been opened to an alternate universe of a sunny summer day in all its glorious humidity, probably because its heater was a person who was very much chained to a wall.

He possesses the beauty of a tiger.

Something glimpsed through bars that demanded the full attention of your sight but in the same breath stole away your courage to slip fingers through steel to touch. A beast of sharp angles and strict curves, thick muscles and sun-kissed skin wearing the sparklings of sweat, the fanning of wild red hair like a mane curled harshly upon a broad back. The sheets were gathered loosely at his thick waist but did little to hide anything, not reddened thighs, not the stretches of skin at a bare lower belly between the crawling of pulsing veins, not the thick curve of something pressed agitatedly against short black braies untied. Every breath is testimony to power, firm pectorals rise and fall deeply and with a lick of haste, bellows to produce steam that floats about canines dancing in a crooked grin… amused. Not at all shy. Why would he be, the man is very aware that pinned there against dampening sheets he is a picture of both danger and desire, a bound beast, thighs thicker than most peoples skulls and arms that seemed chiselled from stone stuck there… ripe for the taking. And he had been taken, almost. Until the whore ran away.

“I want a refund.” He immediately and breathily notes to his poor bird assistant, who is completely unaffected by the sight. “She didn’t even get my pants off.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t bite so harshly.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t send me jumpy whores.”

The sinister laugh that follows snide words is baritone, a rolling rumble as the butcher tips himself playfully onto his front-- bent legs, retrained arms, the steel that ensnared his wrists and ankles bit down angrily and gave harsh clinks with every movement to accompany the creaking of the bed beneath his sizeable weight. Rois regards them with dark lashes low upon a crimson gaze that danced with humor and delight, framed by wayward locks far damper than usual, eager to kiss the darkened ridges of flushed cheeks.

“So you bring me a knight to play with instead… interesting.” A purred out mumble, he had not turned to hide the half-rising of an eager cock against the bed but rather because it felt good… the pressure there made his smile split ever-more. The red-heads mind was not filled with ideas about Osytha what-so-ever-- it was actually thinking about how fun it would be to fuck the pillows like a horny dog-- but that does not mean he wouldn’t pretend. He loved pretending. Loved staring at the afar lady like she was a piece of meat he’d take against his teeth like the whore before, would she flinch too…?

“No.” Safya immediately dismisses that, “She is wanting to talk to you about job, master. Do not be rude.”

I want to fuck the pillows so bad.

“Bye, then. Go find that stupid woman upstairs and get my money back.”

“No.”

The door shuts behind poor Osytha, absolutely stranding her in the midst of… whatever this was. The chains are short, they do not allow him much mobility, the ones at his arms are pulled taught in an effort to try and sit up a little-- a shudder visibly runs down the entire length of a sharply arched spine, Rois shivers with perverted delight and a barely restrained gasp. The friction… it felt glorious, the feeling of his heart galloping against the mattress, the tease of the fabrics caught against flexed toes-- don’t fuck the bed, Rois. Stop rubbing your dick on the covers.

“I… I want you to know, firstly, I am not chained here out of some fetishistic purpose.” REALLY. Rois sounds only a little breathless, trying very hard to keep some composure about himself, “I am actually chained here because I am so hungry that I think I would actually murder you for a biscuit right now. Or a bowl of gruel. Or maybe just for your meat, who knows at this stage. I chained myself here a few hours ago… and I got bored and wanted entertainment.”

And he is a truthful man, one of his few positive traits, this wasn’t a lie. Sure the sex dungeon had always been a sex dungeon, but the original intent had been for it to drop the ‘sex’ part and for it to just be a holding spot to keep the half-man away from food. Starvation was necessary for the anger of the fiend, and the angrier it was, the more easily it appeared… it is why, still, in the midst of this overwhelming heat, those bandages are still firmly wrapped about his stupid, handsome face. A tip of the head, shadows dance from slick bangs across devious eyes as a pointed tongue briefly captures the corner of his lips like a cat anticipating prey,

“Sit, Osytha.” Rois growls out her name with a prickly, commanding roll in the murky depths of his throat, capturing her with the violent reds of an unblinking stare.

Ah, yes.

Something not previously mentioned was the cuck chair, in all its solemn, lonely glory. Truly the cherry atop the cake.

Please enjoy this hastily drawn doodle of the chain situation / position.

 

[Osytha]

Osytha steps into the room. Gives it a good, long, sweeping gaze. And lets out an appreciative low whistle.

While Rois gripes on at Safya about the service, Osytha meanders over toward that array of silver rings set into the large, stone blocks. One hand loosens her neckline a little and starts fanning at the skin (Tapan’s sweaty pits, but it’s proper maftin in here), while the other hand brushes curiously against glossy black leather and gleaming steel.

Cat-o-nine-tails? Knifeplay? she wonders, fingers alighting on one of the whips, its lines shining cold and hard in the room’s painful white fluorescence. Spicy.

“No. She is wanting to talk to you about job, master. Do not be rude—”​

T H W A C K

Osytha looks up into two pairs of traffic-light eyes. “Sorry. Er. Don’t mind me.” She rolls her sleeve back down over the angry red line now rising on her forearm, and returns a thin cane to its spot on the wall. “Carry on, please.”

A firm exit from the peahen leaves the other two alone with each other, though Rois seems to be finding plenty enough company in the pillows.

“I… I want you to know, firstly, I am not chained here out of some fetishistic purpose. I am actually chained here because I am so hungry that I think I would actually murder you for a biscuit right now. Or a bowl of gruel. Or maybe just for your meat, who knows at this stage. I chained myself here a few hours ago… and I got bored and wanted entertainment.”​

“Hmm…?” Osytha glances up from the stout black collar which has found its way into her hands. “Oh. Right. That’s, um, that’s mighty considerate of you, thanks. Hey, I’m guessing these all came with the place? Or is this your collection?”

It looks like they belong to the establishment, given their homes are permanent fixtures in the wall. Communal sex toys — for those extra adventurous souls. Osytha’s not sure she’d be quite so daring, herself. Pain is one thing, but mixing blood and such with who knows how many strangers? No thanks.

Still, it’s fine craftsmanship. She can at least try to get the name of the manufacturer…

“Sit, Osytha.”​

A command issued just as much by those burning red eyes as his caged-beast snarl. Osytha promptly puts the collar back, then crosses over to a voyeur’s chair positioned facing the bed. She sits, neatly folding one leg over the other and crossing her arms, leans back, and regards Rois properly for the first time since coming down here.

Oh, he’s definitely fucking the bed.

Osytha can’t tell how much he realises he’s doing it. There’s an unthinking, automatic character to the motion of his heaving hips, like they’ve a mind of their own. Or maybe it’s very much intentional. To get a rise out of her, perhaps. Or simply because it feels good, and he doesn’t give a shit whether there’s an audience or not. Osytha still had a lot to learn about Mr Crocodile, but she at least knows the man seems utterly incapable of feeling shame. And good for him, she reckons.

He watches her in turn, from his prison on the bed. Body just as honed and powerful as she remembers, though, rather more bared than than last time. The only scrap of ‘decency’ now comes from some loosened braies, and even those are threatening to abandon their post.

“You seem,” blue eyes flick up and down Rois’ smouldering form, “well. Good to see you again, Mr Sinclair.”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“Mr Sinclair…! Stop, I can only get so hard.”

Wandering eyes, he liked wandering eyes, wanted them in all their powdery blue to degrade him to nothing more than an addled creature slobbering mindlessly on a bed, a simple minded being, fuck, fuck, no, bad, he had to stop with the bed action. Pushed aside thoughts about the slip of red against her arm where the bite of the whip had turned skin a pretty pink, she was there for business and nothing else. Rois forces himself onto his back with the clanging of metal and takes a large breath in and a deeper breath out as if trying to tame himself down from the delicious heights of ecstasy; the pressure from the bed gone brings about a dizzying clarity that allows rational thought to break through the noise of, fuck fuck fuck. Disgusting individual. He could still taste that stupid woman upon his lips…

“I am… well! As well as a half-monster can be in this fucked up room, in this cunt-less town. You will probably be surprised to know that none of this belongs to me. I am a being of purity and grace… whips and collars? Me? Never.”

When the butcher lies through his teeth, on the rare occasion he actually does decide not to be almost laughably honest with everything he thinks, the man does so in a manner which is very, very obvious. Slow words drawled, pointed tongue held briefly between fangs, Rois wears horniness like a maniac. Or maybe it’s the starvation. Or maybe it’s both. Either way the boss is spirited and lively and wild-eyed, yanking against the chains affixed to wrists in a manner that makes the metal snap loudly,

“But you aren’t here for this. You’re here for… two reasons.”

Two boring reasons, the devilish grin that had encapsulated his expression downturns into a grimace, dull, the butcher stretches himself cat-like against the sheets with a gentle shiver and wonders briefly if this is a sort of heavenly punishment for sinful ways… the ever staggering denial of an orgasm--... wait, wait-- forgetting about Osytha completely for a moment with eyes upon the stone ceiling a lightbulb moment occurs with a short gasp, oh, oh, that is a game that could be played! Let’s see how long it took, let’s try to be completely normal, ignore the throbbing of a cock very eager to spring free from the hem of black pants!! Excitement, it had been a while since this particular play had deigned to take the stage, the last time there had been a cage padlocked tight and hands fixed by wire--

“... Yes… two reasons.” … Rois assumes what he thinks is a normal position upon his side with a leg curled to hide any troubling distractions, cheek smooshed cutely against a pillow in a manner that caused one eye to squint. Never mind the repetition. The reds of once sharp eyes are so cloudy with delight that serpentine pupils are almost round in their pleasure.

“The second reason… we will talk about later. The job. I need to… think about things.” A vague squint, this was not the time to think about things. The important things. Those things. “Firrrrst reason… I wanted you to come here to be a witness. To uh, the monster.”

Please stop thinking about fucking for two seconds. He is so laughably vague it would be easy for Osy to assume that the male has no plan whatsoever, but Rois is Rois. There is always a plan, there is always meaning, two steps thought ahead.

“Because, funnily enough… what was it… oh, yes, I have reason to believe you are a knight of an… tuem… emem… something like that, whatever. I’ve been doing some digging.”

Because people would tell them anything given the amount of gold they had to throw about. The gleam returns in the haze of lust, those pupils contact back into narrowed slits upon her form.

“See, me and my lot… we don’t come to North Ilica usually. But since we’ve been here we’ve heard some stories from many, many folks about this cult of knights-- I didn’t even know they existed! We usually stay in the south, where it is warmer and easier to get away with… everything.”

A touch of thought, looking away to the adjacent wall with a crocodilian smile slipping upon gleaming features.

“To my surprise I come across more knights north, right after you-- Syr Lucero of dawn and Syr Silas of dusk are basically stalking me at this very moment. One of them is a healer, the other is an asshole. I had to sit there and listen to words I didn’t understand like pursuant and little sister of Dawn and I thought to myself, these knights of no crests, these knights who do not announce their lords like they are supposed to do when approaching… could they be like the one I met the other night?”

There had been a noticeable absence of shiny, metal plated bastards since going north. Knights were proud creatures, banners and custom arms, Rois struggled to remember a time when, on approach, one would not cry out from atop their horse their liegelord and rank-- and Osytha had been committing a crime, yes, but with all the finery of a woman at arms for something, somewhere. Hearing her title of ‘syr’ had made it more obvious.

The fact any NORMAL noble would let women fight for them is something else. Especially a blind one.

So their orders deeds had been shared by the chattering lower class and he had listened when he wanted to, the specifics were not important, all that mattered was that this was some kind of force in the north that people knew of and had some semblance of power. A force that did things, like rid the world of murderers and maniacs of the magickal kind, that brought life-powers with them that he thought only existed in stories, and,

“... I remember you mentioning something about the dead not staying dead and ‘blight’… it aligns with the stories, this fine group of people fighting things that come from evil shroud-holes or something, honestly I do not really care. It does not matter that I knew none of this when we first met-- whether you are some important person or not, what matters is that I needed a knight to see it. Someone with some influence to report back to anyone, be it cult leader or noble or whoever. Hopefully rumors will spread. I need… someone to know that I exist. So that if people see it… maybe your report will be scary enough that they do not engage and I am left well enough alone.”

She was a canary in a coal mine; it had to be someone of standing as a witness because none would believe a commoner, even the lowliest of squires had the ear of someone important. She was to sing to other knights or the nobility or to anyone that if whatever terrible thing awaited her eyes in the pit was spotted, it was to be avoided; because it was half human? Because it was extremely dangerous? Rois doesn’t say it outright, not yet, all the words spoken have winded him a little and relief washes about his slack form, it was so refreshing when one was climbing to the apex of sexual excitement and then sliding back down. The energy would ramp back up again, in time. That was how orgasm denial worked, after all-- not that she was there for that, the task was more important. The north needed to know that the caravan and its sinister secrets and even bigger 'problem' were about to become a sight for already sore eyes.

“I-- we-- it are not some easily slain beastie from the dark, Syr Osytha…” A pleased wheeze. “We are something… I do not think you’ve ever encountered before, and could never prepare yourselves against. So pretty pretty please, tell everyone else not to hunt us, yes…? Tell everyone. Tell anyone.”

 

[Osytha]

This is certainly one of the more… unconventional talks to which she’s been party. Rois squirms and pants upon the bed like some slavering beast, but the curious thing to Osytha is she’s not sure if his behaviour stems from the Shroud Fiend’s unbridled impulses, or if this is Rois’ very own, very human brand of twisted.

Or is that the wrong way to think about it? Might be the bond ’twixt man and fiend isn’t a neat weld, so much as the two have formed a thorough alloy.

A witness to the ‘monster’, eh? muses Osytha. I wonder if that means the same thing to you as it does me.

She doesn’t bother to correct him when he mangles the name ‘Anathaeum’. It’s pretty clearly not high on his list of priorities. But, as soon as he drops the word ‘cult’, Osytha finds herself unable to keep quiet.

“Ha!” She rocks back slightly in the chair, her head titled in mirth. “Aye, not a bad word for us. Bunch of indoctrinated weirdos with a commune out in the sticks.”

That humour fades, though, when he mentions Syrs Lucero and Silas.

It’s not been so long since Osytha’s first run-in with Sinclair. Even less time has passed since she submitted her after-action report. Have those two even had the chance to read about the events of that night; to understood who, and what, the Crocodile Butcher is? But Syr Lucero would have seen. She’s not so blind that she’d fail to recognise something no Knight of Anathaeum could allow themselves to ignore.

Toils above, Osytha really, really hopes no one did anything foolish…

Her quietude endures until Rois has finished speaking. The woman’s expression remains steadily grave — much moreso than might be expected from someone listening to a man edge himself with the silky pleasures of high thread-count bedlinen. Osytha but listens intently along, that dispassionate face of hers turned stark beneath the unforgiving loch-light.

“I— we— it are not some easily slain beastie from the dark, Syr Osytha… We are something… I do not think you’ve ever encountered before, and could never prepare yourselves against. So pretty pretty please, tell everyone else not to hunt us, yes…? Tell everyone. Tell anyone.”​

Silence slinks into the room, after that; trickling through joins between heavy stone blocks, seeping underneath the closed door, retreating from that little pocket around the bed where burnished bronze flesh whispers over fabric. When Osytha is sure Rois has finished with saying his piece, for now, her eyes lower down for a moment, and she nods.

“Funny you should open with that.”

Osytha reaches into her pocket-hole, and a look of mild concentration settles on her face as her fingers search for something elusive in there.

“Don’t suppose you heard the tale of Anathaeum in the course of your digging?” she asks, just as her fingers find their sought-after purchase. A sudden sound of ripping seams pushes that silence even further back, as a secret compartment in some garment lining is breached. “It’s a simple little story. But I do wonder if we forget its meaning a bit too easily, even so.”

Osytha’s hand emerges with a dense, narrow wad of paper, which she begins to unfold most of the way. Her eyes look back up to Rois. Red. She hadn been able to really tell during their last encounter, thanks to the colour-dampening effects of the night-vision ointment she’d been using at the time. But, red hair, and red eyes. I see now.

“My report,” she explains, gently wobbling that slip of paper in the air before resting it in her lap. “I’ll leave it here so you can have a read. Once you’re a little less tied up, perhaps, but… this is what you knew I’d be submitting to my superiors when you let me go. I thought you deserved to know what’s in it.”

While she’s speaking, Osytha also works to find some defence against the room’s stifling heat. She rolls her sleeves up to the elbows, first, then finds the laces of her smock and kirtle, and loosens her neckline up a bit. A cool wave washes down the skin of her chest, its fledgling sheen of perspiration now allowed to breathe at last. It’s not enough to make her comfortable, but she’ll take what she can get.

“It’s a bit long-winded,” Osytha says, re-homing a few ticklish strands of hair behind her ear, from where they had stuck damply to her face, “but the gist is: trying to stop you would cost far too much, when we don’t even know what we’d gain even if successful. I’ve recommended the order focus on investigative and monitoring efforts, but otherwise to stay out of your hair. At least for now. I… can’t guarantee that will go on indefinitely, though. Or if they’ll even heed my suggestions in the first place.”

Osytha cocks her head slightly, peering a little deeper into Rois’ scarlet eyes pressed there into his pillow. This has the feel of being bait to it, maybe, but she has to ask regardless.

“You said you encountered Syr Silas and Syr Lucero. What happened?”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

He had laughably been craning his neck at an awkward angle to try to catch a glimpse of the papers the moment they appeared; there was nothing more gratifying than hearing what others had to say about you. No doubt Osytha’s report would mention just how strong and brave and handsome and terrifying he was, for the egotistical it would be a gold mine of late night thoughts, I truly am something special. Something actually unique amongst the black and white world of idiots trying to fit themselves into neat little boxes that conformed to the ‘everyday’.

Or it could be a hit piece.

Maybe… it would be best left till after she was gone, in that case.

“I heard of your story… somewhat.” The returning vagueness, what did he actually remember…? There had been so many people saying so many different things, and the caravan had not yet been anywhere to the northern heartland, where the company was most known-- “You lot were actual knights ages ago, and now you fancy yourself a bunch of people-protectors… though… ‘indoctrinated weirdos’ sounds better. You work in pairs and learn magic and would like to think you are the honorable souls of old from stories.”

Something surprising,

“You lot are not the knights I held ire for… you are obviously guilty of some of the same sins, but I would ask you to forgive me for at least some of my prior nastiness. I was misinformed.”

How humble, from someone so high upon an imagined totem, these words are delivered with a smugness that lends the fool a cat-like expression as if praising himself for being so wonderful as to bother to extend an olive branch towards Osytha. A true gentleman. There is a reason for this kindness, however. For the last few moments Rois has looked very… predatory. A quiet stillness has overcome him, a tiger amongst the reeds suddenly crouched low to the ground with shimmering eyes upon something to grab, all smiles, all narrow-eyed glee. The conversation has become unimportant.

“You are correct in assuming you will not gain anything from attacking me. You can add to your little report that I am actively trying to find a way to stop… accidents, of the mass casualty kind. But none of that matters right now. In fact--”

… But it was about to become important once more. A little full body jumping motion on the bed, it was silly, like a dog bounding in excitement against the leash of a master; it was Osytha’s movements. The smallest exposure of skin at her throat, the tangling of fingers against lace, the tiger has disregarded the report and the stories and the apology and everything in order to settle back into a position quite like the one he’d been in when the poor lady knight had entered… stiff. Waiting. Watching without blinking. And in contrast the butcher is suddenly attempting to sound like there is any lick of purity left in his whirling mind,

“... We should trade. I will tell you the story of how I scalped Lucero on the mountain, how I left her to bleed out there and how that bastard Silas tried to attack me, and you…”

Sparkling eyes of childlike wonder, some feigned innocence, of course it was happening, it was always going to happen, it had just been a matter of time,

“... Should take off that ugly dress!”

INCREDIBLE NEGOTIATION. VERY SEXY PRECURSOR WORDS. GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY

 

[Osytha]

Osytha doesn’t want to make too many assumptions about the man. That’s basically the entire reason she’s here, because she and the order simply don’t yet know enough about the Crocodile Butcher. So she’s trying not to fall prey to the trap of expectations. But even so, of all the expectations she’s carefully refrained from holding, she especially did not expect an apology from Rois Sinclair.

“… Thank you,” says Osytha, after a little pause. She blinks, reflecting briefly on that ‘prior nastiness’, and all the delight he’d seemed to take in it. Like a child living out their revenge fantasies against a bully. “It’s fine, though. No harm done — as you’d promised.”

They move on… and Osytha notices a subtle change comes over Rois. The first sign is his stillness; it’s rather hard to miss, compared to what came before. Then she also notices how he’s watching her. Which he’d been doing before, sure, and likewise in a hungry sort of way. But it had been with a distracted eye, roving, roving, roving across the room for something to sate his appetite. When he’d looked at her then, it was with about the same interest with which he eyed the inviting pillows.

But now—

She doesn’t startle when Rois lunges in his restraints. Not exactly; she just freezes for a moment, her hand in tableaux from its efforts to breathe fresh life down her sweltering neckline.

“… We should trade. I will tell you the story of how I scalped Lucero on the mountain, how I left her to bleed out there and how that bastard Silas tried to attack me, and you… Should take off that ugly dress!”​

That silence, seeping back in. Osytha just… staring at him.

“You scalped Lucero?” she asks, softly.

Movement, at last; Osytha’s eyes lower down to the report resting in her lap. A neat little beige oblong, against an apricot pink turned garish in this wretched loch-light. Slashes of burgundy down her sides, and bleeding out from under the surcoat around her feet.

Of all the Knights he could have tortured like that — Syr Lucero? Friendly, thoughtful, giving Syr Lucero? A little too thoughtful, and too giving, perhaps; always sacrificing more of herself than she can spare, trying to fix everything rather than letting folks work through their own issues, and quick to blame herself when it goes wrong, for things she can’t control. It’s hard to imagine a member of their order who’s further from Rois’ image of the evil-smiting crusader, or callous bootheel of their overlords.

What did he do to them—?!

“I see.” Osytha closes her fingers around the report, and stands up. “You need to decide what you want, Rois,” she says, crossing over to the little table with its refreshments. “I thought there’d be a chance that we — the order — and you, could at least let each other be. But if you’ve hurt Lucero and Silas…”

She places her letter down on that table, carefully away from a small pool of condensation around the pitcher.

“Because you’re both right, and you’re wrong.” Osytha turns around to face him, her hands resting against the low rim as she leans her weight slightly back against it. “We’re knights, aye. But trying to frighten us into backing down will only work against you. I mean, that’s kind of the point of a knightly order. Didn’t you realise that?”

Before her, Rois glowers from the bed. A frenzied dance of appetites, spinning him out of control. He’s working so hard to wear the mask one moment, gleefully tossing it aside in the next. What does he want — to fuck her? Eat her? Play with her? All three at once? If he even knows which it is in the moment, does he know what the next will bring?

“That’s not a threat, by the by. I think it’s worth trying to see if we can coexist, I just, want to be realistic about it. But… maybe we’re better off talking about this later. When your head’s cleared some.

“Oh. And I’m not taking my dress off for you.” Osytha’s stare becomes a bit more level, a bit more defiant. “I’ll learn what happened some other way.”

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“You seem to be mistaken about something.”

Trap, sprung.

“I said we should trade… not that we will or are. I was always going to tell you the story. I just wanted to see if you were desperate for answers, that’s all.”

And it’s just a game. Semantics.

It was always a game, as if Osytha shedding her clothing would ever bring someone like him to any amount of giddy satisfaction; hands were hot, the abstract concept of hands was very hot, they could dance in ways that spawned delightful thoughts in the mind. Plucking, sliding, pressing, so oft overlooked when beneath the threshold of sheets… but a mere undressed woman? No, that would not do, not even the prettiest lady Khurun in nought but the skin she was born in could heat him further, not without leather in hand to hit, not without the gleaming of a yanked collars buckle or the threat and execution of nails against skin, he had wanted the knight to take off her clothes simply out of an urge to boss her around-- just like ‘sit’.

And it’s very satisfying to have leverage over people whimsically conjured up by word-play alone, even more so when they gazed down upon you with eyes slighted, you think one thing, but it isn’t the truth. You assume another, but it is another falsehood. Let’s play this, now let’s do that, Osytha is a subject to be batted and bluffed at and it all makes little sense… to her and to him. A man that can go from bed-fucking to calm-apologies to chain-snapping and then to childish happiness that people could still be caught out so, frantic, he begins to laugh in a manner semi-restrained, if fists were free to press against lips he would. The sound is deprived mirth, a hollow medley of low notes. It is cold… and almost cruel.

“Ha… it has been… really dull down here. If I don’t make my own entertainment, what am I supposed to do? Lay stuck here like a damned dog?!” A rhetorical question, the laughter dies a soft death, slow and dragging, it tumbles into silence that is underpinned by heavy breathing. A tense… moment. Osytha watches the light die in real time. As fast as the glimmering of humoured stars came they are eclipsed by a lightless blood-moon; the red of life, the darkest hues of a new cut that holds nothing but misery. Suddenly it does not feel like a game any more. It does not feel like some horny male trapped by dirty thoughts upon a bed but more like the truth.

I want you to know, firstly, I am not chained here out of some fetishistic purpose.

And the whips and chains and toys are beautiful but they are empty shells, latent promises, times could have been happier but they are not and the white light casts harsh shadows, her standing form throws darkness about him but it is natural, it is where he belongs, grey-blue eyes looking down from lofty heights, that is natural too. These people always looked down. The beautiful tiger behind the black-and-white bars of a cage, the forced taming of an untrustworthy predator that thought of the glory of the reeds and the pounce but was swiftly dragged back to reality, iron and stone, it cannot walk, so it turns and it turns and it turns--

“I need to ‘decide what I want’... do you know what I want?” Quiet, louder, louder, snarling, “I don’t want to be here, chained to a fucking wall, starving and lonely and bored because I am not ‘safe’ enough to be upstairs. I want to be a person, I would love to be a person but I’m not-- trying to frighten you and your pathetic group of mind-raped cultists--”

She’d be thankful for those chains, they do not break but the grinding of steel upon steel are links struggling against each other-- kshkshkshksh, the sound is akin to scraping fork against sliding knife against plate--

“You want to be realistic, but you don’t understand-- and she doesn’t understand-- and even when you hear you will still think I am the fucking devil below you--”

The opposite of stillness, a back foot catches the mattress with the nails of his toes, the fabric rips with the horrid friction and out springs the tight curls of wool, the gutting of a felines claws against the belly of prey, Rois had been tugging on those chains so hard that the thick lengths of his arms had begun to tremble against the weight of trying to rid stone of metal, oh, he’d love for them to give. Snap right apart. Add her to a list, the knights I’ve conquered, try her flesh-- really try it-- raw, red, split-- violence is as evident as the inhuman exhalation of steam… so hot, so hot that as he breathes against his shoulder the dark skin there is beginning to shimmer, burning, the out-reaching of red--

“Leaaave.”

The guttural hissing of a hybrid trapped, blood and saliva begin to run against the crook of that ever-snapping maw… peppered against the now flamboyant pinks of a tongue hanging outwardly, burned, the top layer of skin is sloughing. Pale peeling in pretty curls, like small petals tumbling downwards upon glittering, drooled strands. She would not be allowed the pleasure of glimpsing the suffering, he twists himself violently to face the wall with a curled spine and quivers not from long-dead sexual desire but from the sizzling of a mouth scorned, sides rising and falling with laboured breathing. The haze is visible. A thin mottling of grey against the air, a low, humid fog rolled in from elsewhere.

There was nothing else to be gained here.