Posted by: Bons
« on: May 07, 2006, 05:16:14 PM »I'd completely forgotten about this (Maybe trying to block out the awful title), but I stumbled across several unposted chapters while looking for inspiration for another project. I can't believe it's been over a year!
***************************************************************
“You’ll go to the river,” Tomtom announced just after she awoke. “With Ware.”
“With Ware? Just Ware?” Albeth protested. Ware was too fickle. Tomtom was the one she could rely on for help. He was the one who’d saved her life. Ware was unsettling. “What about you?”
“I’ve preparations to make, and prayers to offer. There’ll be more accomplished without you underboot.”
Albeth turned her eyes to the washing bowl, shirt, and armor that had been left at her bedside. The jerkin wasn’t hers; the thieves had taken that. This leather was of a thicker grade, sculpted to fit a form snugly, allowing freedom of movement as well as protection. It had been recently oiled and carried a faint perfume of lemons.
She scrubbed at her face and arms cautiously with the water. Her jaw no longer felt as if it was on fire; her muscles had ceased complaining at each movement. Albeth considered the cut on her arm. The wound had scabbed over, leaving a rosy and puckered scar. It appeared far less dire than the day before, causing her only mild discomfort.
Albeth wriggled into the new shirt and gingerly tried to stand. Though stiff, her legs cooperated, moving as she willed them. She saw how the memories of bruises marked her bare flesh, speckles of ochre marring the pink. Above her right knee, the hint of purple remained. She wondered if the bone had been crushed during the attack. This was the only joint that remained sore when she flexed it, but her recollection of the ordeal remained too murky in spots to know for certain.
Albeth snuck a glance at the old dwarf while she inched on her breeches. He’d spoken of prayers just now, and magic before that. Whatever Tomtom’s powers, he was very secretive when using them. No brute force and blades for Squire Dorrin. Albeth suspected he was very powerful, indeed. She found that knowledge comforting rather than a threat.
Threats made her think of her dreams. She’d seen the red-masked woman in her sleep again, making threats anew against Thomas and Marta. This time, the scene had progressed further into images of the foster parents suffering, tortured and helpless. Albeth woke up feeling dirtied by the thoughts. Dreams were always strange, at times fantastic. Disturbing things they could be, but what sort of girl was she to conjure such happenings in her slumber? What crime had Thomas and Marta ever done to her that she could ever think of harm against them?
Yes, they were dull and complacent people; the one piece of excitement in their lives had been to adopt a foundling. Albeth supposed they had been as kind and as loving as any real parents could be to a child. How wicked of her to envision their violent deaths!
She caught Tomtom studying her curiously as he began to make griddlecakes. Albeth wondered if he could tell that she was guilty of cruel thoughts against the innocent. He was probably sending her off with Ware as a punishment.
Albeth eased on her new jerkin as she fought the pangs of rejection. The leather was short in the waist, leaving a gap above the band of her breeches at the sides, but it was lovely in detail. The former owner had obviously been a smaller sort of woman, but Albeth wasn’t sure if that meant small folk, or just short. Regardless, the leather was just the sort of thing that marked a true adventurer, and she flushed with pride to wear it.
Albeth noticed a pair of gleaming boots waiting at the foot of the bed, as well. She began to imagine how TomTom must have labored from the crack of dawn to polish the items for her use. Perhaps he does not think so badly of me, after all?
She worked the boots onto her feet, feeling it would be appropriate that she show some manners at this bounty to justify the dwarf’s good graces. She lowered her eyes modestly, cleared her throat, and said in a humble voice, “Thank you for the gear, sir.”
“Hmph. Could hardly expect you to hike to the river in my blanket,” he grumbled. “Besides, the armor isn’t mine.”
It occurred to Albeth that neither Tomtom nor Odhran seemed to have much use for gratitude. If anything, appreciation made them uncomfortable. Was this the way of true adventurers? It felt odd to her, for she had always envisioned that one ultimately performed deeds for the recognition. Legends, songs, renown... weren’t these the rewards for heroes? Surely kindness had no meaning without appreciation!
“Of course not,” she agreed, while confusion continued to dance in her thoughts. “This armor was crafted for a woman. Whose is it? You said there’d be no other company!” Albeth added reproachfully then dropped her eyes again, worried that she might have appeared too demanding.
“And there isn’t,” the dwarf snapped. “That leather hasn’t had an owner for many a summer. It belonged to a former companion of Ware and m’self. After we battled the wyrm scourge of ‘63, Lucilla had no more use for it.”
“You mean... she died?” Albeth tried to not sound morbidly fascinated.
“Looking for a gruesome tale of wretchedness and woe, are you, lass?”
“No, no. Not if you don’t want to tell me, that is,” Albeth said with forced reluctance. “Not if she met a truly gruesome fate...” The grisly details would surely be fascinating, though. Even if she’d sworn off such tales, Albeth had faith that Tomtom would tell her the honest truth without the grandiose embellishments that a bard might spin, filling her head with wonderful nonsense. Even if the nonsense version might be more entertaining...
TomTom could sense what she was thinking. “Humph.”
Odhran had returned as they spoke, and his drawling voice cut into their talk. “What Squire Dorrin loathes to confess is that Lucilla met with a fate worse than death.” Fully armed, with a gleaming helmet in one hand, Ware now seemed to take up more than his fair share of the room. “She married an elf.”
Albeth scowled. This was just the sort of embellishment she had no use for. She'd matured through her ordeal and took adventure seriously now. Much too seriously to laugh at jokes about elves! Albeth stifled her unbidden snicker and tried to ignore the man in favor of admiring her boot buckles. Boot buckles were more important to a serious adventurer.
“Don’t hold back your horror on our account,” Odhran continued with annoying cheer. “We’ve had years to come to terms with her gruesome destiny.”
“Quit teasing the lass,” Tomtom said.
“It’s not teasing,” Albeth said, straightening and propping her hands defiantly on her hips. “It’s nonsense." She tossed her head, sniffing, "I’m perfectly capable of ignoring the babble of fools.”
Ware clapped in approval. “Good for you! Not listening to me is the wise choice! More people should try it. It would save them miles of trouble.”
Then his expression sank into a frown as he bothered to look at her. Ware examined her critically from head to toe, making Albeth want to shuffle self-consciously. “You’re tall,” he accused.
Albeth blinked, not sure what to reply, and studied him in return. He’d shaven and clipped his hair, giving his features a clean dignity. With the added armor, Ware now stood with the illusion of authority, at least until he opened his mouth. “So are you.”
“It’s the plate,” Tomtom explained. “Even a devil cannot slouch with that lot on his back.”
Odhran continued frowning as he eyed her. He pulled a scabbard out of the bowl of his helmet, tossing the sheath to Albeth. “That goes with the dagger.” He watched as she secured the weapon at her side, commenting in disgust, “This won’t work at all. The armor's all wrong.”
“What?” Albeth said, bewildered. The new leather was much finer than the armor she’d had before! It was lovely!
“I thought you were shorter.” Odhran patted the air, as if she should have been of a height with a collie. “One spear to the side, and you’ll be dog meat.”
“Quit glowering, lad,” Tomtom told him. “There’s bound to be something to make up for shortcomings in the shack. Until then, the girl will avoid walking into anything sharp.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Odhran said.
Albeth felt strangely insulted. For all his looking, he'd been inspecting her armor. Not that she cared what Ware thought.
”I’m not listening to you,” Albeth warned.
“Promises, promises…”
“Save your tongues, children,” TomTom chided, thumping a platter of food onto the table. “Eat, the both of you, then get out of my sight. I need peace and quiet.”
***************************************************************
“You’ll go to the river,” Tomtom announced just after she awoke. “With Ware.”
“With Ware? Just Ware?” Albeth protested. Ware was too fickle. Tomtom was the one she could rely on for help. He was the one who’d saved her life. Ware was unsettling. “What about you?”
“I’ve preparations to make, and prayers to offer. There’ll be more accomplished without you underboot.”
Albeth turned her eyes to the washing bowl, shirt, and armor that had been left at her bedside. The jerkin wasn’t hers; the thieves had taken that. This leather was of a thicker grade, sculpted to fit a form snugly, allowing freedom of movement as well as protection. It had been recently oiled and carried a faint perfume of lemons.
She scrubbed at her face and arms cautiously with the water. Her jaw no longer felt as if it was on fire; her muscles had ceased complaining at each movement. Albeth considered the cut on her arm. The wound had scabbed over, leaving a rosy and puckered scar. It appeared far less dire than the day before, causing her only mild discomfort.
Albeth wriggled into the new shirt and gingerly tried to stand. Though stiff, her legs cooperated, moving as she willed them. She saw how the memories of bruises marked her bare flesh, speckles of ochre marring the pink. Above her right knee, the hint of purple remained. She wondered if the bone had been crushed during the attack. This was the only joint that remained sore when she flexed it, but her recollection of the ordeal remained too murky in spots to know for certain.
Albeth snuck a glance at the old dwarf while she inched on her breeches. He’d spoken of prayers just now, and magic before that. Whatever Tomtom’s powers, he was very secretive when using them. No brute force and blades for Squire Dorrin. Albeth suspected he was very powerful, indeed. She found that knowledge comforting rather than a threat.
Threats made her think of her dreams. She’d seen the red-masked woman in her sleep again, making threats anew against Thomas and Marta. This time, the scene had progressed further into images of the foster parents suffering, tortured and helpless. Albeth woke up feeling dirtied by the thoughts. Dreams were always strange, at times fantastic. Disturbing things they could be, but what sort of girl was she to conjure such happenings in her slumber? What crime had Thomas and Marta ever done to her that she could ever think of harm against them?
Yes, they were dull and complacent people; the one piece of excitement in their lives had been to adopt a foundling. Albeth supposed they had been as kind and as loving as any real parents could be to a child. How wicked of her to envision their violent deaths!
She caught Tomtom studying her curiously as he began to make griddlecakes. Albeth wondered if he could tell that she was guilty of cruel thoughts against the innocent. He was probably sending her off with Ware as a punishment.
Albeth eased on her new jerkin as she fought the pangs of rejection. The leather was short in the waist, leaving a gap above the band of her breeches at the sides, but it was lovely in detail. The former owner had obviously been a smaller sort of woman, but Albeth wasn’t sure if that meant small folk, or just short. Regardless, the leather was just the sort of thing that marked a true adventurer, and she flushed with pride to wear it.
Albeth noticed a pair of gleaming boots waiting at the foot of the bed, as well. She began to imagine how TomTom must have labored from the crack of dawn to polish the items for her use. Perhaps he does not think so badly of me, after all?
She worked the boots onto her feet, feeling it would be appropriate that she show some manners at this bounty to justify the dwarf’s good graces. She lowered her eyes modestly, cleared her throat, and said in a humble voice, “Thank you for the gear, sir.”
“Hmph. Could hardly expect you to hike to the river in my blanket,” he grumbled. “Besides, the armor isn’t mine.”
It occurred to Albeth that neither Tomtom nor Odhran seemed to have much use for gratitude. If anything, appreciation made them uncomfortable. Was this the way of true adventurers? It felt odd to her, for she had always envisioned that one ultimately performed deeds for the recognition. Legends, songs, renown... weren’t these the rewards for heroes? Surely kindness had no meaning without appreciation!
“Of course not,” she agreed, while confusion continued to dance in her thoughts. “This armor was crafted for a woman. Whose is it? You said there’d be no other company!” Albeth added reproachfully then dropped her eyes again, worried that she might have appeared too demanding.
“And there isn’t,” the dwarf snapped. “That leather hasn’t had an owner for many a summer. It belonged to a former companion of Ware and m’self. After we battled the wyrm scourge of ‘63, Lucilla had no more use for it.”
“You mean... she died?” Albeth tried to not sound morbidly fascinated.
“Looking for a gruesome tale of wretchedness and woe, are you, lass?”
“No, no. Not if you don’t want to tell me, that is,” Albeth said with forced reluctance. “Not if she met a truly gruesome fate...” The grisly details would surely be fascinating, though. Even if she’d sworn off such tales, Albeth had faith that Tomtom would tell her the honest truth without the grandiose embellishments that a bard might spin, filling her head with wonderful nonsense. Even if the nonsense version might be more entertaining...
TomTom could sense what she was thinking. “Humph.”
Odhran had returned as they spoke, and his drawling voice cut into their talk. “What Squire Dorrin loathes to confess is that Lucilla met with a fate worse than death.” Fully armed, with a gleaming helmet in one hand, Ware now seemed to take up more than his fair share of the room. “She married an elf.”
Albeth scowled. This was just the sort of embellishment she had no use for. She'd matured through her ordeal and took adventure seriously now. Much too seriously to laugh at jokes about elves! Albeth stifled her unbidden snicker and tried to ignore the man in favor of admiring her boot buckles. Boot buckles were more important to a serious adventurer.
“Don’t hold back your horror on our account,” Odhran continued with annoying cheer. “We’ve had years to come to terms with her gruesome destiny.”
“Quit teasing the lass,” Tomtom said.
“It’s not teasing,” Albeth said, straightening and propping her hands defiantly on her hips. “It’s nonsense." She tossed her head, sniffing, "I’m perfectly capable of ignoring the babble of fools.”
Ware clapped in approval. “Good for you! Not listening to me is the wise choice! More people should try it. It would save them miles of trouble.”
Then his expression sank into a frown as he bothered to look at her. Ware examined her critically from head to toe, making Albeth want to shuffle self-consciously. “You’re tall,” he accused.
Albeth blinked, not sure what to reply, and studied him in return. He’d shaven and clipped his hair, giving his features a clean dignity. With the added armor, Ware now stood with the illusion of authority, at least until he opened his mouth. “So are you.”
“It’s the plate,” Tomtom explained. “Even a devil cannot slouch with that lot on his back.”
Odhran continued frowning as he eyed her. He pulled a scabbard out of the bowl of his helmet, tossing the sheath to Albeth. “That goes with the dagger.” He watched as she secured the weapon at her side, commenting in disgust, “This won’t work at all. The armor's all wrong.”
“What?” Albeth said, bewildered. The new leather was much finer than the armor she’d had before! It was lovely!
“I thought you were shorter.” Odhran patted the air, as if she should have been of a height with a collie. “One spear to the side, and you’ll be dog meat.”
“Quit glowering, lad,” Tomtom told him. “There’s bound to be something to make up for shortcomings in the shack. Until then, the girl will avoid walking into anything sharp.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Odhran said.
Albeth felt strangely insulted. For all his looking, he'd been inspecting her armor. Not that she cared what Ware thought.
”I’m not listening to you,” Albeth warned.
“Promises, promises…”
“Save your tongues, children,” TomTom chided, thumping a platter of food onto the table. “Eat, the both of you, then get out of my sight. I need peace and quiet.”