Okay, so we are obviously a bunch of fanfic individuals around here. Regardless, I'm joining in and
OH. MY. GAWD. posting. Put that in your ham and smoke it.
Note: I wanted to call whats-her-name "Bethel" the entire time. I attribute this to my youthful adoration of "Wizards and Warriors" and related crush on Prince Dirk Blackpool. Blame any lingering mistakes on 1983 CBS television, that feathered bangs, leather armor-with-shoulder-pads wonderland.
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With each mile, the soaking deluge weighted Bethal's gear further, making her load close to unbearable. Giving a weary grunt, she hiked one shoulder. If she could boost her waterlogged pack a little higher, just a tad more into position, she stood a chance of easing her sore back.
Instead, this simple action dislodged a reservoir of frigid rain that had collected in the crevices of her bag and dumped it down the neckline of her armor. Adding insult to ache, Bethal's teeth chattered as the water traveled an icy path along her spine, only to puddle below her belt. Now, with each step, her leggings made a squishing sound.
This... the minstrels never mentioned this in the great stories! Bethal thought in frustration.
No, they only described the treasure, the glory, the romance... Not a peep about the weather in your pants. Not a syllable about being so tired from the journey that, even if you ran into something exciting, you wouldn't have the energy left to pull a bow string. Bethal kicked rebelliously at the latest in a long line of puddles littering the path, grimacing as the water-softened toe of her boot struck a rock. She limped a few steps before noticing that the ground beneath the layer of mud had grown solid, if a bit uneven.
Cobblestones! Bethal recognized. Suddenly, the weight of her pack seemed to float on her shoulders. The raw place where the rim of her quiver rubbed against her neck ceased to matter. Her imagination raced to places warm and dry: a bowl of stew, a roaring fire, and, best of all, absolutely no rain. She doubled her pace over the rise, her thoughts replacing weariness with anticipation.
Sure enough, the wooden gate of the town came into view. Beyond, a small outcropping of buildings waited, their chimneys winking in smoky welcome. She passed through the entrance of the town's palisade, curiously noting the lack of guards.
It's not for the lack of sheltered stations. The watch, at least, would have had a slim chance of staying dry as they kept an eye out for trouble. Not like me, hiking across drowning plains for hours. Hmph. Still, Bethal could admit that if she had a choice between monitoring the rain rolling off the roof slats or waiting out the storm inside a tavern, she'd pick the latter. Chances were good that the local garrison had done the same.
Inside the town proper, Bethal eyed the front of each building. It took a few moments of searching before she identified a placard with a washed-out rendering of a noose that signified the Gallows Inn. Hiking her pack once more, then giving a shivery squint as a second helping of cold water flushed down her back, she trudged determinedly forward.
Set on her destination, the hand on Bethal's arm caught her by surprise.
"What?!"
The word barely had a chance to bubble from her mouth before Bethal found herself yanked aside, then slammed into a stone wall. A second hand roughly seized her other arm, twisting it behind her back until she whimpered in pain. She wriggled, struggling to kick free, but her efforts only served to topple a stack of barrels blocking the way in front of her. Heart racing, Bethal realized she was staring into the depths of an alley. A dead end.
"What 'ave we 'ere?" A bulky figure stepped in front of her, his meaty hands ripping Bethal's purse away from her belt. "Don' ye know ain't fit weather fer righteous folk t' be wanderin' the streets?" The behemoth laughed, his chest heaving like a bellows. His partner joined in with a weaselly chuckle, warm breath puffing against her ear, followed by the scent of onions.
Indignation lit a fire in Bethal's belly. "Give me back my money!" She reared her head back, clashing skulls with the weasel-thief. Bone crashing against bone, it struck Bethal that this move was better reserved for would-be heroes wearing a helmet. Blinking back stars, she found her arms suddenly freed. Bethal took advantage, clumsily slipping her hunting knife from its sheath, and brandished the blade before her. "Give... me... back... my... money!"
The bellows-chest pumped a second round of hilarity. "Looks! It's got a wee little knife! Thinks she can take us!"
Bethal angled her body so that she had both thieves in her periphery. She jutted her chin in the direction of the weasel, who was clutching his forehead, bloodied rainfall dribbling off the tip of his pointy nose.
"Looks like I've already managed to take one of you." Bethal pushed her voice to sound more confident than her flipping stomach. "Give me back my purse, and I just might consider sparing you!"
Bellows and Weasel exchanged a smirk as she warily shifted her focus from one to the other. Deciding to strike, Bethal lunged, intending to plant her blade in the bulk of the behemoth's stomach. Her weapon never connected. Bellows knocked her wrist aside as if swatting a fly. Bethal gasped in dismay as her knife hit the ground, splashing uselessly in a puddle. In the next instant, her arms were immobilized again, this time by Weasel jerking her pack, quiver and bow off her back in one swoop. By the time the straps tangled about Bethal's wrists, Bellows had her throat in a vise, his grip threatening to choke the life out of her.
"Snags a few more coins from this pluck n' stuck, it will," Weasel chattered over her gear, the cut on his temple forgotten as he rifled through her possessions. "Knock 'er, n' let's divvy."
Bethal wanted to shout her fury, to protest, but the best she could manage was a wet gurgle as she slapped helplessly at Bellow's forearm and struggled for breath. "Now, now," the behemoth grunted, playing tutor to his partner. "It pays t' be thorough." He looked Bethal's prone form up and down as he clicked his tongue. "Ye'd 'ave left the clothes on 'er back. Last rule o' thieving, ye ken: waste not, want not."
A shriek lodged in her throat as Bethal felt the laces of her jerkin being cut. Bellows clicked his tongue once more, wagging a finger of reprimand as she struggled anew. Bethal blinked, and that finger closed into a fist. She blinked a second time, and that fist connected with her jaw. Her world burst into a red blur for a moment, then wavered. She heard a splash. Raindrops hit her naked arms. She gagged; her mouth tasted of mud.
The... the minstrels... never... mentioned...Then, her world faded black.
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To Be Continued??
Someone please take this somewhere interesting before I feel compelled to post fanfic again. *sob*
P.S. Dirk Blackpool. *sigh*