Arcfire
by E. E. Bowers
Chapter 7
Among the many things that a skilled troublemaker gains adeptness at accomplishing, one of such would be that of vanishing before one’s acts are realised. In other words, it is a matter of being gone and away before words are exchanged…if there are to be words at all. It seems that some past victims have taken letting their blades and bows do the talking for them. It is not that Jhort and his Conniving Company of Companions are averse to such…conversations. What troublemaker does not enjoy a merry discourse of sharp wit as represented by sharpness of blade?
But as most any of your world’s biologists will inform of you, the most efficient course of action is to avoid action. You may strut about in the forest and see a great many animals not fighting each other. Perhaps there is a chase or a struggle, and the loser becomes digested calories. But most all the time, you will not see an endless upheaval of constant lunatic violence in the forest. Bears are not always swiping at other bears. Squirrels and chipmunks are not forever having it out with tooth and claw. Rabbits do not craft little, little spears and do battle against mice. No one really likes those little bastards. Forever sniveling and hiding in their little warrens. Always chewing and munching and mucking about with humans too often and… Oh, is this a bit much hypocrisy?
Anyway! Nature prefers peace to conflict, and the humans who do the same tend to have vastly improved lifespans. That is, of course, unless there are some asinine scoundrels who prefer to be more human than usual and try to start a war that they think they can win. Never mind if it sometimes ends up being a war that nobody can win—not for some generations, anyway. When you must fight, you must do so with all your might! But when peace is possible without surrendering all that is yours, then stay with it. And do not attempt to seize what belongs to others by force. You would be in the wrong, and you could end up being digested calories.
Otherwise, Jhort the Swift of Six-Legged Steed was now quite a ways away. No townspeople were hereabouts to protest this latest deed of korthmanship. No-one to contest the seizing of this lovely little girl-shaped thing here. Oh, and they had taken Jakk.
Jakk? With a lover? Impossible! Preposterous! People are no more attracted to the turkey-necked likes of that apprentice than they would be to a whisp-broom. Both Jakk and cleaning contrivances serve their purposes, but no one keeps either about for constant company!
Jhort wheeled his korth around, and everyone amongst his Balladeering Band knew the signal. They formed a circle of korth—everyone facing each other. Unlike the atrociously stupid riding-animals of your world, korth know when to fall silent. Smart enough to carry their potentially inebriated riders home, remember? Then they are also smart enough to keep their yobs shut when the humans are talking.
Talked one such human, “Jakk! Since when do junior apprentices go about making crystal-craft popkins? Are you not a touch bit old to play about with dolls?”
“The doll speaks!” shouted Aia from the back-saddle. “And I shall have you know that I am quite real!” Quickly recalling that her body is a manufactured product. “Or, at least my brain remains so.”
“Oh, how joyful!” exclaimed Lissa of Twin Blades. “Should the laws of Lord Morkudum ever allow prophet brainage to be installed in dolls, I should want one of her!”
“Me-e-e too!” exclaimed Topa of Many Beers. “A lovely, lovely doll-lass of my very own to share an inn bed every night!”
“So very real to the eyes, yet too pretty to be so,” went Keptar the Beard, who was as broad of body as his name would imply. Oh, and of course he has a beard.
And around and around they went, running their gobs and proclaiming to want an Aia of their own. Asking if Jakk was going to craft any more dolls of her sort and thus keep skirting the few and many laws of the land. Illegal things happen most all the time in any empire, for an empire is utterly dependent upon the strong-men of the emperor having line-of-sight. Out of sight, out of touch. Just be mindful that one may lose one’s head or other more-or-less useful aspect of anatomy should they do find out. Then with Aia having her pretty hands to her pretty pointed ears and shaking her platinum-blonde head all about until finally…. “Sto-o-op i-i-i-it!”
And it actually worked in getting everyone’s attention. Then again true, Aia most always had at least some of their attention. Quite difficult to miss a head of white-blonde hair wherever it goes. Most certainly an evolutionary disadvantage otherwise, that. Such is likely why moonsilk tresses are so very few. Too many of her prehistoric ancestors probably having been gobbled up by flying creatures that paleontologists either won’t have discovered yet…or refuse to believe existed.
Now with the pale-haired girl breathing heavily and purely due to psychosomatics, there was otherwise just the wind-filled silence of the plains. Such, by the way, isn’t really silence after all but close enough.
“I am real!” insisted Aia. “I exist! Though not long for speaking your language, I am quite certain that my automatic translation thereof certainly gets the meaning across! Real! As in, not a…popkin, as you so term it. I am not a thing to be dressed and propped in a crystal closet for decorative purposes!”
“What a delightful idea!” went Nanta of the Nine Throwing Daggers. And when someone understands why so many females of Jhort’s Jumble love small sharp weaponry so very much, just have them inform you as such.
“Not a delightful idea! And certainly not to me!” insisted Aia. “I think, therefore I am. When it comes to knowledge of…skyfall children, is Master Fromm the only one?”
“Fairy tales, that,” said Jhort. “And when someone finally understands what the word fairy means or where such a word came from in the first place, I would like them to inform me of such.”
Aia gave Jhort a vaguely confused look for a moment. There was something in the way that Jhort said it. Something in the cadence. It was as if some-one or some-ones planted the very phrase in his mind to be expressed. Us? Certainly not! Why, interference would be against the rules! And if we just so lightly and slightly planted the ever-so-vague idea that Jhort should have shown up in the town square at a certain time? Why, certainly just coincidence. No thought-planting hereabouts from us! And certainly not with such barren waste to plant anything worthwhile! (It may take moments, or it may take decades, but you may come to understand or not that we speak more of metaphor than actual agriculture.)
The synthetic-bodied elf-girl gave a shake of her head. Time for a mental reset. Now, where was the conversation?
Continued the before-mentioned elfin female, “Fairy tales do not exist or are only based upon fragments of imagination, then stretched out to ridiculous lengths. Like Rapunzel’s hair.” Raising a warning hand. “And even if pronunciation and meaning escape you, then just accept the metaphor! Unlike tales of fae, I exist. I would also very much like to return home! My current home! On this world!”
Asked Lanta of the Hidden Dagger-Sheath, “Your home? And where would that be, mine skyfall maiden? Surely a wondrous manse at the very edge of the city! And certainly nine levels tall!”
“One…level, as you say,” answered Aia. “And it would be a spare machine cottage of Master Fromm’s.”
Which is to say that Aia lives with Jakk. Which is also to say that there is a very pretty thing living with a young male of ripe and fertile age. Or at least, a very pretty thing living alongside two males that grubbed about with gears and crystal-powder and whatever contrivances need making or simply onctrivace. Which has all sorts of conniving connotations.
Many of the females of Jhort’s consort went open-mouthed. Some of them giving snarky twists of mouth. As for the men-folk, smiles ranging from smirks to smiles. If they were close enough, there would be knowing nudges of elbows.
Aia certainly caught the implication. Mind-reading was not amongst her powers despite legends stating otherwise…and especially due to her not even asking for such an ability when her synthetic body was being customized. However, the sorts of goings-on within their raunchy minds were certainly of the sort to be found on the internet—and never mind if they would not know what an inter-nets would be. They would nevertheless use it for quite a similar reason otherwise.
“It is not at all like that,” said Aia, looking to the females of the group. And they looked back, strong ire in their eyes.
Before your world came to invent body-replacement procedures, there was the idea that women were oppressed just for having a matching set of chromosomes. Proclaimed opponents of sexism stated that men keep women down. Meanwhile, any visit to a corporate office of a profession dominated by females would very quickly prove to the contrary. Females oppress each other and are quite adept at it. And with Morkudum’s world having wildly varying levels of technology in various fields but no body-replacement technology at all, mutual female oppression reigns supreme where the emperor does not.
Jakk jumped in to say something because embarrassment burned him so. Reacting to negative stimuli, such is an effective trait of a reasonably intelligent organism—multicellular or otherwise. You may want to try it sometime.
But just because he had to say something, it did not mean that would be the best thing to say. Say anything? Very well! “Aia, there are only two reasons as to why Jhort would often arrive at Master Fromm’s settlement. One would be to have his weaponry repaired or enhanced.”
“All the fine ladies know that my weaponry need not be enhanced, my young apprentice sir!” declared Jhort.
“Then I remain not a fine lady and disagree in that regard!” jeered Katliss of the Kissing Dagger. And if you thought they would ever run out of nick-names, then try again when your think-meat is not so strained.
“The other would be to convince… To try and convince Master Fromm to allow him another test-fire of the weapon,” finished Jakk.
“Weapon? Weapon? Skyborne weapon?” went Jhort, suddenly as perked and abrupt as the mane-plate armour of a korth. “You certainly must have learned something of the dwarf’s wisdom, for that is quite clearly the most brilliant idea you have stated all the live-long day!”
“No weapon! No weapon!” answered Jakk. “It is of no use to us mortals. Burn the skin from the muscle, and then burn the meat beneath at that. Even clad in the sturdiest, most refined crystal-weave armour possible, and death is nearly likely from just one shot.”
“Why is this known? An experiment?” asked Aia. “Has someone stood there in all stupidity and allowed themselves to be struck by its weapons-fire? What atrocity of a buffoon would allow himself to willingly befall such peril?”
Jhort took a sudden interest in the colour of the sky at the moment. My goodness, what wondrous shades of gold nearing the horizon. The moons are sure to be astride the sky soon enough. Then again true, multiple moons means many lunar meanderings. Such lunacy is rather appropriate given how this world is full of lunatics, which is to say…humans.
“That is…not quite the case,” said Jakk, considering the discomfort of the issue. “More than once, a certain mercenary convinced me to allow him a test-fire of the weapon. To his credit, it is a sizeable thing. An eerie trait underlines and emphasises the power of the technology behind it. Nothing of such size or power should be that light. And nothing of the sort should be so very powerful. So much so that it may kill a mortal user.”
“Skyborne weapon!” declared Jhort. “A crystal-craft apprentice you would be, but an apprentice storyteller not! It is a weapon crafted by the very same sort of power that allows Lord Dunking Dumb’s castle remain afloat indefinitely. It is also the power which allows the skyborne beings to remain among the stars and live as long as forever lasts in this universe.”
“Treason! Blasphemy!” declared another one of Jhort’s Band of Bellyaches. “He is properly known as Lord Mucking Dumb!”
“Really? I thought he was Lord Struck Dumb,” said someone else. Does it matter which someone else it was? Probably someone astride a korth and breathing air, if you must know details. And if eating food is somewhere in their personal history, then so be it.
And so the conversation began to go far away from what Aia wanted and needed to hear. “Wait just a moment! If such a powerful weapon exists, why does it exist in the hands of someone other than the landed aristocracy? Why is it not… Oh, I don’t know… Hanging on a trophy wall somewhere in Lord Stupid-Dumb’s castle?”
“Oh, I like this one,” said another one of Jhort’s assorted lunatics. “Cursing the lord’s name. Quite the past-time hereabouts.”
“Quit it!” complained Aia. “Now, tell me more of this weapon. Is it really a product of other-worldly technology?”
Stolen story; please report.
“Other worldly? Why, you should know! ’Tis a weapon of many worlds!” went Tomphar the Mad. Mad, as in considered insane. Not the mad in the American sense. So much in the way of American sensibilities running amok in the English language these days.
Jhort translated the metaphor, as he felt the need to do so. “What Tomphar the Mad means is, the weapon comes from a people who exist among many planets… This, albeit not this one in a sizeable number enough to matter. But…I am quite sure that half this world’s population would prefer to see more of your kind. And, especially if they partake of the female apprentice’s garb.”
“A word more in that direction, and expect to never concern yourself with siring children!” went Lanta of the Hidden Dagger-Sheath. Meanwhile, students of Latin can continue to have themselves a chuckle at the woman’s title.
Now, let it be known that Aia does not have a great deal going for her. For one thing, the girl was born human—which is all sorts of down-sides and not much on the positive side of the balance sheet. (Perhaps one good thing being, human beings are so incredibly inept and otherwise harmless that most species of the galaxies leave them…or leave you…alone. Leaving you pick your own nose and chew your own toes.) For another, the girl quite absolutely failed to consider having anything in the way of intellectual enhancements when making the transition from living soft, silly human flesh to firm and reliable cyber-flesh. In a rather roundabout manner, we are saying in some of the more polite ways possible that Aia is not quite the most mentally capable being to be found within the nearest four and a half light-years’ distance. Again, most sensible species leaving humanity alone.
Quite alone. That is, other than the occasional laugh to be had in sending down a few poorly constructed low-tech bio-bots to perform amateur surgery on livestock or put on a son et lumiere show. Simple pleasures for simple beings, what?
Even so, there was something in the way of hope for humanity. That would be moreso for those who have undergone synthetic body replacement. Replacing that soft, silly and cursedly inefficient biological flesh with something more reliable also improves service to that bit of neurological matter mentioned rather often. Again, you might consider having that upgraded—if not completely replaced as well.
But with that in the way of advantage to be had, Aia was therefore able to make the astounding intellectual leap of what one would have expected. How so? Oh very well, let’s have all the pertinent and immediate facts trotted out for logical perusal. And those of you who have already come to understand the solution and more, do spare your fellow classmates the pain of having their ineptitude trotted out (again) as well.
Quite obvious, really. Staring you in the face all this time. Should have come to understand it as soon as it walked up behind you and used its right foot to imparted some kinetic energy to your derriere. And you still do not get it? That said, take notes! The answer is here!
Aia is playing the role of skyfall child, presumably borne of the skyborne people. From the way things are said, described, etcetera, such people have gone beyond simply being people. They can fly the stars and have cured everything worth curing among their species. Everything but boredom, given their latest shenanigans. As such, they went ahead and left some of their toys more or less deliberately lying around. Yes left there and scattered among the worlds hither and thither for the pitiful descendants of your world to much about with. And as Jhort found out the hot and difficult way, trifling with the before-mentioned has some…scalding consequences.
But…because such toys are designed to be used by the likes of the skyborne, and Aia is now among the skyborne… Well then! Let’s just come out and say it! Aia’s quest is to destroy this weapon and all others like it as so the fools of this world do not go about destroying everything within four light years! That, or Aia could give this weapon a try and find out if it is worth using for tyranny toppling purposes.
“It’s settled, then,” said Jhort. “We return to the fiefdom of the genius dwarf and promptly have Aia undress that we may verify the facts of the matter.”
Behind him, there was a Greek tragedy’s chorus of snicks as dagger-straps were undone. You should easily recall who owns those daggers. Hint, all of the female-folk among the band.
Jhort changed his mind, but not without a great deal of hesitation. “Or, we may simply have her test the…”
Even though light travels a great deal more swiftly than sound under most metaphysically normal conditions—or whatever passes for normal at the moment—it remains true that some things are heard before they are seen. Ice-cream vans, for example. Yes, selling overpriced tooth-rotting goodness to all the little human spawn of the neighbourhood. The music alone is surely enough to drain all the insulin to be found throughout one’s entire endocrine system. And drunken imbeciles, let’s not forget them. Loud as bloody-all get-out. Well, they are professional morons otherwise…but deliberate consumption of mind-altering fluids has taken them down a notch in regards to mental status. (Because despite your species being of such astoundingly low intellectual capabilities otherwise, there are few things that you humans enjoy more than worsening the situation!)
So sorry. Because there are no wheeled vehicles bearing ice-cream, because there are no self-propelled wheeled vehicles at all on this world, that rules out attractants for the little yobs. No tinkle-tinkle muzak belching out from atop a lorry to draw out the nasty little human offspring from all the nasty little nooks or cervices they are holed up in at the moment. (The original human legend states that the Pied Piper of Hamelin took the rats first when we know he took town vermin away at both visits.) There is a ready supply of humans on this world to supply moronic-grade antics. So by logical extension…
Yes! Drunken imbeciles! The sound of their hoofbeats were many, and especially given how they are riding those now-infamous six-legged beasts of transportation. And, of course, they were headed in this direction. Would they be of concern if they were not? No! We would not care if that were the case. But we do care, and it is exactly because the korth riders are coming forth. As in, the korth riders. Further as in, Lord Morkudum’s dumb idiots. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that they pestered Master Fromm the other day. Now they are up to pestering others at random. And as the dice-rolls of misfortune would have it, that means the randomness has come here. Is coming here. Will come here. However you wish to phrase it!
By the way, stop wondering about them using their crystal-craft to make self-propelled automobiles. Who needs car vendors—or cars, for that matter—when korths can replicate and repair themselves? Self-fixing and self-replicating cars technology won’t exist in your world for some time yet, so there you have it. And would it not be great if Lord Morkudum’s Marauding Morons were to have technical difficulties of their own—thus ceasing their intermittent rampages upon the innocents of this world?
No, it would not. Lord Morkudum’s Miscellaneous Minions of Mindlessness are here to cause trouble. Otherwise, there would be no conflict. No challenge. And where could we find the fun in that bit of boredom?
“Neither protest nor scuffle,” warned Jhort when he snapped a certain saddle-rope up and over.
Doing so placed an ugly dyed razorgrass sac over the pretty, pretty princesse. “What, then! Are you quite joking?” came her appropriately muffled voice.
“You have already broken the first request. How could a princesse have attained adulthood without being able to follow instructions?” countered Jhort.
There was indeed this world’s equivalent of a burlap sack over Aia. Which is to say, the elf-girl was hidden from sight. But one could quite easily imagine the heat of seething fury radiating from her.
Nothing new there. Jhort was quite often one to disappoint the ladies. And if you caught the subtext in that assessment, then consider yourself in possession of more than a few worthy neurons. For neurons count, and brain cells would be quite useless without them.
Speaking of intellectual interconnections inspiring intellectual intensity, Jhort does not have a horde of them. Jhort was no genius of crystal-craft, nor could he be considered much a master of mind-intensive arts otherwise. But he is a mercenary. And an adventurer. And a womanizer. And quite the bit of handful for local constabulary in the city when fallen down the well of fermented fun—the bottom of which contains all the headaches and regrets that one could ever want after just one night. That said, he has flummoxed and flimflammed his way out of more than a few situations. It’s probably best to let his crafty talk happen.
His and his alone. Any more voices, and the already ale-enfeebled wits of Lord Morkudum’s Morons would likely fail. Having them dumbfounded instead of being merely drunk could serve all sorts of purposes, but such would not be the plain plan in mind.
Lord Morkudum’s Miscellaneous Miscreants shuffled their meat-powered living vehicles close to this crew. Like the certain dwarf of crystal-craft, Jhort took the first verbal square in the stratagem of this situation.
“All hail and well met, good fellows!” declared Jhort, all Cheshire smiles and leaning slightly on his korth—emulating the behaviour of slight intoxication himself. Taking on the mannerisms of one’s target, such is a trick used by those of similar scruples. As in, lacking them.
“No hail without good ale!” declared one of Lord Morkudum’s Miscreants, followed by a belch. And yes, the declaration so happened to rhyme in translation. Just one of those things.
At this point in the conversation, there should be certain aspects quite evident. For one, Lord Morkudum’s Prized Proponents of Power are not quite sober. Not your world, no laws against driving whilst intoxicated. No motor vehicles for that matter—and very much for the reason that korths need not be repaired nor have their oil changed every four-thousand kilometers. But such was already discussed. Discussion? Such is of varying quality with regards to those of a…shall we say, liquefied disposition. Never mind if they think themselves the greatest of conversationalists.
Now you may also recall—if you are not metaphorically steeped in the depths of mind-altering fluids—that there was something else to guard obvious in this encounter. They are Lord Morkudum’s Korth Canterers. This world is fascist, because kingdom is just a seemingly more polite form of fascism. Lord Morkudum is the law. To physically confront Lord Morkudum’s Moronic Marauders would be to court death. Therefore, they could not keep Aia away from them by way of force. Hence, the protagonists have hidden her from sight. So long as they do not mention…
“We seek the girl!” declared one of the Morons. No, not one of Jhort’s. The actual morons—spelled with a capital M to designate their office. A certain American head of state with a head of orange hair, his job-title was also capitalised, so consider it appropriate.
More of immediate concern would be that which the Morons are seeking. Or, let us just lower-case that title simply because we can. We could also make them disappear, but that would go against the rules.
“A girl?” asked Jhort, pretending to look around. Heads wagging east and west. “A girl, he asks? That sounds interesting. He is asking about a tree.”
“What’s a tree?” asked Lynn of the Twin Pointy Weapon-Things. “Did you just make up that word? You don’t pay us a large enough cut of the bounties to heed imaginary words.”
“But I just asked if you knew anything about foot-grinders,” said Jhort. “No one mentioned anything about korth-hair blankets. Such as the one I so happen to have slung across my suddenly swollen back, that is. Yes, a mysteriously swollen back! Nothing feminine about it at all! If it had long tresses more pale than all the moons, it would be a thing of awe.”
Jhort’s sack-covered back-swelling decided to give a spasm which greatly resembled an angry shove. That seems to be something of a medical condition. Have to watch that.
“Damn your ears, mercenary!” complained one of the (rather sloshed) korth-men of Lord Morkudum’s making. “Leave it to the likes of you to change korth in mid-stream! We were talking of ale!”
“Mercenaries, not worth a pile of korth-powder!” declared yet another one of those sozzled simpletons.
“No professional standards in the least, that lot!” chimed in somebody else. “More loyal to coin and crystal than lord and libations!” And if we had a touch bit fun with translating that, then so be it.
“I said ale!” declared Jhort. “And so, let us be off to enjoy more of the same!” Raising his left hand and making a particularly scooping sort of gesture.
There is no sign language on this planet given how vasi grease can cure even deafness, but there is enough of worded gesture to indicate the most common of ideas. That idea would be in the direction of losing good ideas as the evening turns into night, and the ale-mugs keep being replenished.
Of course, this resulted in the local linguistic expression of hurrah. Why stop at a hundred servings when there can be a hundred more beyond that? Oh, and just as there are no laws against intoxicated vehicular piloting, there are also no laws against public officials being off the trolley whilst on the clock. This, for they are never off the clock. Neither trolleys nor lorries on this world, but you quite understand the metaphorical direction.
And even as metaphorically legless as Lord Morkudum’s local representatives so happened to be, they understood the direction back to the nearest ale-concoction establishment. So goes it. If nothing else functions well within a drunkard’s brain beyond basic metabolic functions (remembering to breathe, etcetera), there is the capability of using gross-motor functions in reaching the pub. Which pub? Does it matter? So long as they serve liquids that befuddle brain matter, that is all that matters.
Even so, Jhort and his Company of Chaotic Companions pretended to be all hail-fellows-well-met in riding right along with them. Making the occasional praising comment. Also, adding in a few back-handed complements which the well-practised alcoholics took for positive commentary regardless.
But not for long. First a few of Jhort’s crew gently and quietly slowed their ride-beasts to a canter. Then a few more. Since it was likely Jhort’s idea in the first place, he was the last one to bring his animal, himself, and the concealed passenger to a stop. Which is to also say, they could just watch very quietly as Lord Morkudum’s Problematic People continued their way back to the city—and all the dispensers of liquid stupidity therein.
There is the old Earth expression that sound carries on the plains. And because the atmosphere of this world is more or less representative of that ancestral planet, the saying more or less holds true. Yes, that many of Lord Moron’s Imbeciles were inebriated and soon to be much steeper in that state. However, best not to tempt fate and remind those people that their new temporary companions were not amongst them.
Then, with one last of those korth giving a glance back from a distance away, they were quite a ways away. A mass of armored troublemakers atop dark ride-beasts, they were seemingly receding on the horizon with all the aplomb of a pre-war male hairline. And like that human fur undergoing such a condition.
Then they were far enough off to be considered gone. “You may expose yourself now, princesse,” declared Jhort.
Aia had ridden more than a few ride-beasts herself, albeit beasts with two fewer legs than these. This allowed her to keep balance whilst tossing off this wretched…ride blanket. One would suppose the Americans would call it a trail blanket—much as what the cowboys would.
But just because the synthetic-bodied elf-girl was free of the thing, it does not mean her being fee of the razorgrass debris. Now came her making a fuss of things. Her brushing away at the bits of plantlike matter which dusted her boots and garment-bared thighs. Then, doing the same over the bodice-portion and having to do the same for what was around her too-long neck. Her long moonsilk tresses were not much defense against what seemed to be everywhere. “How often is it that you clean the thing?” asked Aia.
“Do you need to bathe? I can certainly help in that regard,” said Jhort, being the way he is around beings of the feminine sort.
“And perhaps the erstwhile leader of our party would be assisted in removing his source of temptation?” went one of the companions whose nom de guerre included a dagger somewhere.
“Ah, well spoken,” said Jhort. “Now per the agreement, let us be off to the Fiefdom of the Dwarf.”
“In which case, we must again conceal the source of temptation,” declared the same party member.
“Your ears function. Cover yourself with the blanket, Jakk,” said Jhort. “We cannot befuddle the likes of the easily confused all the time, for they will be sober again. Some day… Oh, and princesse? Press yourself close to me. Caressing me with all the care that you like.”
“You may ride with me, Skyfall Princesse!” declared Tristine of No Daggers. “My sleep-blanket is washed daily, for mercenaries should be able to afford such.”