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Aelrindel, of Edlenn
‘Nesande’s Moon Daughter’*
‘Hallowed Splendor’
Moira
All of you
Part II
-The scoundrel of Wetull-
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/HdwzpxtX/taras2-low-res.png]
He knows, Moira thought panicked. It’s him.
“I’d like to speak with the Monarch in private,” Lithoniela countered seemingly unaffected by Lord Garth’s words.
“Hardir just returned from the front,” Rimeros intervened. “He’s too tired to prolong this evening your grace.”
“We can talk briefly,” Garth decided. “Some folk wish to speak with the princess as well. “Feyras, and Voldomir for starters.”
“Your Highness,” Feyras said taking the opportunity. “The Temple rejoices at your survival.”
“Gratitude Priest Feyras,” Lithoniela replied.
“Will the princess dictate policy?” Voldomir asked without fanfare and Lord Garth stopped Lithoniela from answering with a wave.
“This is not the time,” Lord Garth said, his mask changing into a sober scowl. Spell-forged metal, the witch thought. Someone ‘engraved’ a whole mimic incantation in that mask.
“You can stay here this evening. We’ll find better accommodation on the morrow. Your friends can return to the tower for now.”
“I’d like to stay with Lithoniela,” Caruso said. “Milord.”
The excited murmurs ceased inside the throne hall, and the Monarch’s amber eyes stared at the adventurer frostily.
Oops.
“Apologies, but it’s too late to find something more convenient,” Fikumin intervened gruffly. “I shall escort you there myself.”
“Folen shall do it. He’s about to leave us anyways. Belay that. Better yet, if it’s Sir Qildor.” Garth ordered and the lute-carrying Zilan blinked a little startled at first, then hanged his head disappointed. “You can rest in the palace Lord Shield. It has been a long day.”
That’s the kid? Moira thought impressed. Not wanting to risk an enchanting spell with the small wyvern so close and the bigger wyvern not far enough, she bowed quickly and rushed in front of the departing Caruso. Two knights escorted them out of the Throne Room, leaving Lithoniela behind.
Moira expected the guards to toss them in one of the many doors they walked past and lock it shut, but they didn’t. They traveled out of the semi-lit Throne Room, went past the dark long hall after it and then reached the final gloomy stretch in the pitch black that led to the gates leading to the yard.
Most of Morn Taras was a dark place to spend your nights.
It’s not him, Moira decided with a deep sigh spotting the illuminated guarded doors of the citadel at the end of the long corridor. He doesn’t know. It’s really sad to be wrong. Twenty meters from the double doors, a small hidden side door cracked open and a young female stepped out. A young woman of mixed-race. Cofol with some Lorian in it. Dark-blond hair, honey-colored eyes painted with black pencil and a lot of tanned skin showing when her silk green robes parted, to show the flimsy slave-girl outfit underneath.
She smelled of vanilla scented oils.
The Rokae escorting them stopped seeing her approach.
“Memphes of Morn Taras,” the Zilan knight said.
“Sir Qildor,” the young woman greeted him with a bow. “Hardir wants a word with the girl.”
The witch furrowed her brows half-intrigued half-worried. Then the courtier of sorts, giving that her name tied Memphes to the estate, smiled in a friendly manner.
“What is going on?” Caruso asked hoarsely.
“The tower has only one bed,” Memphes explained. “We have spare inside the palace.”
But not the manpower to carry one across the yard?
Hmm.
“I’ll talk with him,” Moira said touching the tensed adventurer’s arm. “Just head to the tower Caruso.”
“You sure?” Caruso probed not liking this development. “I could hang around.”
“Better that you didn’t,” Memphes deadpanned smiling sweetly.
Oh, you little whore, Aelrindel cursed pursing her mouth. What is this nonsense! He’s supposed to be a grieving, secluded widower!
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Memphes walked in front of Moira, leading her through the side door inside another corridor running parallel to the main one, this one finely lit from many lightstones. The corridor leading in its turn to a long narrow staircase attached to the west wall, and past many doors used by courtiers or palace personnel.
“You served in Erul-Sol’s palace?” Memphes asked without looking back. “This is a Que Ki-La style.”
She was talking of Moira’s hair.
“I’m… aye, grew up there,” Moira lied checking on the pins holding her hairdo tightly fixed in place to hide her long Zilan ears. Very graceful long ears. “How’s Lord Erul Sol?”
“Dead. Butchered like a pig.” Memphes replied stiffly. “The whole family got wiped out in the Sisters rebellion.”
“Apologies.”
Memphes paused and turned around to look in her face unsure.
“I mean… they got what they deserved?” The witch chanced, too-focused on her meeting with Lord Garth to bother with this bed-warmer.
“Lord Garth shall free me,” Memphes told her.
“I’m a free girl Memphes.”
I don’t care about your problems.
“Oh. Sure you are,” Memphes smiled frostily. “This is not Que Ki-La. We don’t smart-mouth the Monarch.”
“Not much mouth left available for small talk?” Moira retorted, batting her eyelashes.
“I shall let Mistress Iskay explain,” Memphes said with a scowl. “You should wash by the way. You smell of wet fur.”
“I spend a lot of time with a Gish and a cat. Pick your poison.”
“We heard,” Memphes replied tautly and turned around to climb up the stairs with Moira following after the slave girl mimicking in a mocking manner Memphes’ words behind her back. She thought of tripping Memphes on the stairs and let the annoying slave-girl tumble to her death, but this wasn’t the time to clean house, nor was it even remotely advisable.
Speaking of houses. This is a house of ruffians for certain, the witch thought.
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The stairs led them on the internal balcony with intricately sculpted balustrades Moira had witnessed from the throne room. A large semi-floor in reality, it had several doors leading to the royal quarters and the floor was paved with white marble tiles, polished and adorned with gold details.
A young Nord-looking, red-haired woman, waited for them at the top of the stairs. The woman’s eyes, Moira decided she had a little Cofol blood in her, stayed on the witch while she addressed Memphes who had made the introductions.
Moira disliked the newcomer instinctively.
“Iskay of Morn Taras,” Memphes said with a curtsy.
Eh, no… I’m not bowing my head to you!
“Is this the slave girl?” Iskay probed switching to Common, in a calm and well-trained voice.
“She claims, she’s a freedwoman.”
“Is that so?” Iskay wondered examining Moira closely. “The Zilan freed her?”
Why do you care? Go sit on a thick oiled stick.
“Yeah. After she bought her arse in Que Ki-La.”
“Uhm.” Iskay raised a painted brow. “You are a pretty one at least,” she told Moira, who bit her tongue not to blurt-out a loud caustic reply. “You should use better hair dye next time.” Iskay added austerely.
“I’ll make sure to borrow some of yours,” Moira retorted, as it was clear Iskay’s hair were not a natural red. The witch’s grin was cut short when Iskay’s ring adorned hand landed on her left cheek, right above the ear.
The shock of the sudden blow, it didn’t have much power in it, almost sent Moira to her knees and half-twirled the stunned witch around afore she managed to regain her footing.
You fruit-stinking little cunt!
“Be truthful to the Monarch. Wait here, both of you,” Iskay told them soberly and walked towards one of the doors guarded by Rokae. The seething Moira clenched both fists so tight, her sharp nails dug in her palms.
“For a girl that served under Lord Sol,” Memphes noticed calmly. “You have a very loose tongue. Learn to keep your anger to yourself.”
Drink my sweet piss you! Aelrindel thought irate, but added hoarsely in a much more diplomatic manner. “I’ve been freed for a while now.”
“Uhm. I hope your Zilan owner remembered that,” Memphes deadpanned, as it was apparent that the witch had found herself surrounded by a flock of tryhards and strivers, attached to the Monarch with birch glue, cunt-juices and saliva.
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Let me see you. The man in her visions had said. Show yourself Vera Felusa. But the mask was different again, the engraved armour altered and not as heavy. The Monarch was resting in an armchair, under a curtained open window, half-hidden in darkness. The only source of illumination inside the large royal quarters -a small metallic desk lamp with three legs, fashioned out of many intertwined bronze wires, placed on the narrow table under the window’s edge and turned to light up a pile of reports and partially the seated man himself.
“The girl,” Iskay informed him with a deep bow, followed by an austere glance tossed their way.
The seething Moira followed Memphes example this time.
The chair creaked as Garth turned to look at the tensed Moira. She had forgotten about boiling Iskay alive –a bit- and was now caught in the moment.
“She has been freed,” Iskay added.
Shut up you!
“The plot thickens,” Garth murmured raspingly.
Moira furrowed her brows unsure and with her heart beating so loud in her chest, it started to hurt. You know me, say it. The witch demanded from the thoughtful Monarch. She had started sweating, which was the last thing a girl wearing heavy maquillage wanted.
Any girl really.
Having said that, but for the two girls standing so near her, the witch would have casted a domination spell and worked her way from there.
“Have a seat,” Garth offered.
“I rather stand your grace.”
To leg it if things turn eerie?
“I won’t. Haven’t slept in three days,” Garth retorted.
“Apologies?”
The jest had poor timing obviously.
Damnit!
“Where did you…” Garth started shaking his head, with the anxious Moira ogling her eyes in the attempt to urge him down the right path. Follow the darn script! “…meet Lith?”
Huh?
Garth waited for an answer, with Iskay turning her pretty head to stare as well, a smirk on her painted mouth.
“Rida? Rida…” Moira croaked and clasped both arms over her belly.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Didn’t you girls tell me, she hailed from Que Ki-La?” Garth asked a little bemused.
“That’s what she told me, great sultan,” Memphes said quickly.
“I was sold,” Moira intervened, still rattled by the turn the conversation had taken. Where’s the starry-eyed closeness? Send these two harlots away! This feels like an interrogation! She roared internally.
“Across the desert,” Garth noted evenly, his fingers rapping at the table. “Why would they ever get rid of you? You’re far from ugly.”
What?
“No one would ever—”
“Yet they did.” Garth cut her off matter-of-factly.
Moira blinked.
“So you ended up in Rida,” Garth continued, snapping the witch out of her limpness.
“Yes my Lord. Served at the palace there.”
“Where Lith, what is it… bought you again?”
Moira nodded.
“Where did she find the coin? I once paid a fortune to buy a drooling camel from these troglodytes,” Garth asked curious and stooped forward to better see her.
Get a blasted light in here! Is this a man-cave? The witch snapped angrily at being questioned. It took a huge effort to reply in a calm manner.
“I escaped. Lithoniela found me,” she explained wetting her lips.
“That’s not what Lith said. It’s quite the difference actually,” Garth replied a hint of razz in his voice.
Damn it princess.
“What did she say?”
Garth stood back on the armchair. Moira glanced at the table and saw the old dagger there, placed over several open scrolls.
Great.
“It’s just a dagger,” Garth said noticing her eyes straying.
Moira sighed to calm her tensed nerves. You can do this. “Lithoniela found me in Rida. Then the princess released me. She probably just wanted to impress Lord Garth.”
“Uhm. That’s better constructed fer sure. Why?”
Moira blinked at the use of Lesia jargon and the follow up query. “Ehm. Why… I don’t know why. She’s young?”
“Much older than you. Why did she free you?” Garth expounded sternly.
Ah.
“I was useful,” Moira replied quickly under the Monarch’s silent scrutiny.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“In what manner?”
Stop with the questions!
“I’m a healer.” Moira blurted out.
Garth glanced at Iskay who shrugged her shoulders. Then he pushed himself up from the armchair. Moira puffed out unwittingly. A wayward sweat rivulet run down the inside of her thigh and it tickled the nervous witch maddeningly for a while.
Enough probing. Get back on track damn you! She cursed the thoughtful Garth.
“Why would Lith attempt to hide a healer?” Garth asked his small audience. Mostly Moira that is. “Why keep you around after she freed you? What really happened?”
The boy on that horse was a smart-thinking idiot, but this is a very perceptive man, Moira thought worried. Right now, Garth’s mind was set on scrutinizing his earlier meeting with Lithoniela, looking for cracks and small lies.
Not on her.
This isn’t my vision at all, she thought in shocked disbelief. It’s not you. Who are you?
“I can’t answer that,” Moira replied hoarsely.
Garth took a step forward, well into her personal space and now the witch could see her reflection on the polished mask and in the Monarch’s amber eyes.
“What will it take?” Garth rustled behind the smirking mask and Moira went to back away, but was stopped by the man’s hand that had clasped her shoulder.
“That’s between the princess and myself,” Moira whispered.
“Um. She doesn’t have to know,” Garth countered in a serene voice, whilst examining the witch’s painted face closely.
“That would be… a bit awful?” An anxious Moira croaked. “Healers have a code.”
“Are you a real healer though?”
What?
“Of course I am,” Moira swooshed breathlessly.
“I could use a skilled Cofol healer in the palace,” Garth said dropping his arm. “You won’t find a better offer. You can serve the throne in a wholesome way.”
“Surely Taras has plenty of Zilan healers,” Moira argued gulping down, as she felt uncomfortable by the offer. “Can’t one of them serve the throne?”
“That’s true and they could, but the Monarch prefers Moira of Que Ki-La, for she surely possesses a greater range of skills,” Garth replied meaningfully. Aha. Moira thought and realized the Monarch had sneakily reached to touch her face this time. The witch recoiled, making two quick backward steps and was stopped by an open palm that wedged between her shoulder blades. A gasping Moira turned around and came woman to woman with a pair of indigo eyes and Aenymriel’s pale face.
“You scared the poor girl,” Aenymriel told Garth.
“Is it the mask?” He asked curious, as Moira backed away from the assassin in panic, feeling suddenly trapped inside this large dark bedchamber. “I can remove it. For safety reasons I need to wear it in public meetings.”
What safety reasons? You’re lying! Moira hissed internally, ogling the nonplussed assassin that hadn’t moved from her spot. Garth had though and was standing close to her again.
“You don’t have to return to the tower,” he told the flustered witch reasonably. “You’re safe here and among friends. Tonight we shall unwind in a fine warm bed and when morrow comes, all this will be forgotten, afore the time for a rich breakfast arrives.”
This was nowhere close to what the witch had secretly fantasized and hoped.
Don’t go there, her mother had warned months back.
No way. Everything is wrong!
Help.
“I wish to leave my lord,” a heavy-breathing Moira croaked and looked at the door behind the unemotional Aenymriel, still clad in her simple tunic.
“Maybe she could have a glass of wine first?” Iskay offered.
Screw you, fake northern cunt!
“Please,” Moira pleaded and Garth shook his head amused afore returning to the armchair. He sat down and glanced at the dagger before speaking again in a much sober tone.
“I won’t make the offer again dear. You’ll eventually crawl back up here to beg for my favor, mayhap as soon as you realize where the princess brought you.” He said and added in a warning. “But you’ll find the gates of this castle firmly closed.”
I rather munch on pig’s turds for a month than return here! The affronted witch thought, her arms and body shaking whilst staring at the Monarch with hurt eyes.
“Call Folen,” Garth ordered harshly. “Escort this foolish girl out of Morn Taras.”
A devastated Moira went to walk past Aenymriel, but the assassin blocked her path wearing a guarded expression and reached for the witch’s disheveled head this time. Moira twisted away with a gasp of fear and Garth’s voice stopped Nym from trying again.
“Let her go.”
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Folen, the weird official with the lute, found a sniffling Moira sitting cross-legged on the cold floor tiles of the dark corridor, about sixty meters from the unseen now staircase leading up to the royal quarters. The Zilan walked to the distraught masqueraded female and came to a halt right over her.
“The corridor loops around after the fifth door lass,” he explained. “Let me help you on your feet. I have a couple of horses waiting.”
“What about my Ostrich?” Moira asked wiping her swollen eyes a little embarrassed at been caught bawling.
“Where is it?”
“The stables? Rama took it. Her.”
“Garth’s stables,” Folen elucidated. “Yeah, he was looking for a female for a while now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Moira croaked but the Zilan official waved her worries off with a gesture.
“Not important. Come, we need to make a pretty tricky journey to reach Taras.”
“How so?”
“Night has come,” Folen explained guiding her the other way. “And things roam about.”
“Things? Eh—!”
RRRRREEEEE
“You’re alright?” Folen asked, helping the groaning witch back on her feet as the scared Moira had jolted back so sharply at the wyvern’s shriek, she had landed on the floor on her hurting buttocks.
“No I’m not!” She snapped angrily in Folen’s face with a grimace of pain.
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“Do you have anyone in Taras?” Folen asked on the way to the horses. Parked at the gates as they were, it took them a good time to walk the distance across the empty yard.
“I need to speak to my cat,” Moira replied distractedly, looking back at the direction of the South Tower.
“Eh, cats always find their owners,” Folen dismissed her worries and sucked at his teeth. “Not easy to find a job in this economy.”
“I’m a healer. Surely someone has a need of one!” She protested still hurting from the catastrophic meeting.
What’s wrong with him? I was right there! He was supposed to reach out with warmth and blasted understanding!
“Uhm. Sure,” Folen agreed and waved an arm at the guards before the west gates. “Still, you’re not exactly known and people tend to prefer… more, eh… the local therapists.”
“The Monarch doesn’t.” Moira retorted sourly.
“Hardir has a pretty sophisticated palate for his own reasons,” Folen explained. “He historically finds the taste of certain Zilan maidens ungainly.”
Aelrindel’s whole world had just come crashing down without any warning.
“You can’t be bloody serious!” She snarled barely holding on not to lash out and bring the whole dastardly construction down. Truth of it was, the witch wanted to do a lot of damage at that point, preferably burn some of Garth’s ugly palace and possessions down. Which would have been suicidal of course, what with an unseen large wyvern parked somewhere inside the castle? Folen paused unsure about her outburst, the guard bringing up their horses stopping abruptly in alarm. Moira cleared her hoarse throat and started breathing in and out to bring her core temperature down.
“The ruler…” Moira started, puffing her cheeks out under the scrutiny of the two nosy males. “…of the Zilan Kingdom, dislikes Zilan females?”
“I wasn’t clear,” Folen tried again. “I meant he’s wary of witches mainly.”
“He’s against magic? He rides a wyvern!” Moira hissed, doubly insulted.
“Witches. He’s fine with mages as a matter of fact,” Folen expounded patiently on his earlier point. “Why do you care?” He asked seeing Moira snarling like a cat that had her paw stepped on by a heavy boot.
She almost cracked her jaw bones in the attempt to sound indifferent.
“I don’t,” Moira croaked deeply alike a husky sailor that has burned through a kilo of good hashish.
“Right.” Folen said pursing his mouth. “You know I run a business.”
“A tavern?” Moira murmured still having difficulty to speak. A horse snorted and then shook its head in greeting but she ignored it. The horse neighed in protest. “I thought you worked in the Council.”
“I do, as the Master of Secrets, but a person can dabble in many different things. Anyways, I upgraded from a tavern due to a… rare accident,” Folen replied and climbed on the saddle, while the guard held the reins for her to do the same on the other still protesting horse. “It’s a similar venue in spirit at least. We provide much-needed services with no discrimination whatsoever and many opportunities for the employees to meet new people of all creeds and races. A fine-looking girl like you, could make a lot of coin fast, just putting that out as food for thought,” the Zilan added with a toothy grin.
Moira narrowed her eyes. “For a moment there mister Folen and the moment is still dragging, I thought you were trying to whore me out?”
“Did it tickle your fancy just a bit?” Folen probed in a reasonable manner, adding with a conspiratorial wink. “I can keep a secret, he-he.”
Is this fucking rehearsed?
“No it didn’t.” Moira replied quite unamused with the Zilan’s humor.
“No worries,” Folen yielded with a shrug. “Something else will come up I’m sure. Mayhap it’ll make you reconsider.”
“Can you take me to Jinx’s place?” She asked frostily.
“I’m to escort you to Taras’ center,” Folen replied in a business-like manner. “You’re on your own after that lass.”
Fine!
> A very-sour Aelrindel stayed at Jinx’s rather empty estate that night. She made a poor attempt to sleep, as she couldn’t keep her eyes closed for more than five minutes. She twisted and turned, half-angry half-sad, mostly angry now that she that managed to get out of the initial shock. The Gish left early the next morning and despite her efforts to search the house for anything to eat, she found nothing of use. It was like the place hadn’t been lived in for months, which made sense with Jinx missing, but also didn’t make sense since Jinx had told Moira she had a couple of roommates of sorts.
>
> A sullen Moira borrowed some clothes that looked like they belonged to another much taller than Jinx female, waited for the Gish or Lithoniela to return for several hours and finally hungry, bored out of her wits and incredibly frustrated, went out to see Taras in the light of day.
Moira headed north towards the lake, cutting through the center of a busy Taras. Despite the strong sun of the afternoon, it was early in the season and there was a nice coolness in the air. She walked in front of the Cofol neighborhood where several estates had sprouted resembling the great cities of Greenwhale Peninsula, to the mostly Zilan architecture of the houses nearer to the lake’s shores and the many noisy taverns occupied by a colorful very diverse crowd. Issir Pirates and Lorian adventurers, Cofol merchants and even Horselords. Many Zilan of all castes, some Gish and the occasional very-loud dwarf.
The very-impressed by the lively market crowd Aelrindel soon forgot herself, skirted the endless rectangular square –obviously outfitted for festivals- with some stands still erected at its sides and the gargantuan mosaic depicting Hardir O’ Fardor and Uvrycres, his Onyx Wyvern defeating the mighty Hydra, and thus liberating Goras from the clutches of the Veils of Nether, a Cult that had settled there after the Fall. The mosaic had close to three million different pieces and was created by the artist Eilven according to a tourist board, who Aelrindel fairly remembered as an aloof, difficult to get the words out kid that hated being around people.
Moira’s protesting stomach brought her to the market, on the west side of Hardir’s Triumph’s Square and she paused there to haggle for a strawberry pie. Being discreet the witch got what she wanted using a bit of charm, but it could also be that the merchant pitied her wretched appearance. Then she considered continuing west and returning to the taverns, where even better food was served, but the neat local stand of a Zilan apothecary caught her interest.
“This,” the Zilan female told her pointing at a vial. “You are tired sweetie.”
Moira took the small vial in her hands and raised it to allow the sun to pass through the glass. “Dry Thyme, young yarrow seeds and lemon oil,” she guessed after shaking the vial once to make the mixture move inside. Moira smelled at the cork next to make sure she hasn’t missed anything. “Basil?”
“For the mood,” the Zilan agreed with a smile. “Are you a healer then and not only a pretty face?”
“My sister,” Moira replied sensing the female’s flirtatious mood. “I just picked up some things along the way.”
Like everything there ever was, plus some I invented myself, she thought, not wanting to brag openly.
“Praised be the Moon’s Daughter for all healers are precious such as Herself,” the Zilan smiled at her shocked expression and showed her a thinner, much smaller vial. Tiny almost. “Could she make this, your sister?”
“She could,” the witch replied hoarsely and felt a wave of emotion overwhelming her senses. The secured inside a metal box vials tingled responding to the sorcerer’s essence that spilled out and the Zilan merchant stood back unsure.
“The Goddess’ grace shines over you sweetie. I felt it from afar. She shines over the living and guides the pure souls of those that have departed. Ever be well,” Vela prayed and Moira nodded greatly moved. “Do you want to work the stand for a while? You seem to know your way around potions,” she smiled. “I won’t ask how.”
“How much do you sell them for?” Moira asked looking around her for anyone watching but she didn’t spot anything suspicious.
“These ones? Ten gold pieces,” Vela replied without hesitation.
“Isn’t that a lot?”
The price was absurd.
“High demand drives the prices up. This is a premium product for those risking their lives,” Vela explained. “Plus we are lacking the Amrita flowerbeds of the past. You can find some near the ruins of the Old City, but don’t venture there after dark.”
“Why?”
“Folk have gone missing in the wilderness.”
I see.
“Use a golden apple’s flower instead,” Moira blurted out before she could control herself.
Vela chuckled and reached to touch her hand over the stand. “We need a witch’s magic for that, plus someone to travel to Nesande’s Garden and back again at a specific time of the year, yes? These trees don’t grow without soil soaked in magic.”
True.
“I wouldn’t know,” Moira said with a smile of her own. “I heard it somewhere in the Peninsula.”
“Uhm. You Cofols are pretty and tidy creatures, yes? I’ll be back in two hours,” Vela replied in a friendly manner. “Can you do this for me?”
“Don’t you worry I might steal your potions?” Moira asked and Vela pointed at a half-asleep Zilan resting under a kiosk. “Aha. Can’t he sell them himself?”
“Probably, but he can’t offer any advice in case of an emergency.” Vela explained. “You could I’m certain and I’ll pay you two silvers for it.”
“That’s generous.”
“I make a lot of coin,” Vela admitted and signaled for her to step behind the counter. After quickly explaining where the most sought after potions where, she left Moira to carry out her errant.
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“So…” the Lorian said working a finger on his left bearded cheek that failed to hide the dark blemishes underneath, “…I have this nasty rash since the other day and it bothers me something fierce.”
“Where?” Moira asked without looking at him, carefully squeezing the cloth to extract all the liquid from it. She had opened a healing potion earlier -not liking its color and had discovered that it was spoiled. So the witch had searched under the stand for a clean bronze bowl, poured the contents of the tiny vial inside, cast a quick restoration spell, whilst no one was looking and then returned the sparkling potion into the vial, using the thin cloth to keep the spoiled parts out.
“The nether regions or thereabouts,” the man explained a little uncomfortable. Moira pushed a small square bronze container his way.
“Wash the afflicted area first, then lather it slowly and leave the skin to air,” she told the grimacing customer.
She had like thirty in a couple of hours and most of Vela’s potions had been sold.
“Can I do it inside a hostel room?”
Moira raised her eyes to look at him unsure. “Em… where else silly? In the woods?”
The man stared at her smiling face numbly.
It’s a darn jest you imbecile! Laugh!
The Lorian cracked a yellow-toothed smile. “Right. So… what time you be off lass?”
Eh. Not again.
“She’s taken,” a man’s voice said and the Lorian turned around to eye the newcomer. Seeing as the dark-haired –but with a bit of grey in it, clad in fresh leather-armour man was much taller, pretty muscular and wearing a fine weapon harness with a lot of blades, the first customer decided not to push the issue. He paid Moira and then walked away funnily, leaving his spot for the roguish newcomer. Despite the little grey on his hair and the scars on his handsome, unshaven face, the stranger didn’t look over thirty.
A square cleft chin, paired with a devilishly naughty smirk and thick brows over two amber-colored eyes. Moira’s heart skipped a beat.
“Hello there,” the handsome customer greeted the still holding the soaked cloth witch. “Thought to lend ye a hand me lass,” he explained in a heavy Lesia accent and reached to take the vial with the healing potion, she had just corked. “Name’s Rhu Fareno. How much is this?” Rhu asked teasingly.
His blatant attempt at flirting working ten times better than Vela’s.
It hit the already overcharged emotionally sorceress right between the eyes.
Goddess.
“It’s spoiled,” Aelrindel blurted, adding in a high-pitched croak. “Not anymore that is!” Get a grip of yourself silly! “Ehem… It’s ten gold pieces.” Moira added pursing her mouth to show him she would accept no haggling and Rhu Farino nodded not impressed with the price seemingly, got his hand inside the hardened-leather vest he had on, found a heavy purse and opened it. He fished a bunch of freshly-minted Imperial gold coins out, counted twelve and pushed them over the counter.
“Keep the rest to buy yerself somethin’ nice,” Rhu offered with a toothy smile and a lewd wink. He then turned around to walk away, towards a large warhorse waiting for him.
No way.
“It means sinful outlaw in Imperial, your name,” the witch said and Rhu paused to give her a pleased glance.
From Rhugar, that meant wicked and Farino that meant… well, outlaw.
“You’re a learned lass alright,” he told her whilst pocketing the vial and Moira blushed at the praise, from her curling toes to the roots of her painted dark hair, as if she was fourteen again. Which was almost a millennia and five centuries in the past. “Do ye have a name yourself then, or should I just call you beautiful? Be warned that it works for me just fine.”
Aww.
The witch beamed unwittingly at the well-used quip –expertly delivered, despite every warning siren in her head screaming that this was yet another scoundrel with fancy eyes and a passing likeness to the devil in her visions.
“Moira,” she replied half-shy half-aroused.
More aroused than shy.
“Aha. And what does Moira mean?” Rhu queried still sporting that wicked grin that made her weak at the knees.
Stop it you.
“Fate,” Aelrindel had replied and watched him walk to his horse, a clean stallion with a new saddle and jump on it lithely. Rhu raised index and mid-finger to his left temple in a teasing salute, then clicking his tongue galloped out of the market, not bothered by the people that rushed to get out of his way panicked with screams, gestures and loud curses.
“Taras is full of adventurers’ lass. Don’t get too impressed,” Morthil said coming to stand next to her. You know nothing Morthil, the witch thought. “Vela is late. You should head back home whilst there’s still light. See to eat something.”
“Yeah,” Moira agreed and looked around her at the slowly emptying market. “I better go.”
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The sorceress bought a piece of slightly roasted chicken from a shady tavern, which she wolfed down en route, greasy flesh, skin, bones and all, making a bit of a mess. She paused on her way to Jinx’s house to clean her hands, face and neck, using copious amounts of cold clear water from an artesian well, right at the edge of Taras’s public gardens. The latter positioned between the lake’s shores -still busy despite the falling fast darkness- district and the already quiet rich neighborhoods of its center, where Jinx’s estate was located.
Where is everyone? Aelrindel thought, her mind still on the handsome stranger that had made her forget about the uncouth Hardir O’ Fardor. Well, that plan went bad faster than the rest, she decided still bitter about the whole ordeal, her eyes following a similarly dressed couple –both had long cloaks on- coming out of an alley and ducking inside a shadow. At first she thought they were Issirs due to their darker than normal skin, but as they approached walking briskly and half-unseen to the untrained eye, the witch realized the male was somewhat familiar firstly.
Secondly, they both had the strangely vibrant eyes of the Zilan of Coal Isle.
Sneaky Mori-Zilan.
Whoa.
Welp, that’s a day full of surprises, the witch thought with a deep sigh, whilst wiping her moist neck with the edge of her borrowed tunic and the male’s vibrant eyes stayed on her briefly, before reaching with a deft hand to gently hide the sorceress’ wayward, protruding left ear, back under her long hair that had come undone with all the slouching and washing under the water pipe.
Shit.
“Take care of yourself sister,” the Mori-Zilan warned with a svelte pirouette to catch his hurrying female partner and of course Moira didn’t listen.
It was his fault really, as that was probably the most generic warning one could muster!
Like… seriously?
“What does a pretty little thing like you be doing out at this ungodly hour?” A gruff voice asked the moment Moira reached the dark alley the two Zilan had come out of.
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END OF WINGS O’ FATE | PART III