For the other diners gathered in the great hall, the evening meal was a welcomed reprieve from watered down cabbage soup and expired trail rations. For Oralia, it was an overpowering cacophony of competing smells. The rich aroma of the meat and gravy pies battled for supremacy against the sulfuric punch of the garlic roasted brussel sprouts. Every now and then she caught a whiff of the honey glazed yams from the far side of the table. All three overpowering notes paired together in the same way week old fish complimented rotten banana peels at the bottom of the waste bin.
To make matters worse, Sascha was being extra attentive. Food was his passion and he insisted on sharing it with those he cared about. Oralia had lost track of the number of times he’d served a small portion of something onto her plate, insisting she try it with a pinch of this, or a drizzle of that. Caught up in his excitement, he’d attempted to feed her from his own fork on more than one occasion. A firmly set brow was all that was necessary to remind him that she was not an infant and was perfectly capable of handling the task herself.
Unfortunately, tonight her lover appeared to be suffering from a short term memory dysfunction. From the corner of her eye, Oralia saw a food laden fork start to edge in her direction. It took damn near all of her willpower not to grab it and stab the offending utensil into the tabletop. “Sweetheart.” The word was laced with equal parts sticky sweet adoration and venom. “If that fork comes any nearer, it is going across the room.”
Her expression added, ‘and I might send you with it’.
“But you’ve barely touched your plate. Is something the matter?”
“Just tired.” Ignoring the sideways glance she received from Rali, Oralia retrieved the dinner fork from the long line of meticulously arranged silverware and used it to stir the food on her plate into an unrecognizable pile of slop. There. It was touched. After all, Sascha had said nothing about it being eaten. And no, in this situation she was definitely not being a pedantic child. This was a perfectly mature response to a situation she had no desire to partake in.
Oralia’s fingertips drummed against the linen tablecloth as she eyed the sealed double doors, debating whether to sit and suffer in silence or attempt a hasty getaway. Leaving the table early would be rude, undoubtedly, but it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Her participation in New Adderwood had been strictly volunteer-based. They couldn’t withhold her pay if they weren’t paying her anything to begin with.
Yes. It was decided. She was doing it.
Oralia jumped when a heavy hand settled on her leg from beneath the table. Sascha gave a gentle squeeze, managing to do so without breaking from the argument he was having with the Stoneclaw brothers regarding the rules to whatever drinking game they were attempting to rope him into. Oralia did not miss the fleeting smile that curled over his mouth as he watched her from the corner of his eye.
The fucker was on to her! This was the trouble with having a partner. She and Sascha were on even footing now. She couldn’t simply do as she pleased anymore, including ditching the dinner party thrown in her honor.
Perhaps this is why she had always surrounded herself with the derelicts of society. Their constant swirl of chaos had made her own uncouth tendencies appear reasonable in comparison. Her faithful four also wouldn’t have objected to her cutting out early. Seven realms, they would have thought of it first, prompting her to follow under the excuse that she needed to address the behavior in private. Gods, what she would give for one of their elaborate heists right now.
A smile flickered across her face as she recalled the midsummer eve disaster. The palace had spared no expense. There were tables upon tables of exquisite foods, hundreds of guests dressed in their finest. Oralia had tucked herself in the corner, trading words with some windbag in red and gold tights, when a disturbance from the servant’s entrance allowed her a convenient excuse to cut the conversation short. She’d navigated her way through the thickest part of the crowd in time to see Ellisar race across the dance floor, struggling to see around the seven layer cake she’d lifted from the kitchen. Rali and Curly had not been far behind, both lugging a crate of alcohol each. Even reluctant Snag had been talked into serving as the lookout. He had the side entrance door opened and shut behind them before the nobles could clutch their pearls and wail on about the ongoing deterioration of society.
It was the last time the realm figureheads insisted Oralia’s team make a public appearance. When she found her faithful four again, they’d lit a bonfire in one of the back gardens and had a chair and a generous slice of cake waiting for her. They did not succeed in getting her drunk, nor changing her mind about the copious amounts of public service each would be serving the following morning. But for the remainder of the night, bathed in firelight beneath the stars, she’d let her mask slip, allowing herself to enjoy their company not as their commander, but as an equally complicit member of the team.
The hand resting just above Oralia’s knee squeezed again. Around her, the dancing fire and star speckled sky faded away. Oralia found herself in a drab, musty smelling banquet hall once more. Her heart suddenly weighed twice what it did before. Her hand slipped under the table and threaded her fingers though Sascha’s as the heaviness threatened to bubble over. The warmth of his hand reminded her that no matter what, she would get through the evening in one piece. And then, after it was all said and done, she could drift asleep in the crook of his arm while he lamented over how badly Mul and Lingon cheated at drinking games.
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Gesticulating movement from the other end of the table caught her wandering attention. An elf, slender with blonde, feathered hair, waved a breadstick in the air. With one foot planted in her chair, she struck a heroic pose, enrapturing the rest of the gathering with an impractical tale of heroism. The logical inaccuracies of her account were wasted on the Adderwood attendees, who sat forward in their seats hanging on each word like dogs begging for scraps.
“–I’m outnumbered ten to one, but I can smell the fear wafting from their scurvy hides. So I says, ‘take another step at me, buckos, an’ the lot of ya will be walking the plank!’”
Oralia leaned closer to Rali. “Why is the Ellisar-stand-in talking like a pirate?”
Rali pushed a chunk of steamed carrot back and forth through a pool of congealed gravy with a sigh. “I thought it would make me feel better.”
Oralia’s heart sank a little more. The stand-ins for Ellisar and Snag had been a matter of practicality. So long as Geralt continued to receive reports that her faithful were working alongside her, he would have no reason to be looking for them in his own territory. Unlike Snag’s stand-in, the elf selected for Ellisar was practically identical in appearance. So much so, Oralia had begun to question if Ellisar had conveniently forgotten to mention the daughter she’d abandoned at birth.
An actress by trade, Kalihn was enthralling to watch as she dazzled starry-eyed audiences with farfetched yarns. Rali insisted she was entirely too likable to pass for the real thing.
Oralia asked Rali, “Did it?”
“Did it what?”
“Did it make you feel better?”
“No!” Rali dropped her fork with muffled clatter, gesturing with her hands while fighting to keep her voice above a harsh whisper. “It’s like they don’t even notice. Look at ‘em. They’re all fawning over her like she’s some la-di-da dandyess. It’s unnatural. Ellisar’s supposed to be off-putting. That’s her whole thing!”
Oralia debated whether or not to reach over and pat the top of the dwarf’s head in the most patronizing manner possible. It would lead to an altercation, possibly even missing fingers, but that seemed just the sort of distraction they both desperately needed. Before Oralia could lift her hand, Sascha leaned over her, murmuring, “Does anyone else notice the captain staring rather intently in our direction?”
Oralia’s stare darted across the clustered table, inadvertently locking eyes with Captain Bernstein. The dwarf captain hastily dropped his gaze into his cup, shoulders shrinking as his heavily bearded face reddened with embarrassment.
“I think he was looking at you, Rali,” Sascha said.
“Like chaos he was!” This disturbance came from the other side of Sascha. Oralia heard the telltale squeak of wooden chair legs as Mul leapt to his feet, slamming his fist to the table. “You ogling my Pickle, boyo?”
“I-uh,” Captain Bernstein stammered into his cup.
“What? You think she’s just some fine strip of meat you can rub your eyeballs all up and down without any respect for her say in the matter?”
“Dear gods, no. Of course not.”
“No?” Mul cocked his shaggy head to the side. “Why? My Pickle not pretty enough for you? I’ll have you know Rali’s as beautiful as a fresh picked daisy in moonlight. You do not merely ogle her beauty, you worship it! You fall on your knees and thank it for gracing your otherwise dim, colorless life with even a glimpse of perfection.”
“Mulberry Stoneclaw,” Oralia groaned, “sit down. You are drunk.”
“I’m drunk on love, boss,” he slurred, slumping back into his chair. “It can’t be helped. I’m not a man who bottles my feelings, you know.”
“A light stabbing might help with that!” Rali called from between the pair of hands she was desperately trying to disappear behind.
The whole table lurched as Mul leaned out across it, waggling his bushy eyebrows at her suggestively. “You can give me the ol’ thrust and jab whenever you like, Pickle. I’m no prude. Not like the Cap’n here.”
Rali was suddenly not the only dwarf at the table burying their face into their hands. Poor Captain Bernstein looked to be slowly melting lower and lower into his chair. At this rate, he’d be puddled across the floor by dessert.
“Forget prude,” Rali thundered. “You’re about to be a corpse, bucko!”
“Then you’d make me the happiest corpse alive!”
“You’d be dead!”
“Exactly. I’d die happy.”
It may not have been as grand as the summer solstice cake heist, but it was something. Oralia sat back and allowed the chaos to unfold as her team threw increasingly disturbing sentiments back and forth at one another. She watched the rest of the gathering, fighting the pleased smile that threatened to cross her carefully guarded face. Judging from the council’s horrified expressions, she and her team would not be asked to stay on after this. Such a shame.
Caught up in her euphoria, Oralia even accepted a bite from Sascha’s fork without thinking. The honey glazed yams melted on her tongue as she came to terms with the fact that it was quite possibly the best thing she had ever tasted. A sweet bite for a sweet moment, because without a doubt, this would be the last time she was ever asked to suffer through another honorary feast again.