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She had hoped for a quiet evening just outside the Inn, a few glasses of wine. The sudden downpour of rain had ruined that plan, with water coming down in sheets. Reluctantly, she moved inside and took a table in the corner of the Second Wind's greatroom. The air was begining to smell of the evening's meal, layered with a healthy dose of lilac and lemon. Not many folks in attendance this night, probably due to the weather, she mused.
Settled down with a glass of wine and a book, the latter was quickly forgotten as her mind drifted back to the conversation she had just had with the mercenary, Valten. A smile crept slowly over her features. There was a rare man; a mercenary who could think for himself. She had met her share of sellswords over the years, but few looked beyond their next job, nor had any moral qualms about them. Of course, she had to admit it didn't hurt his case that he was handsome.
Airathel had not failed to notice his actions during the undead attack either. He had not strayed far from her side. With a wry smile she concluded that she would have to thank him.
A few more sips of wine, and her mind wandered further back. Much further then she had intended, to her eventual dismay. The trappings of the Second Wind slowly faded away, replaced by a cage that she was none to excited to be revisiting.
"Shut yer mouth girl or catch 'da backside o' me hand." the man said, as he glared at her through the bars. His pock-marked face, perpetually red and puffy, leered at her.
"If you was jus' a little older, ol' Briate would show ya' what 'appens to girls 'ho talk to much." he taunted, making that whistling sound that she had grown to hate, as air rushed between a gap in his yellow teeth.
Airathel had heard this routine many times over the past month, but he had never made good on his threats, not a one. For some reason she could not fathom he had been instructed not to lay a hand on her, by the other man. The man in black.
If Airathel feared Briate, the man in black was terror incarnate. She knew what had happened to her village, even at eight years old, she knew. And now she was alone, except for these two horrible men. Briate drove the wagon she was in, brought her food, mocked and taunted her, and generally made her life miserable. More miserable, these things we're relative.
The man in black rarely visited. When he did, he was always polite, in sharp contrast to Briate. He even answered some of her questions.
"Where are you taking me?" she had asked on more then one occasion.
"I'm taking you to your new master." he always replied.
"I want to go home, where are my parents?" Airathel had only asked this question once, in the first two days after her capture.
"You're parents are both dead now. I expect they are being tortured in the afterlife, for their misguided faith." he had replied, as if it was the only logical explantion.
"Why did you hurt the people in my village?"
"Sinners, all of them. They may find redemption in the afterlife." came the smooth reply.
On and on it went. Airathel had no idea what the date was, or where they we're headed. Her wagon was always locked, the small compartment that was her life comprising of a shelf for a bed, a small table and a window which was always blacked out. She had beat her fists bloody and raw upon the door one day, to no avail. When the man in black had arrived that evening, he had calmy tended her wounds and left without comment.
After that she had given up trying to escape, and instead refused to speak. It had not gone well. Briate was furious that she would no longer rise to his jibes, and the man in black was not happy either.
"Your new master will be very cross if you loose your speech, my dear child." he had said.
Airathel had no idea why he cared, or why this master would either. But the man in black had battered down her defenses within a couple of days, using tricks that grown-ups always used on children. She hated even more for that.
Eventually the days grew colder, and the man in black brought her a warmer tunic to wear. She had long since given up trying to get useful information out of him, so she tried for something trival, instead.
"Are we going to the snow mountians, in the north?" she asked.
"No my dear, winter is upon us, nothing more." was his reply.
The spring festival had been only days prior to the attack. Counting on her fingers, she concluded it had been atleast five months, maybe seven.
Crestfallen, Airathel almost missed the first clue to her location since she had been captured. From outside, a stranger's voice could be heard, asking in a muffled and accented baritone.
"Tis a long ways to Berdusk yet, will ye make camp with us tonight here good sirs?"
Airathel had no idea where Berdusk was, but it was something.
"Miss, ah, miss, did ya be want'in some pork pie 'afore it's gone?" a woman asked.
The Second Wind came crashing in around her, a serving girl bobbing her head and grinning foolishly before her. After a moment to compose herself, she smiled up at the girl and replied.
"No, thank you. I have had my fill for the night."
Settled down with a glass of wine and a book, the latter was quickly forgotten as her mind drifted back to the conversation she had just had with the mercenary, Valten. A smile crept slowly over her features. There was a rare man; a mercenary who could think for himself. She had met her share of sellswords over the years, but few looked beyond their next job, nor had any moral qualms about them. Of course, she had to admit it didn't hurt his case that he was handsome.
Airathel had not failed to notice his actions during the undead attack either. He had not strayed far from her side. With a wry smile she concluded that she would have to thank him.
A few more sips of wine, and her mind wandered further back. Much further then she had intended, to her eventual dismay. The trappings of the Second Wind slowly faded away, replaced by a cage that she was none to excited to be revisiting.
"Shut yer mouth girl or catch 'da backside o' me hand." the man said, as he glared at her through the bars. His pock-marked face, perpetually red and puffy, leered at her.
"If you was jus' a little older, ol' Briate would show ya' what 'appens to girls 'ho talk to much." he taunted, making that whistling sound that she had grown to hate, as air rushed between a gap in his yellow teeth.
Airathel had heard this routine many times over the past month, but he had never made good on his threats, not a one. For some reason she could not fathom he had been instructed not to lay a hand on her, by the other man. The man in black.
If Airathel feared Briate, the man in black was terror incarnate. She knew what had happened to her village, even at eight years old, she knew. And now she was alone, except for these two horrible men. Briate drove the wagon she was in, brought her food, mocked and taunted her, and generally made her life miserable. More miserable, these things we're relative.
The man in black rarely visited. When he did, he was always polite, in sharp contrast to Briate. He even answered some of her questions.
"Where are you taking me?" she had asked on more then one occasion.
"I'm taking you to your new master." he always replied.
"I want to go home, where are my parents?" Airathel had only asked this question once, in the first two days after her capture.
"You're parents are both dead now. I expect they are being tortured in the afterlife, for their misguided faith." he had replied, as if it was the only logical explantion.
"Why did you hurt the people in my village?"
"Sinners, all of them. They may find redemption in the afterlife." came the smooth reply.
On and on it went. Airathel had no idea what the date was, or where they we're headed. Her wagon was always locked, the small compartment that was her life comprising of a shelf for a bed, a small table and a window which was always blacked out. She had beat her fists bloody and raw upon the door one day, to no avail. When the man in black had arrived that evening, he had calmy tended her wounds and left without comment.
After that she had given up trying to escape, and instead refused to speak. It had not gone well. Briate was furious that she would no longer rise to his jibes, and the man in black was not happy either.
"Your new master will be very cross if you loose your speech, my dear child." he had said.
Airathel had no idea why he cared, or why this master would either. But the man in black had battered down her defenses within a couple of days, using tricks that grown-ups always used on children. She hated even more for that.
Eventually the days grew colder, and the man in black brought her a warmer tunic to wear. She had long since given up trying to get useful information out of him, so she tried for something trival, instead.
"Are we going to the snow mountians, in the north?" she asked.
"No my dear, winter is upon us, nothing more." was his reply.
The spring festival had been only days prior to the attack. Counting on her fingers, she concluded it had been atleast five months, maybe seven.
Crestfallen, Airathel almost missed the first clue to her location since she had been captured. From outside, a stranger's voice could be heard, asking in a muffled and accented baritone.
"Tis a long ways to Berdusk yet, will ye make camp with us tonight here good sirs?"
Airathel had no idea where Berdusk was, but it was something.
"Miss, ah, miss, did ya be want'in some pork pie 'afore it's gone?" a woman asked.
The Second Wind came crashing in around her, a serving girl bobbing her head and grinning foolishly before her. After a moment to compose herself, she smiled up at the girl and replied.
"No, thank you. I have had my fill for the night."