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Thresh stared at the sky as her breaths began to get more and more labored. Her throat was closing over miserably, and each grind of her tongue to the roof of her mouth felt like sand-paper stroking granite. The skies over Aquor as clouded as ever with imminent, perpetual snow threatening to blot out everything in white, even as her vision was turning black.
She heard voices, but they seemed too distant to be real right now. Gripping one sheet of parchment tightly in her bare hand, while Michael hovered over her. She wanted to slap him... not that anything had been his fault at the moment. She just felt like slapping someone, was all. She'd always been a little drow ever since she came to the surface, and it just felt like... he was there. He was male. And he needed to be slapped for forcing water down her throat.
Everything was spinning. And then Michael's concerned grimace disappeared behind a veil of blindness settling over her. A scuffle broke out, there were screams... she recognized that hooded fellow's voice. And that merchant she just bought this scroll from. Pieces began to fit together, but all too late came her voice in a raspy screech.
"The merchant did it."
But he was gone. The assassin disappeared, and Thresh was being dragged away in the arms of someone she couldn't place, her skin starting to turn splotched with red. It'd been Maverick Bell, trying to get her away from the fight she couldn't see, or get away from. But every inch she was dragged made everything in her ears spin, and the elf felt like she'd evacuate her stomach any second before being placed back down.
Conversation broke out beyond her senses, and all Thresh could think about were two things.
One... the definition of irony would hereby reflect this moment. Purchasing a scroll she'd needed to make River's wedding present. A present that, infact, was to help stem Thresh's fear that River would be poisoned.
Irony was kind of a bitch, as the elf understood it fully now. Maybe Hoar was aggravated by the elf. But she didn't consider that much longer as the hooded fellow by the fire knelt down and starting checking her over, confirming her fears she'd been poisoned in the span of those five seconds she'd gone without gloves, and the ten minutes she'd gone without her wards.
"Am I going to die?" The elf's voice was pathetic, and each syllable made her want to vomit.
"Everyone dies, one day. It's just how we go." was his response.
Thresh felt her brow knit. What a pathetically human thing to say. They seemed to embrace their short lives so hard, to the point of expecting death at any moment. What'd he know...
Well. Apparently he knew the antidote to her poison, as a foul root was thrust into her mouth, half-chewed and tasting of foul dirt, mint, and the spit of a man she suspected enjoyed tobacco far too often judging by the after-taste. Eyes refocusing on the aggravated assassin's assassin looming over her. On Maverick, suddenly smiling with relief. And Michael, still looking worried.
She hated the looks. It made her feel fragile, and worn out. She was no sheltered princess, quite opposite infact. She didn't want pitiful gazes, either. It reminded her of home, where other slaves quietly thanked the gods that they weren't the center-piece the elf was.
Well. For the human's lack of wisdom on death and folly, he'd at least fixed the girl beneath her. It was still hard keeping track of the conversation as she swallowed the root whole, but she heard something about Bhaal, and Mystra. Not that Thresh cared. She just wanted to murder a bastard that poisoned her, while simultaneously still holding the regret that she'd never get to see herself in a bridesmaid gown. Or in a wedding dress, at all, alongside Maine an Artemis, even if... the wedding would have been equally as humiliating, marrying two women out of the blue.
But it was all coming to rest in her head, as the hooded man gave them a parting nod and a few words that still vexed the elf, that the shadows keep them. Mask? Hoar? Who was it that haunted Bhaal worshiping, scum-sucking surfacers? It didn't matter... Thresh had learned her lesson. A balor attack. Vampires. Merchants trying to poison her. So far, everytime the elf had gotten distracted by social pursuits, too much to ask her to be left alone a few moments to ward, she'd been attacked and harmed grievously.
Faerun was a hell-hole. And somehow, it knew when she was vulnerable. As stupid as those words had been, she knew they were right. And she knew she didn't want to die like this. Or ever experience this again.
As the elf purchased a wooden cane to hobble through Aquor, with Michael flanking her, she repeated those same words to herself. This time in her own tongue. Just to see how the words felt. To see if the lilts and whines of the elven language made them seem prettier, or more wise.
"Aelamaela weala, ela wila. Ean'la quylaan irearm ama ve."
Her nose wrinkled, and her lips pursed. No... no, they still sounded stupid and human.
She heard voices, but they seemed too distant to be real right now. Gripping one sheet of parchment tightly in her bare hand, while Michael hovered over her. She wanted to slap him... not that anything had been his fault at the moment. She just felt like slapping someone, was all. She'd always been a little drow ever since she came to the surface, and it just felt like... he was there. He was male. And he needed to be slapped for forcing water down her throat.
Everything was spinning. And then Michael's concerned grimace disappeared behind a veil of blindness settling over her. A scuffle broke out, there were screams... she recognized that hooded fellow's voice. And that merchant she just bought this scroll from. Pieces began to fit together, but all too late came her voice in a raspy screech.
"The merchant did it."
But he was gone. The assassin disappeared, and Thresh was being dragged away in the arms of someone she couldn't place, her skin starting to turn splotched with red. It'd been Maverick Bell, trying to get her away from the fight she couldn't see, or get away from. But every inch she was dragged made everything in her ears spin, and the elf felt like she'd evacuate her stomach any second before being placed back down.
Conversation broke out beyond her senses, and all Thresh could think about were two things.
One... the definition of irony would hereby reflect this moment. Purchasing a scroll she'd needed to make River's wedding present. A present that, infact, was to help stem Thresh's fear that River would be poisoned.
Irony was kind of a bitch, as the elf understood it fully now. Maybe Hoar was aggravated by the elf. But she didn't consider that much longer as the hooded fellow by the fire knelt down and starting checking her over, confirming her fears she'd been poisoned in the span of those five seconds she'd gone without gloves, and the ten minutes she'd gone without her wards.
"Am I going to die?" The elf's voice was pathetic, and each syllable made her want to vomit.
"Everyone dies, one day. It's just how we go." was his response.
Thresh felt her brow knit. What a pathetically human thing to say. They seemed to embrace their short lives so hard, to the point of expecting death at any moment. What'd he know...
Well. Apparently he knew the antidote to her poison, as a foul root was thrust into her mouth, half-chewed and tasting of foul dirt, mint, and the spit of a man she suspected enjoyed tobacco far too often judging by the after-taste. Eyes refocusing on the aggravated assassin's assassin looming over her. On Maverick, suddenly smiling with relief. And Michael, still looking worried.
She hated the looks. It made her feel fragile, and worn out. She was no sheltered princess, quite opposite infact. She didn't want pitiful gazes, either. It reminded her of home, where other slaves quietly thanked the gods that they weren't the center-piece the elf was.
Well. For the human's lack of wisdom on death and folly, he'd at least fixed the girl beneath her. It was still hard keeping track of the conversation as she swallowed the root whole, but she heard something about Bhaal, and Mystra. Not that Thresh cared. She just wanted to murder a bastard that poisoned her, while simultaneously still holding the regret that she'd never get to see herself in a bridesmaid gown. Or in a wedding dress, at all, alongside Maine an Artemis, even if... the wedding would have been equally as humiliating, marrying two women out of the blue.
But it was all coming to rest in her head, as the hooded man gave them a parting nod and a few words that still vexed the elf, that the shadows keep them. Mask? Hoar? Who was it that haunted Bhaal worshiping, scum-sucking surfacers? It didn't matter... Thresh had learned her lesson. A balor attack. Vampires. Merchants trying to poison her. So far, everytime the elf had gotten distracted by social pursuits, too much to ask her to be left alone a few moments to ward, she'd been attacked and harmed grievously.
Faerun was a hell-hole. And somehow, it knew when she was vulnerable. As stupid as those words had been, she knew they were right. And she knew she didn't want to die like this. Or ever experience this again.
As the elf purchased a wooden cane to hobble through Aquor, with Michael flanking her, she repeated those same words to herself. This time in her own tongue. Just to see how the words felt. To see if the lilts and whines of the elven language made them seem prettier, or more wise.
"Aelamaela weala, ela wila. Ean'la quylaan irearm ama ve."
Her nose wrinkled, and her lips pursed. No... no, they still sounded stupid and human.