SINISTER MUSE
By Ursus Rhudar
CHAPTER ONE
~*****~
In the Bucket of Blood . . . the village inn of Champlain . . . shades of dusk stream through the few tiny windows offered by the inn's front tavern room. The room is alive with the sounds of banter and of laughter from the many patrons. The innkeeper, Levious, smiles slyly knowing the financial gains to be had at the end of the evening. He motions to one of young lasses, clad in a low-cut bodice, towards the candles. A buxom serving wench with a head full of long, brown curls ambles about the room lighting the wicks. As the wench passes a band of five rather inebriated and boisterous young woodcutters, one of the party's members abruptly grabs her about the waist.
"How's about a bit of passionate fire for me, Rosemerta," hisses the young, blond buck into the wench's ear. From this close proximity, she senses his heated breath on her neck and smells the sweet undertones of his spirituous indulgences. The men begin to goad their comrade with delectation as Rosemerta struggles to free herself from the intimate clutches of the buck.
"Keep a hold of that one, Ulric, she's a wild one," yells a somewhat brawny fellow companion. The band of men cackle roughly. And as Ulric is distracted by the jests of the men, Rosemerta takes the opportunity to bite him on the ear. He squawks in pain, while Rosemerta continues her onslaught with a resounding crack of her hand to his face. Ulric rubs the reddened cheek and his comrades continue to howl with laughter.
"Now why'd ya have to go and do a thing like that," winces Ulric, "I was just having a bit of fun." Rosemerta stares grimly at the group with her hands resting on her hips.
"Pigs ... the lot of ya," spits Rosemerta as she walks off to proceed with her previous task, disregarding the gibes of the woodcutters as she removes herself from their pleasure. Levious joins the table of woodcutters, rubbing his hands together, knowing full well another round of libations were in order for this group of roughens.
"More drams to console your young friend here, eh?" Levious urges the men and all in the party bark out an echo of consent. Levious bustles off to oblige their dissipation and he notes a lone, hooded figure sitting at one of the smaller, roughly-hewn wooden tables located in the corner of the tavern room.
All riotous sounds from the patrons appear to be oblivious to the individual as their hands cup a flagon of spirits. These hands were slight and the fingers were long. A large silver, signet ring with a crest in the shape of an oak tree . . . that is unknown to Levious . . . rested upon the index finger of the figure's left hand. This heightens his insatiable curiosity.
"You are a stranger to the village, are you not ..." queries Levious. He waits patiently, but little or no movement comes from the figure.
"What business brings you to our fair village ... or is it pleasure, kind stranger," he continues. The figure's hands shift the flagon lightly and as they tip it upward to drain its contents, Levious observes the soft, feminine features of the face from within the hooded crimson cloak. Wisps of jet-black hair peek out around the face and inexplicable grey eyes seem to stare into nothingness. One of the delicate hands wipes the curvaceous mouth with the back of its hand, while the other sets the flagon to rest on the table.
Levious' curiosity remaining unsatisfied; he decides to try another venue of questioning. "Erm . . . well, young lass . . . is there anything you wish of me or the services this inn has to offer," he asserts eagerly, as he spreads his arms wide and proceeds, "We have many amenities here." The grin of acquiesce in his oration would sicken the strongest constitution.
"I have no need of your so-called amenities ... but some information is required," emits a sensuous voice from the curvaceous lips. Levious eyes lit up with delight, for it is known throughout the village that he is the keeper of all the most interesting happenings.
"I would count myself . . ." he started, but one of the hands of the stranger lifted to indicate a lack of disinterest in whatever he may have said upon continuation.
A/N: work in process ... bear with me ... ty
By Ursus Rhudar
CHAPTER ONE
~*****~
In the Bucket of Blood . . . the village inn of Champlain . . . shades of dusk stream through the few tiny windows offered by the inn's front tavern room. The room is alive with the sounds of banter and of laughter from the many patrons. The innkeeper, Levious, smiles slyly knowing the financial gains to be had at the end of the evening. He motions to one of young lasses, clad in a low-cut bodice, towards the candles. A buxom serving wench with a head full of long, brown curls ambles about the room lighting the wicks. As the wench passes a band of five rather inebriated and boisterous young woodcutters, one of the party's members abruptly grabs her about the waist.
"How's about a bit of passionate fire for me, Rosemerta," hisses the young, blond buck into the wench's ear. From this close proximity, she senses his heated breath on her neck and smells the sweet undertones of his spirituous indulgences. The men begin to goad their comrade with delectation as Rosemerta struggles to free herself from the intimate clutches of the buck.
"Keep a hold of that one, Ulric, she's a wild one," yells a somewhat brawny fellow companion. The band of men cackle roughly. And as Ulric is distracted by the jests of the men, Rosemerta takes the opportunity to bite him on the ear. He squawks in pain, while Rosemerta continues her onslaught with a resounding crack of her hand to his face. Ulric rubs the reddened cheek and his comrades continue to howl with laughter.
"Now why'd ya have to go and do a thing like that," winces Ulric, "I was just having a bit of fun." Rosemerta stares grimly at the group with her hands resting on her hips.
"Pigs ... the lot of ya," spits Rosemerta as she walks off to proceed with her previous task, disregarding the gibes of the woodcutters as she removes herself from their pleasure. Levious joins the table of woodcutters, rubbing his hands together, knowing full well another round of libations were in order for this group of roughens.
"More drams to console your young friend here, eh?" Levious urges the men and all in the party bark out an echo of consent. Levious bustles off to oblige their dissipation and he notes a lone, hooded figure sitting at one of the smaller, roughly-hewn wooden tables located in the corner of the tavern room.
All riotous sounds from the patrons appear to be oblivious to the individual as their hands cup a flagon of spirits. These hands were slight and the fingers were long. A large silver, signet ring with a crest in the shape of an oak tree . . . that is unknown to Levious . . . rested upon the index finger of the figure's left hand. This heightens his insatiable curiosity.
"You are a stranger to the village, are you not ..." queries Levious. He waits patiently, but little or no movement comes from the figure.
"What business brings you to our fair village ... or is it pleasure, kind stranger," he continues. The figure's hands shift the flagon lightly and as they tip it upward to drain its contents, Levious observes the soft, feminine features of the face from within the hooded crimson cloak. Wisps of jet-black hair peek out around the face and inexplicable grey eyes seem to stare into nothingness. One of the delicate hands wipes the curvaceous mouth with the back of its hand, while the other sets the flagon to rest on the table.
Levious' curiosity remaining unsatisfied; he decides to try another venue of questioning. "Erm . . . well, young lass . . . is there anything you wish of me or the services this inn has to offer," he asserts eagerly, as he spreads his arms wide and proceeds, "We have many amenities here." The grin of acquiesce in his oration would sicken the strongest constitution.
"I have no need of your so-called amenities ... but some information is required," emits a sensuous voice from the curvaceous lips. Levious eyes lit up with delight, for it is known throughout the village that he is the keeper of all the most interesting happenings.
"I would count myself . . ." he started, but one of the hands of the stranger lifted to indicate a lack of disinterest in whatever he may have said upon continuation.
A/N: work in process ... bear with me ... ty