Smile at her, dressed in scanty threads of black gossamer, bleeding and crying and spitting curses as she tries to rise. Her weapon, a bow of simple make, lies useless on the ground. Her broken fingers can no longer grasp them with the delicate grace she once possessed.
Used, torn, tossed aside; she struggles to get up and gather the shreds of her dignity.
Her name is Isobel. She is a huntress. She stalks her prey with the feral grace of beasts.
But she no longer has any grace; her lightning speed and feathery grace has gone, along with her virginity and broken fingers.
His name is Damon. He is an assassin. When an unknown woman paid him to deliver the huntress to her death, he had agreed. Now, he watches from shadow and fingers his crossbow and wonders of what might have been. Five bolts had brought her down. The butt of the weapon had smashed her slender digits. His lust had torn her apart and made her bleed.
"Curse you, assassin!" Isobel spat. She used her elbows to prop herself up and somehow rose, broken fingers dangling painfully. I will get to him, she thought venomously. No matter the cost. I will get him, and die with him. I will not live life haunted by such an indignity. I will wreak my vengeance. She took tottering steps toward the assassin, knowing in her heart that she could never kill him without wielding a weapon yet driven by an unspeakable desire.
"You put up a good fight, huntress." Damon smirked. The fight, if it could even be called a fight, had been quick. From the shadow he had sent five bolts into her back as she dispatched a zombie. "I bet you would be feisty in bed, too. A pity I was paid to kill you."
Isobel, leaning against the wall for support as pain rose and ebbed between her legs, stared at Damon.
"You dishonourable swine!" She shrieked, lunging at him and trying to wrap her broken fingers around his throat. The effort failed miserably. Damon heaved Isobel off and grasped her by the shoulders. He looked into her eyes, seeing only anger in their blue-green depths. Isobel looked back defiantly, seeing her own reflection in Damon's chocolate brown ones.
"Huntress," the assassin began carefully, as he swiftly hit the pressure points on her limbs and effectively paralyzed her. "I have a proposition." Isobel made as if to scream, but realized she should not waste precious energy when nobody could hear her. They were deep in a dungeon. So deep that even the zombies did not frequent the chamber they stood in. The solitary one she had killed had strayed from the upper levels. There was absolutely nothing there.
Eyes guarded, voice coolly nonchalant, the assassin continued. "Return with me to Morroc and I will let you live. My employer did not request proof of your death. She only wanted my word. I can give her my word, if you come back with me to Morroc."
Isobel stared at the assassin. Hatred welled in her heart and overflowed, taking the form of a rough curse. "I will never agree to that, you pig! I know what you want me for, and though you have received it today, you will never, ever receive it from me again!"
Damon laughed at her words. It was a full-bellied laugh, and it made Isobel cringe. The huntress raised her head, and gathering the last shreds of her dignity, spat at his feet.
When the assassin's laughter had subsided, he reached into his pack and brought out a red phial of potion. The healing liquid was first tipped into Isobel's mouth, and then smeared over her external wounds. Damon grinned as he watched her wounds close up, and her bruises fade. Her broken fingers rejoined themselves, but would take some time before they were fully functional as before.
"Come with me, huntress."
"I have a name," Isobel said icily.
"Pray, let us have how you wish to be called," Damon replied formally, mocking her last attempt at dignity. His sarcasm broke the huntress. Her shoulders sagged as she stepped away from him and bent down to pick up her bow.
"Forget it," she sighed wearily. "You may call me huntress."
"No," Damon insisted, surprising even himself. "Tell me your name."
Isobel slid the bow carefully over her head and positioned it across her chest before looking at the assassin. Why would her captor want her name? There was no logic in it. But she replied him anyway. "Isobel, huntress. Some call me the Wind."
"Fine name," Damon said. "I am Damon. They call me the Killer."
At this point, Isobel gasped. So he was the legendary Killer! Rumour had it that he never worked below a pay of three million zenys. What manner of person had ordered her death? Surely it had to be a powerful entity indeed to be able to hire the Killer just to take care of a huntress like herself.
"I thank you for your healing potion," Isobel told him, weighing her chances of survival carefully. "I will consent to travel back with you, but this arrangement is a short one. I will remain with you in Morroc for three days, and then I will leave." It seemed to be the most agreeable situation to her. Three days were not that long.
"Good enough." A week almost always guarantees me a woman, Damon thought. The smirk appeared on his face again as he began to descend into the dungeon. The deeper it got, the colder and more barren the tunnels were. And Damon knew that every dungeon close to Prontera was connected to its sewer system. Eventually, they emerged onto the streets of the city and began to walk to the nearest inn. The roads were packed with marketers, and merchants were positioned beside their carts, extolling their wares in a loud voice.
Isobel ignored the sights of the city. She was concentrating on Damon with every fiber of her mind. She did not intend to let him catch her off guard. But the assassin did not look as if he would backstab her. He was smiling, not smirking, and ever so often his eyes would dart over to hers and he would grin more widely. A stupid thought entered her head as he caught her eye for the fourth time.
Perhaps he is attracted to me, Isobel thought. Perhaps it was his attraction to me that saved me from death.
She had no idea how true her thoughts were.