"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
- Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride
"Don't ever give up, my son."
- James McCloud, Star Fox 64
Father, I've failed you.
The thought floating through Primrose's mind was the only thing that hurt more than the agonizing pain behind her left shoulder. She was crumpled on her side in the alley as snow slowly fell around her. The three shrouded men with crow markings were standing in a triangle looking down on her misery.
Her breathing was unsteady and labored, leaving shivering puffs of steam in the dark winter air as she exhaled. Her blood washed over the slippery cobblestones like bright red wings emerging from her shoulders before quickly turning black in the bitter cold. She'd been stabbed through the back of the heart in the sinister ambush and now nothing could stanch the flood of her approaching death.
"That's it for her. Stupid chicken stuck her neck out too far this time," the man with the crow tattoo on his right arm said without a single feeling of remorse.
"We'll make good use of her body," the man with the crow tattoo on his left arm murmured with ambiguity. Ruby droplets danced off the tip of the murderous dagger resting in his hand. It was still wet with Primrose's vital nectars when he returned it to a sheath resembling a pair of folded ebony wings on his belt.
"Indeed. Lady Odile always takes kindly to sweet morsels like this one," the man with the crow tattoo on his neck said in a scheming voice.
The cloaks of the three men swept around Primrose like black curtains closing at the end of a show. The steam rising out of her lips grew weak. She closed her eyes and peacefully drifted into a sleep from which she would never awaken.
It was midday in the marketplace and the streets were bustling with the sounds of carnival music and people cheering. A band of traveling minstrels was putting on a concert on the town's sunny open stage. The audience clapped in jubilation as they were drawn into the spectacle of mummers dressed as knights and dragons playing lively medleys on handwoven instruments.
And Primrose was the lead entertainer, a quaint obsidian gem surrounded in a sea of commotion. Her blackened hair shimmered like satin, while her choice in mascara and lip paint gave her the look of an alluring shade brought to life. The dark sequins of her skirt and brassiere twinkled like stars. Opal beads rattled over her bust and down her belly as she exerted herself in dance. She hypnotically swayed her hips and crossed her arms above her head in tune with the mummer players clashing their cymbals and plucking their lyres. The troupe's best booty wasn't what they kept locked in the chest on their wagon.
Primrose's presence on the stage was weightless and graceful like a swan's. Her dress flowed like majestic ocean ripples. Her glistening violet lips were almost always drawn in a coy and cryptic smile. Her eyes were mystifying. Beauteous. Otherworldly. Demonic. Possessed. Some of her gypsy jewelry would slide down her shoulder as she twirled enticingly through her routine, letting the audience catch a glimpse of an exotic tattoo styled as cluster of black feathers near her left shoulder blade. It hid the scar of an old battle wound.
Primrose's dance was always consistently beautiful, but her motives were different depending on when and where she was performing. At the very least, the personal charm she brought to the show always helped raise funds for the band. That was to say, she served as a lovely distraction so the more covert members of her group could duck between the rows of gathered masses and pick unsuspecting pockets. When the stakes were higher, her seductive tactics could buy enough time for assassins to swiftly come out of hiding with knives drawn and start opening the throats of any royals in attendance. It was a great way to crash a wedding or two.
But today's play was special. This was one of the occasions where Primrose got to be the one to plan, star in, and execute the entire scheme.
The minstrel band was reaching the final piece of their carnival medley. To punctuate the end of her dance, Primrose spun daintily on the toes of one foot and stopped with her arm outstretched lovingly toward all of her spectators. Their cheers became screams as a swarm of sharpened black feathers flew out from a magic aura in her palm like a thousand poisoned darts, instantly turning the celebration of life into a triumph of death.
Author's note: You thought I was joking when I said on my blog I was thinking about writing a story featuring Primeroast Arbyscrisp, didn't you?
Author's note 2: Is it just me or is Octopath Traveler kinda like a better written version of Odin Sphere?
Author's note 3: I guess she got an Azel in her Hart.
Author's note 4: Maybe she never really died and whatever the crow guys did to her didn't involve necromancy. Maybe her figurative "sleep" really was just actual sleep and now her old persona is in a utopian dream world in the depths of her own mind while her new persona gets to use her body 24/7. Maybe I turned Primrose into a medieval high fantasy version of Upgrade.