It's her eyes that first catch his attention. Bright and vibrant in her dark face.
A new assistant. She grins and it is a predator's smile.
But she knows what she is doing and has little qualms about killing just about anyone in her way to get to her goal.
Ventrinio sighs, glancing over his notes again. They had enough prismere to fuel the Well…
The Almain walks by, moving through the shadows as if she is one herself. Those dark eyes flicker to him, he knows it. He can feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and blood-hungry.
"Don't you have other things to do than to harass me?" he asks. He sees her smirk and she glides away, vanishing down the tunnel, further into the Tower.
The babe smiles, all innocence and wide-eyed charm.
"She will be a strong fighter," the Fateweaver says, but her eyes are sad as she looks at the infant.
"What is it?" the baby's mother asks.
"She will die at the hands of the Tuatha, fighting for a cause like so many others," the Fateweaver says.
The father nods, a short jerk of his head. "Such is the way of life."
"Indeed," the Fateweaver says.
"Thank you for the reading," the mother says, "even if it was not a good one."
The Fateweaver leaves the camp, wondering over the child's fate. It had not ended in the tapestry as other mortal lives had…
She brushes the odd thought off and moves on. There are other fates to read, to tell; the child's own fate would resolve itself in time…
The tavern is crowded and the back table is no different. The job had paid well enough and a mercenary group is celebrating.
The barmaid catches the eyes of one of the Almain women. The mercenary is red haired and her eyes are bright stars in her face.
The maid blushes when she realizes she has been staring. She looks away quickly and ducks back behind the bar to clean a few tankards. Maybe the group will have left when she is done…
She glances around the tavern half an hour later…and sighs. No such luck. The group is still there. But the woman was…gone?
"Looking for me?" a smooth voice purrs and she nearly jumps.
"Um…er…," the maid stutters, staring into red-brown eyes. An easy smile crosses rose-colored lips.
"Relax," she says. "You were staring earlier. Why?"
"…you're really pretty—" the maid blurts out then covers her mouth with both hands as if trying to force the words back into her throat.
The Almain woman laughs and it is a sweet and lovely sound.
"Thank you for the compliment," the mercenary says. "I think that you are rather pretty as well."
"Thanks!" the maid manages.
The woman leans against the bar. "You free later?"
"Yes! I mean…yes."
The woman smiles, lifting one of the maid's hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it. The maid nearly faints.
"Excellent."
The mercenary group is gone. Well, down to one woman. And she fights like a demon. Blades slashing, sending bodies to the ground and blood splatters the earth.
Cydan watches, his keen grey eyes following the woman's movement. She has a strong hatred of the Tuatha…
She would make a good recruit for Alyn's group, he thinks. Below his hiding place, the woman drops to her knees as the last Tuatha falls and she screams.
Cydan winces. He had come upon the site too late to be of any help. Death was an ending for the mortals, their spirits passing beyond the Great Cycle unlike the Fae.
He wonders briefly if he should help her, then dismisses the idea. She would attack him in her grief and rage perhaps and he would rather avoid a conflict. He would pass her description on to Alyn.
She could handle it from there.
The young woman is still and her chest doesn't rise.
Encel notes the pale golden markings that curl around her eyes and over her brow. His quill scribbles the details on his parchment. Callused hands, strong muscles in the arms, red hair, red-brown eyes, dark brown skin…
Hughes always wants details written on each specimen put through the Well.
"Well," Guran says, raising the cart to dump the corpse down the shaft. "That's it for you, better luck next time."
The body vanishes into the darkness…
And the Fateless One is reborn.