A/N: Forgive me all for the delay - work is an unpredictable bitch. I'll do my best to deliver the next one sooner.
XXV: Of the Living and the Dead (part one)
The dawn was cold and moist with dew. And so was she.
Rinsing the piece of cloth in the brook and wringing out the most of the water, Adele wiped it against her skin, wincing at the chill. Dreams of a bath were still there, but she had long mastered her skills at women's hygiene in field conditions, retrenching her needs to a private place, some liquid and a rag. Hot water that she had scooped with a mug back from the kettle over the fire was an added bonus, nothing more.
It was Grobnar who had relieved her from the watch, being the first to wake up, so Adele took what little private time she had to attend to herself before others got up. All in all, the cold water was good for at least one thing – it surely washed away any drowsiness.
All done, boots laced, clothes tied, jerkin buckled, Adele leaned against the boulder that served her as a screen and put the final touch by absentmindedly picking out her teeth with a piece of good-old sweet flag root she had from the Mere. In Neverwinter people used some kind of powder to clean their teeth, a bizarre mixture of chalk, coal and mint, but the only time she had tried it was more than enough, because it had left her mouth dry and tightened and her teeth – sickeningly peeled and grazed.
Trailing another tooth with a softened end of the root-piece, Adele wondered, in the back of her mind, why in the Hells people liked to complicate so simple things. At times like that she came pretty close to sharing Elanee's bewilderment – if not discontent - with the overly-civilized city.
Except for water-supply, - she corrected herself with a smirk, shivering unwittingly at the cold. - Running water is neat.
That was when she heard a bird. An actual bird, piping somewhere in the forest, with such simple selfless inspiration that Adele spent several minutes staring blankly into space and listening, until looked around to make sure she was in Duskwood still. That she was. Only Duskwood seemed to come back to some kind of its former life, now that the dryad and her craziness were gone.
So Adele found herself smiling when going back towards the cave, that smile not wavering even as she saw a familiar figure standing at the entrance, peering into distance. Somehow she wasn't for a tiniest bit surprised to find the ranger awake and ready – that just seemed like his most suitable and permanent state.
"Morning, handsome," she cooed, discovering herself dangerously close to actually meaning it. She had to admit that standing there, with his casual lazy ease, swathed in the sour mist of the forest as if it was his second cloak, he looked good. He looked… right. In his place.
Bishop didn't bother to look at her, gazing at the forest ahead, and only gave a quick wry smirk – an acknowledgement of her attempt to taunt him or a scoff of his own – then shook his head slightly. "You left the gnome on watch."
"Well, he has eyes, doesn't he?" Adele went on in the same treacly voice. "That means he can watch."
"He is a moron."
"My, and here I thought it takes more to scare you than a gnome," she teased, walking up to the cave, not really wishing to linger outside with him as the only company – but unable to deprive herself of the pleasure to jab further. "Slept well at least?" she asked and reached out to smother his cloak.
He was fast this time, intercepting her hand half-way, his fingertips instantly finding weak points between the thin bones in the back of her palm – and she hissed in the air in premonition of pain to come.
There came none.
"Don't go down that path this early in the morning, princess," he warned quietly, running his fingers over her knuckles as if testing the keys of a clavecin. "I'd hate feeling guilty for breaking such a pretty hand."
"You won't," Adele sniffed.
"Won't break?" his thumb flickered in a leisurely circle over the inner side of her palm, a little too firmly for it to be a caress… and a little too intentionally for it not to be one. "Or won't feel guilty?"
She inhaled slowly, deliberately, in exasperation and at the same time to give herself precious moments to calm down, and then, seeing a sudden loophole she could escape through, blew the air out at him, ruffling his hair. Bishop flinched away, freeing her hand.
"Fine," she shrugged with a smile. "Be a tousled sloven if you wish."
Another smirk curved his lip, a smirk that strangely suited his scowl, "Small wonder so much people want you dead." Her eyes narrowed at his words, but the ranger chose to stare again at the forest and went on in a totally business-like tone: "Speaking of. Three hours to Ember from here. About five, if we make it through the Grove to check those caves you wanted."
"Through the Grove, then," she replied. "It'll be faster."
That drew his glance, fleeting and derisive, "Now, how exactly is a wench thinking to come up with five hours being faster than three?"
"As in 'won't need to go to the Grove on our way back'."
"It's a fool errand, princess. No one can stay long in Duskwood without changing position every now and then. No one sane would even want to. At best you'll find a pile of freshly gnawed bones. At worst – a bunch of Malarites dancing around the fire and eating someone's insides."
"Uh-huh," she crossed her arms on her chest. "So it can't be just some harmless careful hermit who decided to live his quiet life of solitude here?"
"It goes into the first description, if you ask me," he sneered before she could answer and bowed his head markedly. "But of course you don't."
Somehow, but she managed to keep her smile in place as he brushed past her with unmistakable finality. Bishop had already made several steps away, deeper into the wood, when, much to her own surprise and without any particular reason, she said: "Heard a bird just now." He paused, not turning to her, but tilting his head expectantly, waiting for her to get to the point. Adele shrugged, even though he couldn't see the motion. "Guess, your deer would be coming back soon, too."
Still not facing her, he snorted: "I never bought any deer for them to become mine."
"…Oh, take a break, will you," she grouched.
"Will you?" he threw back, resuming his way.
After you, ranger. Only after you.
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the rustle of grass under his feet – the only indication of his steps – and took a sigh. They would go to the Grove. They would go anywhere else that held at least a possibility of the hint that'd help the investigation. Anywhere… as long as it could stall going to Ember itself.
If gods only knew how much I don't want to…
When had the gods ever done anything you wanted?
Never. The only one to do so was me…
The cave greeted her with Grobnar's voice. She wouldn't have been surprised to see him talking to himself, but this time it was Shandra who kept him company, sitting right on her bedroll, wrapped tightly into a blanket, half of her probably still in a dozy haze. Bishop's belongings were left thrown in the corner, which Karnwyr took full advantage of, rolling to his back and sprawling himself on the sleeping bag. That nearly adorable picture was a tad ruined by the usual 'just-you-dare' look he cast her, but after the previous night Adele had no wish to even come close to the wolf.
The fire had almost died, and even Grobnar's poking into the embers didn't help much – the chill sipped into the cave.
Damn, it's actually winter soon. Wonder if I'll live to see it.
"Good morning, miss Adele," Grobnar greeted her, silencing her contemplations. For that she was grateful.
"We've seen each other already, Grobnar," she smiled, nodding to Shandra, who blinked at her sleepily, also nodding and murmuring something unintelligible in response.
"Oh, I know that. But it is morning still," the gnome pointed out with his usual strange, but unarguable logic. "And it is still good." He grinned. "Besides, I can't know if, perhaps, something poignant had happened already in-between our meetings."
"…No, nothing," Adele chuckled, taking her place on a flat stone near the fire. "Got clean, heard a bird and… that's about all of my adventures for now."
"A bird? Really? Why, I haven't heard a single one during our whole way! What bird was it?"
"…Uhm…" she shrugged slowly, not knowing why it was of any importance, but anyway digging through her knowledge of the fowl, limited as it was to those inhabiting the swamp. "Well, it certainly wasn't an owl… or a snipe, or wagtail… Sounded pretty like the plover or millerbird, but I'm not sure," she shrugged again, this time apologetically. "And I can't come up with anything else."
"Hmm," Grobnar scratched his head, then got up to his feet and strode to the cave entrance. "Maybe I'll tell once I hear it myself…"
"…What was that about?" Shandra muttered, frowning.
"Beats me," Adele replied, looking into the gnome's back as he went into the morning. "Like most things about him, to be honest."
The other woman snorted quietly in return, rubbing her face and freeing herself from the blankets.
"The water's still warm," Adele nodded at the dixy on the fire. "Makes that brook more tolerable for washing."
"…In a minute, not right now," her last word drowned in a yawn, and Shandra clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, then shook her head. "Otherwise I'll fall asleep with my face first in the water."
Adele smirked and slid a bit away on her perch, giving Shandra some space. The farmer took a sit, still a bit groggily, stretching her hands towards the fire, and moved the shoulder of her sword-arm as if to banish some unpleasant feeling there.
"Hurts?"
"A little," Shandra winced. "You'd think years of field works saved me from strained muscles."
"The angle is different when you fight, the impact – too. More like diving rather than pressing," seeing Shandra's puzzled look, Adele chewed her lip trying to find better words, then flinched dismissively. "Just remind me to work that out with you during our next training."
"…Alright," the woman gave her an unsure smile, baffled. "For a moment you sounded like Grobnar."
She watched Shandra's profile for a second as the farmer poked the fire, then sighed. "There's one thing, also…" Shandra looked up at her again, but Adele took her turn to stare into the flames. "We are about to take a little side-trip, but then… Bishop said we'll reach Ember in several hours," the farmer didn't answer, and she slipped her fingers into her hair, rubbing her scalp, then dropped it, deciding that the straight track was the easiest. Or the quickest, at least. "If you are not sure you can go and see it all with your own eyes, then-"
"Look," Shandra's voice came unmistakably aggravated. "You don't need doing it."
"Doing what?" Adele blinked at her cross expression.
"Coddling me. I mean… I appreciate the concern and all, but I'm fine," her tone spoke the opposite, but Adele decided against pointing that out. "Won't fall apart, don't worry."
Wish I could state the same.
"…Okay, settled then," Adele nodded, then smiled wryly. "All the better for me. Less to think about," she handed Shandra her flask as a peace-offering.
The farmer took it, just a little too briskly, but Adele thought better than to press it, switching to ruffling the embers of their fire. Shandra's ill temper sometimes could only be matched with that of Qara, and she wanted neither of those.
"…I'm sorry," Shandra suddenly muttered, making her look back. The blonde woman was twiddling the flask, picking at it with her nail, but didn't meet her gaze. "I'm sorry I get mad all the time. It's just… I don't… I guess I just still can't wrap my head around it all."
"It's alright," Adele shrugged.
"No, it's not. And it's not only about… don't know…" she shut her eyes almost desperately. "Can't even explain, damn it. I'm not really good at getting along with people. Really. You probably don't understand, but… here you are, growing up in the middle of nowhere, and don't really get much company, and so get used to handling everything on your own, planning your whole life around seasons and crops and moons when it's time to plant or fertilize or gather harvest… and then all this starts happening!" she leaned a bit forward, drawing her knees closer, in unconscious wish to hug them or something - but didn't, grinding her teeth angrily at herself. "And I hate it, feeling lost and… because of it… so useless."
"…Well, trust me, were you completely useless, I would've found a reason to leave you on Duncan," Adele assured half-jokingly, at the same time eyeing her carefully, until Shandra chuckled dryly.
"That's… strangely comforting, you know."
"Sure," she grinned more confidently. "Besides, Duncan would have loved it."
"Oh, please," the woman shook her head, but at least opened her eyes. "Anyway, what I meant was… I'm sorry for before. For bitching on you… on everyone. I shouldn't have, I know."
"Hey, not the most self-possessed woman here, so… no harm done."
"Alright then, fresh start," she took a deep breath and extended to Adele her hand, which the woman shook with the same grin. "Shandra Jerro, pleasure to meet you."
"Adele Farlong, the pleasure is all mine."
"…And thanks for not holding it against me. I mean, I noticed that you didn't. And for not lording it over me. And don't say anything more!" she rounded hastily, seeing Adele opening her mouth again.
"…Good morning, you two weirdoes," Qara eyed them warily, coming up to the fire and, obviously not interested much in their answer, scooped some water from the kettle, heading outside and taking a gulp to rinse her mouth. Her weasel was already peeking out from under her collar, pushing his snoot between the girl's tousled red locks.
Her way was cut short by Grobnar, who burst back into the cave, beaming a delighted apology at the sorceress' angry yelp when he crashed into her, then skirted the girl to trot towards the fire.
"It's a nightingale, miss Adele," he exclaimed, both glad and reprimanding, probably thinking that anyone should recognize it. "A simple nightingale."
Adele shook her head, not getting at once what he was about, then remembered about the bird. "Oh. And here I thought it's called 'nightingale' 'cause it sings at night."
"Not necessary. Sometimes it sings even at daytime – whenever the mood hits it, really."
"…I see," she glanced at Shandra with faked sourness. "Damn, I'm hopeless as a romantic if I hadn't even recognized a nightingale."
"Pff, I wouldn't have recognized it either," the other woman snorted.
"Thought you grew up on a farm, with animals and birds."
"So? I would have recognized a chicken singing… Well, I'd be surprised out of my mind that it started singing, but I'd have recognized it."
"What does it mean to see a pear in your dream?" Neeshka suddenly gave voice, stretching on her bedroll.
"Oh, let's see," Grobnar answered readily. "Pears, pears… Have you seen it on their own, miss Neeshka? There's the thing really, that if you did, then it's one meaning, but if they were, for example, lying in a vase together with apples, then it's quite another pair of shoes… fruits… nevermind. Though my dreams were filled with giant wolves today, me too trying to guess what it could mean…"
"…Heh, don' tell me I'm the only one to feel he's jest mockin' us all the time," Khelgar grumbled from his place near the wall.
"That's 'cause you always feel that everyone around is mocking you," the tiefling rolled her eyes, mechanically pulling her legs to herself when Bishop entered and stepped over her, not taking the trouble of walking around.
With a slight smile Adele watched how within several moments their small camp started to move, packing up, bedrolls and blankets being fold, armour clanking as it was put on… Shandra went to the fire, again taking it upon herself to cook something quickly. Casavir, in his unrelenting politeness, wished everybody a fair morning, to which Bishop simply couldn't hold back an answer that the presence of a paladin does not necessarily makes the morning 'fair'. Casavir ignored him. As far as Adele noticed, he gave little to no damn about the ranger's baiting of him personally, just couldn't stand it when he started to insult others. Taking time before breakfast was ready, the paladin also went outside. Elanee followed him, as usually shadow-like, silent and practically unnoticeable. And for what must have been a countless time already Adele thought what they were even doing here…
"My dear?" the unmistakable nasal voice reached her, and she turned her head, looking at Sand who settled at her side. "If you don't mind, I had a thought or two about the case that I wanted to discuss."
She smiled, finding an odd comfort in his presence, in his ability to focus on truly important things despite everything.
Yes… That is what we are doing here, that is what I am doing here… Or should, at the very least.
"Gods bless you, Sand," Adele muttered.
The wizard stopped, her words probably putting him off the track. "…Beg your pardon? Did I happen to sneeze and not notice it?"
"…No, it's nothing."
"Ah, good. Was afraid my senility is catching up with me," he waved his hand. "Let us just talk it over quickly, so I can finally limber up after the reverie spent in the pose of even to me unknown rune…"
Werewolves…
Follow one direction the incompetent bitch pointed – and end up in a werewolves' lair.
Figures, Malin. Figures so much…
The disfigured, fur-grown runty body, pierced with arrows even before it could transform completely, slid down the wall it got thrown to, leaving a slick red smear on the stone. But the two-coloured wench hesitated yet, keeping her blade in the creature's throat, watching it closely, making sure it was dead.
Was that smart, at least.
Bishop eased his hold on the weapon, the shaft of an unused arrow shuffling quietly along the wood of the bow, and lowered it, though his fingers still itched to draw it again and shoot something else. Anything, really. But the dwarf, the druid and the witch had been left at the foot of the cliff, guarding the path while they made their way up to the cave. The others had gone inside to investigate, together with one of the gnome wenches, leaving the three of them together with the tiefling here, the second sister keeping them company.
"…Shit," the demon summarized, frowning at the corpse, keeping her distance – just in case – then snickered without any glee. "Well, I suppose, it was stupid to think two little unarmed gnomes can simply live here."
"Suppose," the half-breed echoed, wrenching her rapier free, not wincing when the blood from the gush flowed abundantly, then looked back at the two of them. Bishop met her eyes squarely, hard, hoping she would get how much strength it took him not to grab her neck and crash the windpipe like paper, squeeze it until she choked to death on her thrice-damned stubbornness. He hadn't missed the small victorious smile she had shot him after meeting the two gnomes, with their cursed insects and cursed stuttering – and it brought him no small pleasure seeing it being wiped off her bruised face as the runty bitch started muttering something about blood, not being able to resist, drooling and then…
…Hope the second one has her feast on the others.
The tiefling and the princess exchanged quick alarmed glances, realizing the same thing, and both took a sprint towards the cave. Bishop didn't follow, listening – if the werewolf was the winner, the ranger would have preferred to meet it here, where he wasn't at disadvantage of a narrow cavern. He would have suggested the women to do the same – but the rage sizzling just under his skin was too fresh to care for anyone's safety.
Glancing at Karnwyr, he saw the wolf sniffing the feet of the dead beast, memorizing the strange unfamiliar scent that turned out to be hostile, then snarling quietly and backing off, all his muscles still tense.
"Fuck it, boy," the ranger muttered, unsheathing his longsword, and slashed at the neck of the werewolf, only flinching a bit at the teeth-grazing scrape of the blade against the stone. Chopped off head rolled to the ground, blood-sheeted hair that used to be blond flaying around it, and Bishop kicked it bouncing down the slope. Karnwyr watched its fall, then stared up at the ranger, who answered with a sneer, bending down to pluck his arrows out of the beheaded corpse. "Better safe than sorry."
The movements, familiar and solely practical, were soothing enough.
I warned the bitch. I warned her it was a fool's errand. That no sane fucker would live here. But who's ever listening to Bishop? No one ever does.
No one. Ever.
His teeth gritted slowly behind his smirk.
Karnwyr let out a low growl, warning him, and Bishop turned his head in time to see the bunch piling out of the cave, followed by the smells from the inside, musk, fur and carrion. Of course, the paladin was the first, his face set in gloomy concern, eyes skimming around until got locked on the small decapitated body.
"What, did your babe turn out to be a werewolf too?" Bishop drawled.
"Let us not mock the dead," was the answer, solemn, grave, as always leaving a bitter taste, close to bile, in the ranger's throat. That taste got even worse when the holy cretin actually came up to the body and touched it briefly, muttering one of his prayers under breath.
"Hells, why don't you kiss her good-bye to the pile," he uttered in disgust, turning away, shifting his attention to the rest of the misfits. Their blasted leader still didn't meet his eyes, looking under her feet as she walked, followed by the farmwench and the tiefling, always the two faithful devoted maids to the glory of their uncrowned moss-reeking princess. The wizard seemed deep in himself again, even in his thoughtfulness brushing away something from his shoulder. The gnome jogged by his side, clenching some bag to his chest. Bishop recognized the collection of bugs that had belonged to the werewolves and grinned darkly. So we don't mock the dead, we rob them blind, eh? "Was it fruitful at least?" he asked aloud.
It was the wizard who answered. "Not particularly. Unless you find desiccated half-devoured remains an interesting item," he sighed, floating out of his contemplations, and winced at the sight of the body near the stone wall, then looked down his nose at Bishop. "Which I think you actually may."
"Don't dig yourself, elf," the ranger warned him softly.
"Oh, shut up, will you," the farmwench muttered, rubbing her neck and shoulder, measuring Bishop with a single short glare, then looked around at the rest. "No one got bitten or anything? Isn't it how you turn into a werewolf yourself?"
"Oh Hells," the tiefling groaned, checking herself quickly. "No, I'm fine."
The paladin had little to worry about, clad in metal and all, but it didn't escape Bishop how he shot a look at the princess, probably ready to lick her every wound clean if needed, poor pathetic sod. But the wench was unharmed, which she confirmed by a short smile, all softness and charming dimples, the smile that made Bishop's desire to throttle her stronger. It wasn't fake, it was empty, nothing, just a trained flex of necessary face-muscles. But the paladin bought it, of course he did – he was a bloody gentleman, after all, so when a woman said she was alright he had to believe her.
But you are all-wrong, princess… Something there in you is very-very wrong… - he thought, studying her face covered with a bruise some other wench would have had fits of hysterics about. Why, with such a pretty snoot. - Though it suits her. Makes her look even more monochrome.
"Is it possible for insects to turn into werewolves?" the gnome wondered, watching the bag in his hands, and frowned at the wizard who stood closest to him. "I mean, after all those talks about how they ate them when getting hungry…"
The elf stared down at him blankly, then shook his head. "You are seriously asking, aren't you?"
"Oh, no, no-no, don't bother, Master Sand," the gnome smiled and tapped himself on the temple. "Just figured out that the curse is supposed to pass through blood, but they don't have any – so that leaves them out, thankfully," he shivered, clutching the bag closer to him. "To think what these poor bugs have been through, why, within such a possession, it is a blessing that at least lycanthropy spares them."
"…Indeed," the wizard murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose almost furiously, like it could purge the mad runt from his mind.
"My word is that we kill the shortie," Bishop smirked at the gnome. "Who knows, maybe it's a racial trait to turn into murderous freaks."
"Says the guy who is so good with wolves," the princess muttered suddenly, making the tiefling chuckle.
"And it speaks!" Bishop sneered at her, knowing that this time she wouldn't avert her eyes. Not with everyone around. He could swear that for a moment her lips twitched to return his sneer, but she reigned in her anger or whatever it was swirling in those still waters. "So, my lady, what other harmless careful hermits you wish to visit today?"
Any answer she wanted to spurt out was silenced by the sound of heavy harried footsteps accompanied by the brandishing of armour as the dwarf sprang up the hill, limping gravely, but with his axe at ready, reddened face wet, eyes bulged out.
"By Tyr's arse, what's happenin' here?" he roared through haggard breathing, looking around wildly.
"…Already nothing," the tiefling shrugged. "What's gotten into you?"
"What's gotten inta me? What's gotten onto me is a better question! A chopped off head! Right from above an' on yours truly!" he poked a stubby finger at the demon, ignoring her doubling in laughter. "I may be an' ol' crazy dwarf, but heads don't fly without battle! So shut up an' tell me what happened!" he trailed off, taking a deep breath, and clutched at his heart.
"Easy, Stumpy," the tiefling wrapped her arm around his neck to press his face into her stomach, still shaking with giggles, and stole a glance at Bishop, guessing the severed head was his doing. He smirked, amused despite himself.
"There is nothing to worry about anymore, my friend," the paladin calmed him, even his face looking like he was holding back a smile. "The two gnomes living here appeared to be werewolves, but that is no longer a threat."
"Werewolves," the dwarf repeated, his voice muffled against the demon, then backed off to glare at the princess, who was grinning in honest now. "Ya jest can't go anywhere without catchin' shit on yer boots, eh?"
"No, she can't," Bishop drawled.
"But in our defense," the gnome put in, "they both looked perfectly harmless and friendly. Even suggested I stayed with them! Oh…" he blinked, realization of his possible future dawning upon him. "…Ah… Oh, my."
"Let's just leave, huh?" the farmwench rubbed her forehead, stifling a laugh.
The dwarf grunted, disentangling himself from the tiefling. "Alright, but I'm watchin' ya all from now on," he grumbled, limping back down the path.
"How's your leg, you watcher?" the princess chuckled.
"Bah, leg. Was better a minute before," he measured her with another furious and concerned gaze. Oh, but how they all adore her. "But if they were that friendly, why they attacked at all?"
"Smelled the blood," Bishop murmured, his smirk widening at almost palpable wave of irritation that flowed off his leader.
"What?" the dwarf stopped dead in his tracks, eyeing his damned comrades. "But no one's bleedin'."
"I am," the princess deadpanned.
"Eh?" he stared at her, uncomprehending – but then his jaw fell down, and he nearly jumped away, waving his hands. "Ya mean…? Bah, ya keep away from me with all ya women's things."
"Hey!" the tiefling squeaked, insulted for her friend and for the entire womankind.
"What 'hey'? It's scary! It's scary that a creature can bleed for several days an' doesn' die!"
Bishop nearly caught his foot over a stone, barking a laugh, if not at the words then at least at the mortified look on the paladin's face.
"You see, sir Khelgar," the gnome chirped happily, "it's because-"
"No! I don' wanna know! Jest let's go already!"
With that he stomped off, tailed by the prattling gnome, the infuriated demon and the rest of the morons. Bishop paused, turning to the princess, and made a wide gesture, inviting her to come first.
Oh, if the looks could kill… If they could, his battered dismembered body would have already been falling into the nearest chasm.
"Pleased with yourself?" she drawled icily, passing him by.
"Very much," he chuckled, walking behind her, keeping his eyes on the back of her head, several tresses of hair broken loose from her fillet and brushing the collar. She had so much of hair, really, it was a wonder her neck hadn't snapped and her head hadn't fall off from the weight. "Be happy that I am, princess, otherwise I'd've killed you for dragging me here."
She didn't turn, but threw her hands up. "Yes, you were right, Bishop won, free booze and prostitutes for everyone."
"Promise?"
A hissing sigh was the only answer. Her fingers came up to catch the unruly locks, tucking them behind her pointy ears – and too late Bishop caught himself following the moves, his own fingers suddenly prickling at the memory of that hair in his grasp, nothing near soft or silken, and wondered what it would look like when left loose wholly, all the heavy wild thatch…
Though the colouring is still stupid, - he smirked. – Wonder if the carpet matches the braids…
He would have asked, simply for the sake of feeling her fury – but it was too late, they had already reached the bottom of the path, caught up with others, even the fish-blooded druidess (sure, glancing at him, too dangerously close to her precious marsh-star) and the red-head (rolling her eyes at their half-snickering half-mad bunch and saying that, no, she didn't want to know what happened) – so he remained silent. As much as he enjoyed scraping her dignity - not here, not like this, with her retinue here to shield her. He would wait for her to be alone, to come to him alone. And she would. She had to at some point, wouldn't be able to resist – divide and conquer, after all.
So he just smirked at her cold cross smile when she told him to lead the way – and led, Karnwyr padding at his side, his strides long enough to carry him way ahead, leaving the rest trampling behind, his gaze already fixed on the opening that was soon to appear between the trees. The opening where Duskwood ended…
…and Luskan grounds began.
Just another road, another crossing of the border, another burnt down village.
Funny, how they all looked the same after seeing several, how it didn't bring a single feeling up anymore, all memories distant, faded, all locked up skeletons long ago rotten to dust, tasteless, boring…
Hooding his eyes, Bishop sniffed the air, allowing the sounds of voices melt in the rustle of the wood.
He only hoped the corpses would not be too disfigured. He remembered well enough the little dark-haired beggar to recognize him among the bodies. And he fully intended to fetch his knife back…