Devil and Candlemaker

"Everyone knows about heroes, adventurers, nobles; people that matter. No one remembers the name of those shunned, or their descendants. Especially when their crimes were severe enough to sell them to Melromarc's enemies. Don't worry, though. Master has only one directive for me: serve the Shield Hero, kill any that wish him harm." F/F romance, slavery, dark themes.

All warnings placed in chapter 1 are in place for the duration of the story. I won't bog this down by placing anything more than chapter-specific warnings here.

Chapter Two—Hunters in turn

8-8

Sun is set as I clamber up a tree. The world out here is mad. Ridiculous, truly. Red balls like Hope dot the landscape, eager to take a bite out of me the second I drop my guard, though easy enough to run from. The trouble is, I have only a dagger and she's buried in my rucksack—which I couldn't put down, given the state of my dress.

I should be safe up here, right?

Fishing out my sewing needle, thread, and strips of cloth, I disrobe and get down to it. I'm out of the city and well away from it at this point, having run as fast and as far as I can through the woods nearest the road.

Trouble is, I have no map, no clue where Melromarc is, or even how to get out of Siltvelt. Still, a country ought have borders in all directions. Surely each route is as likely to take me there.

No town in this kingdom would welcome me. Demi-Human supremacy being as widespread as it is. Stopping to ask for directions is pointless, then. Though I have no food, and nothing save a dagger, there's no choice but to hunt as I go. Hunt what, I know not. Something edible.

I'll need to make money, but not in this country. There's no chance I'll make a fair wage, let alone a living. Doubly so if word gets out there's an escaped slave. Whatever this pendant is, I doubt it'll do anything to aid me in escaping soldiers.

With one last stitch, I burn the thread and clean my dress via spell, hanging it on the branch to air out and quickly set about putting my things away. I need to mask my scent. If they come looking, they'll never miss my stench as is—with me running all day and all.

I cast the cleaning spell on myself and quickly don my dress. Grab my rucksack, slip it onto my shoulders, and I move. Round the trunk, onto a higher branch that leads to another tree—looks like that branch might support my weight well enough.

From one branch to another, to another tree, to another. I keep moving. I don't know how well their sense of smell could track me, but up here the chances are at least slimmer—lest they have some feline-type tracker.

Over the next hour I traverse a dozen trees, never once touching the ground. Am I safe now? I know not.

My legs give out. I land hard on a branch, quaking my world as it all comes crashing down.

"She's in the trees!" Words pierce me clean through. Of course they've already found me. As if there was ever a chance I'd ever make it. Twigs snap, voices call out. Words harsh in the thick of darkness.

"Not here! Spread out, find her!" Lumbering footsteps come my way, but one pair. They spread out? Why? Is my scent that hard to track just now? Does my grooming spell aid me more than I rightly hoped?

I fish out my dagger, readying to defend myself to my last breath. Master's will is clear, I am not to allow myself to die. No matter the odds.

On my bough, hidden in night's cloak, I curl up into a ball around my rucksack, dagger in hand. I know not what a level three can hope to accomplish against the dozens of voices I hear. Somehow, peace doesn't abandon me. With death all but assured, what is there to fret over?

I've had a good run.

8-8

Birds chirp. Soft wind caresses my face. Sun's warmth and light filter down. What happened? I must have fallen asleep, but surely they should have found me.

My eyes flutter open. Through the thick foliage, there's little to gleam about my surroundings. Confused, I listen out. No shouting, no voices, no heavy footsteps. Only the continued songs of birds I dare not identify.

First encounter, survived. Only, now what? They know the direction I travel in, and my natural scent to boot. I have little knowledge of where to go, save the road. Should I stay here for a few days, let my trail go cold? I could spend it levelling up—always a good thing.

However, I was told I have two weeks, maybe. It doesn't seem likely they'd put in too much effort for a stray slave, not unless there was more at stake. I'm not important enough for the soldiers to get involved beyond me drawing attention to myself. Given the lord that bought me from Master had to consent to setting me free, it's unlikely he'd put a bounty on my head.

My tummy gurgles and whinges, singing the blues about my current lack of breakfast.

I have no money, so staying in this country longer than needed is bad. Staying still will cost my life—moving will cost my life. Always given the short straw; nothing new there.

So, I need to keep moving. I don't know where I'm going, so keep in sight of the road. Keep to the trees as much as possible, regularly purge my scent, and hunt. I need coin, information, food, and better weapons—armour too.

Sigh. Staying alive is going to be a pain.

8-8

The road. It clearly leads somewhere important. There's no way Siltvelt would pay to build, let alone maintain, a cobblestone road wide enough for two carriages side-by-side with room to spare, that leads nowhere. As an added bonus, it's unlikely the stronger monsters would be allowed to lurk so near a vital transport network; given Beastmen and Demi-Human soldiers patrol up and down this stretch on armoured filolials, I'd say it's a safe bet. Curious though, Siltvelt soldiers do not have a uniform colour for their oversized chicken dinners.

Hmm. The patrols. This is the sixth patrol I've spotted today alone, none comprising of less than eight souls. The merchant caravans are so at ease here that the spotters—or at least the drivers—seem less leery of the shadows among the trees. They'll react poorly to sudden noises or sudden dips in the bird chatter, I'm sure, but as is, it should be fairly easy to move about unnoticed, should I keep my distance.

Well, nothing to do but keep going.

I walk ahead, my pace slow and steady as I make my way from branch to branch. It's slow going, to say the least, but this is apt to be my safest route. Well, safe enough, given I'm high enough that falling will at least break a few bones. One form of certain death isn't any different from another, so I don't bother worrying about it.

Chirping continues unabated, no matter how much time passes. A good thing, by my estimation. It's when the birds feel unsafe, that's when one should worry.

Time traipses along. Processions of carts and wagons traipse about to the tok-tok-tokking of draught animals—I dare not guess which from my vantage point. The sad truth of being able to clearly see the road, is that those on the road can also clearly see me. Keeping out of line of sight is thus needful.

I've not dared hunt just yet, and likely won't today if I can help it. No, it's better to not eat today, if it means keeping the soldiers off my scent and trail just now. Especially with how heavy armed traffic is down there.

Silence.

I move up against a tree trunk, back against the bark and dagger in hand. I don't know what's going on, but the only sounds now are the groaning of wagon wheels; not even from the draught animals.

The wheels fall still. They didn't move out of hearing distance; merely grinding to a halt. Something's going on. What? I dare not say. Well. Now's a good a time as any to get some rest.

Sliding down onto my butt, I sit and I wait. Something is bound to happen at some point.

8-8

"Whoaaaaaaaaa." A voice calls out in the distance. Male, deep, heavyset. Wheels groan to a halt. "We make camp here." The sun is low on the horizon, so that makes sense. Can I at all use this to my advantage? If those that hunt me cannot seem to find me, then…?

Sorrow! Are you out of your mind? Thieving? Is this what you've—

My tummy groans and whinges, silencing my conscience. It's been three days since I've eaten. I call up my stats, finding my MP hasn't ticked up once in the last six hours. At this rate, I can perhaps drink for another day, if I don't use the cleaning spell. So MP only regenerates if I'm properly fed, noted—it would have been nice if I'd been warned of as much. At this rate, there's little doubt in my mind I'll not last the week—whether by malnutrition, lethargy, or easy prey to the many hunters of these woods, the end result remains the same.

Crying. Not of a beast or monster. That's a baby.

"There there, Midi." The cry eases back to a grumpy whimper, a sniffled sigh. Silence. "There there."

I skulk closer, peering down at the group. Their wagons, three in all, are pulled off the road and facing away from the city I just left behind. Twelve adults, mostly men. The one baby I can see is swathed, their head is up against mama's breast.

Demi-Humans, the lot of them. Wolfmen, judging by the ears and tails. Shit, they'd smell me for sure, and that's if they don't already hear me. No go, then.

I move right along, taking the lower branch every chance I get. I need to hunt, or I'll be useless.

8-8

A rabbit hops into my view. It eases back onto its haunches, its nose and whiskers twitching as its ears twist this way and that. There's no way for me to get close enough to kill it, unless it's willing to put up a fight. There's a chance, but it's unlikely, given the nature of survival instincts.

Looks to be bipedal, dark grey fur. Buck teeth, long ears. Maybe it'd reach my knee, so pretty small and likely fast for it. Level four—stronger than me, great.

If it feels it stands a chance, I'm that much more likely to get in close. Whether I'll live to tell the tale remains to be seen.

I ease down from the branch, entering the clearing with the rabbit. It turns to me, red eyes zoned in, ears pointing at me. It backs up, clearly ready to attack.

Dagger in hand, poised to strike. Come on, dinner, come to mama.

It pounces, claws extended and fangs poking out beside its buck teeth. Dagger its tip into the target's chest, using both my forward jump and supper's. Blood sprays from the wound, but even more annoying is how the little shit still bites my forearm and its claws find purchase on my neck.

Dagger pushes deeper into my hopping stew's chest, pushing it back. The bite loses its vigour—perhaps from the pain, natural instinct, or life fading from its eye, I care not.

When the claws finally retract, the pain it inflicted eases. Though I bleed, I'm alive and it is not. You'll make for a most filling meal, thank you.

8-8

HP: 10/25

MP: 0/36

Fucking bleeding took more out of me than that stupid attack. I got desperate when it hit single digits, so I used the last of my MP for a simple healing spell—gained just one HP, but I stopped bleeding, so it's a win.

Trouble is, I have no MP to cook the meats. Can't gain MP without eating, I presume. Sigh. That means making a fire without having fire or having any experience in starting them without MP. Lovely.

Sigh.

Eating raw meat is a bad idea. Food poisoning is only the beginning of the plausible troubles, and I'd rather not tempt fate for the greater risks beyond that.

Still. The rabbit's been gutted, skinned, and cleaned. That's something I can do well enough.

My troubles are made even worse, hearing those people talking in the distance. The same caravan of wolfmen. I can't trade my meat for fire—tempting though that is. They're merchants, so they'll just worm their way into a better deal, regardless if they'll need the fire.

Ooh!

I grab the pelt and the meats, walking towards the group and keeping me footfalls as calm and audible as possible. Stopping at the edge of their clearing, I clear my throat. All eyes are on me.

"Finally caught something worth eating, but I need a fire." My words tick the eyebrow of the man nearest me upwards—is that because he hadn't expected me to waltz in, or is my Shieldfreedonian accent off? "You're merchants. Trade you the use of your fire for the pelt?"

A chuckle, breathy and clearly caught off guard. Soon the whole camp is filled with laughter, annoying the mother because her baby just fell asleep.

"Throw in the bones and I'll offer two small silvers. The liver gets you a pint."

8-8

Flagon upends, pouring the last of the lukewarm piss they call ale. Between the roasted rabbit and this, my tummy is far less likely to bitch and moan, so I'm good.

Curiously, the man I traded with is boiling the bone in a pot full of river water. Not the 'safe to drink' kind either. He doesn't seem much bothered that I study him—whether that's because of my dress, my gender, or that I'm clearly not here to start trouble. Either way, I won't upset this group lightly.

A burp jumps up from nowhere. I cover my mouth, apologizing profusely.

"Sounds like someone ain't had a bite in a bit." Most everyone is fast asleep, save this one. Someone to keep watch, I suppose. A sound idea and perhaps something I could use. Still, I can't take the risk.

"I'll be off. If I catch another one, don't be surprised if I come back." He hasn't said a word about my accent being weird. Best stick with it, then.

"Looking forward to it."

I walk off into the night, and jump up onto the first branch I encounter.

8-8

My eyes flutter open. Birds chirp, the usual cacophony of life surrounds me. Curious, I check my stats. HP is back to full, MP as well. I sigh, relieved. Raw and tense though I feel, I live. It's not perfect, but it's reality.

I spend most of the day travelling much nearer the ground than days passed, hoping to find more of those rabbits, or just easy kills. I'll not last long if I constantly teeter between starvation and bleeding out.

There's a clearing filled with dozens, if not hundreds of those little balls—like Hope. Sad as it is, should be simple enough to kill a few around the edges.

Working my way down, I drop around the periphery. Two of the monsters spot me and come looking for a bite—they get only the tip of my dagger and pop. Curiously, none else have noticed. I take my time, gathering the remnants and stuffing them into my rucksack—will need a separate pouch for this eventually, especially when considering messier items like vital organs. Hmm, maybe two pouches then.

Either way, I skulk towards another small group, but they don't seem to notice me. Hmm. Looking around, there are more than a few pebbles about the place. I pick one up and pelt it at the nearest of the bunch, instantly getting its attention. Good.

8-8

Head tilts back, mouth hangs open, and thumb poised to be sucked on. I cast the water conjuring spells, getting a steady trickle of clean, cool water. Mouthful after mouthful, I gulp it all down.

It's been nearly a week since leaving the capital. No idea how close I am to the border. No idea what the border even looks like. Will there be a security checkpoint? It's likely, but wouldn't that mean I can simply walk around it?

I hate not knowing these things. And it's not like I can ask in a subtle enough manner to not rouse suspicion. Unless, hey, you wouldn't happen to know a way to sneak passed all those guards, would you, is a common conversational topic. There's likely a toll as well, though my pendant seems to exempt me? Those people at the gate…they had to pay, while I didn't.

Sigh. So much I don't know. Not leaving the estate might end up costing me, though frankly it's due in no small part to my training there that I yet live.

My campfire crackles, as if to tell the encroaching darkness to bring it. The rabbit skewers sizzle, the pelts and bones and livers lay on a clean rock, out of the way. The traffic, sparse though it is, doesn't bother with me. The soldiers don't bother with me. They see me and just keep on going. Is it because they don't recognize me? Because they haven't gotten word? I don't know, but they leave me be just the same—not that I'm not ready to bolt the second they get too close.

I just need to finish cooking this, and I'm gone.

Wheels groan. Three filolial-drawn wagons pull into my clearing. A familiar face waves with a warm smile. "Fancy meeting you here, honoured customer. Haven't seen you in days."

"Yo." I wave back, my accent already in place. I'd been practicing to match those traders Master sometimes invited to the estate for meetings—if the more crass bodyguards thereof. "Got more pelts, livers, and bones."

The man throws back his head as a belting laughter erupts. "That you do!" The group pile out of their wagons, in no way worried about me. They set up their tents, their bedding, everything centred on my fire.

"You know I'm charging you rent."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." The man chortles, shaking his head with a wicked grin. He walks over to the pelts, checking the merchandise. He should be calculating how much it's worth—four rabbits' worth, so we should be in the range of eight small silvers. That means he'll think of a way to minimize the cost. "Hmm. Yes, this will work."

"Eight small silvers for the lot."

Laughter is his only response. Uh huh, he's already coming up with a counter offer. "Could I interest you in my wares instead? A lovely lady like yourself could benefit from simple armours. Perhaps some gloves to protect your hands?"

"Lost every last copper in the capital, so you're out of luck." If only, but I sigh explosively just the same. "Still say he cheated."

"You don't say." The man seems nonplussed, but his smile comes back all too soon. "Well. In that case, how about a straight goods trade? Eight small silvers should get you a new outfit, if not a particularly opulent one. But I don't do buybacks."

"Fair enough. What about a simple weapon? Something with reach, preferred."

"Don't sell those." He holds up his hands, as if to tell me to take it easy. "Best I can offer for the price is a bo staff, but that means no outfit."

Hmm. "How much for the bo staff?"

"With a discount for the fire," he smiles, "two small silvers. The price range I have in mind for the outfit puts you at eight, and we don't carry cheaper quality than that." Honestly, at that price it'd be little better than another dress. Still, better than only having this.

"Lemme see what's on offer first."

8-8

The dress, forest green, is several sizes too large. Same for the gloves. He does have a pair of travelling boots in my size, though, so there's that. They do almost nothing for physical or magical protection, not even slight resists. Still, they're clean and new. Not to mention Shieldfreedonian fashion—so I must be doing the accent well enough. It'll do.

"Alright. The gloves, boots, dress, and the bo staff. For the materials and two small silvers?" My words summon the biggest grin on his face I've yet seen.

"Deal!"

I toss him the same two silvers I got last time, and he tosses me the bo staff. I pack it all into my rucksack, grab my skewers with meats, and head right out.

"Aw, come on," one of the other men gripes. "Join us for a drink. On the house."

"Gotta take in my seams, so no can do."

"You a seamstress?" the same man asks. I cock an eyebrow, sling one of my rucksack straps over my shoulder and head out.

"Hey. How far it is to the border?" I ask the man I've been trading with. I kind of built up a rapport with him, so…

"Another week and a half. Hope you have the two medium silvers for the toll."

"Unless she's…" The other man gets a glint in his eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have an adventurer's pendant, would you?" I don't even spare him a glance, nibbling at my dinner as I head out.

"She's either crazy or…"

8-8

Those ball things. Don't know what they're called, don't much care. They're my level, and they're good target practice. I twirl my bo staff, cracking the ball as it gets close enough. The pop draws the attention of yet more of them, so I keep spinning and smacking them as I go—missing as often as I hit them, to be honest.

Still, even when I miss, the next blow comes a fraction of a second later, so I don't get attacked.

Each time, I get another thirteen Exp. Thirteen. With just over fifteen-hundred before my next level, this is…going to be a long day. Better check I'm learning a skill, so I'm at least being productive.

8-8

Another day done. It's been almost two weeks since I left the city. If the trader is right, I'm still days away from the border. Progress has been slow—steady, to be sure, but slow.

As my bo staff cracks another rabbit skull, the fifteen Exp filters in, and I hit level five. Level five. It's stronger than I've ever been, logically, and yet, it shows I'm closer to the moon than to being strong enough to fulfil Master's orders.

A sea of monsters raining down, with ever-increasing difficulty? I stand no chance, yet must somehow survive.

Sigh. Either way, I need to get to Melromarc before that even becomes a problem.

Growling. I snap to the sound, finding some humanoid thing with dark grey skin and a club in hand. It's alone, and facing off against some two-headed wolf. Wait, there are a dozen more humanoids, bleeding out around the wolf. Interesting. And the wolf is clearly wounded—less than a quarter of its HP left.

I like my chances.

Rushing over, I keep as quiet as I can. The wolf goes for a double bite, killing the goblin—I assume, with a face like that and slightly hunched. No time like the present, so I twirl my bo staff and crack the left head clean open. The other head doesn't like it and lashes out, but I sidestep and use my staff to keep the head well away from me.

Dagger unsheathes, tip buries in the monster's neck claiming the last HP.

The wolf goes down, and doesn't get back up. Good. I look around, the goblins are groaning, clearly not dead. Better finish them, too. And skin my rabbits—I plan on eating tonight.

8-8

The border. It's hard to miss. Impossible, actually, given it's a castle wall that stretches from horizon to horizon. More interesting still, is that this check point is a thriving town, complete with its own castle walls.

Is it still considered Siltvelt? Is it another country entirely? Will they have maps for sale? Not that I have a coin to my name, but still.

Doesn't matter. I need to get out of Siltvelt. It's been well more than a week, so I have no idea how that factors in.

"Honoured customer!" The wolfmen traders wave from the road, having spotted me from my perch at the treeline. Between here and the border wall is nothing but plains—no tree to be seen. No hope of using the foliage for cover, or for a leg up to scale the wall. I have no idea if that's intentional.

"You wouldn't be interested in a wolf pelt, would you?"

The man chortles once again. "Can't leave a sale pass you by, honoured customer?"

I make my way down to the road, fuming that I haven't run into them is this long. Those pelts aren't light, and they're the ones with the wagons. "Well. Would you?"

He motions me over to his wagon, no doubt wanting to inspect the merchandise before answering. It's not a no, so I fish the largest of the bunch out and plop it on the wagon's bench beside him.

"What the…!" The man jerks back, clearly not having expected that. "How'd you…?"

Sigh. "How much can you offer?"

"One medium and five small silvers."

"Got rabbit pelts too. And their bones. And goblin weapons and armour, didn't skin them though. Cudgels, mostly." With each word, the man's eyes widen slightly. "I'll be needing coin this time. But some more clothes and recipes could soften the blow to your pouch."

Laughter is all I get. I can't decide if he's entertained or so floored his psyche can't quite process this.

8-8

The gate has a line, perhaps a few dozen caravans long. "Hey, honoured customer. Unless you're a trader, you should be in that line." The trader points, still grinning at how he got me down from nearly three medium silvers, to eight small silvers, another too-large outfit with matching gloves—cyan this time, with a beautiful waterfall motif—a new pair of boots, and a sling with no pellets. I can't believe the man doesn't carry recipes.

The line I'm supposedly to enter is far shorter. Given I'm dressed completely different from the hand-me-down indigo, I should be fine. Doubly so, given my current dress is more Shieldfreedonian fashion than Siltveltan.

I queue up, idly observing those in line ahead of me. Some are Humans, though we're in the clear minority. The fashion marks the majority as Siltveltan, as do the accents.

"Auzo frii na iidra." Northerners and their papers. My nose snaps to the speaker. Shieldfreedonian, without a doubt, and a Demi-Human—looks to be a rabbit-type. I really need to learn the names of the demographics. High class, given that's the same tongue the merchants would complain to each other in. Ah, Master. Even now you save my hide.

"Iidra, iidra. Na pashta va ga." Papers, papers. They can't live without it. The woman almost doubles over, laughing so hard her tanned face turns red. When she catches herself, she moves right back to me—the others have no issue allowing her to move backwards through the line.

"I know, right." She decides to stick to the common tongue, so no one can complain about 'those damn foreigners'—a common thing back in the capital, though I imagine it should be less common at the border. "Where you headed?"

"Who knows. That way's as good as any other." I motion to the checkpoint.

"Fair enough. I'm heading back home. Been away from the capital too long."

"Fair. Need company?" That ticks her eyebrow higher. "It's in a direction, right?"

"Sick of the anti-Human treatment?" She grins, shaking her head. I roll my eyes, but don't deny it. "I'm Vidra Allay, by the way."

"Candlemaker." Vidra jerks back, one eyebrow almost kissing her hairline. "It's a long story and I'm too sober to tell it."

"Seriously? What are you, Guild?"

I pull out my pendant and flash it, name and all. That should explain it, right?

"Ah." Vidra's eyes widen. Obviously it does. "Yeah, that explains a lot." She shakes it off. "Alright. I'd feel safer with you. No charge?"

"You a trouble magnet?" How much trouble is she, and is she worth it to get through the gate?

"Not any more than anyone else, I suppose." Vidra tilts her head to one side. "Does that help?"

"Just until the next town. I'll decide after." I should be much freer to act across the border, so if she's too much I doubt I'll care.

8-8

End Chapter Two

8-8

A/N: For my two reviewers.

drmcgraw186: Yeah, I'm not spoiling any of that. You'll have to wait and see.

hcook10: Hmm? There's little doubt things will change as things progress. As for how Melromarcan society will affect her, I'm almost certain things can only hope to change for the better in her case. As for how much the people that send our Candlemaker know? Well, that would be telling, now wouldn't it XD

I think the more interesting thing to keep in mind here is how much is hidden beneath the waters with our MC. More than that, I won't say. It'll all become obvious over the coming chapters, I should think.