Bah. I updated. Happy?

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Keladry blinked, squinting her eyes against the fading sunlight. Water lapped against the ship like a gently kitten. She groaned slightly, putting her hand to her aching head. She was laying in a small soft bed, the covers tucked protectively around her.

The door to the cabin opened, and a dark face peered tentatively in. It lit up when it saw she was awake.

"Oh, good," Morgan said, relieved. "You're awake."

"How long did I sleep?" Kel asked worriedly. She ran her fingers through her ragged hair, cringing to find the brown locks greasy as the dirtiest pirate's.

"A good while. A couple days."

She felt the gypsy-pirate's eyes on her when she turned away to look out the window. She knew his expression was that of pity - she did not want it.

An assassin's life was filthy, riddled with lies and death. None of her friends ever understood why she chose to be one…and she could not explain it. There was some kind of inner pull. Some kind of…yearning, like she knew it was her destiny.

"Why do you continue this business if it hurts you so much?" came the soft, inevitable question.

"I get pleasure from pain," Kel said, smiling wryly. "Insanity is part of my work."

Morgan looked into her eyes, and suddenly realized what Joren must have seen when he looked into Frenn's all those years before - hate for the world and love for it; a desire to kill and a craving to salvage; and much worse, an insane wish to break free of the chains an assassin's life wrapped around them, while holding a miserable knowledge that they never would.

Those eyes would haunt him forever. He would never, ever forget them.

"Ask no questions," those eyes whispered into his own, "and I'll tell no lies."

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Night befell the village of Ishkarak, a peaceful Carthaki habitat. A small cabin on the outskirts of Ishkarak was in complete and utter disarray.

"Where is he?" Rosa screeched, overturning a table.

Kassi tried to soothe her daughter. "Allen has gone out to look for him," she said, patting an enraged woman's head. "Don't worry, your father will be sure to catch him."

"But he'll escape again," Rosa cried, pulling at her short hair. "We had him under lock and key - but he still managed to best us! What will stop him from doing it again?"

"Relax, love," the old woman told her. "If need be, we'll throw him in the cellar with Gwenwyfar, the miserable little slut."

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Joren yelped as his foot caught on a tree root and he plummeted to the dirt. He heard the running footsteps behind him grow louder and he silently cursed. To his feet he leapt, and fled through the woodland from the man who chased him with his hounds. His breath came fast and in ragged panting as sweat dripped down his face, although it was a cool night. Briars tore at his clothes and left thin scratches oozing drops of crimson blood. He grimaced, hearing the footsteps quicken and come closer, and stretched his legs as far as they could go.

"I've got you now, you little shit," a man's hoarse, aged voice shouted. "Don't try to run."

Even as he leaped over a fallen tree and sped his pace he knew it was in vain. The man was old, and stiff, but he was fast, and if the man didn't catch him, those bloodthirsty hounds would. Their gravelly barks and snarls and howls told him they had his scent, were on his trail. There was no escape for him.

And that's why, as he came to a dead end at the creek, he didn't even try to swim or run. He turned slowly to face his pursuer.

An old man indeed it was, with a scraggly beard and stringy hair, all gray, and mean dark eyes that squinted at him through the light his lantern gave. At his feet snapped four slobbering hounds, brutes as cruel as their master.

"Ah, my daughter got a catch all right," the man agreed, bobbing his head as he continued to peer at him. "I'll be able to leave my possessions to the males you produce."

Without any warning, the man swung his lantern, and Joren didn't even try to dodge for the promise of empty, unconscious darkness.

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Joren woke up just as he was tossed somewhere dark. He let out a shriek as he slammed against what felt like stairs, and tumbled down them, bruising his bleeding flesh. He hit the floor with an oof, and any light he had was snatched away as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt like he was about to cry, and would have, except…

"Hello."

He flinched, and turned at the sound of the voice. A shape in the swirling mass of black shifted, and there was the coarse sound of a match igniting. The small flame nonetheless lit most of the cellar, and he blinked.

In front of him, sitting in a chair, was a naked woman. She reminded him eerily of Jehani, although he could not see why. Her hair was long and black, flowing over her bare, thin shoulders like the night itself. Her eyes were large and a liquid black. She was white, her body supple, with a full, long mouth and elegant limbs.

Aye, she was a prize for any man.

She stood up, and Joren tactfully lowered his eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Joren," he replied.

"I'm Gwenwyfar," she said. "But you can call me Gwen."

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Short. I know. I'm sorry. But still…