Each step Primrose took through the warm sand was a refreshing tickle between her toes. She had always loved the sensation and right now, it was her only solace. The battered dancer had a feeling that she would one day kill Helgenish and she also knew it wouldn't bring her as much joy as an observer would suspect, all things considered.
What even she would have never imagined, despite all her pessimism, was that it would be the second worst day of her life.
The echo of Yusufa's dying words were grinding against Primrose's will to hold back her tears but as the grains of sand in her shoes slowly morphed into the pebbles of a mountain path, she knew there was no time for mourning. Even after losing her best friend, there was no room in her quest for emotions.
With her last bit of food given away to a young man named Kit, a stopover in Cobblestone – a town so small she almost forgot it existed. Primrose had a feeling it was a town of well meaning people as she had never met anyone from that lived there.
The climb was long enough to give her too much time to think which wasn't enjoyable on a good day, but eventually she found her way to a meal and a bath and figured those would be the highlights of the charming detour.
Then Primrose made the mistake of asking a man whose (obviously fake) name was Berg if he knew where to find a map.
"I greatly appreciate any assistance in rescuing the lad." The stone face and stoic tone of Olberic didn't relay gratitude or any emotion at all for that matter, but Primrose was truly adept at three things: Fighting, dancing and peering into the souls of men; she could all too clearly see the hulking man's turmoil and desperation. "But pray tell, fair lady. What is your motivation for helping?"
Primrose wanted to mock the foolish question but it was clear her new partner had become so jaded in life that the desire to see a helpless child to safety wasn't enough of an incentive for anyone but him. The debauchery and heat of the desert may have steeled her resolve even further, but the last remaining daughter of House Azelhart had not grown so cold that she would turn down such a noble pursuit.
After all, justice for a child and their family was her whole reason for being.
Coldly, Primrose answered, "you seem like a formidable man – the kind I like indebted to me." If Olberic was hiding his true self, the young woman felt there was no need to put all her cards on the table either.
With eyes shut, Olberic grunted and nodded his approval. "Then we make for the mountain pass." The swordsman eyed Primrose up and down, albeit not in the same context she was used to. "Might you want to change into something more... Battle appropriate? I'm sure the town's smith could-"
"I'm fine like this." The dancer waved him off and broke into a determined stride to the town's northern exit. As quickly as she could walk, Olberic's size allowed him to easily pass her and the warrior's body seemed to demand Primrose remain behind it.
Through the young woman's eyes, it was clear as day. Olberic didn't want to shield her out of a lustful pursuit masquerading as kindness. It wasn't even a romantic or gentlemanly compulsion. This was simply the nature of a kindhearted man and after losing Yusufa, this was exactly the kind of person she needed in her life, even if just for a day.
Mist fell upon them in random pockets, but it did little to slow the pair down but cursing her own stubbornness, Primrose shivered in the brisk mountain air – their hurried pace was doing just enough to keep her teeth from chattering, but the trade off came with the rocks sucked into her sandals with each forceful step.
No matter what speed she took, Olberic managed to stay perfectly in sync, always remaining three feet in front of her. With each curve and incline, the cold became increasingly bitter and the dancer's exhausted muscles voiced their demands for a rest with increasing intensity. Those were nothing against her stubbornness and pride however.
After the two hadn't exchanged words for nearly half an hour Primrose decided it was time to probe the man leading her.
"Before we met, someone in town mentioned you," she said playfully to which Olberic had no reaction. "they spoke of you as a wandering sellsword that had grown tired of the job."
"Do you take exception to that line of work?" The warrior's calm was unbending.
"We do what we must," Primrose responded with a bit more weight to her inflection. "But you're not just some run of the mill mercenary." Olberic stopped abruptly enough that she nearly walked into his broad frame before he turned around, his eyes filled with suspicion.
Primrose continued, "I entertained every kind of man you can think of." The young woman spoke with a mix of pride and regret. "I can judge character faster than you can swing that blade of yours and you've got all the makings of a knight in shining armour."
Olberic paused to ponder the accusation. "A bold conclusion. What has lead you to this fantasy?"
"For one thing, you're far too trusting," she stated as if it were a given. "A sellsword knows better than to turn his back on a silent stranger for this long." Primrose grinned mischievously as she quickly drew her knife.
"Especially one that's leading you into a trap!"
Her arm lunged up with the same power as her voice but Olberic, despite his apparent abilities, did nothing to avoid the dagger that stopped short of his neck.
Primrose took his indifference as disrespect; her eyes narrowed and her tongue went from silver to venomous and anger and exhaustion laboured her breath. "Are you really so naive to think a woman like me doesn't have it in her to take a life?" Her eyes purposefully darted back and forth from Olberic's own gaze to the small, remaining dark red remnants of Helgenish on her trusted weapon.
The stoic warrior finally gave up the tiniest hint of something resembling what might be a smile. "You say you can tell a persons true nature through your experience as an entertainer, but that's nothing compared what I've learned by sending hundreds of men to their maker."
"You say you see me as a knight – a title reserved for those defined by virtue, courage and purpose." Olberic calmly reached up and pushed the dagger away from his jugular. "But I already know enough about you to say I have no doubt that if anyone's true nature is that of a knight, it's yours."
Primrose glowed earnestly at the most flattering complement anyone had awarded her in a long time.
Primrose lurked in the shadows of the brigands' hideout while Olberic made his presence known to their enemy. Caves weren't really her scene. She had grown up around the beauty of gardens and art and had spent the past few years of her life under the warm sun. A damp, cold and dark cave devoid of sounds save for the crying of a scared boy and the brutish snorts of men reminded her too much of the reality of life.
The half dozen goons may have been placeholders but a man that was clearly their leader stood among them. Primrose had seen enough tavern brawls to know that the head of a pack of dogs was always at least as strong as half their lackeys put together. If they were any less substantial than that, there would likely be mutiny after mutiny until only one was left standing.
Gaston was his name. The dancer didn't need to see his size or the furs that draped over him to figure out his status. The only indicator Primrose needed was that Gaston had almost landed a blow on Olberic and she decided it was time to reveal herself and gain the edge they needed.
It was showtime.
Emerging from the void, Primrose purred, "boys, please, there's no need for all this." The dancer's trained voice was more seductive than the finest perfumes and it easily got everyone's attention. Thankfully Primrose's companion had the wits to play along as she walked through his scuffle to face the weak minded goons.
All six pairs of eyes were fixated on the figure that had brought more than one aristocrat into poverty, but it was her thin and beautiful smile that was the real bait; through it she hummed just quietly enough so Gaston would keep his focus on Olberic, "the mayor of the town sent me to make a trade. Wouldn't we all be happier if you kept me instead of the boy."
Most of them chuckled arrogantly. It was always the same laugh, the same condescending tone that she had heard so many times – as though the men ogling her were doing her a favour by treating her slightly better than than a dead rabbit they decided wasn't worth eating. It had always been the worst part of the job.
The goon closest to her growled, "whore's worth less than a boy." His smugness was quieter than she had expected. They were trying not to alert their boss either, likely concocting their own plan. "Ya' better have some leafs tucked away somewhere, sweetheart."
Primrose inched closer – each step with purpose and angelic grace as she continued her act. "Let me prove my worth, handsome." This offer was enough to let her get close enough for the grunt to touch her, which of course, he did. They always do. It was a shame for him that he went to lift the temptress' top instead of her arm.
If he had, he might not have had his throat sliced open quite so easily.
As the splatter hit Primrose and the man and all his misplaced confidence toppled, dying before he had a chance to have the life choked out of him by his own blood, she wondered if sweet little Philip had seen it all unfold or if he were distracted by the sights and sounds of clashing steel behind her.
Another toad began to yell, "oy, you vile bi-"
Even through his scuffle, Gaston must have figured out what was going on behind him – a man having his neck slashed made a very distinct sound that echoed all around them; he cut off his useless employ. "Would you dimwitted buffoons do yer jobs!? I don' care who ya' pick, just start cutting someone open!"
Primrose took a step back to give herself distance and called out, "Berg, you just worry about having fun with your little friend. I'll handle the weaklings."
She appreciated her comrade not questioning her plan or her abilities, but the five remaining foot soldiers didn't have the same faith in her. They took out their swords and, unsurprisingly, it was the shortest of the men that said, "one sucker punch and you think yer some kinda' warrior do ya?"
The bloodied young woman had no intention of acknowledging their continued arrogance – instead focusing on her arcane teachings, honed throughout her life, enriched and corrupted by her troubled soul, channelled through her always steady hands.
"Night ode, bring your shade!"
Her voice shook the cavern as a dark magic filled the air in front of her; Each man felt the sensation of suffocation, blackness covered their eyes and horrifying screams crept into their minds, drowning out all reason. They weren't dead, but for a few seconds (that couldn't be discerned between an entire day by their twisted thoughts), they will wish they had been.
As their senses returned, Primrose turned her head to see the young boy had been sent to hide his eyes. Then, when the glares of her enemies had refocused on her, she crushed the neck of the man she had already put down for good. With a psychopathic calm, she said "it was a quicker death than men like you deserve, but at least he's quiet."
Eyeing each man furiously, she gestured to the corpse beneath her sandal. "Anyone else foolish enough to join h-"
She didn't have the opportunity to finish her threat before Gaston tumbled down next to her – wounded but very much alive with an air of anger and admiration. The dancer wasn't adverse to more bloodshed if needed, but she knew when a brawl was over and had no desire to kill for the sake of killing.
