The Longest Road, Part 22
You wind your way through the crowd as the caravan trudges forward. Few people are conversing, the tense atmosphere choking any idle chatter. You glance down at your palm, but the second rune is no longer flickering, and—for the moment, at least—your mind is clear of the murderous impulses that it provoked.
Pretending to meander aimlessly, you close in on the woman you recognize as Greta's mother. She is as beautiful as her daughter, but in a more reserved, matronly way. Her long brown hair runs down her back, her body kept fit by the demands of a life on the road. Even under her simple, modest clothes you can tell that her figure is delicious, her impressive breasts showing off what Greta can likely look forward to as she grows up herself.
Nevertheless, you catch a hint of weary wistfulness as she marches along. Arne is nowhere nearby, apparently preoccupied with other matters. In fact... searching your memory, you can't remember ever seeing him pay much attention to his wife during the whole time you've been traveling with them.
After observing her discreetly for a while, you let yourself fall in step beside her. "Oh, hello Mrs. Rothach," you say, giving her a kind, easygoing smile. "How are you holding up? This is my first time crossing the Burn... and I have to say it's not as bad as I was afraid it would be. Not yet, anyway. Does it get worse later on?"
The woman looks up, startled. She's a little wary at first, but your warm demeanor soon starts to offset that. She's no doubt heard about you, but this is your first time interacting face to face. "The crossing usually is rougher than this," she says. "I... suppose we have your recommendation to hire Khaytala to thank for that. I'd heard the stories about her, but I thought they were just exaggerations."
She glances toward where Khaytala is walking her patrol. You nod in agreement. "She's amazing, isn't she? Did you know, she actually rescued me from a beating when we met?"
The woman's eyebrows go up, intrigued by the hook of the story you've offered. "Really?"
"Oh yes. Three mercenaries tried to gang up on me while I was eating my meal in one of the taverns. They... didn't like the look of me, I suppose." You affect a saddened look, designed to appeal to compassionate instincts. And it seems your read of your prey was on the money.
Her suspicion drops even further as you continue to spin your tale, taking care to—subtly—associate "distrusting tieflings" with those boorish, ignorant thugs and "trusting you" with the noble, heroic Khaytala. By the end of it you have the unsuspecting woman nodding in sympathy. You walk for a while longer, before she speaks again.
"I apologize for my husband's actions toward you, Mr. Kessen," she says. "You must understand, he is a very... protective man."
"There's no need for you to apologize," you reassure her. Then you decide to play a hunch. "To tell you the truth... I can understand how he might have read more into the situation with Greta than was there. And I would never fault a man for treasuring his family. What could be more precious than our affection for the ones closest to us?"
You don't miss the slight flinch as your words strike their target. So, you were right. This woman isn't feeling treasured by her husband at all. You wonder what the reason is. A taste for younger women in the brothels? Perhaps using his influence as caravan leader to pressure a female worker into lying with him? Or perhaps simply focus on his work in general, building his career, to the neglect of this delightfully mature beauty?
Either way, the man is clearly an imbecile for neglecting her. But his idiocy is your opportunity.
You reach over, placing your hand on hers. She starts a little, color rising to her cheeks. You keep the aphrodisiac in your touch extremely faint, but you can still see a spark of excitement run through her. "In fact... could I ask a favor of you? I want to apologize to Greta for all the trouble I've caused her. And I also want set the record straight. I have enjoyed talking with her when our paths have crossed. You've raised a kind, wonderful girl. But she may have... read more into some of the things I said than I meant. I just feel that I owe it to her to make the truth clear."
Looking deep into the woman's eyes, you make your push, turning on the charm. "Could you help me speak to her one last time, after we're through the Burn? Of course, you would be there too, so we wouldn't be without a chaperone. But I don't want to embarrass her... and it feels like the sort of conversation that ought to be held somewhere very private."
Greta's mother hesitates. Then she nods. "I... I could take her off a ways into the woods once we reach the Great Forest. The men Arne has guarding her will let her go if it's into my supervision. If you... really think it will help?"
"I do." You smile, and give the woman's hand a squeeze, turning up the aphrodisiac just a little. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Rothach. You're an angel. Your husband must be the luckiest man alive."
Her face falls a little, at the reminder that her husband doesn't treat her with even a fraction of that warmth. But then looks back up at you. "You can..." she hesitates, then plunges forward despite how flustered she is. "You can call me Marta. I mean... if you want to. It's just... less formal, you see."
"Then I'll see you tonight, Marta." You say it just innocently enough that she won't think you meant anything by it, but not nearly innocently enough that it won't stir up the kind of thoughts that she's had to suppress for too long. Her slightly widening blush suggests that you hit your mark. You resist the urge to chuckle in amusement. She really is an angel.
And you're going to enjoy showing her what the incubi do to angels who fall into the Second Circle.
The caravan pushes onward as fast as it can go, making excellent time as Khaytala continues to obliterate shambler after shambler. It takes all day and late into the evening, but you make it through the Burn without any incident. Worn out after the long journey with danger on every side, the group sets up camp in a clearing not far into the forest.
It's your first time seeing the Great Forest for yourself. It's dense and overgrown, an ancient, imposing bastion of wildlife that seems to somehow resent even the small incursion of civilization represented by the road and those traveling along it. You can feel a sense of pressure, a sense of alienness from it as you listen to the quiet sounds of the wilderness.
Adding to the threat is the knowledge that the assassin is probably somewhere out there, planning her next move. From what you've heard, the forest road should take about a week to travel, but once you emerge from it you'll be into the territory of Nelin, and it won't be long until you reach the trade city that is the caravan's destination.
Which means that if the assailant wants to take another shot while the caravan is still exposed, the forest will be her last, best chance on this trip.
You pass the rest of the day conserving your strength. You were already hungry, and the long, sustained push didn't help any. You notice Khaytala is still on high alert as well, even with the Burn behind you, and you suspect that she's come to a similar conclusion as you.
Soon night begins to fall, and eventually Marta Rothach makes her move. You've positioned yourself close enough that you can watch her out of the corner of your eye as she approaches the caravan workers guarding Greta, and you can overhead enough snatches of conversation to get the gist as she tells them that she wants to speak to her daughter alone. The guards are surprised—as is Greta—but they eventually accede to her.
Satisfied, you exit the camp on the opposite side, slipping past the guard patrolling the camp perimeter. Then you circle around, cutting through the forest toward where Marta is leading her daughter. Swift as you are, it doesn't take long, and soon you're watching them from the trees as they wind their way through the darkening forest by the last flickers of light that barely manage to pierce this deep.
Greta is looking more confused than ever as she trails along behind. "Mother, I still don't understand. Why are we going so deep into the forest?"
Judging that they've gone far enough from the caravan by now, you emerge into view to stand next to Marta. "I asked her to bring you out here, Greta," you explain, a hungry smile on your face. "I wanted to have another one of our talks. And since your father was so insistent that someone watch you at all times... I decided it would be perfect if your mother joined us."
"Oh, don't pay me any mind," says Marta, smiling kindly as she stands there, oblivious to her imminent fate. "Just say what you need to say to each other."
Greta's eyes go wide, looking back and forth between you and her mother. Then she swallows, hard. Unlike Marta, she understands exactly what is about to happen. And even with all the lessons you've taught her, the idea of doing this alongside the woman who bore her is on a completely different level from anything she's done so far.
Grinning at the panicked young girl, you slide your hand up Marta's back and around her shoulders, pulling her closer to you. "Nonsense," you say. "We have no intention of leaving you out of this."
The sudden, highly improper embrace flusters Marta. "W-what are you—?" she begins, but you interrupt her by tracing your thumb down the side of her neck, this time giving her the full force of your aphrodisiac touch. She gasps, shuddering in your arms, and you use her disorientation to draw her even closer, the same magnificent breasts that nursed Greta now pressed against you as you hold her tight.
She looks up at you, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes are wide, like a mouse trapped in the gaze of a serpent. Her strength deserting her, Greta's mother is left helpless, yours to take.
The only question is how.
