The odd inner ehco had faded away and Amolina lay looking up at the evening sky over Ravok. It wasn’t dark yet, but dusk was coming. Her head was aching, but the odd and dizzy feeling of being underwater had receded. She was fully aware, but she was worried…she wondered about the damage to her head, and to her arm. Slowly and carefully she sat, using her right arm to push herself up, but it felt like it was too early to get to her feet.
She had seen part of the fight between the two men, but not all of it. Now both of them were on the ground nearby. The tall thug lay there immovable, looking knocked out, blood on his face. Parnell had collapsed in a heap and was breathing hard. Amolina crawled to his side. She didn’t know what else to do, and it seemed natural to do it, as they were kind of the two survivors of the nasty attack.
The agonized screams she had heard had stopped too. It was totally silent bar for Parnells labored breath and the rustling sound of herself crawling over the pavement. Her hairdo was gone and the hair was falling over her face. She pushed it back - she had a feeling the makeup was ruined too, but looks seemed less important at the moment than they used to be.
“Parnell?” Her voice came out so husky that she certainly didn’t want to say anything more.
She looked at him and recalled what he had told her when they were in the research location and how she had confessed to being in league with Barton. He had believed her too. So, he thought she was involved in whatever was going on - and still he intervened and helped her. He had actually said he wasn’t going to mess with her, yes, but it was a difference between just letting her be and actively intervening to help her.
Help? It was an understatement. She had been about to die, but Parnell had saved her. What she had seen of the fight had been explosive and furious. Though she had known the poison maker was a violent man and it wasn’t the first time she had seen him fight, she was still under the impression he had been attacking with sort of a mindless indifference to the blows he took in return…like it didn’t matter to him, like he was all focused on just beating, beating, beating and beating until the other man was down. And well, now he was down, but Parnell seemed to not be in so good shape either.
The other thug, the bulky one…she remembered him suddenly and looked behind her, turning her head a bit, carefully and slowly. She saw him, on the ground, silent and still and it occurred to her that he had been the one that had been screaming right before Parnell had come at the tall one. Had the poisoner taken out two men in the short time that had passed?
She was feeling unnaturally cold and had started to shiver. Silly of her, she ought to be grateful for being saved, not squeamish about the frenzied violence her colleague had delivered. She felt torn between intense gratitude and her usual lack of guts when confronted with how the poisoner was carried way with his…rage, she guessed. Rage that could easily be turned on herself if he found out exactly how much she had been lying to him. Truth to be told, she was also irrational enough to wish to be comforted, no matter she was hardly entitled to it - and no matter she knew her colleague was a wandering weapon arsenal with extra poison.
“Thanks” she said after a few ticks of silence.
One single word. It seemed very little to say to somebody that had actually saved her life. But her otherwise so useful skill at acting seemed to be blocked out. There was only Amolina, herself, without the artistic manners and masks. She had no playacting at ready. She had no artfully formulated lines to say. Just one word. If she hadn’t been so shaken and spent after the encounter with Barton’s men it would perhaps have annoyed her that she was down to being artless as an extra. As it was she was glad she could speak at all.
It occurred to her that Parnell’s victory over the two thugs might have come at a high price. Worried but hesitating (she remembered those spikes of the cloak) she put her hand on his shoulder. Her voice was feeble but she managed to ask him if he was injured. She hadn’t composed herself enough yet to start wondering why Parnell had turned up there in the first place. She just knew he was there and she had escaped death very narrowly just a few chimes ago.
The usual thoughts people get when they find themselves on a deserted calm street in the company of a couple of knocked out enemies and a perhaps knocked out ally popped up in her mind : What now? Oh, what now, what now…what to do with the thugs, Parnell, her involvement in this crap, the falsified medicines, the risk of a continued investigation of this case by the stryfe, the suspected smuggling operation, her own various lies about all sorts of things, that box of medicine she had “picked up”, Parnells ideas about her being in league with the unknown Barton who seemed to be a...criminal carpenter ?
Parnell seemed to know lots about the blackguards. She hoped he had the answers.
She had seen part of the fight between the two men, but not all of it. Now both of them were on the ground nearby. The tall thug lay there immovable, looking knocked out, blood on his face. Parnell had collapsed in a heap and was breathing hard. Amolina crawled to his side. She didn’t know what else to do, and it seemed natural to do it, as they were kind of the two survivors of the nasty attack.
The agonized screams she had heard had stopped too. It was totally silent bar for Parnells labored breath and the rustling sound of herself crawling over the pavement. Her hairdo was gone and the hair was falling over her face. She pushed it back - she had a feeling the makeup was ruined too, but looks seemed less important at the moment than they used to be.
“Parnell?” Her voice came out so husky that she certainly didn’t want to say anything more.
She looked at him and recalled what he had told her when they were in the research location and how she had confessed to being in league with Barton. He had believed her too. So, he thought she was involved in whatever was going on - and still he intervened and helped her. He had actually said he wasn’t going to mess with her, yes, but it was a difference between just letting her be and actively intervening to help her.
Help? It was an understatement. She had been about to die, but Parnell had saved her. What she had seen of the fight had been explosive and furious. Though she had known the poison maker was a violent man and it wasn’t the first time she had seen him fight, she was still under the impression he had been attacking with sort of a mindless indifference to the blows he took in return…like it didn’t matter to him, like he was all focused on just beating, beating, beating and beating until the other man was down. And well, now he was down, but Parnell seemed to not be in so good shape either.
The other thug, the bulky one…she remembered him suddenly and looked behind her, turning her head a bit, carefully and slowly. She saw him, on the ground, silent and still and it occurred to her that he had been the one that had been screaming right before Parnell had come at the tall one. Had the poisoner taken out two men in the short time that had passed?
She was feeling unnaturally cold and had started to shiver. Silly of her, she ought to be grateful for being saved, not squeamish about the frenzied violence her colleague had delivered. She felt torn between intense gratitude and her usual lack of guts when confronted with how the poisoner was carried way with his…rage, she guessed. Rage that could easily be turned on herself if he found out exactly how much she had been lying to him. Truth to be told, she was also irrational enough to wish to be comforted, no matter she was hardly entitled to it - and no matter she knew her colleague was a wandering weapon arsenal with extra poison.
“Thanks” she said after a few ticks of silence.
One single word. It seemed very little to say to somebody that had actually saved her life. But her otherwise so useful skill at acting seemed to be blocked out. There was only Amolina, herself, without the artistic manners and masks. She had no playacting at ready. She had no artfully formulated lines to say. Just one word. If she hadn’t been so shaken and spent after the encounter with Barton’s men it would perhaps have annoyed her that she was down to being artless as an extra. As it was she was glad she could speak at all.
It occurred to her that Parnell’s victory over the two thugs might have come at a high price. Worried but hesitating (she remembered those spikes of the cloak) she put her hand on his shoulder. Her voice was feeble but she managed to ask him if he was injured. She hadn’t composed herself enough yet to start wondering why Parnell had turned up there in the first place. She just knew he was there and she had escaped death very narrowly just a few chimes ago.
The usual thoughts people get when they find themselves on a deserted calm street in the company of a couple of knocked out enemies and a perhaps knocked out ally popped up in her mind : What now? Oh, what now, what now…what to do with the thugs, Parnell, her involvement in this crap, the falsified medicines, the risk of a continued investigation of this case by the stryfe, the suspected smuggling operation, her own various lies about all sorts of things, that box of medicine she had “picked up”, Parnells ideas about her being in league with the unknown Barton who seemed to be a...criminal carpenter ?
Parnell seemed to know lots about the blackguards. She hoped he had the answers.
