- 75th of Spring, 519
It was a chilly morning at the Hunters Guild. The soggy Spring rain had finally decided to clear for a few bells, and the hunters were taking advantage of the excellent visibility to try their luck in the mountain woods. They passed through the guild alone or in pairs, to fill up supplies or enjoy a hearty breakfast before they hunted down the days catch. The air was flavoured with camaraderie and hope as those who braved the wilderness prepared for the day.
That was until the oak doors opened, and a cold wind shaped like a small, pale woman breezed inside. She was not a hunter, that was plain to everyone there. She was dressed appropriately in sturdy pants and a warm black mohair cloak, with a crossbow hanging from her leather gloved hands. But there was something about her prim posture and the many ugly rings on her fingers, not to mention the fine, clean state of her clothes, that spoke loudly of her complete inexperience with the wilds. As she passed a few people did a double take. On her back, covered by the cloak but for a downy head, was what looked like a year old baby strapped to her back.
The woman paused, quickly scanned the room, and made a beeline for a clean cut redhead bent over his breakfast of mutton, mushrooms and beer.
"Laird, where the hai have you been? I asked for you a week ago", Madeira all but snarled in the hunter's ear as she came up behind him. The half Inarta didn't even acknowledge her presence as she sat on a stool next to him, and simply tipped back the last of his morning beer.
"Can't a man finish his breakfast before he's chewed out? What do you want, Craven."
"What I want is to not chase my hunter halfway across the city to collect what he promised to bring me! I think all the alcohol is making you forget the details of our little agreement, Laird. Where are the lion paws?"
"I'm sorry", he chuckled, waving at the barkeeper to bring him another beer, "did you say your hunter? I don't remember putting on a collar and making myself your bitch. You'll have your petching paws when I'm good and ready to find them. Now leave me alone. Your frigid little ass is spoiling my breakfast."
Something dark and angry flashed behind Madeira's spectacles, and her voice dropped to a growl. "Wow, you really should be careful with those drinks, Laird. Now you're starting to forget who you're talking to."
"No, you're forgetting that a hunter lives for himself."
Laird had always been a free spirited little petcher. He didn't like to be told what to do, and he liked Madeira even less. Their professional relationship had been glued together by greed and necessity, but the tighter she held him the more he struggled. This used to be solved by a flash of coin and a gentle reminder of what he was there for. But after two seasons of this she was exhausted with this man and his stubbornness, of fighting him for every inch of ground, and reminding him just how good she was paying him for what he did. Her patience was fraying just being in his presence.
"I figured you wouldn't have them. That's why today I'm going with you, and we're coming back with what you owe me." Her volume dipped low, conscious of the barkeep a few meters away. "Its cute that you think you can play games with me, but I don't pay you for your sass. Yet lately that's all you seem to be providing me."
Laird took a second to look her up and down from the corner of his eye, lingering insolently as they travelled from her tall black boots to the top of her severe braid.
"No. There's not a chance I'm taking you anywhere. I'm not here to babysit you or your spawn. You pay for my drinks and my kills and that's it."
What kind of trouble would she be in, she wondered, if she loaded that crossbow on her lap and shot him in the leg? Her blood was boiling in her veins, but she refused to show it. Acting cool and composed was not terribly difficult if you'd been practicing all your life. She just had to pretend they were talking over a dining table at the Craven Manor in Alvadas. The thought quickly threw ice down her spine. Cool and composed. She sighed through her nose; she was done with this man.
"You know what? You're right." She sat back and away from his space, her hands open in defeat. "I was wrong to think I could buy your obedience. You're not my bitch and I have no right to tell you what to do."
Laird finally paused in his drinking and turned to face her fully, squinting at her like he wasn't quite sure if he was hallucinating. Off balance after bracing for the storm he expected from her, it was all he could do to nod sharply and return to his meal.
"I do have other dogs, though", Madeira went on conversationaly, slipping carefully off her barstool to keep from jostling the baby on her back. "Loyal, protective hounds that I love. Some of them are dead, others are not." She leaned in close to the back of Liard's neck, watching the skin above his collar ripple with her whisper. "I'm letting you out of our agreement, Laird, but you will still keep my secrets. Or else you'll find these dogs have a nasty bite."
Tugging her cloak around her shoulders she stalked out with as much grace as she could manage. At the door she turned and smiled brightly as she addressed the hunter one last time from across the room. "Of course, if you change your mind I'd be happy to take you back. I still need a hunter, after all. Until then you can pay for your own damn drinks."
It took all her effort not the slam the door on the way out. And once in the dewy morning quiet it was all she could do not to shatter it with a scream. How dare Laird treat her that way! How dare he go back on their deal! She had never counted the hunter as an ally, but she had relied on his skills anyway. Now that that relationship had detonated how was she going to practice her malediction? He was her supplier!
The problem was that she assumed generosity was the iron clad way to keep him around. She had thrown so much money into him just to keep him honest, but in the end that resource was finite. Money didn't keep people around for long.
Pulling a souldart from the quiver around her thigh she slammed her foot into the stirrup of her bow and cranked back the string. Snapping the arrow into the barrel she sighted down the nearest tree. It was a spindly mountain breed, bent by the wind and rustling with a new growth of leaves. She held her breath to steady her hands, leaning away from the weight of the sleeping baby behind her, and pulled the trigger. With a satisfying thunk the bolt hit the trunk, throwing bark shrapnel into the air that she imagined were pieces of Laird's skull. Damn that man!
That was until the oak doors opened, and a cold wind shaped like a small, pale woman breezed inside. She was not a hunter, that was plain to everyone there. She was dressed appropriately in sturdy pants and a warm black mohair cloak, with a crossbow hanging from her leather gloved hands. But there was something about her prim posture and the many ugly rings on her fingers, not to mention the fine, clean state of her clothes, that spoke loudly of her complete inexperience with the wilds. As she passed a few people did a double take. On her back, covered by the cloak but for a downy head, was what looked like a year old baby strapped to her back.
The woman paused, quickly scanned the room, and made a beeline for a clean cut redhead bent over his breakfast of mutton, mushrooms and beer.
"Laird, where the hai have you been? I asked for you a week ago", Madeira all but snarled in the hunter's ear as she came up behind him. The half Inarta didn't even acknowledge her presence as she sat on a stool next to him, and simply tipped back the last of his morning beer.
"Can't a man finish his breakfast before he's chewed out? What do you want, Craven."
"What I want is to not chase my hunter halfway across the city to collect what he promised to bring me! I think all the alcohol is making you forget the details of our little agreement, Laird. Where are the lion paws?"
"I'm sorry", he chuckled, waving at the barkeeper to bring him another beer, "did you say your hunter? I don't remember putting on a collar and making myself your bitch. You'll have your petching paws when I'm good and ready to find them. Now leave me alone. Your frigid little ass is spoiling my breakfast."
Something dark and angry flashed behind Madeira's spectacles, and her voice dropped to a growl. "Wow, you really should be careful with those drinks, Laird. Now you're starting to forget who you're talking to."
"No, you're forgetting that a hunter lives for himself."
Laird had always been a free spirited little petcher. He didn't like to be told what to do, and he liked Madeira even less. Their professional relationship had been glued together by greed and necessity, but the tighter she held him the more he struggled. This used to be solved by a flash of coin and a gentle reminder of what he was there for. But after two seasons of this she was exhausted with this man and his stubbornness, of fighting him for every inch of ground, and reminding him just how good she was paying him for what he did. Her patience was fraying just being in his presence.
"I figured you wouldn't have them. That's why today I'm going with you, and we're coming back with what you owe me." Her volume dipped low, conscious of the barkeep a few meters away. "Its cute that you think you can play games with me, but I don't pay you for your sass. Yet lately that's all you seem to be providing me."
Laird took a second to look her up and down from the corner of his eye, lingering insolently as they travelled from her tall black boots to the top of her severe braid.
"No. There's not a chance I'm taking you anywhere. I'm not here to babysit you or your spawn. You pay for my drinks and my kills and that's it."
What kind of trouble would she be in, she wondered, if she loaded that crossbow on her lap and shot him in the leg? Her blood was boiling in her veins, but she refused to show it. Acting cool and composed was not terribly difficult if you'd been practicing all your life. She just had to pretend they were talking over a dining table at the Craven Manor in Alvadas. The thought quickly threw ice down her spine. Cool and composed. She sighed through her nose; she was done with this man.
"You know what? You're right." She sat back and away from his space, her hands open in defeat. "I was wrong to think I could buy your obedience. You're not my bitch and I have no right to tell you what to do."
Laird finally paused in his drinking and turned to face her fully, squinting at her like he wasn't quite sure if he was hallucinating. Off balance after bracing for the storm he expected from her, it was all he could do to nod sharply and return to his meal.
"I do have other dogs, though", Madeira went on conversationaly, slipping carefully off her barstool to keep from jostling the baby on her back. "Loyal, protective hounds that I love. Some of them are dead, others are not." She leaned in close to the back of Liard's neck, watching the skin above his collar ripple with her whisper. "I'm letting you out of our agreement, Laird, but you will still keep my secrets. Or else you'll find these dogs have a nasty bite."
Tugging her cloak around her shoulders she stalked out with as much grace as she could manage. At the door she turned and smiled brightly as she addressed the hunter one last time from across the room. "Of course, if you change your mind I'd be happy to take you back. I still need a hunter, after all. Until then you can pay for your own damn drinks."
It took all her effort not the slam the door on the way out. And once in the dewy morning quiet it was all she could do not to shatter it with a scream. How dare Laird treat her that way! How dare he go back on their deal! She had never counted the hunter as an ally, but she had relied on his skills anyway. Now that that relationship had detonated how was she going to practice her malediction? He was her supplier!
The problem was that she assumed generosity was the iron clad way to keep him around. She had thrown so much money into him just to keep him honest, but in the end that resource was finite. Money didn't keep people around for long.
Pulling a souldart from the quiver around her thigh she slammed her foot into the stirrup of her bow and cranked back the string. Snapping the arrow into the barrel she sighted down the nearest tree. It was a spindly mountain breed, bent by the wind and rustling with a new growth of leaves. She held her breath to steady her hands, leaning away from the weight of the sleeping baby behind her, and pulled the trigger. With a satisfying thunk the bolt hit the trunk, throwing bark shrapnel into the air that she imagined were pieces of Laird's skull. Damn that man!
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