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| The Fate of an Heir; [P] Phedre | |
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| Topic Started: Sun Aug 15, 2010 2:46 am (191 Views) | |
| Indómemar | Sun Aug 15, 2010 2:46 am Post #1 |
 
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The night air did little to relieve the intense summer heat. Sweat beaded on Indómemar's brow, soaking his hair so that it stuck to his face in wavy strands. There was no point in wiping it away, it would only reform a few brief seconds later. The humidity made breathing difficult for him, leaving him feeling suffocated and panting for air through his mouth. All in all, he was a pitiful sight. Fortunately, there was no one around to impress, not even any fellow guards tonight. He was alone in a residential area of the refugee camp whose only night time disturbance was the occasional barking of a dog. Doing his best to remain alert, he patrolled the streets on foot. They weren't really much of what anyone could call a "street" by Taras' standards, but it was the best he could think of to call the paths between the rows of tents and lean-tos. Some of the shanty homes had become quite large over the years since the grand city's fall, providing him enough "alleys" and dark corners to patrol. Concentrating on the task of inspecting the vast stretches of nothingness kept him from thinking about how badly he hated his Capitan for taking advantage of him like this so often. And thus began another uneventful night patrol. Or so he thought... |
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| Phedre | Sun Aug 15, 2010 3:14 am Post #2 |
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This was wrong, she thought, standing in the shadows, nearly invisible. But she needed the gold and it was a handsome ransom, as they say, so she took the job. The man who called himself Villier pulled her from her ale two nights ago to discuss a business proposition. His eyes were hooded and black and his flesh was charred in strips up and down his arms. He was running with demons… or else he really enjoyed a good flame bath now and again. Either way, he reeked of sulphur and stank of cruelty. Whatever, he had the coin she needed. A job was a job. She was told that in the center plot of the refugee camp a young woman and her two children lived. She was told that the woman was evil, murderous… but Phedre could smell the stale lie on his breath. She didn’t need more motivation than coin, the lies were unnecessary. The woman, Villier had said, held a document sealed and signed. It would be the downfall of his existence. She didn’t ask for details… she didn’t care. Her assignment was to retrieve the document by any means necessary. As the woman was able to hold on to such a precious document for so long, Phedre doubted that a polite request would allow her to gain possession. She carried several weapons with her just for those cases. Upon stating such to her employer, he grinned a sadistic grin, teeth pointed and bent. She was sure that he would find his own demise in the end… Phedre had scouted the camp for several nights before determining her course of action. There was one guard, if any, patrolling the streets. Random citizen guards appeared from time to time, armed with sharp sticks and starved bodies. She should have no problem here… even if things did get messy. The complications would arise if the children were home and awake… it just wasn’t her style to murder in front of little ones, and a triple homicide was simply unnecessary, even if it was to spare the two young ones from a life in the slums and filth. The night was sweltering, but Phedre had become accustom to the extremes in temperature during her days of random roaming. Her clothing was light, hanging loose off of her frame to allow for better air flow. She held a dagger in her hand and walked slowly towards the center of the camp, her ears perked for noise, her eyes gulping in the light available. She was surrounded by the soft sounds of sleep, steady breathing and insignificant rumbles. She heard the guard step to the north as she began her circle to the south. The shack’s entrance was 20 feet away. There would be more than enough time to make it inside before he circled back in their direction. Phedre blinked back a tear of sweat, waiting for the precise moment to dash across the open alleyway. She looked left, then right, then back again and in two fluid steps, she was across the path and back into the shadows… and not a moment too soon. A door to one of the shacks opened and an intoxicated man stumbled out. The things these people did to cope… He gurgled and wove back and forth smacking other shacks as he crossed. This isn’t good, she thought to herself, too much attention this way is bad news for my low profile. She took two more steps into the shadows and paused to plan her next moves. |
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| Indómemar | Sun Aug 15, 2010 5:49 am Post #3 |
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Indómemar heard a clamor arise behind him. He stopped, barely breathing in order to listen as intently as possible. It was more than the usual sound of a loose piece of debris falling from one of the patchwork shacks, someone or something was being a nuisance. Spear at the ready, he doubled back toward the noises to investigate. He rounded a corner several streets down to find a drunkard stumbling through the camp, taking his sorrows out on anything within reach. "Whar's 'at woman?" the man slurred as he slapped the side of a nearby shack, as if to summon someone out with a knock. One of the wall-mounted candle-lanterns fell from the side of the shack and sputtered out on the ground. He continued to stumble down the street, knocking into crates and piles of junk along the way. "Sir? I'm going to have to ask you to return to your home, you have imbibed far too much drink to be --" "Home!?" The man howled in outrage, interrupting the guardsman. "My 'ome's burned t' tha ground! Wot's left i'some shack wivva --" The drunkard waved his hands in the air dramatically as he tried to find the words to describe the loathing that filled his inebriated features, but the alcohol had cleverly hidden them behind his tongue. Indo sighed resignedly at the outburst. Many lives were destroyed when Taras fell, and not all of them were able to move on with what they had left. He wasn't even sure if his own life had truly moved on, to be honest. "Sir, said Indo before the man could continue to speak and say something to escalate the situation, "let me walk you back to your home. Let these people, and yourself, sleep; tomorrow brings another day." He had closed the distance between himself and the drunkard, slipping the man's arm over a shoulder to offer him support. Liquid courage failing to mask his pain any longer, the drunkard's chest deflated as he let his unsteady weight fall upon the guardsman's broad shoulders. An incoherent sob escaped the man's throat, and Indo felt embarrassed for both of them. He could practically taste for himself the alcohol on the man's breath from this proximity. "Which house is yours, sir?" He prayed that it was close, he couldn't stand being this closely involved with a stranger. Especially one in such poor condition, the man was a loose cannon that could get Indo into far more trouble than he cared to imagine. A vague gesture to a shack across the street steered their haphazard course toward a nearby door. Uncomfortable and confused by trying to decipher the drunkard's miserable directions, Indo led the bumbling pair past several shacks, back and between a few others, making a quiet spectacle until he found the right place, near where the noise had started. Once the drunkard disappeared behind the barely-attached door, Indo backed away and put some distance between the two. He ambled over to the nearest corner, pulled up a crate, and took a seat. He was tired, frustrated, and would have to stay here on watch for a while to make sure the drunkard stayed put. He wished for a bad habit like smoking to pass the time, but all he had was his duty and his racing thoughts. |
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1:02 PM May 19
