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| Drink with the Living Dead; [P] Priscilla | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sat Feb 14, 2015 6:51 pm (361 Views) | |
| Alasie | Sat Feb 14, 2015 6:51 pm Post #1 |
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The Grey Valley was dry enough to make an Istani blush. Caoimhe didn't care about the magical science behind it; all she knew was how many waterskins she'd gone through, how much water she had left, how thirsty her horses were. The were-fox slouched in her seat, working her jaw in a feeble attempt to keep her tongue from sticking to the roof of her mouth. Sucking on a river-stone wasn't doing it for her. The Valley claimed all water for itself. Riordan, one of the leads in her wagon team, stopped. Unable to continue, the five other geldings followed suit. Caoimhe stood. "We're so close. Look -- those buildings down there are our destination." That was Smith's Field, the only city in this whole blasted landscape. "I'll give ya some treats if ya keep goin'." Despite her bribery, she wasn't getting anywhere. Caoimhe flopped her arms over the front rail of her carriage, ears drooped in defeat. The sounds of the carriage were gone now. No more hooves crunching against greyish-white salt, either. It was as close to quiet as it would get. In that silence Caoimhe realized that there were muffled screams coming from the inside of her carriage. Her current job? Transporting corpses. Caoimhe's eyes flew wide and her ears tipped vertical. Her gut sank, face paled, fingers tightened around the rail. Had her tail not been hidden by her coat, the fur would have obviously been standing on end. She pulled her hand crossbow, loaded a bolt, and hopped down from the driver's seat. Salt crunched underfoot. She stalked around side of the vehicle, stopped at the barred back door. Those screams weren't her imagination. For once in her life, she muttered a prayer in Traditional Deboni and cranked the handle to release the bar. Then she took a step back, letting the door swing open. The carriage was stacked with wooden caskets. All of them rumbled from the inside. Caoimhe climbed into the carriage, keeping her weapon leveled on her cargo while her other hand pulled the crowbar out of the toolbox on the wall. [removed] me. [removed] me. Never shoulda taken this job. Shoulda listened to Hunter for once. Shoulda-- Caoimhe's crowbar bit into the casket cover. Keeping her crossbow leveled, she pushed down. Nails clattered to the floor. The cover slid sideways. Bloody fingers clawed out. Caoimhe swore, backing up. An old woman pushed herself out. "How're ya still alive?!" The were-fox blurted out. "You were dead!" Not exactly the most intelligent thing to say, but Caoimhe was really scared there, god dammit. That was her excuse and she was sticking to it. Legend was, the Grey Valley used to be called the Restless Valley. Her friend in Kellen, Hunter James, warned her not to take this job. 'Ya die in Restless Valley, ya don't stay dead. You're stuck forever.' Asshole didn't warn me that the people who died outside of the Valley don't stay dead either! Nor did her employer, for that matter. Also, she didn't wanna know where the hell her employer got these caskets. They didn't have air holes in them. They were dirty and a few were rotted. No questions asked, Caoimhe. That's your policy. Caoimhe calmed down after freeing everyone from their caskets. They were normal people, just real scared. The were-fox discarded all the pine boxes on the side of the road. Rather than stick around and chat with her now-living cargo, she settled back into her driver's seat. "Got enough of a break, boys?" she roared to her horse team. As she took the lines in her hands, they all perked their heads up attentively. "Good! Cause we're not stoppin' till Smith's Field!" The city was a dusty boneyard of a place. Children with sunken cheeks played around sterile-looking buildings. A crow with a hole through its chest perched on Padraic's harness, but the horse didn't seem to mind. Caoimhe looked for the building with the deer skull on the door. It wasn't on the main street, so she stopped at the local tavern to ask around. If I survive this job, I'm gonna buy Hunter a drink for bein' right. |
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| Priscilla | Mon Feb 16, 2015 5:55 pm Post #2 |
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“Fill ‘yup?” Priscilla nodded mutely, sliding her mug back across the bar. It left a shiny track in the dust on its surface, probably the closest it had come to being clean in weeks. The barkeep snagged the glass before it could go crashing to the floor and held it underneath a spigot, expertly filling it to the brim with a frothy, honey-colored drink. He returned the mug quickly, barely spilling a drop of the liquid in the process. Priscilla watched the man out of the corner of her eye as she took a healthy drink of the ale. “Ya can ask,” he said without looking at her. “S’not impolite, here.” Priscilla’s eyes flickered to the scarf wrapped around his neck, a plebeian’s cravat. He nodded once at the unasked question. “Opened me right up, they did. Ear to ear, easy as breathin’. Stitches won’t hold. Keeps my head in da right place.” He chuckled, the sound as rough as gargling gravel. Priscilla lowered her mug carefully, wiping her upper lip free of foam with the back of one hand. “Tough luck,” she said, the syllables flavored with a faint but recognizable northern Istani accent. She scrubbed her hand clean on her hip. “Beg ta differ” the man replied. “Wasn’t doin’ much a’anything before. Now I got place a’my own. Business is good.” He waved a meaty hand at the interior of the bar. Around half the tables and booths were occupied. Most looked to be residents of Smith’s Field, with only one or two travelers like herself. Conversation was muted. The arid air seemed to suck up sound as well as moisture, and the patrons were all too willing to whisper to accommodate it. Priscilla ran one hand through her hair, temporarily dyed brown with a pungent alchemical mixture. A hint of her natural red still prevailed, giving the locks an amber cast, but it was still a stark deviation from her normal fiery appearance. She had smeared another concoction on her face to give her skin a sun-tanned appearance that matched her accent. Combined with the dark-brown lenses over her eyes and her plain traveler’s leathers and jacket, she was the epitome of a road-weary wanderer in appearance. It was a calculated look, one meant to deflect attention. Grey Valley was an unpleasant place, but Black Squad members didn’t get to be choosy about their assignments. Rumors of a town where the dead didn’t stay that way had been whispered about for years, but concrete evidence was always lacking. Now here Priscilla was here to provide it, and she had delivered in spades. It was impossible to take ten steps without running into someone with a mortal injury that wasn’t even remotely inconvenienced by the fact. She’d arrived in town just this morning and was still getting used to seeing death on such prominent display. Few of the citizens made a conscious effort to hide their injuries like the barkeeper. The door to the main street opened, a sliver of bright sunshine piercing through the dimness that reeked of stale liquor. Priscilla glanced towards the door, partaking in the time-honored tradition of giving a new patron a good once-over. |
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2:37 PM Jul 11

