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Kellehendros -> RE: The Hallows Inn (1/3/2015 22:10:55)
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The past rained down upon her like the blows of hammers, but Marietta came back to herself a little at a time, putting the pieces together as she had so many times before. She cried quietly, as she always had. Her stoic nature was a blessing here, and while she had been subject to similar emotional breakdowns in the pair of years that she had lived in Blackwater, she had always been able to make it home before losing control. With the door and shutters closed she went unbothered, the home appearing unoccupied to the outside world. The half-elf was afraid that one day she would not be able to make it, breaking down in the middle of the town. What happened at that point would depend entirely upon who came across her. The slings and arrows of their laughter and scorn she could take, it was their pity that she could not, would not, bear.
She had inherited more than keen senses from her mother, for that benefit was offset by the curse of a prodigious memory. The triggers varied, but her memories returned to her as fresh and immediate as the experience itself; their edges sharper than any knife, and undulled by the passage of time. Pain and horror, sorrow and suffering, each memory was graven upon her consciousness indelibly.
But the pain was not all there was. For each horror and agony, she called up a memory of joy and laughter, of hope and, most precious, of love. Marietta opened her eyes slowly. She lay upon her side, curled about the ebony box tightly. Her hands ached from clenching it so tightly, but she managed, with an effort of will, to release the box, lifting a trembling hand to her face and wiping the tears away as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Slowly, she brought her breathing under control, concentrating on each breath, feeling the air pass down into her lungs before being released in a soft, focused stream.
Once that was taken care of the hunter turned, shaking out the burlap sack and carefully depositing the ebony case within it, taking a last look as her finger touched the red wax sealing the latch. Her hand went to her chest, touching the form of the pendant about her neck through the fabric of her shirt and vest. For a moment she debated removing the pendent and returning it to the bag, but at the last she left it on. There was every chance that she could die this night. If that happened, she wanted to die with it on, and should that happen it would not matter what any of them made of the item’s presence. They would never know what it was anyways. Kitsondra might have had an inkling of what the pendant meant, but she had never seen it, and she was just as like to die as Marietta was tonight, if what Toren said was truth. In either event, no one was like to see it, hidden beneath her clothing, unless she fell in the battle.
“Focus upon what is before you. It matters not what came before, or what comes after. The moment is all that you control.” Shaking her head, the hunter slid the box back into its hiding place, replaced the board, and then carefully returned the bed to its original position. Rising, she crossed the small room to the washstand, and then gently and thoroughly washed her face and neck, cleaning away any evidence of her earlier weeping.
She spent the next few hours on simple things, cleaning her home, checking on the pelts hanging in her storage room, examining the fletching on the arrows in her quiver, and adding additional shafts to replace what had been expended during her hunting trip. Afterwards she sat at the table in her main room, her gear laid out and waiting, a single candle burning. Her hands rested on the table, palms down against the surface as she stared into the flickering flame, focusing on it. The exercise was mentally tiring, but it helped. The focused, honed state the hunter found over the course of the exercise allowed her some distance from her emotions, some respite in the aftermath of the storm that had blazed through her a short while ago. They would return, her memories, her pain, but for now she was calm, whole, and able to contemplate what had happened this morning.
The encounter with Turner was unfortunate, but the spread of the story, no doubt in progress, was moreso. How the story might change and grow with retelling… There was nothing she could do about that, in the end. Turner had brought it upon himself, and now they both would be forced to live with the consequences.
This matter with Toren was another thing entirely. She could acknowledge now that she had acted hastily, emotionally. It did not bother her that she had exposed, in some small measure, information about her past to those who could reason the matter out. What bothered her was that she had acted impulsively. In the end, she still would have agreed to help the girl. The hunter had meant what she said to Toren, but making the decision hotly was against her nature. A hunter had to be methodical, careful.
Marietta shook her head, setting those thoughts aside. It made no difference at this point. She was committed, and the manner by which she had accepted could be debated by those who cared. Rising, the half-elf moved through her small house, gathering some items that she would want for tonight.
The first was the shamshir and accompanying sword belt, which she buckled on carefully. She was an indifferent duelist at best, but a sword was of use when a bow could not serve, so it would come.
Second, she hooked a pouch onto her belt containing a few spare arrowheads and bowstrings, along with her sheathed utility dagger. While the arrowheads were of little use, the strings might be needed, and at the last the knife could protect her.
Third was her quiver, shrugged over her shoulder and secured to the back of her chest guard.
Fourth was an old shirt, one that Marietta had put aside for mending due to a tear along the side. Sacrificing the garment for the cause, the half-elf tore it into strips, carefully winding the strips about the heads of her arrows, until she had a full score so enhanced. The wrapped arrows went into a secondary quiver clipped to her belt, and the fingers of her right hand taped the nocks of the arrows lightly as she prepared the fifth item, an old bullseye lantern recently refilled with oil. Removing the top, Marietta disassembled the lantern, revealing the oil reservoir, which she removed and slipped into another pouch.
Finally, she collected her unstrung bow, and took a look about her small home. Nodding, she turned and exited the little shack for what might be the last time, walking towards the northern gate. She was, she saw, the first to arrive. That was to be expected, however, given that it was still several hours until dusk. Ignoring the guards at the gate, and the looks that they cast in her direction, she ascended the wooden stairs to the top of the wall, standing above the gate and staring out into the Darkwald, listening to a voice from past.
“It is in the darkest places that the light shines the brightest. No action, however small, is wasted, if it brings the light into the lives of those around you.”
Marietta smiled faintly, her voice a whisper. “To light a candle, you must first strike a match.”
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