Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer
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Once fat was rendered into grease, it could be rubbed into a lambswool cloak, allowing the garment to shed water in much the same manner as a duck’s feathers. It was a trick that many a hunter, Marietta included, had taken advantage of, and while the resulting garment was the next best thing to impervious to water, it was of far less use when it was soaked through from a dip in the River Stone.
The cloak had served her well in keeping the water off her, until the accident. Treking back towards Blackwall from a three-day expedition, Marietta had been checking some snares that she had left near the river’s edge, only to have the bank crumble out from beneath her feet. The hunter staggered, almost regained her balance, and then started to slide toward the water in a cascade of mud and rock. Launching herself awkwardly to the side, Marietta had made a desperate bid to stay out of the water, but a treacherous root snagged the hood of her cloak, arresting the momentum of the lunge. Gravity took over the job from there, and the half-elf had found herself spluttering in the river shallows, her bowstring protected from the soaking only by some gut-level instinct that had caused her to launch the stave as she went down.
Marietta hauled herself out of the river, cursing it, cursing the empty snare that had brought her to this stretch of bank, and cursing herself, all in equal measure. Working her right arm gingerly, the hunter stepped carefully back up the bank and moved towards the road, recovering both bow and game bag. Her wrist twinged as it moved. That was a poor sign, perhaps a sprain. She had certainly scraped her arm against a rock or something when she went down. Still, it would have been worse, had she not been left-handed.
The rain was still coming down fitfully, trickling over her drenched cloak and sliding down her collar, insinuating a chill into her body as the cold drops found her skin. It was miles to the walls, miles that were going to be long and cold in the clammy cloak. There was nothing for it though. Taking the garment off would just expose her to the water all the more, so the half-elf kept moving. At least the exertion of the hike provided some counter-measure to the frigid drizzle, though she was probably going to get a cold from this.
As expected, the miles were both long and cold, so there was at least the consolation that she had been right about that to hold against the discomfort. Marietta trudged to a weary halt, leaning against a tree as she stared at the walls of Blackwall. She saw, with some inward measure of dismay, that the guard had changed. The sun was trudging wearily higher into the sky, and the men at the gate were not who she had hoped to find. Rolff, Darner, Ternald, they were hardly company such as Marietta might seek out. Rolff and Ternald had been a pair of the group that had assiduously courted her when she first took up residence in the city. From time to time Ternald still made attempts in his quiet way.
Sighing, the hunter shuffled down the hill, heading for the gatehouse. The day guard was out, and that meant… Turner.
“‘Ello, ‘ello, what have we ‘ere, ‘ey lads?” Turner’s voice boomed out from behind the gate, making Marietta wince ever so slightly. Her father had always told Marietta she had her mother’s ears. While their long and pointed nature made it obvious that was the case, as they certainly did not come from her round-eared father, what he meant was that she shared her mother’s keenness of the senses. It was what made her the hunter that she was, but it also meant that she was susceptible to pain when exposed to the roaring timbre of Turner’s voice. “Lookee ‘ere, it’s ta wee beauty, back from ‘er ‘untin’.”
Marietta slogged to a halt before the gate, holding herself with all the dignity she could, given her somewhat disheveled appearance. Her sodden cloak hung about her soddenly, and several strands of brown hair straggled over her forehead to frame her face, having escaped her braid. Grounding her bowstave against the path, the hunter leaned her weight on it, lifting a hand and tucking a strand of wet hair back behind her ear, eyes carefully impassive as she gazed through the gate at Turner.
Turner was every bit as large as his voice, a thick and heavy-set man with a blacksmith’s forearms, equally at home at the inn putting away pints, or beating on some unlucky smaller man during the guards infrequent bouts of training. He wore his usual leer as he peered through the gate at the hunter, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold rippled down her spine. “Well now, me lass, miss me while you was away?”
He was the last dedicated suitor, and the reason she did whatever she could to return from the Darkwald during the night watch. Marietta had the impression that Turner found her resistance to what he saw as his charms an insult, and whatever he had that passed for honor would not be assuaged by anything but her capitulation. As such, he continued unabated in his attempts, unswerved by the tactics that had pushed away the other men one by one. Those other suitors perhaps took heart from Turner’s persistence, turning up again from time to time, and the half-elf had to wonder if she would ever know peace until the big man finally gave up. “Open the gate, Turner.”
She could tell, as soon as the words left her mouth, that Turner was enjoying this. The big man swelled up, enjoying the attention of the other guards, and the power his position lent him at the moment. “And supposin’ I don’ fancy that, eh luv?”
Marietta sighed as her wrist throbbed quietly, closing her eyes and slowly counting to five. Opening her eyes again, she directed them to the guard, keeping her voice even. “Let me in.”
“Tell you what, I might be… persuaded to let you in, ‘ey? So what’s it worth to ye?”
Shifting fractionally, Marietta ignored Turner, addressing herself to the other guards. “Ricard, please…”
The smaller guard chewed his lip for a moment, glancing at Turner, and then seemed to reach some decision. He moved forward, only to be pushed back and pinned against the wall by one meaty arm. “Nay, Ric, the lass and I are ‘avin’ a bit of a chat.” Turner glanced back at Marietta, grinning. “‘Ow about it then? I let you in ‘ere, and you let me have a couple minutes of your time?”
She glared through the gate, her blood boiling for a moment. The half-elf took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and pushing the anger down. Playing for time to soothe her fury further, the hunter stepped through her bow, effortlessly bending the massive stave and taking off the string. Coiling the string and storing it in a waist pouch, she at last squared her shoulders and faced the gate. Swallowing her pride, she gave Turner what he wanted. “Three minutes.”
“Tha’s all the time I need, luv.” Turner pulled the gate open, squinting over his shoulder at the quickly silenced snickers from the other guards, apparently oblivious to the implications of his words.
Marietta slid through the narrow opening in the gate as soon as she was able, though it put her closer to the big man than she would have liked. She did not want to chance Turner changing his mind and barring her outside again.
Grinning, the big man moved to slide an arm around the half-elf’s shoulders. “Now ‘en, ‘ow about we ‘ave a little-”
Whatever Turner had been about to request, Marietta had no desire to hear it. Her interest was solely in the meaty limb about to settle onto her shoulder. The hunter dropped her game bag, one work-calloused hand coming up and clamping onto Turner’s wrist. Turning, Marietta started to pull, adding her strength to Turner’s movement as she twisted at the hips, her leg striking like a snake.
There was a sharp pop, Turner’s mouth gaped into an “O” of sudden agony, and then the big man toppled to the ground, gasping and making little keening sounds of pain as his hands scrabbled at his leg. Marietta looked down at the big man, and for the first time in the entire encounter, her neutral facade was cracked by a perceptible emotion: a small and chill smile of satisfaction as she watched the guard clutch his dislocated knee. “A trick from an old friend,” the half-elf whispered to herself. “Looks like you won’t make your three minutes, Turner.”
Marietta turned, inspecting the other guards for a moment, the slight and unnerving smile remaining at the shocked looks they bore. “Ricard,” she said gently, “you should go and see Caroline.” The apothecary wasn’t a healer, but she knew enough to set Turner’s leg in order, and no doubt she could provide something for the pain. The half-elf picked up her game bag, slinging it over her shoulder again. Ricard nodded dumbly, stumbling off towards the apothecary; the other guards just watched as Marietta walked slowly into town.
Like as not, she would live to regret this. Turner was not a man she wanted to cross, and as a guard he could make her life unfailingly unpleasant. She could only think how it might have been different if… but no, she wouldn’t think about that. She had promised herself she would not, and it never did any good anyways.
Shaking her head, she slowed for a moment, hesitating as she looked down the path towards her home. The little shack would be as empty as she had left it, the fireplace waiting, a cold greeting for her arrival. The hunter shivered slightly, feeling the cold of the rain down to her bones. “The inn,” she whispered softly, reminding herself. Sloan could be counted on to purchase the brace of conies, and a seat by the inn’s roaring fireplace might help her body remember that there was, in fact, still warmth in the world, despite everything that had happened.
The cold must have been addling her wits. Marietta sighed, trudging towards the inn and banishing the thoughts. That was another time, another place, a lifetime ago. She had buried the past, and it would stay there, though a little voice whispered in the back of her mind, mockingly asking if she really believed that.
Shivering from more than just the cold, Marietta blinked, realizing she had reached the inn while in her fugue of memory and cold. She let herself inside, sweeping the room with a cursory gaze, though only really seeing Sloan as the innkeeper approached, looking concerned. “You alright, lass?”
“Took a dip in the Stone. Cold…” She offered the innkeeper her game bag, realizing in a detached way that while many men in Blackwall called her that, only Sloan could do it without insulting her. “Three…”
“Aye? We’ll go the usual then. Have a seat by the fire, lass. It’ll be tea, I’m sure; I’ll send one of the girls over.”
Marietta nodded absently, shuffling away and dropping into a chair as close to the fire as she could find, steam rising from her cloak as the fire’s heat caressed her. The half-elf closed her eyes, leaning against her chair and letting the blessed heat soak into her, hardly aware of what was happening in the inn around her.
And then she came down the stairs. Marietta’s eyes slitted open, hearing the tread upon the stairs, and then she stiffened, catching sight of the red ensemble. A few weeks after arriving in Blackwall, the half-elf had sought out the Red Lady herself, seeking only to assuage her curiosity regarding the eccentric figure who appeared to be a local celebrity.
She had approached the table, finding the woman bent low over a scatter of cryptically etched dice, but had been forestalled any chance to speak by the lady herself. “Half-human, but full of all their curiosity.”
Marietta had been somewhat taken aback by this. “I am sorry if I am disturbing you.”
“Oh,” she had replied, “I am the one who usually disturbs.” The Red Lady looked at her, but Marietta felt that the gaze was going through her, looking beyond her to some trail, as if the supposed seer could read the past like a hunter could a trail. “You’ve a core of iron, elfling, but iron rusts. Curiosity is made of adamant, and shatters iron every time. One day you will return to me because you want to know.”
“To… to know..?” The half-elf had stared at her, shuddering and transfixed by the gaze, unable to move away.
“Aye, to know. The question rankles, I can see it. You are so sure, but you don’t know. Come back to me, when the iron shatters, and you can no longer stand to not know for certain.”
Marietta had fled, rushing back to her little shack in turmoil. Two years had passed, and she had not said another word to the woman, not gone anywhere near her. When the Red Lady was in the common room, you could find Marietta in the opposite corner, as far as away as could be. Some of the townsfolk had remarked upon it, but the hunter had ignored them too.
Shaking her head, Marietta brought herself back to the present, watching from the corner of her eye as a man and child approached the woman. The hunter lifted the mug of tea that had appeared beside her at some point, sipping slowly at the warmth and closing her eyes again, until the man, Toren, introduced himself and started to speak.
Her eyes opened slowly and watched the man, outwardly unmoved. Marietta let her gaze travel the room slowly, evaluating reactions and waiting. What would come of this would be no good, of that she was at least certain.
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