Spread 001.
Fantasy world, swords, sorcery, wine, women, song, stabbing of clawed appendages, still somehow not as much fun as the description makes it out to be. At least sidewaysishly involving: Queen of Cups, Nine of Swords, the Moon, and Death.
Kulmia has never bought a slave before.
She picks the woman only because of her eyes. If she were a man, it would be for the burnished deep gold of her skin, the lighter, brighter gold of her hair, the curves of her hips and the softness of her lips and the fullness of her breasts. She's lovely enough to be a courtesan, poised enough to be a queen. But it's her mad blue eyes that make Kulmia's lips curl in a smile. "That one."
"But, my lady, the sea-enchantress blood in her-"
Rather than hear the ludicrous tall tales of a slave dealer trying to boost a bargain, Kulmia snaps the star sapphire out of her belt pocket and holds it up. It's familiar, and the man gasps, accepts it, even as the woman's eyes go after it with a soft look of yearning on her face.
"Come on, pearl, it's time to go play with a toad," Kulmia says mockingly, holding a hand out for the key. The woman just looks up at her in a pained fashion and then seems to be pretending she's not there. The man's still looking at the gem in his hand, and Kulmia rolls her eyes, draws her sword, and cuts through the slender chain. She grabs the end when the woman doesn't get up, and heaves, sending her rolling on the ground and looking irritated. The dealer gasps, finally coming up with the key, and Kulmia plucks it from his hand. She'll hand it to the trogre, or perhaps take off the slave woman's collar rather than have him detect an insult to his chained arena history--whichever pleases her.
"I'm not free," says the woman sulkily as they near the caverns. Kulmia glances back in surprise. The magic on the collar was supposed to keep her silent; odd it's worn through, but maybe whoever wore it before was a screamer.
"No," she says.
"I will not have warts," the woman says. "I don't like toads."
"Neither do I," Kulmia admits. "Actually, I'm giving you to a trogre."
"I don't like bad lines, either--don't they eat gifts?" the woman asks, as though trying to remember a long-ago tale.
"Indeed," says Kulmia.
"I thought so," the woman agrees, confirming Kulmia's suspicion that she's mad as a March hare. "Such is not to be; my tale will not end here. It would never scan."
"...scan?"
"My tale is an epic poem," the woman says, staring fixedly.
"Ah, hah," says Kulmia, shaking her head. "Move on."
She passes through the marshes, the madwoman picking her way along behind her, and enters the trogre's caves. Myrote is here somewhere, she knows, and she slows, reaching back to grab one thin, unexpectedly strong wrist.
"I don't want to be eaten," the woman says. "I wish for pearls, and poems, and a harp, and perhaps to burn the village I passed through to the ground; and I want the eyes and the screams of the man who sold me."
"Are you posing?" Kulmia asks, blankly, having looked over her shoulder to find the woman standing like a tragic figure of a play.
"If I didn't you'd never have paid attention," says the woman complacently, following her again.
The caves open a little. Myrote, a pretender of civilization, has a few casks of wine here. Besides one white-glowing stone casting its murky shine around the room, the place is dark. "Kulmia," says a voice like a corpse dragging over stone as they enter. Two whitish spots shine suddenly: the eyeshine of the trogre.
"Myrote," says Kulmia. Metal chinks softly against metal. A silver coin rolls suddenly across the stone floor, almost into the light, before the floor shimmers and it falls in. Not before Kulmia's spotted the face on the coin.
Oh, shit.
"You sold me out to Urkend Hunters," the trogre says. "I know. You're the only one who came from the west, and they traded silver with you. If it weren't for this little game-floor I might very well have danced with poisoned blades tonight."
"I can explain-"
"Your gift does not please me," the voice says softly as it can when it's only suited for roaring. "Your cracked bones might serve as a signpost."
Kulmia looks around, a swift glance, as she reaches for her best sword. She doesn't know where the floor trap begins or ends; the madwoman is pouring wine into a cup-
"A toast," says the woman, lifting the heavy goblet, wide enough for the trogre to easily hold, in her hands. She drinks thirstily, the wine pouring over her face and throat and shirt, and then throws it down. Red splatters over her feet, and the woman throws her head back and sings.
The first note rivets Kulmia to the spot; it's every command she's ever gladly obeyed. The woman's song winds up towards the ceiling, then plummets like the first stone of an avalanche rolling down a mountain face. Kulmia hears something roar, something charge, and then the woman's voice suddenly cuts out. Kulmia looks down. There's a hand at her feet, wide as her head with claws as long as her hand, arching its fingers to dig its nails into the stone; the hand ends in an arm extending from the roiling trap of the floor. Kulmia recovers her wits and stabs it. The trogre's grip is desperate, and she has to swing again and again before the hand whips into the hidden pit of the floor.
"You're a bard," she says shakily.
"Indeed," says the woman. "Aren't you glad you didn't buy the prince now?"
"That was a prince? Damn it, trogres love eating princes, he might have-" she remembers she'd never be forgiven for the poison on Hunter weapons.
"Come along," the woman says. "I want to find where it threw the bodies. I love poisoned daggers and I have so much to do with them."
"I'm Kulmia," Kulmia starts.
"Kulmia of the Nine Blades," the woman finishes. "I know, I know--I'm a bard, I must know every adventurer who wanders in case they do something interesting."
"You are?"
"Ashby Axrine," the woman says, poking along a side tunnel. "Oh, no, I think that's its midden."
"You're the assassin," Kulmia gapes, staring at her back.
"Nonsense," the woman says. "I am merely a songweaver who seeks fame and fortune. True, perhaps from time to time I've had to earn-"
"You're posing again."
"You ruin everything. What you'll do to my entrances I can't bear to think."
"You know people," says Kulmia. "So do I. I know smugglers, I know who finances the slave trade, and I know how to find traders."
"Sing on, dear bird."
"Don't call me 'bird,'" Kulmia says, under no illusions as to the delicacy of her appearance. "I'll help you find your trader, but I have some merchants I need dead, and I'm no good at poison work."
"Oh," Ashby says, coming back in a gentle sway, reeking of wine and salt. "The beginning of a beautiful partnership."
"If you like it, why are you frowning?"
"I love it. I smell wealth and new instruments and new shiny things and traces and floats of magic. But it will never rhyme unless you change your name."
Kulmia has never bought a slave before.
She picks the woman only because of her eyes. If she were a man, it would be for the burnished deep gold of her skin, the lighter, brighter gold of her hair, the curves of her hips and the softness of her lips and the fullness of her breasts. She's lovely enough to be a courtesan, poised enough to be a queen. But it's her mad blue eyes that make Kulmia's lips curl in a smile. "That one."
"But, my lady, the sea-enchantress blood in her-"
Rather than hear the ludicrous tall tales of a slave dealer trying to boost a bargain, Kulmia snaps the star sapphire out of her belt pocket and holds it up. It's familiar, and the man gasps, accepts it, even as the woman's eyes go after it with a soft look of yearning on her face.
"Come on, pearl, it's time to go play with a toad," Kulmia says mockingly, holding a hand out for the key. The woman just looks up at her in a pained fashion and then seems to be pretending she's not there. The man's still looking at the gem in his hand, and Kulmia rolls her eyes, draws her sword, and cuts through the slender chain. She grabs the end when the woman doesn't get up, and heaves, sending her rolling on the ground and looking irritated. The dealer gasps, finally coming up with the key, and Kulmia plucks it from his hand. She'll hand it to the trogre, or perhaps take off the slave woman's collar rather than have him detect an insult to his chained arena history--whichever pleases her.
"I'm not free," says the woman sulkily as they near the caverns. Kulmia glances back in surprise. The magic on the collar was supposed to keep her silent; odd it's worn through, but maybe whoever wore it before was a screamer.
"No," she says.
"I will not have warts," the woman says. "I don't like toads."
"Neither do I," Kulmia admits. "Actually, I'm giving you to a trogre."
"I don't like bad lines, either--don't they eat gifts?" the woman asks, as though trying to remember a long-ago tale.
"Indeed," says Kulmia.
"I thought so," the woman agrees, confirming Kulmia's suspicion that she's mad as a March hare. "Such is not to be; my tale will not end here. It would never scan."
"...scan?"
"My tale is an epic poem," the woman says, staring fixedly.
"Ah, hah," says Kulmia, shaking her head. "Move on."
She passes through the marshes, the madwoman picking her way along behind her, and enters the trogre's caves. Myrote is here somewhere, she knows, and she slows, reaching back to grab one thin, unexpectedly strong wrist.
"I don't want to be eaten," the woman says. "I wish for pearls, and poems, and a harp, and perhaps to burn the village I passed through to the ground; and I want the eyes and the screams of the man who sold me."
"Are you posing?" Kulmia asks, blankly, having looked over her shoulder to find the woman standing like a tragic figure of a play.
"If I didn't you'd never have paid attention," says the woman complacently, following her again.
The caves open a little. Myrote, a pretender of civilization, has a few casks of wine here. Besides one white-glowing stone casting its murky shine around the room, the place is dark. "Kulmia," says a voice like a corpse dragging over stone as they enter. Two whitish spots shine suddenly: the eyeshine of the trogre.
"Myrote," says Kulmia. Metal chinks softly against metal. A silver coin rolls suddenly across the stone floor, almost into the light, before the floor shimmers and it falls in. Not before Kulmia's spotted the face on the coin.
Oh, shit.
"You sold me out to Urkend Hunters," the trogre says. "I know. You're the only one who came from the west, and they traded silver with you. If it weren't for this little game-floor I might very well have danced with poisoned blades tonight."
"I can explain-"
"Your gift does not please me," the voice says softly as it can when it's only suited for roaring. "Your cracked bones might serve as a signpost."
Kulmia looks around, a swift glance, as she reaches for her best sword. She doesn't know where the floor trap begins or ends; the madwoman is pouring wine into a cup-
"A toast," says the woman, lifting the heavy goblet, wide enough for the trogre to easily hold, in her hands. She drinks thirstily, the wine pouring over her face and throat and shirt, and then throws it down. Red splatters over her feet, and the woman throws her head back and sings.
The first note rivets Kulmia to the spot; it's every command she's ever gladly obeyed. The woman's song winds up towards the ceiling, then plummets like the first stone of an avalanche rolling down a mountain face. Kulmia hears something roar, something charge, and then the woman's voice suddenly cuts out. Kulmia looks down. There's a hand at her feet, wide as her head with claws as long as her hand, arching its fingers to dig its nails into the stone; the hand ends in an arm extending from the roiling trap of the floor. Kulmia recovers her wits and stabs it. The trogre's grip is desperate, and she has to swing again and again before the hand whips into the hidden pit of the floor.
"You're a bard," she says shakily.
"Indeed," says the woman. "Aren't you glad you didn't buy the prince now?"
"That was a prince? Damn it, trogres love eating princes, he might have-" she remembers she'd never be forgiven for the poison on Hunter weapons.
"Come along," the woman says. "I want to find where it threw the bodies. I love poisoned daggers and I have so much to do with them."
"I'm Kulmia," Kulmia starts.
"Kulmia of the Nine Blades," the woman finishes. "I know, I know--I'm a bard, I must know every adventurer who wanders in case they do something interesting."
"You are?"
"Ashby Axrine," the woman says, poking along a side tunnel. "Oh, no, I think that's its midden."
"You're the assassin," Kulmia gapes, staring at her back.
"Nonsense," the woman says. "I am merely a songweaver who seeks fame and fortune. True, perhaps from time to time I've had to earn-"
"You're posing again."
"You ruin everything. What you'll do to my entrances I can't bear to think."
"You know people," says Kulmia. "So do I. I know smugglers, I know who finances the slave trade, and I know how to find traders."
"Sing on, dear bird."
"Don't call me 'bird,'" Kulmia says, under no illusions as to the delicacy of her appearance. "I'll help you find your trader, but I have some merchants I need dead, and I'm no good at poison work."
"Oh," Ashby says, coming back in a gentle sway, reeking of wine and salt. "The beginning of a beautiful partnership."
"If you like it, why are you frowning?"
"I love it. I smell wealth and new instruments and new shiny things and traces and floats of magic. But it will never rhyme unless you change your name."