Jul 10, 2009 14:30
Chapter One.
A rat scuttled across the dank stone floor, sniffing its way toward its next meal. Its beady black eyes gleamed in semi-darkness. Deep in the shadows there was a shape lying against the wall reeking of unwashed human and congealing blood. The rodent stole towards it, following the mingling scents.
Pink nose twitching, the rat pattered closer. The shadowed form did not move, merely watched with half closed eyes. Somewhere in the darkness water dripped, loud and steady, like a timepiece. The prisoner and the rat lock gazes and the animal stilled on its haunches, waiting, watching.
Now!
The figure moved fast despite the heavy iron shackles. The first spray of blood painted the floor, and dripped down the woman's chin, teeth locked firmly around the rodent's twitching body. It was over quickly- a squeak, a crunch, and a low, near feline purr of satisfaction. The rat was dead, and by no means a feast, it would do. She considered this a victory, her ears perked up tail flicking to and fro in pleasure. Grimy, sharp-as-talons fingernails rid the carcass of its fur- what little meat the animal has to offer tastes better without. The fact that the meat was still warm was appreciated, though it cooled before she can consume the entire corpse.
As the tiny bones crunch beneath sharpened teeth, footsteps approached. In her chains the woman stilled and tensed, hackles rising. The door swung open, creaking on rusted hinges to reveal a guard in red and silver, a spear in one thickly gloved hand.
He smiled unpleasantly at the prisoner, revealing an array of crooked yellow teeth. "Here, Blood Drinker. A meal befitting the Cannibal Queen." He bowed mocking, a calloused hand lashing out to smack heavily across the side of her face. He then makes a show of cleaning off the sullied hand, as if fearful of a bad smell or sickness.
She bared her own fangs, teeth stained with the blood of her prey. Eyes squinted in pain, she shifted her crouch slightly, feet flat of the floor, back against the wall, as the man- who smelt of sweat and dirt and musty, simmering lust- approached. There was another guard at his back, with no weapon, but a tray in his hands. He set it just out of her reach and scrambled away. He reeked of fear sharp and bitter, and she was pleased to see the gouge marks under his eye had yet to heal.
She watched them, gold eyes darting from one to the other before there was a flicker of movement. The iron shackle that had been locked around her ankle dropped free when she rose up on the balls of her feet, balancing on her toes as her captors had not been aware she could do. The woman was free, and she snarled her victory before bolting under the men's flailing arms and spear, out of the cell and down the dank, dimly lit hall. There were no windows, and the torchlight guttered and sizzled but that does not bother the huntress. Her strangely coloured eyes picked out the insects hiding in the cracks between the stones, even as she ran past.
Nostrils flaring, the woman followed the smell for fresh air, of humanity. The shouting that echo after her- the prisoner has escaped, the cat-bitch is running- but she paid them no mind. Her mad dash leads her up, up, up, past rushing guards and towards an armoury.
But before she can reach it, a hand clamped iron-tight over her arm, the yell of, "Got her! I've got the prisoner!" in her ears.
She spun, going with the momentum as he pulled and landed hard on his chest, hands coming up to latch onto his throat. There was a snarl and a wet crunch, then silence. The guard crumples to rough flagstone- but not before the spear he'd been carrying buried itself in her side. She choked on the scream, every nerve shrieking in pain before lapsing into numbness, into shock. His head was twisted all the way around, a faint look of victory in dimming eyes. Blood dripped onto his scarlet uniform as she doubled over soundlessly, arms wound around her middle. For a moment, the woman's head cleared, and she eyed the fallen warrior with nothing in her expression save anger, hands clamped over the gash. Then she kicked him back into the shadows that he'd leapt from and ducked into the storehouse, blood running, marking a trail.
Sticking to the shadows, ears perked for any sound, she slipped into the room and stalked past the weapons, knuckles whitening under the blood. There, at the far wall is what she was looking for. A window set high up, glass glinting in the sunlight. She grinned viciously and made towards it, up on her toes, and picked up a flail as she passed. The weight was awkward and clumsy in her free hand, but it did the job well enough. One blow sent glass raining down and she set the weapon aside to jump and latch onto the sill, hissing as jagged edges cut deep into her palms, with the twin throb from the wound in her side. Despite the pain she crouched up on the window, and tried to ease air into her burning lungs, hands coated in her own blood. The fall would not damage her and just as the door behind her slammed open she drops soundlessly out of sight.
The earth rushed up at her and she prepared herself for impact, eyes wide open, her mouth in a thin line. The landing sent shockwaves of pain up her legs and she crumpled over before she could start to run, breathless with the pain of it. Warily she glanced up just as a spear cleaved the ground beside her head, thrown from the window she just leapt from, twenty feet up. In that split second the panic twists her guts into knots and dries her mouth to dust. She doesn't need more warning, and takes off running regardless of the pain. The city was her playground, and she lost herself all too quickly in the back allies.
Chapter Two.
"Get him!"
There was a muffled curse and Flins turned and ran, his attackers a step behind. Something like terror pounded though his veins, the sweat on his brow dribbling into his eyes in the mid-afternoon heat. He took turns at random, ducking into back alleys in a desperate attempt to lose his pursuers and keep his prize, a loaf of flatbread and his pockets full of jerky.
Their jeering followed him, ghosts and hellfire at his heels until he managed to lose them by the docks.
Panting, coughing, he slowed his panicked sprint to a jog, then a walk. He breathed in the reek of fish and brine and thought of safety.
"Thought I was beat there for a minute," he said and rummaged through his pockets for the scavenged pieces of flatbread and jerky. He laughed, "So much fuss for a scrap of bread and some meat. What's the world coming to?"
As he walked and eyed the shipping yards, he chewed his stolen scraps and thought of nothing in particular. He sighed at long last, swallowing roughly and wiping greasy palms on his trousers.
"It really wasn't worth all that running," he said, and paused mid-step. In one of the warehouses to his left there was a crash of empty crates shifting followed by a mewl of pain, and despite his better judgment, he was curious and a little bit frightened, as was his nature. So he stuffed the bread into his pocket and bee lined towards the cracked doors, nearly slipping in the rotting fish entrails that litter this place. Then a thought hit him, what if it's a gang of criminals? Or some sort of…wild, rabid creature from the mainland? I can't just barge in, who knows what's behind those doors!
For a few minutes he peered through cracks in the walls, trying to ease his fear, but there was nothing to see but gloom and empty crates. He would have to go in. He winced when the double doors rolled open on rusty tracks, shrieking their protest. He hovered there in the threshold for a moment; dull brown gaze probing at the vague shapes he could only just make out as he waited for his eyes adjust. There was no movement from within. He gulped and brushed his too long, dusty brown hair out of his face, and ventured further into the warehouse, feeling the stink of fish close in on him as thickly as the shadows did. His heart picked up, pounding too loud in his head, his palms slick with sweat. He wiped them on his pants again and swallowed.
The storage area was bleak; its roof full of holes where the wooden shingles had rotted away leaving patches of sunlight to speckle the gloom. Clearly, he thought, this is not one of the more used warehouses.
Still, in the shadows that claw and consume, Flins managed to make out a shape. He stepped closer, squinting and not quite sure. It was a woman to be sure, but that was all the detail he could see before there was another whimper and the figure falls to the hard packed earth.
"Miss! Miss! Are you alright?" he ran over without a second thought.
Women are delicate creatures, Flinsifer. You need to protect them, take care of them, and provide for them because they can't do it themselves.
His father's voice echoed in his ears, a phantom speaking over his thundering pulse. How long ago had he said that? Nearly ten years, before he was killed in an uprising on summer afternoon. The last piece of advice he'd ever given his son. Flins had been seven at the time. The strange way the woman dressed- some sort of…. beaten leather dress, is the thing to drag him back to reality, away from the memories before he could drown in them. Then he saw the blood and the rest of the world fell away.
"Miss!" he tried again, shaking her by the shoulders. "Miss, you have to wake up!"
And when this proved pointless, he pushed her hand out of the way and applied pressure to the gash, hoping to slow the bleeding. While he worked at that, he talked to her, low whispers made hoarse with his rising panic and shaking hands. He shucked his shirt and balled it up, using it as a makeshift bandage, even as his thoughts scattered in a thousand different directions and blood soaks his hands.
In the hours that came, Flins' found himself kneeling beside a pile of damp wood in the same warehouse and cursing under his breath as the sparks his flint rocks gave off refuse to take. He should have though to take kindling with him when he'd sprinted home for supplies. The woman lay a few feet away, silent and still as death. The wound in her side had not been overly deep, but long and shallow- something he's glad he has the skill to treat with the herbal ointments in his possession, and the bandages he had managed to steal from his master's supply.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself when another fire attempt failed, he studied the woman he'd decided to save. The cat-like ears and tail were quite a shock, when he'd finally noticed them. He'd then spent a solid half an hour trying to forcibly detach the abnormal growths from her body- after swallowing his nausea- before giving up the would-be maiming once he'd rationalized them away. After all, his mind supplied, she's probably a novice shape shifter. He knew such practices were illegal, which would account for her abysmal attempt; with no master willing to teach her the art, she'd been forced to teach herself, and probably wounded herself that way, in a fight with another cat.
"…Still, why would you change back?" he asked, hands hovering over the damp firewood. "Surely you know that that cut would be less severe on a cat."
But there was no answer to his question, so he bowed his head and made an attempt. Finally, finally, the wood caught and he grinned with an exclamation of, "Thanks to Gods and Goddesses, fire at last!"
Soon, with the addition of more wood and a few dried herbs, the flames burned hot enough to boil water, which was exactly what he did. With the pot bubbling away, he turned and carefully unwrapped medicinal plants and the shallow bowl he'd brought with him, and got to work. Sandalwood, arnica, balm, and sage were ground into a thick paste, and after a moment, he added a touch of yarrow- for the pain. He murmured his thanks to his master for keep such a well-stocked supply of healing herbs, even in such desperate times.
He set aside the ointment and turned to his patient, licking his lips. The girl had yet to stir, and it was out of the question to roust her and ask her to undress. He must do it for her, or the wound will fester. So he swallowed hard and starts his task as gingerly as he can.
The dress proved a challenge, there were no buttons or lacing up the back so he's forced to tug it up over her head and discard it for a time.
The body he uncovered is lean with muscle, bruised and beaten, though the gash was the only sign of bloodshed. That's the injury he started with, dabbing at it with clean rags soaked in hot water, rinsing dried blood away to prepare for the closing of the wound.
He was wincing for her as he threaded the needle, "This may hurt a bit, but try and be still, please. It's for the best."
Silk thread was neatly pulled through brown skin, the leering gash sewn shut as neatly as a tear in one of his shirts. His stomach flipped uncomfortably after he tied the knot and he relaxed his tunnel vision long enough to survey the entire patient for signs of discomfort. He swallowed thickly and wiped his brow on his sleeve, tracing markings up her wrists past slim shoulders and ending as bold streaks of purple across her cheeks, joining across the bridge of the nose. His hand lingered on the swirls that sloped down over jutting collarbones, and he pulled away before he could follow the whirls over the tops of her breasts.
He couldn't even laugh at himself when he nearly dropped the salve; his mouth was too dry.
Still, he managed to fumble his way through applying the ointment -with shaking hands- before wrapping the wound in fresh bandage, and putting some space between his patient and he.
"What a day," he mumbled- exhausted, embarrassed and accomplished- with a hand over his flushed face. He blamed it on the firelight, too close to be healthy, and shut his eyes to rest.
The days passed, and nearly a week after finding the shape shifter by the docks, Flins found himself at the ancient wooden table that's stained with plant juices, with a book and a pile of flowers at his elbow, awaiting pressing. Sunlight streamed through the open door, the thrown open shutters. It's a peach of a day, as his Master, Luc, would say. There was an aura of contentment in the air, and Flins sighed in the relief of it. It was because of his ease that he didn't hear Luc sneak up on him, as ancient as the table he sits at, but as spry as he was at Flins' age.
"Where have you been running off too in every spare minute, Flinsifer?"
Flins jumped at the sudden noise, as warm as it was and looked up from the herbs he'd been pressing. "Master?"
"You seem to disappear as soon as no one needs you." Withered fingers stroked his chin in thought and the elder continued lightly, "Why, just the other day after we set that McGee boy's broken arm and when I turned to congratulate you, you'd already slipped away! So tell me, what is it?" The healer was amused and curious, gray eyes twinkling in his wrinkled face. Flins floundered, trying to explain. Why hadn't he prepared a lie for this, he wailed internally.
"Well, you see-"
"Is it a girl?"
Flins went red and tried to explain but Master crowed, delighted. "I knew, I knew it! My Flinsifer is growing up! It seems like only yesterday you'd come to my door begging for food and now- a girl! Tell me, is it that Aggie from the Inn or-"
"Master, please! It's not Aggie!"
"Good because I've always thought she was rather- well, I always thought you could be better. What about Durlean, then?"
Flins shuddered. The name brings to mind the gawky, lanky girl of his youth always blushing and stammering and tripping. She'd kissed him when they were nine, and he'd never quite recovered. "No, Master, it's not Durlean, either."
"Well, who then? Don't make an old man guess!"
He forced a grin, "You're hardly an old man, Master. You could outrun me any day."
"Ah, yes, but that's because you're out of shape." And the master poked his student in the stomach with one gnarled finger, "And don't try to distract me. I want to know all about this girl who's caught your attention."
Flins stood, clearing his throat, "Really, Master. There is no girl. I just find that walking helps me think."
Luc raised a silver-white brow, mouth curled into a frown, his arms crossed. "All this time, you've been walking." He didn't sound convinced.
"Yes," Flins nodded empathetically. "Really, master, aren't you the one that taught me that nature brings the greatest relief? I've just been…indulging your teaching, as always."
"And what do you have to think about? Your future is set- you're a healer. They'll always be a need for healers-"
"And priests, I know, I know." Flins said, completing the long-repeated phrase with a wave of his hand.
"Exactly! You will always have food on your table, a roof over your head, Flinsifer. So what do you have to think about?"
"Just things, master."
"Bah, 'just things' indeed! I still say it's a girl."
"Think what you like, Master. It's not a girl. Not exactly." And he grinned a little. "But Master, we're running low on chamomile. I think I'll go and gather some, if that's all right with you. The walk will do me good."
He was already reaching for the satchel when his master nodded, and halfway out the door when he called after him, "Tell her I said hello!"
Flinsifer shut the door on his master's laughter, his face reddening. "Crazy old man," he muttered under his breath and headed for the shipping district.
The chamomile can wait.
The rotting warehouse had become a familiar sight in the last week, and Flins only wished that he could become accustomed to the smell as quickly. In the damp air and darkness of the warehouse's interior, the pungent smell of fish carcass nearly overwhelmed him, and he stumbled over a half-rotten shingle in his distraction. Grimacing, he kicked it aside and walked towards the back corner, where he had set up camp for his patient.
He stopped dead, eyes widening at the sight that greet him. The blankets kicked away and tangled, the meager food supply was gone, the ashes of his long dead fire were scattered about the site. Crates were shattered and thrown about, ruining the tall semi-circle he'd pushed them into to hide the woman from view. Worst of all, his patient, Miss Cat, was nowhere to be seen. His mind jumped to bandits and murder, kidnapping or torture and he couldn't get his breath.
"Miss?" He panted out, cold sweat beading on his brow. Dimly he was aware of setting the knapsack full of fresh supplies to the ground, and looking around frantically. "Miss, are you here?" There was no blood on the ground, he noted with relief, but any footprints the dusty ground could have offered up was lost in the chaos of smears. He licked his lips, "Miss, please come out. I'm a friend. My name is-"
Then he heard the low growl and his blood ran cold.
blood drinkers,
wip,
multichapter.