Dryad Eyes, part 39.
420.
After making my remarks about it a little while ago, I decided to try rebuilding the scene I was having issues with from scratch. This lead to me outright dropping 1,000+ words of exposition, taking what was left and boiling it down even further, and finally deciding that even though it would make for a short entry, these 420 words could stand on their own.
Lithia’s wrists were lashed tightly together above her head, mirroring her ankles at the foot of the bed. Every now and again, especially when she moved, a jolt of pain would launch itself through her limbs, reminding her of the hours that she had already spent twisting, writhing, and jerking against the cords that held her fast. Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb.
The Witch Woman, Mistress Alaga, had known exactly what she was doing when she bound the Li’lithuan girl so tightly. It was impossible to block the girl’s senses, to prevent her from being able to see and feel the flow of blood in another person. To restrict her ability to manipulate that flow, however, one only had to unnaturally impede the flow of her own blood over an extended period of time. If she focused, and put all that she had into the effort, she thought she might still be able to make one of them feel dizzy. How long that would still be the case, she could not say, but she was saving the attempt, along with the tiny, sheathed knife that was carefully woven into her thick mane of red hair, for the right moment.
Lithia hated being the victim. She hated being imprisoned. That was why she had run away from her tribe in the first place, to avoid a life of enforced slavery. Thus far, however, the world beyond was not treating her any better. She had been bullied, beaten, chased from two villages, and finally put under lock and key after arriving at Keeper’s Gateway, all for no better reason than that she had Li’lithuan blood in her veins.
Somewhere behind the oversized, round bed that she was so firmly secured to, the swordsman Kurik stirred, groaned, and then sagged against his chains anew. He would be of no use. Even if he were inclined to help her, which she doubted, he was so ravaged by the beatings from Beatrice, and whatever it was that Mistress Alga occasionally did that made him scream all the louder every time, that he probably did not know his own name. No matter. The Li’lithuan girl had already decided that she was going to do this on her own. She might even deign to save him, if there was any chance to do so when the time came.
That was the only lesson that the world at large had taught her thus far; the only person she could really count on was herself.
After making my remarks about it a little while ago, I decided to try rebuilding the scene I was having issues with from scratch. This lead to me outright dropping 1,000+ words of exposition, taking what was left and boiling it down even further, and finally deciding that even though it would make for a short entry, these 420 words could stand on their own.
Lithia’s wrists were lashed tightly together above her head, mirroring her ankles at the foot of the bed. Every now and again, especially when she moved, a jolt of pain would launch itself through her limbs, reminding her of the hours that she had already spent twisting, writhing, and jerking against the cords that held her fast. Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb.
The Witch Woman, Mistress Alaga, had known exactly what she was doing when she bound the Li’lithuan girl so tightly. It was impossible to block the girl’s senses, to prevent her from being able to see and feel the flow of blood in another person. To restrict her ability to manipulate that flow, however, one only had to unnaturally impede the flow of her own blood over an extended period of time. If she focused, and put all that she had into the effort, she thought she might still be able to make one of them feel dizzy. How long that would still be the case, she could not say, but she was saving the attempt, along with the tiny, sheathed knife that was carefully woven into her thick mane of red hair, for the right moment.
Lithia hated being the victim. She hated being imprisoned. That was why she had run away from her tribe in the first place, to avoid a life of enforced slavery. Thus far, however, the world beyond was not treating her any better. She had been bullied, beaten, chased from two villages, and finally put under lock and key after arriving at Keeper’s Gateway, all for no better reason than that she had Li’lithuan blood in her veins.
Somewhere behind the oversized, round bed that she was so firmly secured to, the swordsman Kurik stirred, groaned, and then sagged against his chains anew. He would be of no use. Even if he were inclined to help her, which she doubted, he was so ravaged by the beatings from Beatrice, and whatever it was that Mistress Alga occasionally did that made him scream all the louder every time, that he probably did not know his own name. No matter. The Li’lithuan girl had already decided that she was going to do this on her own. She might even deign to save him, if there was any chance to do so when the time came.
That was the only lesson that the world at large had taught her thus far; the only person she could really count on was herself.