Snippet #2688070

Departing from the meeting of the elvish leaders, a young-looking Tlamani walks intently down the large corridor from the chambers of The Hall of Ancients. Short, dark brown hair match his stern, brown eyes which seem to tell the story of a not-so-distant past softness about them, now stress-hardened into what they are now. Wrinkles seem to be making their first ever appearance on the forehead of his otherwise youthful, soft-looking face. As if in direct contrast to his overall appearance, a decorative coat of hardened leather armor scarcely hides beneath his forest green cloak, detailed with a pattern of brown.
Lord Farenir, a mere 72 years old, has only held his title for five of them, after the sudden heart attack and following death of his father. Though he has a long way to go, he has proven his resourcefulness and has certainly proven himself an effective leader, simply by listening and learning. Very rarely does he require the guidance of his advisers now-a-days, but this is a tough time to be getting the hang of management and times are certainly about to get much harder.

The young elf is flanked by someone of a seemingly heavier sternness about him, if not far surpassing the lord with it.

"His Grace is naive to have any faith in human physicians. The likes of them are dead before our practitioners are even considered experienced."

The man is obviously much older with his extensive number of wrinkles, certainly sharing the cause of their existence with his lord's. His straight ebony-black hair reaches down to the center of his back. His eyes, a dark green tint, seem to resemble that of an aggravated hawk. He is dressed similarly to Lord Farenir, but with less decoration; his armor certainly looking more appealing to wear for someone going into combat. It may be his seemingly flawless posture, but the man stands a full head taller than the lord and certainly above most military-age Tlamani males.

"We've no one left to turn to," Farenir replied, "unless you expect an orchish shaman or a dwarvish physician to understand what causes this...plague...who else do we have to turn to? Gnomes and their bio-engineers?"

The older man looks as if he already knew that there were no other real options but continues.

"It's worthless to ask a people who barely have the ability to understand their own biology, let alone something of this degree." The man sighs. Both whole-heatedly understand where either is coming from, yet vary in degree of hope from hopeless...to severe doubt.

"You may be my steward, but you will always be a stubborn captain," Farenir said, referencing his adviser's previous duty as a leader of warriors of the woodland. "No matter how hopeless the situation, we must exhaust every chance we have at helping us. That includes asking for help from anyone who would give it, regardless of their capabilities."

The steward remains silent.

"...Ashoriel's daughter has still yet to have been heard from. What of yours? Has she ever contacted you or hinted anything about her situation?" The lord turns to look at the older man. His expression has gone from stressed to one of curiosity.

"She never sent any messages and I've no way of knowing where she is but I just know she most certainly has put herself in an undesirable situation..."

"My father once told me you trained your daughter in the ways of combat. She may be a child but I'm certain she's doing completely fine."

-

"Ow. Ow. Ow..."

Danairia walks along the street, wincing with each time she puts weight on her right leg. Either the people she ran into were not agents of the colosseum or they were the most terrible trackers ever. There was an obvious...trail..being left by the wound all the way down the road. She could not afford to focus on anything but her destination...Well, she could have focused on the road a little more, as an uneven crack is all it takes to role Danairia's ankle, bringing further pain to her right leg and sending her crashing down with a surprisingly feminine yelp.

"...Oowwwww...."

She had not wanted to resort to the only way she could fix it for now, as it remains an unreliable method at her skill level, but there was no way she was going to receive medical attention until she could rest. Wincing, Danairia gets up in an almost half-crouch and makes her way to the side of the street before collapsing again and turning over to a rest upon her bottom.
The elf inspects her wound, getting a good look at it before placing her palm atop it. Energy seems to leave her body as a bit of light shines from her palm, directly into the open wound. A few seconds later and her hand is removed to reveal her injury, now closed, and certainly a long way from healed, but dry of any fluids that she would prefer to keep in her body. Danairia sighs. It still hurts but at least there is one less thing she needs to worry about.

Down deeper in the port is where the escaped slave heads for. Just beyond the docks and fish markets. A tavern, which sat upon a platform to hold it level next to the slanted street, headed down to the anchored ships. The Luckless Maiden, was founded as a place for sailors to spend some of their wages on drink and offer them a place to stay before their next trip to sea. Now it attracted more than just sailors. Regular citizens of the area frequented the place for its service and familiar atmosphere, as if the place was closely related to the inns of small towns, but in a port city. She had a friend there she could trust; a friend she could count on. She could not remember a time when she was not friends with the man known as Hans.
...Okay, maybe that was because she can't remember when exactly she met him-as just about every time she ended up staying in Opynonias she ended up only being able to recall but a blurred, combined mess of random events that may or may not have actually transpired-but she knew she knew him. And she knew she knew that he knew her and she knew him as trust worthy. She may not know how she knew but she knew.

The elf limps down the road and stops in front of the tavern, looking up at the metal sign of a filled mug above the doorway before taking a breath and pushing the obstacle out of her way, heading beneath the advertisement. The establishment is as busy as ever, despite the obvious suggestions of a pretty brutal, recent bar fight.

"Hehe. Good times," Danairia chuckles to herself.

Just then, a voice calls out from a table on the far side of the room from behind the bar.

"Ms. Feyn!"

Danairia tracks the voice, following it to its owner. The handsome young man known as Hans Holst. Anyone could pick out that messy brown hair of his and his uniquely gentle eyes are not one to help in hiding his identity. If that were not enough, he dresses in the obvious garb of a bar hand. Yes, this is definitely the man famous for his hospitality. This is the man Danairia is looking for.
At first, it looks as though he wants her to join him in with one of his customers but, oddly enough, his facial expression quickly fades from one of pleasant surprise to one of concern.

"E-..excuse me, sir. I thank you for your time but I-..I-...Excuse me."

Hans steps out from behind the bar and approaches the elf, visually inspecting her.

"By the creator, are you all right? You're a mess!"

Danairia squints.

"I'm fine? Thank you? Look, Hans, I need your help-"

"-Fine?" He interrupts. "You're not fine, look at you! You're dirty beyond belief,-" "I'm always dirty, though!" "-you look as though you haven't eaten a proper meal in months!-" "I haven't eaten a proper meal in years though..." "-Are those-..?" Hans hushes his tone. "Are those slave rags?-" "Yeah, funny story about that..." "-and, by all holy things, you're bleeding!"

Danairia looks puzzled at first but then looks down to find blood dripping from her calf once more.

"Aw, fuck me, I didn't even strain myself!-Why are you bleeding again?!"

Hans grabs Danairia by her arm and tugs her along.

"Hey," he calls out to the current bar tender. "I'm renting a room for a bit here, Jacob, I need you to cover me for a second, alright?"

After receiving confirmation that it was okay to take some time away from the bar, Hans leads Danairia upstairs to the second floor and into an empty room.

"Alright," he starts, "Lets start with that wound. Lay down."

Within minutes, the elf's leg is stitched up.

"You're going to need some bandages for when you move. I have some here but they wont last too long. Remember to let the cut air out as much as you can, though, and it should heal in a matter of time."

"Thank you, Hans. You certainly earn your reputation around here."

Danairia looks at the man to find his expression obviously wanting.

"...What?" She asks.

"What do you mean 'what'? Slave clothes? He is the one who turned you into a slave, isn't he? And I'll bet he made you into a gladiator too." Hans reaches in Danairia's bag of belongings and retrieves her old pair of trousers and blouse.

"You'd win that bet...By the way, about that..." The elf sheepishly grins.

"What is it?" Hans asks before lightly sniffing the blouse and then violently pulling away. "Yep, you're not the only thing that needs a bath..."

Danairia sighs.

"I kinda escaped a good hour-or-so previously.-"

"-Yeah, I figured. You picked one hell of a time to do so too. We had Imperial soldiers here earlier." Hans investigates the sack of Danairia's belongings for any more clothing that will need to be washed but only finds her armor and weapons. Danairia rolls over to face her friend.

"Yyyeeeeeaaaaaah, one could say I know them pretty well. Charming group of boys..."

...

"They're the ones who cut your leg, aren't they?-"
"-I chucked an orange at one of their throats."

Hans pinches the bridge of his nose.

"This day keeps getting better and better," he says, setting the clothes down. "I'll be right back."

The man leaves and, before long, returns with a large basin.

"I'll start heating some water for a bath. You can soak and I'll clean your clothes while you do that. We'll discuss where to go from here later."

Danairia smiles.

"Have I ever done anything to warrant this treatment from you before? I may have been too drunk to remember."

Hans pauses at the door and smirks.

"Not even a little."

...

Danairia stands, leaving the comforting warmth of the basin of bath water and grabbing a cloth left out for her to dry off. She cannot help but smile at the feeling of regular clothes upon her skin, let alone clean clothes. They are a little damp still but she is far from complaining. Anything beats the chafing rags issued to her by Kail.

There is a knock on the door.

"Danairia! Are you decent in there?"

Danairia brings her arms through the sleeves of her blouse.

"Yeah! Come in!"

She wasn't completely decent but she was decent enough to get away with turning to face opposite the room from the door and putting on the rest of the blouse from there. The door opens. "Okay, its nearing morning now and-Hey, you said you were decent!"
"Yeah, sorry. I suppose my enormous breasts would make it so easy for you to see even the slightest bit of anything while I finish up here." Danairia lowers the blouse down atop her almost completely flat chest.

"Sarcasm. Adorable. Anyway, the sun will be up soon and you need to get moving. Lucky for you, I know a guy and I got you passage to Khi'ir."

Danairia stops moving. Her eyes dart to Hans.

"H-...how did you-...?"

Hans smiles.

"Lets just say we get all kinds coming through the Maiden for a drink or two. There is a catch though, he didn't offer it to you but he DID say he would offer passage for thirty silvers..."

Danairia's expression drops to an aggravated frown.

"Okay, sure, let me just reach inside my asshole here and-I was a SLAVE. How the fuck do you think I would have already made thirty silver pieces?!"

Hans blinks and holds up a coin purse.

"...No," Danairia protests. "Okay-no, I don't steal from bar hands and I'm not about to start."

"Take the fare, Danairia," Hans commands. "Imperials are probably looking for you and you already know who else probably is. You need to get out of here before it's too late. If you don't, I doubt they'll let you off as easy as they did last time."

Danairia sighs. "Why are you even doing this? Seriously, I don't even want to know how long it takes you to save up that much just to spend on a trip across the sea. I want an actual answer too-not this, 'oooh just because you're in need' bullshit."

Hans smiles again before quickly sighing through his nose.

"Alright. Maybe I just feel like it's important. Maybe I just feel like you'll truly change the world someday and I want you to remain alive until you do."

...

Danairia just keeps staring at him.

...

"Yeah, sure, you can go ahead and laugh if you wa-"
"-BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Hans tilts his head, looking at the girl before him, waiting for her to calm down.

"Yeah, I suppose it is a bit ridiculous but don't ever underestimate your own potential."

Danairia simply keeps on laughing at the notion that someone like her, who is only famous for being forced to kill people and for simply showing a surprising amount of degeneracy for someone of her race, could or even would change the world for anywhere near the better.
That is what is going for her.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say!" Danairia finally takes the pouch of silver from Hans' waiting hands.

"Seriously though, Hans," she says, finally calming down. "...Thank you."

The bar hand smirks at his friend again.

"Don't mention it."

Danairia readied herself for the trip ahead, donning her armor and swords before putting on her cloak...but there was one final item in her bag...

The machete laid on the bottom, blade still in its sheathe...

The former slave fighter stares down the weapon, not budging from her position as she remembers all that has happened to her the past few months.

Softly closing her eyes, She claims the weapon, attaching the sheathe to her belt on the small of her back once more.

...

Day break. The sun rises on the horizon over the great salt water ocean. As one step crosses off of the deck of an old life, another plants itself firmly into a new chapter; the first step into legend. A legend which shall be told for generations to come...