Chalor

Another day, another lie Violet thought to herself as she swung her legs over the edge of her bed and searched for her shoes. The cellar was cold and she felt it on her bare legs. On the other bed she saw Rosalina tucked under her blanket with her red ringlets splattered over the pillow. Violet stood up and quickly put on a dress and walked over to the mirror that they had brought down. Her long black hair fell straight against her pale skin and ended just below her shoulders. She hears a murmur from her twin as Rosalina stirred.

Rosalina opened her eyes to the dark cellar again. She hated sleeping in this dank area, but Violet said it was neccesary. She remembers the day her father came home with It. He had been so different when he killed their mother, when he tried to kill Rose. She shook her head, Violet had saved her fairly unscathed. She only had a bruise and a black eye. She tossed on her green dress and stood next to Violet. They were so different, yet similar. They were both pale, but Rosalina's hair was red and wavy while Violet's was black and straight. Rosalina had brown eyes and Violet had a light blue that were almost grey.

"Mornin', Vi," Rosalina said stepping away from the mirror to stand at the cellar doors and waited for Violet to open it. They guarded it at ngiht so that none of the "bad people" (as Rosalina called them) would get them.

"Good morning, Rosie," Violet said, moving the steel bar from the doors. She opened them cautiously and peeked her head through. She held her hand up to shield her eyes from the bright sun and looked around. "All clear," She approved and hoped up. She turned around and helped Rosalina up.

Light streamed in from the "window" on his left that morning, obviously willing him to awaken. Geoffrey groaned, waking up was the last thing he wanted to do, but nevertheless he quickly sat up and got out of his "bed." He stretched and rolled his neck, wondering why it was always stiff in the morning. He shook his head, it didn't matter. What mattered was checking in on Migira. He knew she had been fine the night before, that's the only reason he was at home. Though he had woken up fitfully several times during the night. He sighed, feeling the instinctive, one may even say obsessive, need to check in on her, see how she was, like always.

He briefly wondered if she would be at the tavern, or if she would even be awake. Because he was sure that if she was awake, that's where she'd be. Hell, she was there if she was asleep as well. He sighed again, deciding to get going. It didn't take him but a moment to get his shoes on and go, he typically slept fully clothed.

On the walk, Geoffrey couldn't help but frown. The walk from the Slums to the tavern took too long. He wished he lived closer, that way he would worry as much when Migira passed out there. He took a deep breath, he needed to calm down. She'll be fine, Geoffrey. He thought to himself as he walked along. He kept repeating that in his head, like a mantra.

As he got there he realized something, he was wrong. As he had gotten there he heard a commotion coming from inside, not uncommon. He didn't see Migira so he decided to peak inside. Man where crowding around something, probably someone passed out on the floor, Geoffrey found that odd, most of the time people passed out on the floor where ignored...Unless it's a woman... Even as that thought ran through his head he was rushing into the crowd of men, hoping to not see his sister in the middle.

He managed to push through with a little effort to find his hopes unfounded, as usual. He felt a growl rise in his throat as he turned around and said a simple, but firm, "Go away." To the men in the tavern, he received mixed reactions, some actually listened to him, other sort of laughed and ignored his command, to whom he pulled out his dagger and let his eyes burn in a way that silently said, "Touch her and die."

Was it truly stealing if the vendor gave her the food as a gift? It wasn't her fault that she wasn't the whore he'd assumed she was and, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that it would be rude to return a gift. Strangely enough he had seemed very adamant about taking back the gift but Astrella was faster, gone before the vendor had a chance to yell for the guards. The crowds always worked in her favor. No one ever noticed her but at the same time nothing was in her way due to her small size.

It hadn't taken long to get back out of the market and into the side streets with her 'gift'. Gifted food was always so much better than the generic food left within reach of a thief. Who cared if another person believed she was a little less than savory? Food could make the difference between life and death, either to keep from starving or to have the energy to run away from a diseased individual. Unknowingly, mostly because she didn't care, she had found a place to hide right behind the tavern. Just as she was popping the last bite into her mouth, an explosion of sound came from within.

Sliding through the front door there was obviously a fight about to break out over something on the floor. She wanted nothing to do with it but she recognized the hardness of the street on the man in the middle and she wasn't one to turn her back on another less fortunate. Hopefully she wouldn't have to do anything but just in case she slunk a little closer.

"Bloody bandits." Quorthon Snow said weakly, holding an arrow wound. He had ridden days into the wild, and still there were men ready to kill and rob. Well those three would no longer trouble Chalor. He looked down at the blood still pouring out of his wound, "I cannot fix myself. The wound needs seared and stitched." he thought, barely able to keep his eyes open. He rode a while and spoke quietly to his horse, "I am not afraid of death" he said, now at peace with his imminent departure from life when he spotted smoke in the distance. "A village," he said aloud, patting his horse on it's neck. "A village, I must get there; a village, I must get there" he repeated to himself in his dead over and over again as he spurred his tired mount into a trot. "A village, I must get there; a village I must get there," he now said aloud. The smoke seemed years and years away when he kicked his horse into a run. "So close, so close!" he thought as his blood poured out of the arrow wound the bandit gave him. Snow could barely keep his eyes open when he could finally smell the smoke of the cooking fires. "Almost..." all faded to black.


Quorthon Snow awoke in an extravagant, baroque room filled with gold chalices, paintings, jewelry, and clothes. "I must be in the castle," he thought as he raised himself out of the feather bed. There was a tray of creamy chicken soup and strong wine next to the bed. He ate, awaiting anyone.