- Local time
- Today 1:02 AM
- Messages
- 531
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Compact of Free Nations, a loose confederation of human nations allied with the remaining dwarf and elven kingdoms that is all that stands in the way of the planet of Terrah from falling under the influence Nyros, demon king of the plane of evil, god of domination of tyranny. Nyros champions on Terrah were the Wytch Queens and Demon Princes of Nyderei, the Shadow Empire. For over a thousand years the Wtyches and Demons ruled in Nyros names till the day the followers of the god of Order arrived on the continent of Candriff. With alliances to the hard pressed elven and dwarf nations, the human race rose up in rebellion, threw off its chains of slavery, and pushed back Shadow Empire of Nyderei north beyond the Rymrift Mountains. It was during this Shadow War that the Compact on Free Nations was born. Since that day it has stood for over five hundred years, a check against the dark desires of Nyros and his trinity of evil.
The Kingdom of Adreath, the Gatekeeper it is called by others for it alone holds the near impassable border to the North that protects the rest of the nations of Cantriff from the Shadow Empire of Nyderei and slavery to their infernal lords and mistresses. It had been so since the formation of the Compact, when former vassal nations rebelled against the tyranny of their overlords. The Century War, or the War of Light and Dark it was also know as, when the shackles of Nyderei's oppression were tossed off and their influence pressed beyond the Rymrift Mountains, a natural barrier that ran for near two hundred miles and a places near five miles tall of sheer slate, granite, and other stone. The war lasted over a hundred years, and the survivors formed the Compact, the alliance that swore they never again ow to Nyderei's rule, and to prevent its influence into the Compact at all costs. The Compact had stood firm for five hundred years, and only now was it starting to show the strains of time.
It had been near twenty years since the betrayal of Azemar, a former Bannerlord General of the Knight Vigilant who lead a Nydereian army of goblins an orcs. Lead by Azemar and his supporters, the Nydereian horder managed to penetrate deep into Adreath. The courage of the Knights Vigilant and the timely assistance of the rest of the Compact were the only things that prevented the Nydereian from overrunning the Knight's lines and sacking the rest of Adreath. The war was not without cost, and the Knights Vigilant's Captain General, Renyald Stuart, and King Ademar the III of House Tremaine, died in the siege of Caer Lyons. The crown passed to Ademar's brother, Elyas, the first of his name. It was not an easy transition as Ademar was charismatic and popular, a warrior in a land were warriors dominated positions of state and power. Elyas less so as he was more bookish, and studied the ways of the mage.
This had caused a shift in power among the Compact of Nations, many human lands that had long enjoyed the protection of Adreath to seek out what new political and economic gains they could gain with a w weak king among the throne. As such a tense situation existed among the southern border's of Adreath, with trade shipments at times raided by opportunistic bands of rogue highway men, and more, for as civilized as Adreath and the human lands were, there were still monsters lurking about, hiding in lairs about the hills, in the forests, and also in plain sight. Highway men, goblin sappers, dire wolves and bears, and of course...
Werewolves.
The De'Vermillion family was an old family, one that could trace its roots back to the founding of the Compact, an established family within the southern confines of Adreath, one of the key counties in support of the Duchy of Everlund. Despite their position in the hierarchy of Adreathan nobility, hardly any members of the De'Vermillionentered the ranks of the Knights Vigilant. No, their family held to another tradition for the Kingdom, for as said there were indeed monsters and evil that lurked about in the shadows, in the woods, even in plain sight of others. The De'Vermillion and a few other families were the ones that protected the people. They were the hunters, the Argent Rangers, the ones to defend those hunted, and they had been doing so for the last five hundred years.
Not all of the monsters are those by choice, not all of them feel that humanity was nothing more than meat to hunt, to torment, to kill. No, there were some monsters that wanted nothing more than to live their lives as best as they could, to curb the bestial side and to live openly as proud citizens and members of the kingdom they love with equal fervor as others, such as the Roanoke clan, a gathering of werewolves in southern Adreath. Despite their good intentions, they too lived in the shadows, and in secret, indistinguishable from the other monsters that the Hunters swore to bring down. The two families could not avoid one another forever.
This is the tale that changed events in Adreath for ages to come, a tale that would find itself into folklore and legends in different worlds and different dimensions. This is the tale of the Wolf and the Scarlet Hood.
Adreath was known as the Shield Kingdom in more ways than one. The legend has it once the former slaves of the Shadow Empire threw off their shackles in rebellion and drove the Wytch Queens and their hordes north, Adon himself reached out and created and forged the land which would become Adreath. Such divine intervention to be frank had been unheard of. Oh the faith magic granted to their followers, and the divine power granted to the most devout of knights was present and tangible, but the sheer scale of what legend told was the stuff difficult for all but the most dedicated to believe. Then again, so was the rebellion and its success where so many had failed before.
All knew of the Rymrift Mountains to the north, forming a near impenetrable wall of granite and admamite ore. Few passes, less than what a man could count upon one hand, exist. It was said not even such were present when the Rymrift was raised by Adon. It had meant to be the anvil to the Compact of Nations hammer to shatter and destroy Nyderei forever. They would have for even given the fel power of the Demon Princes and their hordes, they were outnumbered and sorely pressed. Demons had no need for sustenance but their mortal armies did, and turn upon one another, slaying them as food to be butchered. A blight of evil to finally be ended if it had not been for the Ebony Empress, the leader of the Wytch Queens and ruler of what had been the most vast and powerful nation of all of Terrah.
Rumored to have been a former lover of arch-devil Belial itself, the Empress drew upon her power and ripped open the passes which exist to this present day. It cost her, as drained of power she was slain for the ongoing battle was a slaughter for her forces. While evil had not been known for sacrifice, she did so, staying behind with her Ebony Guard as her hordes fled. It had been said it was not so much sacrifice as a strategic retreat for her, as with her power she in the eyes of all of Nyderei was considered a demi-goddess, and as such could not be truly killed, merely banished for a time, a time for her forces to regroup, breed, grow, and become a threat once more for all of Terrah. Rumor, myth and legend to be sure, but all legends and myth were said to be sprung from grains of truth.
While the Rymrift was the most known barrier for Adreath, it was not the only one. Surrounded by Veiled Ocean to the west, and the Starfyre Sea to the east, the southern border was taken up by the vast and expansive wood known as the Whitemyst Forest, the largest sylvan expanse in all of Candriff, a deep wood which was well over hundred miles in area. Days it took to travel through the dense woods, and beside three trade routes, all other passages through the thick and vast forest were closely guarded secrets of the realm. The Rymrift had the Knight Vigilant to man and guard it, the layer of armor seemingly impregnable, the Whitemyst had the Argentt Rangers, wardens and protectors of the forest and Adreath, the shield to protect its belly. However, as the Traitor's War painfully demonstrated, Adreath was mortal, and the actions and betrayal of one man could jeopardize all.
What the citizens of Adreath did not know were of other protectors in Whitemyst, for the forest was indeed vast, and home in the past to monstrous perversions of the Wytch Queen's alchemists and beast masters. There were the wolves of the Roanoke Clan, men who willingly had sacrificed themselves and their progeny to defense of the woods, a pact made with the goddess Syvannia, the Unicorn Queen herself. Blessed (or cursed) with lycanthropy, for the Unicorn Queen herself while understanding, tis also brutal as Nature herself, where the strong survive and the weak do not. Still, as terrible as it might be, brutal justice and protection saved the weak and served the greater good.
Lyon Roanoak had been patrolling the forest for days. The training reserve were the new pups learned control had been hit. Troll and redcaps either wandering or given purposeful direction. Betrayed or ill luck or the works of a rival clan, Lyon did not know. Clan Roanoak had not been the only family given the power of lycanthropy, but Roanoak others believed in the will and law of the forest, strength and might gave them the right to take as they wished. Beastly in nature, the clan Roanoke was, they had always remained true to the principle of the charge given to them by the Unicorn Queen to protect and preserve the Whitemyst, whatever the cost.
The attack had been repelled but three pups had been lost, scattered and running in fear, the Change triggered upon them by the strong emotions of the event itself. Clan Roanoke no longer had the numbers it once had, and every pup was precious and needed. Two had been found and returned to safety quickly enough but the last one, Hanah, ran far and wide and led Lyon upon a merry chase for two days. He had not even the chance to change out of his bloodstained armor. He nearly cursed the Unicorn Queen on the first day but thought better of it for her capriciousness as well as her favor.
It seemed Hanah had come into her gifts early. All werewolves came into gifts beyond the ability to shift forms. Depending upon the power and strength of the werewolf, the greater the gifts. There were many different gifts, many common and some rare. Lyon for example held the ability to shift only part of his body, had the ability to appear silent and unseen to all but the most keen of eyes, of strength beyond granted by their race and nature. He did not, however, have the ability of swift feet as they did Hanah, and as a result she ran as untouchable as the wind through the forest, causing Lyon to go without sleep as he tracked her. One the later afternoon of the third day it seemed luck was with him and he had finally made ground and he was gaining ground. Swift she was, but still a pup and the taxing of using one's gifts considerable and could not be maintained. Every hour passed two or more hours gained. He had to hurry, They passed over into the area of the forest patrolled by the Argent Rangers half a day past. Every minute now risked discovery. He had to find the pup and leave, before ruin and damnation was brought upon them all.
His luck then ran out.
In the distance, Lyon saw torchlight, the shadows of orange and yellow reflecting off the dark emerald green of the forest canopy, the shade of green that gave the forest its name, the Verdant Forest. It said something about Lyon's ill luck that not only had someone had turned upon him and given his names to the Count De'Vermillion, but that the Verdant Forest was upon the border of the De'Vermillion lands, allowing them to call upon manpower and resources to aid in their hunt. They had the scent so to speak, and this hunt would continue till Lyon had lost them, he was captured...
Or he was dead.
Lyon tried his best not to think about the last, but he failed. It was hard not too, with the reputation the De'Vermillion had in the last generation or so, ever since the Second Shadow War and the betrayal of Azemar. While the war had primarily in the north, more than a few of their nightmarish creatures and creations penetrated deep into southern Adreath, wiping out whole villages and settlements in their wake. Since that time, the De'Vermillion's and other Hunter clans have been more to kill first than to see if who they were hunting was indeed a threat to the community. So Lyon ran and he ran if his life depended upon it, for it very likely was.
Lyon did not know who betrayed him. He had arrived at Ivory Oak to negotiate trade, to secure livestock and timber for his Clan. To others he was a simple tradesman that operated in southern Adreath, moving from community to community, estate to estate, making the best deals that he could. He did not think he had done anything to tip his hand as to his true nature, as to his affiliation to his clan. It mattered not for the moment, only that hunters were lying in the way in Ivory Oak for him, and that meant Lyon had to run.
Not only did he have to run, but he had to do so in such a way that led the Hunters nowhere near the Clan, and allowed him a chance to slip their grasp. Not easy at all given that he was operating in lands that they knew almost intimately, and Lyon only had a passing acquaintance. Still, it was the game laid out before him. So Lyon ran, and sent a prayer to the Lady of the Forest to aid him, and shield him from her sister, Dinah, Goddess of the Hunt, at least this time.
Either the Lady of the Forest was not listening to Lyon's prayers, or the Goddess of the Hunt held more sway upon this night of the Full Moon. It could have been simple blind and dumb luck for this was not a night where Lyon was at his peek. While it was true werewolves were tied to the phase of the moon, it was not true that all of them came out upon the full moon. No, that was only for the warrior caste of the werewolves, the Rahu, looked upon at times as the blessed as they were at the height of their power when the spirit and supernatural world was at the height of its own when the moon was full. For the werewolves it mean those that had the innate ability to fight, and the passion and rage to back it up, were at their strongest when their enemies of the supernatural were strong as well.
It did Lyon little good as he was not a Rahu, nor did he draw his strength from the full moon. No, Lyon was a Hunter, an Irraka, one that drew their strength from the New Moon. They were not the brave and valorous warriors of their kind but the keen, cunning, and deadly hunters. The night and the shadows were their friends and allies as they stalked their prey from them, hiding in the cloaking darkness that the blessing of the New Moon gave their kind. To strike when least expected, to deal the crippling blow when their prey was at their weakness, and to be certain that such a blow was a death blow. Lyon was among the strongest of his kind, but on the night of the full moon he found even his supernatural strength and endurance lagging, especially when going upon the twelfth hour of being pursued.
So it was either fate, lack of divine intervention, or pure black luck that had Lyon miss the trap set before him. Lyon had been sneaking his way through a small glade surrounded by tall and proud Adreathan Oaks when his foot hit the pressure trigger and he found himself launched up into the air and a tight net gathering about him, trapping him neatly. Lyon at least had the discipline not to howl or cry out. The triggering of the trap and the snapping of ancient oak branches sounding like thunder in the quiet forest made more than enough noise on its won to tell the Hunters tracking him where exactly Lyon was. Instead he tried to put his energies and effort into getting free. Once he did he would have no choice but to shift. It was not enough now to use guile and cunning to lead his pursuers away. He would need speed now, speed that only he could call upon in his wolf form.
Lyon' attempted to hook his fingers into the rope netting, relying upon his supernatural strength to snap the netting and letting him drop. It would be a long drop, and even as sturdy as he was likely would risk injury, but the shifting forms should deal with that and allow he to continue to flee. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the netting, he let go with a hiss of pain and the sound and stench of seared flesh. The netting had silver wire wrapped all about it! Everywhere it was touching his flesh caused a spike of pain! It was not much silver wire, but more than enough to keep a werewolf from tearing himself free. Lyon could not even grip it and snap it, for silver was the bane to his kind.
Instead Lyon did his best to turn himself about, gritting his teeth to endure the pain of silver against his flesh to reach for his blades. Enchanted Adreathan steel should be more than up to the task of slicing through rope netting and silver wire. The obstacle that Lyon was struggling with was how the net had closed about his form and confined him so. It was making it extremely difficult for him to reach and grab at one of his blades. He felt he was close though. One of his fingertips brushed against the pommel of one of his long daggers. Just a little more time and effort!
Time and effort that Lyon no longer had. Even to his enhanced hearing Lyon did not notice the Hunters until it was far too late, so silent they were. He stopped his struggles and looked on in shocked amazement as three of them stepped through the ward of oaks about the glen, hardly making any sound at all. It chilled Lyon to the core. He had of course heard of the skills of the Vermillion Hunters but it was one thing to be told tales by the fireside and another to confront them first hand. Silver weapons gleamed in the full moon's light as they approached Lyon. Lyon stopped his struggles and attempted to use cunning and guile instead. If he could perhaps cause some doubt in their minds, perhaps he still might have a chance!
"By the gods and the Compact I swear you three just stepped upon my grave. I did not hear you at all. I suppose it is my good luck to balance the bad I am having here. If you could lend a hand here..."
Whatever else Lyon was about to say was cut off by the curt and emotionless speech of the Hunters as they talked to one another and ignored Lyon completely. Only one of the Hunters held the crest of the Vermillions upon them where Lyon expected it, which meant only one of them was perhaps a Hunter, the other two his apprentices. It gave him small comfort as all three looked more than competent. It meant that this encounter ending without bloodshed was diminishing by the second. Against one of them Lyon was fairly confident he could disarm and disable him, but against three? No to escape if they did not fall for his farce meant he would have to kill them, and kick over the fire ant hill and have the entire southern part of Adreath crawling with hunters. Again their words cut off Lyon's train of thought. Could they indeed be confused and uncertain?
"Are we certain this is the one?" One of the likely apprentices spoke to the one bearing the Vermillion crest, the one who was already unlimbering a wicked looking mace. He paused and looked at Lyon and then shook his head slightly. "I am not certain. We had been at this for far too long and lost the trail three times. To be safe we will let my niece question him. She will get the truth and if he is the one we seek, find out who did kill my brother, and where to find him so we can add his hide to my collection. I will not be denied!"
Before Lyon could even mount a protest and try to sow more confusion, that mace head whipped out like a striking viper and hit Lyon upon his right temple. A white, hot light of pain lanced through Lyon's vision and mind and after that, nothing but darkness as his mind shut down to deal with the pain of the blow. He was lucky that the mace had not been silver and that he was what he was or likely the blow would have killed him, or rendered him nothing but a gibbering idiot for the remainder of his days. It did knock him into oblivion for some time before he was able to open his eyes. Well, one eye as it other seemed to be matted and difficult to open at all.
The first thing Lyon noticed as the pain in his head reducing to merely an excruciating throbbing was that he was nude, completely nude, letting whoever was there in the wherever he was that he was indeed perhaps the model of male masculinity with his powerful muscles unconsciously rippling and dancing in the light of the room. Lyon stood a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders to that when one measured him from fingertip to fingertip he was near seven feet. Indeed his physique was well defined and had pleased many of females with it pressed up against their flesh, hard unyielding muscle stronger than steel rubbing up against soft and inviting flesh.
The second thing to strike Lyon was not only was he nude, but he was bound as well, and not all together comfortable. He was hanging in the middle of the room, ankles spread wide and shackled to leather lined manacles, spreading his legs apart more than shoulder width apart and only allowing the pad of his foot to touch the ground, which likely saved him from death by asphyxiation as he had his weight on the ground and to relax the pressure upon his arms and shoulders that were stretched parallel to the floor and wrapped about some form of metal pole that went under the pits of his arms. His wrists were shackled to this pole, which at each end by his bound wrists the pole was secured to chains in the ceiling that went up into the darkness that due to the pain of his head Lyon could not see let alone make out.
It was not only the darkness above him, but also the black shadows about him that he could not see at all. The lighting in the room outlined him in their burning brightness, as if to disorient him (which it was doing masterfully with his aching head!), and left the rest of the room in blackness, blackness that he could no longer see into in the moment. He was trusted up like some prize, nude, and after a slight and brief struggle, helpless, at least at the moment as the pain and other factors robbed him of his strength. He was as vulnerable as he ever had been in his life, now left to the tender mercies of the Vermillion. What had that man said before he clubbed Lyon to darkness? Let his niece have him? Lyon knew of no female Hunters in the Vermillion clan at all, none in centuries in fact save...
His head snapped up suddenly as it came back to him. The rumors he had heard, the whispers only whispered by his kind in the safety of their pack holds. It even caused Lyon to speak out loud with his parched throat that pained him so as to make a sound. "Oh by the Lady of the Forest no...not her!" That was when Lyon finally heard a sound...
Earlier…
The Vermillion line was fabled. One full of hunters that filled storybooks and tales told to children, but they were not the stuff of sweet dreams. They were not soft around the edges - they were a line of hard-angled, rough-hewn men. Generation after generation of men. The bloodline was thick with them. Every couple had male children. No matter the wife, no matter the circumstance, the magic incantation, spell or drink imbibed. They all had boys, until one fateful day in Fall.
Evelyn was born to the Count De'Vermillion and to a more than somewhat surprised clan of family that had gathered for the birth of another boy. Instead they were greeted with a fair-haired little girl. At first her father did not believe it - there were whispers, rumor, but as the child grew there was no doubt she was a Vermillion child. The cold stare, the set of her jaw, good-gods, the stubbornness. She was a princess among the family to be sure. She got anything she wanted, but when wanted to join her cousins, her uncles and her father out in the fields - the hunt, that was forbidden. She was a stubborn girl though, .a crafty one and a smart one at that.
It didn't take long before Evelyn - Eve as she was most often called - was escaping the confines of the house, the bag she carried opened as soon as she escaped to allow her to change - bound breasts, stolen clothing from her cousins, hair tucked away under a ca, braided and coiled. She learned on her own by watching through the trees, watching her family members in the courtyard target practicing, envious that she was not able to bring home anything under the watch of her father like Andrew and Wayland and Peter.
This kept on for years as she honed her skills and learned more and more all on her own - watching, continuing to sneak out until being caught. A hand wrapped tight around her upper arm during one of her late-night entries back into the manor, a gasp escaping her lips and she turned to face her father, his grip tightening. "Evelyn?" The hat she wore fell off her as she pulled her arm - tried to pull her arm from his grasp, her braid falling down along her back, the wisps of hair broken loose around her face framed her features - his daughter dressed quite differently than he was used to seeing her, creeping back to her bedroom down the stone corridor. Instead of denying anything, she stuck her chin outward and upward. "Yes father?"
From then on arguments led to silent treatments led to screaming matches and Evelyn spending many long silent days in her room. She tried appealing to him - explaining that she could do anything her cousins could, but he would have none of it - until the afternoon she confronted her father in front of everyone and challenged his authority. It turned out, true to her word, that she was good - just as she said. With every challenge brought forward she could hold her own against her cousins. It was later that evening that her father told her more about their family's history and that the whispers and rumors about what they did were not just the stuff of fairy tales. It was then she was taught about the monsters they hunted and why they trained and worked and why he didn't want her doing this.
Evelyn didn't back down. She studied the books her father and uncles had that were passed down, trained with them and in some ways surpassed them. The ones they hunted never expected a female to be the one to bring them down. They never expected a female to be the hunter. A year ago her father was injured by one of them, a werewolf and she found herself face to face with the man who tried killing him. With the added emotional memory of her father bleeding in her arms - seeing him laying in the bed. Oh the things she did to him before she finally killed the creature. He died in a hideously painful way and she found she could do all kinds of inventive and creative things to men, and her uncles found a new asset in her.
Her father looked onto his daughter, his heir and wondered if the darkness in the Whitemyst had an even greater reach than he realized. Still she was his blood, his line and if he could not trust her with the most important of tasks, then who could he trust? "I have a task for you. The Rangers are on patrol, and a signal arrow was fired. They have a prisoner. I need you to question whoever they have. The trolls and wolves are getting bolder and are threatening all three trade routes now. We need to know where they are…"
Present…
Her uncle and her nephews did a good deal of damage to the man who was strung up before her. Evelyn had been sitting in the dark watching him - memorizing every curve and taut line of muscle. That damn mace they insisted on using, the spiked metal balls were what clergy used as it was sanctified to offer forth "oozing" blood rather than "spurting." More often than not it created lacerations that became infected and caused worse damage than the hard swing of metal while at the speed of a horse. If it didn't kill you instantly, you died a horribly agonizingly slow death due to infection if a doctor did not see you in time.
She watched the night's catch stir, a slight moan. He would be experiencing a mighty fine headache right about now if she wasn't wrong. He was bound tight. She saw to the restraints herself after he was brought into the lower chamber of the Vermillion keep. Working by low light she stripped every bit of clothing from him - cutting and tearing what she couldn't simply remove. She had seen men's bodies before, many times before, but this one.... This one was...different. She had found herself watching her hands as she disrobed him, tempted to let touches linger, but that was wrong. He was not coherent, not awake enough to fight her and the fight was what she wanted. She wanted information and confession and screaming from him. She wanted to exact the amount of pain from him that her father endured.
When she thought of her father, about the pain in his face, the ache, the hurt he endured at the hands of these...these...things! She had to step away lest she do something before he was even awake. The point was to question, to interrogate. To extract information, and that she would do!
As he woke she saw his body move with the slight allowance given - the little bit of slack he had to be able to stand upon the pad of his feet . The muscles in his thighs tightened, his abdomen pulled tight with his breathing and his arms tried the wrist restraints. Evelyn caught herself admiring his form, the way his body moved, the catch of light on certain parts of his body, the way that the shadows played with others. Beautiful was not a word saved for many men, yet this one...
"Oh by the Lady of the Forest no....not her!" There it was. His voice and his recognition of who had him. Her reputation preceded her. It brought a sly smile to her lips as she imagined all the things she might like to do to this one, if he were in fact from the same line of creatures from which the one who nearly killed her father was, then she would finally have her day and her uncle and nephews could rest a while.
"Not her? Who is this woman you speak of - the one that frightens you so?" The inflection was there - the smile in her voice. Her words dripped with arsenic laced honey - sweet but deadly. She needed more light in order to work. The sound of the fabric she wore moved, toward the other side of the room and a lever was slowly pulled and the lighting igniting in the room as if by magic, yet a simple working of custom handles and trap doors. The room started with a low light, the oil wicking catching, building to a soft glow.
She stepped out of the darkness, rising from the chair she had been watching from to walk toward him. The young woman walked across the room, pushing back the red hood of her cloak to reveal dark blonde hair in soft curls and lips of pale pink. She was slight, petite, nothing surely to be afraid of. The fabric of her dress whispered around her, the neckline low enough to display soft breasts pressed upward with the tightly bound corset - just a glimpse as the closure of the cloak draped across her pale skin. The front of her bodice had a broach emblazoned with the crest of the Vermillion clan in bright silver the glinted in the borrowed light of the room as if it gathered just for that item alone.
The sound of water being poured was heard for just a moment. She knew he would be thirsty. A dip of her fingers into the water, the break of the surface with a cloth. Her uncle did a bit of damage to his pretty face. This was going to hurt. Not her of course, but she liked the ceremony of bathing her captives, especially one as nice as this. It had to keep reminding herself to stop thinking of him as anything more than a creature to be abused. He had more than likely killed others and here she was fantasizing about cleaning him with the soft cloth she held in her left hand.
She truly didn't look like she could harm someone. It was part of the ploy, part of the way this all worked. Men trusted her not to hurt them, and in the end she would break them. Evelyn looked up into his face as she raised the cloth, slowly bringing it toward his face. She knew what he was. There was a chance he could harm her with just the close proximity they shared this early on. This was the tentative trust period, to see how violent he might be with her and if further restraints would be needed.
The cloth was slowly pressed to his temple, gently touching, not wiping, just holding it there by delicate fingers. The blood brought forth by her uncle's mace dried in drips down his face and matted in his hair. She needed to see how much of a wound there was. The water was cool and would slowly soak into the wound. The scent of the oil she wore would have drifted to him this close, vanilla and sandalwood and rose, another part of the feminine ploy to play on the senses. "I have questions…and you…you will have answers." She watched as he started to shake in fear, and why would he not? He knew who she was, the Lady of the Red Hood, and she would get her answers, one way or another, she would.
The Kingdom of Adreath, the Gatekeeper it is called by others for it alone holds the near impassable border to the North that protects the rest of the nations of Cantriff from the Shadow Empire of Nyderei and slavery to their infernal lords and mistresses. It had been so since the formation of the Compact, when former vassal nations rebelled against the tyranny of their overlords. The Century War, or the War of Light and Dark it was also know as, when the shackles of Nyderei's oppression were tossed off and their influence pressed beyond the Rymrift Mountains, a natural barrier that ran for near two hundred miles and a places near five miles tall of sheer slate, granite, and other stone. The war lasted over a hundred years, and the survivors formed the Compact, the alliance that swore they never again ow to Nyderei's rule, and to prevent its influence into the Compact at all costs. The Compact had stood firm for five hundred years, and only now was it starting to show the strains of time.
It had been near twenty years since the betrayal of Azemar, a former Bannerlord General of the Knight Vigilant who lead a Nydereian army of goblins an orcs. Lead by Azemar and his supporters, the Nydereian horder managed to penetrate deep into Adreath. The courage of the Knights Vigilant and the timely assistance of the rest of the Compact were the only things that prevented the Nydereian from overrunning the Knight's lines and sacking the rest of Adreath. The war was not without cost, and the Knights Vigilant's Captain General, Renyald Stuart, and King Ademar the III of House Tremaine, died in the siege of Caer Lyons. The crown passed to Ademar's brother, Elyas, the first of his name. It was not an easy transition as Ademar was charismatic and popular, a warrior in a land were warriors dominated positions of state and power. Elyas less so as he was more bookish, and studied the ways of the mage.
This had caused a shift in power among the Compact of Nations, many human lands that had long enjoyed the protection of Adreath to seek out what new political and economic gains they could gain with a w weak king among the throne. As such a tense situation existed among the southern border's of Adreath, with trade shipments at times raided by opportunistic bands of rogue highway men, and more, for as civilized as Adreath and the human lands were, there were still monsters lurking about, hiding in lairs about the hills, in the forests, and also in plain sight. Highway men, goblin sappers, dire wolves and bears, and of course...
Werewolves.
The De'Vermillion family was an old family, one that could trace its roots back to the founding of the Compact, an established family within the southern confines of Adreath, one of the key counties in support of the Duchy of Everlund. Despite their position in the hierarchy of Adreathan nobility, hardly any members of the De'Vermillionentered the ranks of the Knights Vigilant. No, their family held to another tradition for the Kingdom, for as said there were indeed monsters and evil that lurked about in the shadows, in the woods, even in plain sight of others. The De'Vermillion and a few other families were the ones that protected the people. They were the hunters, the Argent Rangers, the ones to defend those hunted, and they had been doing so for the last five hundred years.
Not all of the monsters are those by choice, not all of them feel that humanity was nothing more than meat to hunt, to torment, to kill. No, there were some monsters that wanted nothing more than to live their lives as best as they could, to curb the bestial side and to live openly as proud citizens and members of the kingdom they love with equal fervor as others, such as the Roanoke clan, a gathering of werewolves in southern Adreath. Despite their good intentions, they too lived in the shadows, and in secret, indistinguishable from the other monsters that the Hunters swore to bring down. The two families could not avoid one another forever.
This is the tale that changed events in Adreath for ages to come, a tale that would find itself into folklore and legends in different worlds and different dimensions. This is the tale of the Wolf and the Scarlet Hood.
Adreath was known as the Shield Kingdom in more ways than one. The legend has it once the former slaves of the Shadow Empire threw off their shackles in rebellion and drove the Wytch Queens and their hordes north, Adon himself reached out and created and forged the land which would become Adreath. Such divine intervention to be frank had been unheard of. Oh the faith magic granted to their followers, and the divine power granted to the most devout of knights was present and tangible, but the sheer scale of what legend told was the stuff difficult for all but the most dedicated to believe. Then again, so was the rebellion and its success where so many had failed before.
All knew of the Rymrift Mountains to the north, forming a near impenetrable wall of granite and admamite ore. Few passes, less than what a man could count upon one hand, exist. It was said not even such were present when the Rymrift was raised by Adon. It had meant to be the anvil to the Compact of Nations hammer to shatter and destroy Nyderei forever. They would have for even given the fel power of the Demon Princes and their hordes, they were outnumbered and sorely pressed. Demons had no need for sustenance but their mortal armies did, and turn upon one another, slaying them as food to be butchered. A blight of evil to finally be ended if it had not been for the Ebony Empress, the leader of the Wytch Queens and ruler of what had been the most vast and powerful nation of all of Terrah.
Rumored to have been a former lover of arch-devil Belial itself, the Empress drew upon her power and ripped open the passes which exist to this present day. It cost her, as drained of power she was slain for the ongoing battle was a slaughter for her forces. While evil had not been known for sacrifice, she did so, staying behind with her Ebony Guard as her hordes fled. It had been said it was not so much sacrifice as a strategic retreat for her, as with her power she in the eyes of all of Nyderei was considered a demi-goddess, and as such could not be truly killed, merely banished for a time, a time for her forces to regroup, breed, grow, and become a threat once more for all of Terrah. Rumor, myth and legend to be sure, but all legends and myth were said to be sprung from grains of truth.
While the Rymrift was the most known barrier for Adreath, it was not the only one. Surrounded by Veiled Ocean to the west, and the Starfyre Sea to the east, the southern border was taken up by the vast and expansive wood known as the Whitemyst Forest, the largest sylvan expanse in all of Candriff, a deep wood which was well over hundred miles in area. Days it took to travel through the dense woods, and beside three trade routes, all other passages through the thick and vast forest were closely guarded secrets of the realm. The Rymrift had the Knight Vigilant to man and guard it, the layer of armor seemingly impregnable, the Whitemyst had the Argentt Rangers, wardens and protectors of the forest and Adreath, the shield to protect its belly. However, as the Traitor's War painfully demonstrated, Adreath was mortal, and the actions and betrayal of one man could jeopardize all.
What the citizens of Adreath did not know were of other protectors in Whitemyst, for the forest was indeed vast, and home in the past to monstrous perversions of the Wytch Queen's alchemists and beast masters. There were the wolves of the Roanoke Clan, men who willingly had sacrificed themselves and their progeny to defense of the woods, a pact made with the goddess Syvannia, the Unicorn Queen herself. Blessed (or cursed) with lycanthropy, for the Unicorn Queen herself while understanding, tis also brutal as Nature herself, where the strong survive and the weak do not. Still, as terrible as it might be, brutal justice and protection saved the weak and served the greater good.
Lyon Roanoak had been patrolling the forest for days. The training reserve were the new pups learned control had been hit. Troll and redcaps either wandering or given purposeful direction. Betrayed or ill luck or the works of a rival clan, Lyon did not know. Clan Roanoak had not been the only family given the power of lycanthropy, but Roanoak others believed in the will and law of the forest, strength and might gave them the right to take as they wished. Beastly in nature, the clan Roanoke was, they had always remained true to the principle of the charge given to them by the Unicorn Queen to protect and preserve the Whitemyst, whatever the cost.
The attack had been repelled but three pups had been lost, scattered and running in fear, the Change triggered upon them by the strong emotions of the event itself. Clan Roanoke no longer had the numbers it once had, and every pup was precious and needed. Two had been found and returned to safety quickly enough but the last one, Hanah, ran far and wide and led Lyon upon a merry chase for two days. He had not even the chance to change out of his bloodstained armor. He nearly cursed the Unicorn Queen on the first day but thought better of it for her capriciousness as well as her favor.
It seemed Hanah had come into her gifts early. All werewolves came into gifts beyond the ability to shift forms. Depending upon the power and strength of the werewolf, the greater the gifts. There were many different gifts, many common and some rare. Lyon for example held the ability to shift only part of his body, had the ability to appear silent and unseen to all but the most keen of eyes, of strength beyond granted by their race and nature. He did not, however, have the ability of swift feet as they did Hanah, and as a result she ran as untouchable as the wind through the forest, causing Lyon to go without sleep as he tracked her. One the later afternoon of the third day it seemed luck was with him and he had finally made ground and he was gaining ground. Swift she was, but still a pup and the taxing of using one's gifts considerable and could not be maintained. Every hour passed two or more hours gained. He had to hurry, They passed over into the area of the forest patrolled by the Argent Rangers half a day past. Every minute now risked discovery. He had to find the pup and leave, before ruin and damnation was brought upon them all.
His luck then ran out.
In the distance, Lyon saw torchlight, the shadows of orange and yellow reflecting off the dark emerald green of the forest canopy, the shade of green that gave the forest its name, the Verdant Forest. It said something about Lyon's ill luck that not only had someone had turned upon him and given his names to the Count De'Vermillion, but that the Verdant Forest was upon the border of the De'Vermillion lands, allowing them to call upon manpower and resources to aid in their hunt. They had the scent so to speak, and this hunt would continue till Lyon had lost them, he was captured...
Or he was dead.
Lyon tried his best not to think about the last, but he failed. It was hard not too, with the reputation the De'Vermillion had in the last generation or so, ever since the Second Shadow War and the betrayal of Azemar. While the war had primarily in the north, more than a few of their nightmarish creatures and creations penetrated deep into southern Adreath, wiping out whole villages and settlements in their wake. Since that time, the De'Vermillion's and other Hunter clans have been more to kill first than to see if who they were hunting was indeed a threat to the community. So Lyon ran and he ran if his life depended upon it, for it very likely was.
Lyon did not know who betrayed him. He had arrived at Ivory Oak to negotiate trade, to secure livestock and timber for his Clan. To others he was a simple tradesman that operated in southern Adreath, moving from community to community, estate to estate, making the best deals that he could. He did not think he had done anything to tip his hand as to his true nature, as to his affiliation to his clan. It mattered not for the moment, only that hunters were lying in the way in Ivory Oak for him, and that meant Lyon had to run.
Not only did he have to run, but he had to do so in such a way that led the Hunters nowhere near the Clan, and allowed him a chance to slip their grasp. Not easy at all given that he was operating in lands that they knew almost intimately, and Lyon only had a passing acquaintance. Still, it was the game laid out before him. So Lyon ran, and sent a prayer to the Lady of the Forest to aid him, and shield him from her sister, Dinah, Goddess of the Hunt, at least this time.
Either the Lady of the Forest was not listening to Lyon's prayers, or the Goddess of the Hunt held more sway upon this night of the Full Moon. It could have been simple blind and dumb luck for this was not a night where Lyon was at his peek. While it was true werewolves were tied to the phase of the moon, it was not true that all of them came out upon the full moon. No, that was only for the warrior caste of the werewolves, the Rahu, looked upon at times as the blessed as they were at the height of their power when the spirit and supernatural world was at the height of its own when the moon was full. For the werewolves it mean those that had the innate ability to fight, and the passion and rage to back it up, were at their strongest when their enemies of the supernatural were strong as well.
It did Lyon little good as he was not a Rahu, nor did he draw his strength from the full moon. No, Lyon was a Hunter, an Irraka, one that drew their strength from the New Moon. They were not the brave and valorous warriors of their kind but the keen, cunning, and deadly hunters. The night and the shadows were their friends and allies as they stalked their prey from them, hiding in the cloaking darkness that the blessing of the New Moon gave their kind. To strike when least expected, to deal the crippling blow when their prey was at their weakness, and to be certain that such a blow was a death blow. Lyon was among the strongest of his kind, but on the night of the full moon he found even his supernatural strength and endurance lagging, especially when going upon the twelfth hour of being pursued.
So it was either fate, lack of divine intervention, or pure black luck that had Lyon miss the trap set before him. Lyon had been sneaking his way through a small glade surrounded by tall and proud Adreathan Oaks when his foot hit the pressure trigger and he found himself launched up into the air and a tight net gathering about him, trapping him neatly. Lyon at least had the discipline not to howl or cry out. The triggering of the trap and the snapping of ancient oak branches sounding like thunder in the quiet forest made more than enough noise on its won to tell the Hunters tracking him where exactly Lyon was. Instead he tried to put his energies and effort into getting free. Once he did he would have no choice but to shift. It was not enough now to use guile and cunning to lead his pursuers away. He would need speed now, speed that only he could call upon in his wolf form.
Lyon' attempted to hook his fingers into the rope netting, relying upon his supernatural strength to snap the netting and letting him drop. It would be a long drop, and even as sturdy as he was likely would risk injury, but the shifting forms should deal with that and allow he to continue to flee. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the netting, he let go with a hiss of pain and the sound and stench of seared flesh. The netting had silver wire wrapped all about it! Everywhere it was touching his flesh caused a spike of pain! It was not much silver wire, but more than enough to keep a werewolf from tearing himself free. Lyon could not even grip it and snap it, for silver was the bane to his kind.
Instead Lyon did his best to turn himself about, gritting his teeth to endure the pain of silver against his flesh to reach for his blades. Enchanted Adreathan steel should be more than up to the task of slicing through rope netting and silver wire. The obstacle that Lyon was struggling with was how the net had closed about his form and confined him so. It was making it extremely difficult for him to reach and grab at one of his blades. He felt he was close though. One of his fingertips brushed against the pommel of one of his long daggers. Just a little more time and effort!
Time and effort that Lyon no longer had. Even to his enhanced hearing Lyon did not notice the Hunters until it was far too late, so silent they were. He stopped his struggles and looked on in shocked amazement as three of them stepped through the ward of oaks about the glen, hardly making any sound at all. It chilled Lyon to the core. He had of course heard of the skills of the Vermillion Hunters but it was one thing to be told tales by the fireside and another to confront them first hand. Silver weapons gleamed in the full moon's light as they approached Lyon. Lyon stopped his struggles and attempted to use cunning and guile instead. If he could perhaps cause some doubt in their minds, perhaps he still might have a chance!
"By the gods and the Compact I swear you three just stepped upon my grave. I did not hear you at all. I suppose it is my good luck to balance the bad I am having here. If you could lend a hand here..."
Whatever else Lyon was about to say was cut off by the curt and emotionless speech of the Hunters as they talked to one another and ignored Lyon completely. Only one of the Hunters held the crest of the Vermillions upon them where Lyon expected it, which meant only one of them was perhaps a Hunter, the other two his apprentices. It gave him small comfort as all three looked more than competent. It meant that this encounter ending without bloodshed was diminishing by the second. Against one of them Lyon was fairly confident he could disarm and disable him, but against three? No to escape if they did not fall for his farce meant he would have to kill them, and kick over the fire ant hill and have the entire southern part of Adreath crawling with hunters. Again their words cut off Lyon's train of thought. Could they indeed be confused and uncertain?
"Are we certain this is the one?" One of the likely apprentices spoke to the one bearing the Vermillion crest, the one who was already unlimbering a wicked looking mace. He paused and looked at Lyon and then shook his head slightly. "I am not certain. We had been at this for far too long and lost the trail three times. To be safe we will let my niece question him. She will get the truth and if he is the one we seek, find out who did kill my brother, and where to find him so we can add his hide to my collection. I will not be denied!"
Before Lyon could even mount a protest and try to sow more confusion, that mace head whipped out like a striking viper and hit Lyon upon his right temple. A white, hot light of pain lanced through Lyon's vision and mind and after that, nothing but darkness as his mind shut down to deal with the pain of the blow. He was lucky that the mace had not been silver and that he was what he was or likely the blow would have killed him, or rendered him nothing but a gibbering idiot for the remainder of his days. It did knock him into oblivion for some time before he was able to open his eyes. Well, one eye as it other seemed to be matted and difficult to open at all.
The first thing Lyon noticed as the pain in his head reducing to merely an excruciating throbbing was that he was nude, completely nude, letting whoever was there in the wherever he was that he was indeed perhaps the model of male masculinity with his powerful muscles unconsciously rippling and dancing in the light of the room. Lyon stood a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders to that when one measured him from fingertip to fingertip he was near seven feet. Indeed his physique was well defined and had pleased many of females with it pressed up against their flesh, hard unyielding muscle stronger than steel rubbing up against soft and inviting flesh.
The second thing to strike Lyon was not only was he nude, but he was bound as well, and not all together comfortable. He was hanging in the middle of the room, ankles spread wide and shackled to leather lined manacles, spreading his legs apart more than shoulder width apart and only allowing the pad of his foot to touch the ground, which likely saved him from death by asphyxiation as he had his weight on the ground and to relax the pressure upon his arms and shoulders that were stretched parallel to the floor and wrapped about some form of metal pole that went under the pits of his arms. His wrists were shackled to this pole, which at each end by his bound wrists the pole was secured to chains in the ceiling that went up into the darkness that due to the pain of his head Lyon could not see let alone make out.
It was not only the darkness above him, but also the black shadows about him that he could not see at all. The lighting in the room outlined him in their burning brightness, as if to disorient him (which it was doing masterfully with his aching head!), and left the rest of the room in blackness, blackness that he could no longer see into in the moment. He was trusted up like some prize, nude, and after a slight and brief struggle, helpless, at least at the moment as the pain and other factors robbed him of his strength. He was as vulnerable as he ever had been in his life, now left to the tender mercies of the Vermillion. What had that man said before he clubbed Lyon to darkness? Let his niece have him? Lyon knew of no female Hunters in the Vermillion clan at all, none in centuries in fact save...
His head snapped up suddenly as it came back to him. The rumors he had heard, the whispers only whispered by his kind in the safety of their pack holds. It even caused Lyon to speak out loud with his parched throat that pained him so as to make a sound. "Oh by the Lady of the Forest no...not her!" That was when Lyon finally heard a sound...
Earlier…
The Vermillion line was fabled. One full of hunters that filled storybooks and tales told to children, but they were not the stuff of sweet dreams. They were not soft around the edges - they were a line of hard-angled, rough-hewn men. Generation after generation of men. The bloodline was thick with them. Every couple had male children. No matter the wife, no matter the circumstance, the magic incantation, spell or drink imbibed. They all had boys, until one fateful day in Fall.
Evelyn was born to the Count De'Vermillion and to a more than somewhat surprised clan of family that had gathered for the birth of another boy. Instead they were greeted with a fair-haired little girl. At first her father did not believe it - there were whispers, rumor, but as the child grew there was no doubt she was a Vermillion child. The cold stare, the set of her jaw, good-gods, the stubbornness. She was a princess among the family to be sure. She got anything she wanted, but when wanted to join her cousins, her uncles and her father out in the fields - the hunt, that was forbidden. She was a stubborn girl though, .a crafty one and a smart one at that.
It didn't take long before Evelyn - Eve as she was most often called - was escaping the confines of the house, the bag she carried opened as soon as she escaped to allow her to change - bound breasts, stolen clothing from her cousins, hair tucked away under a ca, braided and coiled. She learned on her own by watching through the trees, watching her family members in the courtyard target practicing, envious that she was not able to bring home anything under the watch of her father like Andrew and Wayland and Peter.
This kept on for years as she honed her skills and learned more and more all on her own - watching, continuing to sneak out until being caught. A hand wrapped tight around her upper arm during one of her late-night entries back into the manor, a gasp escaping her lips and she turned to face her father, his grip tightening. "Evelyn?" The hat she wore fell off her as she pulled her arm - tried to pull her arm from his grasp, her braid falling down along her back, the wisps of hair broken loose around her face framed her features - his daughter dressed quite differently than he was used to seeing her, creeping back to her bedroom down the stone corridor. Instead of denying anything, she stuck her chin outward and upward. "Yes father?"
From then on arguments led to silent treatments led to screaming matches and Evelyn spending many long silent days in her room. She tried appealing to him - explaining that she could do anything her cousins could, but he would have none of it - until the afternoon she confronted her father in front of everyone and challenged his authority. It turned out, true to her word, that she was good - just as she said. With every challenge brought forward she could hold her own against her cousins. It was later that evening that her father told her more about their family's history and that the whispers and rumors about what they did were not just the stuff of fairy tales. It was then she was taught about the monsters they hunted and why they trained and worked and why he didn't want her doing this.
Evelyn didn't back down. She studied the books her father and uncles had that were passed down, trained with them and in some ways surpassed them. The ones they hunted never expected a female to be the one to bring them down. They never expected a female to be the hunter. A year ago her father was injured by one of them, a werewolf and she found herself face to face with the man who tried killing him. With the added emotional memory of her father bleeding in her arms - seeing him laying in the bed. Oh the things she did to him before she finally killed the creature. He died in a hideously painful way and she found she could do all kinds of inventive and creative things to men, and her uncles found a new asset in her.
Her father looked onto his daughter, his heir and wondered if the darkness in the Whitemyst had an even greater reach than he realized. Still she was his blood, his line and if he could not trust her with the most important of tasks, then who could he trust? "I have a task for you. The Rangers are on patrol, and a signal arrow was fired. They have a prisoner. I need you to question whoever they have. The trolls and wolves are getting bolder and are threatening all three trade routes now. We need to know where they are…"
Present…
Her uncle and her nephews did a good deal of damage to the man who was strung up before her. Evelyn had been sitting in the dark watching him - memorizing every curve and taut line of muscle. That damn mace they insisted on using, the spiked metal balls were what clergy used as it was sanctified to offer forth "oozing" blood rather than "spurting." More often than not it created lacerations that became infected and caused worse damage than the hard swing of metal while at the speed of a horse. If it didn't kill you instantly, you died a horribly agonizingly slow death due to infection if a doctor did not see you in time.
She watched the night's catch stir, a slight moan. He would be experiencing a mighty fine headache right about now if she wasn't wrong. He was bound tight. She saw to the restraints herself after he was brought into the lower chamber of the Vermillion keep. Working by low light she stripped every bit of clothing from him - cutting and tearing what she couldn't simply remove. She had seen men's bodies before, many times before, but this one.... This one was...different. She had found herself watching her hands as she disrobed him, tempted to let touches linger, but that was wrong. He was not coherent, not awake enough to fight her and the fight was what she wanted. She wanted information and confession and screaming from him. She wanted to exact the amount of pain from him that her father endured.
When she thought of her father, about the pain in his face, the ache, the hurt he endured at the hands of these...these...things! She had to step away lest she do something before he was even awake. The point was to question, to interrogate. To extract information, and that she would do!
As he woke she saw his body move with the slight allowance given - the little bit of slack he had to be able to stand upon the pad of his feet . The muscles in his thighs tightened, his abdomen pulled tight with his breathing and his arms tried the wrist restraints. Evelyn caught herself admiring his form, the way his body moved, the catch of light on certain parts of his body, the way that the shadows played with others. Beautiful was not a word saved for many men, yet this one...
"Oh by the Lady of the Forest no....not her!" There it was. His voice and his recognition of who had him. Her reputation preceded her. It brought a sly smile to her lips as she imagined all the things she might like to do to this one, if he were in fact from the same line of creatures from which the one who nearly killed her father was, then she would finally have her day and her uncle and nephews could rest a while.
"Not her? Who is this woman you speak of - the one that frightens you so?" The inflection was there - the smile in her voice. Her words dripped with arsenic laced honey - sweet but deadly. She needed more light in order to work. The sound of the fabric she wore moved, toward the other side of the room and a lever was slowly pulled and the lighting igniting in the room as if by magic, yet a simple working of custom handles and trap doors. The room started with a low light, the oil wicking catching, building to a soft glow.
She stepped out of the darkness, rising from the chair she had been watching from to walk toward him. The young woman walked across the room, pushing back the red hood of her cloak to reveal dark blonde hair in soft curls and lips of pale pink. She was slight, petite, nothing surely to be afraid of. The fabric of her dress whispered around her, the neckline low enough to display soft breasts pressed upward with the tightly bound corset - just a glimpse as the closure of the cloak draped across her pale skin. The front of her bodice had a broach emblazoned with the crest of the Vermillion clan in bright silver the glinted in the borrowed light of the room as if it gathered just for that item alone.
The sound of water being poured was heard for just a moment. She knew he would be thirsty. A dip of her fingers into the water, the break of the surface with a cloth. Her uncle did a bit of damage to his pretty face. This was going to hurt. Not her of course, but she liked the ceremony of bathing her captives, especially one as nice as this. It had to keep reminding herself to stop thinking of him as anything more than a creature to be abused. He had more than likely killed others and here she was fantasizing about cleaning him with the soft cloth she held in her left hand.
She truly didn't look like she could harm someone. It was part of the ploy, part of the way this all worked. Men trusted her not to hurt them, and in the end she would break them. Evelyn looked up into his face as she raised the cloth, slowly bringing it toward his face. She knew what he was. There was a chance he could harm her with just the close proximity they shared this early on. This was the tentative trust period, to see how violent he might be with her and if further restraints would be needed.
The cloth was slowly pressed to his temple, gently touching, not wiping, just holding it there by delicate fingers. The blood brought forth by her uncle's mace dried in drips down his face and matted in his hair. She needed to see how much of a wound there was. The water was cool and would slowly soak into the wound. The scent of the oil she wore would have drifted to him this close, vanilla and sandalwood and rose, another part of the feminine ploy to play on the senses. "I have questions…and you…you will have answers." She watched as he started to shake in fear, and why would he not? He knew who she was, the Lady of the Red Hood, and she would get her answers, one way or another, she would.
Last edited: