03-13-2003, 02:14 AM
Part V is of course
Part V of Angeleyes
Part I:
The leather clad woman walked into the tavern, glad to be out of the hot sun. Pausing at the doorway to let her eyes readjust to the dim interior, she saw the usual crowd of drunks scattered across the half a dozen tables to her right, and a lone white haired man sitting at the short side of the bar to her left. Next to the man stood, unmoving, a large steel automaton of some sort. After a moment's thought, during which she absent mindedly fingered the rune sword at her hip, she glided across the floorboards to a barstool one removed from the slender albino and his mute companion. Behind the wooden bar, the balding, middle aged bartender put away the baked clay bowl he was cleaning and looked at her inquiringly.
"What will it be, Mistress . . .?" He paused, hoping she would supply her name.
"Dernek, a large flagon of ale for me, and get yourself a glass of wine. You need something to jar your memory loose. Don't you recognize me?" Her voice raised in mock disbelief as she leaned forward slightly on her elbows, her gray green eyes opened wide and a hint of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.
Dernek looked at her thoughtfully and rubbed his chin, obvuiosly using every brain cell at his disposal to solve the riddle this striking woman posed. The wide mouth was familiar, the gray green eyes, the prominent cheekbones . . . but the hair was all wrong. And, he realized, the rune sword had replaced the scimitar on her hip, and was not matched by a bow on her back, if this is who he thought it was.
A voice from behind him resolve the mystery.
"Is that you, Angeleyes? You've done something with your hair. What happened to those beautiful auburn tresses, dear? The short, dyed black, curly look is simply not you!"
Atma, the tavern's owner, pronounced the final piece of her fashion critique with a trace of humor in her tone. His speaking role usurped, Dernek turned to fill a tall earthen mug with ale from the barrel behind him, leaving the conversational field to Atma.
"But welcome back, rogue, it is good to see you again," she continued warmly. "How is your young brother and his brave bride, OcchiSonya?"
The expression on Angeleyes face froze, her mouth snapped shut, and she sat back, her posture stiff. She looked through Atma, at something not even in the room. In the moment that it took for her to gather herself to reply, the white haired man on her left looked up and glanced at her with sudden interest. Lifting his glass of absynthe to his lips, he held his gaze on her until she turned to stare at him with ill concealed hostility, leaving Atma's question unanswered.
"What business is it of yours, whitey, the fate of my brother and his bride? Go back to your green poison, or better yet, hit the road. You Necromancers are part of what's wrong with this crazy world in the first place, what with skeletons walking about at random all over the Tamoe Highland!" She pivoted on her barstool to face him, her hands falling gently to her hips, her right hovering over her sword's hilt with deliberate menace.
Atma stepped forward and reached across the bar to lay a restraining hand on a leather clad arm. "Easy there, Angeleyes, I'm not to keen on fisticuffs here. If you arrived with a chip on your shoulder, it is you who should leave, as you have given first offense. This gentleman is a good customer, and a model of civil behavior." The authority in her voice as publican was unmistakable, for all the good it did.
Angeleyes stood up and took one step toward the lean, white haired man. She let out her breath and put one hand on the metal figure standing behind him, then pulled her hand back quickly to her mouth, sucking the blood that blossomed on her finger tip as she bit back a short exclamation of pain.
"Please keep your hands off the golem, my dear, he is a bit thorny to the touch." Smiling grimly at his own private jest, he stood and bowed slightly. "If you are the rogue Occhidiangela, known as Angeleyes, it is you I have been seeking. I have news that won't wait, if you would care to listen to a nasty old Necromancer."
"News of what, Whitey? And from whom?" The anxiety in her voice betrayed her attempts to present a calm front.
"News of your brother, my lady, and of other subjects not suited to the ears of all and sundry."
Lifting his glass to his lips, he drained its remaining contents in a single swallow, then turned to the bartender with a nod indicating his desire for a refill as he put down his glass. In the same motion, he picked up her ale mug and offered it to her.
"I suggest you and I discuss these matter in my suite upstairs, where a modicum of privacy may be available." He paused to guage her reaction, then accepted his fresh glass of absynthe from Dernek. Turning to the bartender, he used his off hand to flip a gold coin through the air. "The lady's drinks are on me, Dernek, as long as she stays here at Atma's."
Occhidiangela took a step back and poured half the contents of her mug down her throat before lowering her drink and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
"Alright, mister albino, I'll hear your news. You are not quite what I had in mind after a long day in the hot sun, but I suppose 'out of the sun' is better than 'roasting in the street.'" She dropped her right hand down to her sword's hilt. "But be warned, pal, if you try any funny stuff I will gut you like a fish." She backed away slightly to allow him to lead her toward his 'suite,' then backed a step further as the mechanical man came to life and started clunking across the floor in the wake of its master's smoothe stride.
The Necromancer walked past her, golem in tow, then paused as he turned the corner where the bar bent at right angles. Eyebrow raised, he asked: "Coming?"
Occhidiangela, Sister of the Sightless Eye turned Mage Slayer, tilted her head back and poured the rest of her ale down her throat, then casually tossed the mug to a surprised Dernek, who gathered it in less than artfully.
"Nice catch, Dernek," she remarked. "You may as well send up a tray of hard bread, garlic, snake pate and oil, and two more mugs of that ale. I may be in conference for a while." She moved to follow the man and his golem, remembering what her Martial Arts instructor had drilled into her head.
"Expect the unexpected, young one, and you shall never be surprised." How many times had she heard that old saw?
"Right," she muttered under her breath, as she followed the bizarre pair to the stairway that led to the rooms above the tavern . . .
Part V of Angeleyes
Part I:
The leather clad woman walked into the tavern, glad to be out of the hot sun. Pausing at the doorway to let her eyes readjust to the dim interior, she saw the usual crowd of drunks scattered across the half a dozen tables to her right, and a lone white haired man sitting at the short side of the bar to her left. Next to the man stood, unmoving, a large steel automaton of some sort. After a moment's thought, during which she absent mindedly fingered the rune sword at her hip, she glided across the floorboards to a barstool one removed from the slender albino and his mute companion. Behind the wooden bar, the balding, middle aged bartender put away the baked clay bowl he was cleaning and looked at her inquiringly.
"What will it be, Mistress . . .?" He paused, hoping she would supply her name.
"Dernek, a large flagon of ale for me, and get yourself a glass of wine. You need something to jar your memory loose. Don't you recognize me?" Her voice raised in mock disbelief as she leaned forward slightly on her elbows, her gray green eyes opened wide and a hint of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.
Dernek looked at her thoughtfully and rubbed his chin, obvuiosly using every brain cell at his disposal to solve the riddle this striking woman posed. The wide mouth was familiar, the gray green eyes, the prominent cheekbones . . . but the hair was all wrong. And, he realized, the rune sword had replaced the scimitar on her hip, and was not matched by a bow on her back, if this is who he thought it was.
A voice from behind him resolve the mystery.
"Is that you, Angeleyes? You've done something with your hair. What happened to those beautiful auburn tresses, dear? The short, dyed black, curly look is simply not you!"
Atma, the tavern's owner, pronounced the final piece of her fashion critique with a trace of humor in her tone. His speaking role usurped, Dernek turned to fill a tall earthen mug with ale from the barrel behind him, leaving the conversational field to Atma.
"But welcome back, rogue, it is good to see you again," she continued warmly. "How is your young brother and his brave bride, OcchiSonya?"
The expression on Angeleyes face froze, her mouth snapped shut, and she sat back, her posture stiff. She looked through Atma, at something not even in the room. In the moment that it took for her to gather herself to reply, the white haired man on her left looked up and glanced at her with sudden interest. Lifting his glass of absynthe to his lips, he held his gaze on her until she turned to stare at him with ill concealed hostility, leaving Atma's question unanswered.
"What business is it of yours, whitey, the fate of my brother and his bride? Go back to your green poison, or better yet, hit the road. You Necromancers are part of what's wrong with this crazy world in the first place, what with skeletons walking about at random all over the Tamoe Highland!" She pivoted on her barstool to face him, her hands falling gently to her hips, her right hovering over her sword's hilt with deliberate menace.
Atma stepped forward and reached across the bar to lay a restraining hand on a leather clad arm. "Easy there, Angeleyes, I'm not to keen on fisticuffs here. If you arrived with a chip on your shoulder, it is you who should leave, as you have given first offense. This gentleman is a good customer, and a model of civil behavior." The authority in her voice as publican was unmistakable, for all the good it did.
Angeleyes stood up and took one step toward the lean, white haired man. She let out her breath and put one hand on the metal figure standing behind him, then pulled her hand back quickly to her mouth, sucking the blood that blossomed on her finger tip as she bit back a short exclamation of pain.
"Please keep your hands off the golem, my dear, he is a bit thorny to the touch." Smiling grimly at his own private jest, he stood and bowed slightly. "If you are the rogue Occhidiangela, known as Angeleyes, it is you I have been seeking. I have news that won't wait, if you would care to listen to a nasty old Necromancer."
"News of what, Whitey? And from whom?" The anxiety in her voice betrayed her attempts to present a calm front.
"News of your brother, my lady, and of other subjects not suited to the ears of all and sundry."
Lifting his glass to his lips, he drained its remaining contents in a single swallow, then turned to the bartender with a nod indicating his desire for a refill as he put down his glass. In the same motion, he picked up her ale mug and offered it to her.
"I suggest you and I discuss these matter in my suite upstairs, where a modicum of privacy may be available." He paused to guage her reaction, then accepted his fresh glass of absynthe from Dernek. Turning to the bartender, he used his off hand to flip a gold coin through the air. "The lady's drinks are on me, Dernek, as long as she stays here at Atma's."
Occhidiangela took a step back and poured half the contents of her mug down her throat before lowering her drink and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
"Alright, mister albino, I'll hear your news. You are not quite what I had in mind after a long day in the hot sun, but I suppose 'out of the sun' is better than 'roasting in the street.'" She dropped her right hand down to her sword's hilt. "But be warned, pal, if you try any funny stuff I will gut you like a fish." She backed away slightly to allow him to lead her toward his 'suite,' then backed a step further as the mechanical man came to life and started clunking across the floor in the wake of its master's smoothe stride.
The Necromancer walked past her, golem in tow, then paused as he turned the corner where the bar bent at right angles. Eyebrow raised, he asked: "Coming?"
Occhidiangela, Sister of the Sightless Eye turned Mage Slayer, tilted her head back and poured the rest of her ale down her throat, then casually tossed the mug to a surprised Dernek, who gathered it in less than artfully.
"Nice catch, Dernek," she remarked. "You may as well send up a tray of hard bread, garlic, snake pate and oil, and two more mugs of that ale. I may be in conference for a while." She moved to follow the man and his golem, remembering what her Martial Arts instructor had drilled into her head.
"Expect the unexpected, young one, and you shall never be surprised." How many times had she heard that old saw?
"Right," she muttered under her breath, as she followed the bizarre pair to the stairway that led to the rooms above the tavern . . .
Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the Men 'O War!
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete