i wrote a Ridiculous thing (the narration style is definitely Out There) to poke at red and hel a bit so have… whatever the fuck this is.
gently tagging @void-botanist
If you were to go into any tavern in any village in (country), and asked someone how the Wolf Queen came to be, if you weren’t arrested first, their hushed whispers would vary. Some think she is a trickster sent far from the west, sent by the goodness of light to punish the old king’s wicked ways. “He gambled and lost,” a farmer would tell you. “And couldn’t live with tha shame n’ died. She sits on tha throne now but that throne’s well n’ cursed, and it’d do ya good not to ask more questions than you need to.”
Others would point out that it wasn’t a divine plot; that the king simply wed her, and in doing so he lost. “That’s why you don’t believe things that are too good to be true.” A barmaid would tell you, as she divvied out stew. “Like that rumored half off special. Pay up for your brew.”
Travel further to the east where the cities are grown; tall buildings of stone that kiss against the sky, and they’ll tell you she killed him, it’s as simple as that.
“Drew her talons cross his neck, and can’t be deader than that.”
Still others might blend a variety of the story, until it’s hard to discern, what parts are true and what’s legend; embellishment or propaganda.
The one person you should listen to, if you ask your peruse, is the one who quirks his brow, with a smirk beguiling and slow, simply looks you in the eyes and asks
“What will you pay to know?”
For that, dear reader, is how our story begins. For one Rosmarin Red, bloody scythe in her hand.
The blood dripped onto the tavern floor; plip plip; and yet the tavern raged on around them, as though neither of them spoke at all. From a contract she came, to put food in her stomach and a warm pillow under her head. The killing kind; of course, any one you who earned your ire. Petty mistresses in their beds, or off with landlord’s heads. As such and still, her dead eyes bore holes into this smart mouthed stranger, daring him to oppose.
The man didn’t seem phased; in fact, it’s as though he was expecting her. He leaned on his arms forward, with his boot, kicked out a chair towards her.
“Sit with me awhile.” He said, taking a drought from his cup. “And regale me. The Red Death, I presume?” The petite girl nodded, then dropped her scythe towards the floor, taking hold of the proffered chair in a dealthy tight hold. She eased herself into it, and if you noticed well; there was no clatter from the instrument’s careless discard.
The man knew it as well, still smiling, still sharp minded. He called a waiter up and ordered the young assassin a cup.
“On me.” He said gently, but the sparkle in his eye was knowing. “Who was it who taught you that rhyme?”
“I don’t know.” Red said back. “Not by name.”
“I imagine you kill many who you don’t remember at all?” He asked with a smile hidden into his mug. “No.” She did not smile, nor sip. She continued to bore holes in him; anyone else would squirm stiff. But the man knew his worth, and knew he was valuable at least not to kill, so he relaxed even further, swirling the drink in his hand and contemplating his fill.
“News of you has reached my ears.” He tried for another approach. “Heard you would come looking for me, one day or another.”
“Then you know why I’m here.” The assassin said tersely. “So what do I owe you.” The man clicked his tongue, for the game had just begun.
“Impatience, my dear, is a virtue on occasion. But not now, at least. I’ll offer you a deal—you offer me your finest possession and I’ll give you the answer you seek.”
Red considered this. Considered it well. So hard in fact that it was near dawn when she answered.
“I have no money to offer you, nor children to sell. I have no clothes other than the blood covered ones that hang to my back. No riches, nor connections can this deal between us bring. But I do have myself, and any services you ask of me.”
After saying it soft like a midnight chime, Red pressed her face to the table, hiding her eyes.
“… Please.” She whispered finally, though elaborate she did not. At the heartfelt display, the man would admit he was touched.
“Raise your head, sweet Red, no need to grovel just yet. The night is older than we shall be. Come, I will give you lodgings for the night, and then in the marrow, our exchange we shall write.”
23 notes
·
View notes
on another note, not to draw an undue parallel between unrelated characters, but I am feeling the Dorian Pavus "You learn not to hope for more. You'd be foolish to." to the Astarion Ancunín "You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when it was an objectively stupid thing to do." pipeline in this club tonight
my weakess? why, it's smartmouth mages using words like "foeti" and "provenance" with one breath, but saying "pish-posh" and "footsies" with another.
but my type? that'd be seemingly superficial men who hide behind a facade of pretend promiscuity and flamboyance partly in order to conceal their intense yearning to be seen, understood, and loved, but partly also because they are just. Like That, you know.
it's hearts that are bruised and closed off to the possibility of genuine love opened not by force, but by the soft knock of a gentle hand. it's hurt men playing the rake to protect themselves, but falling ass over teakettle for the first person who makes it feel safe for them to be themselves, is this anything at all
4 notes
·
View notes