Legends of Belariath

Devia

In The Pursuit of Poop

Calligraphy,  was an excuse to be afforded pens and ink, something bandits had very little use for; at least until they happened upon Poop of which held some ransom-able value.  In terms of this particular ragtag band of cut throats of which she found herself forcibly enamoured with, POoP stood for Person, Object, or Possession. 

It also created a dividing line between those of whom were new to the gang, and whom ever was more recently acquired.  Phrases like "Should there be any Poop on this caravan" or "Should you come across Poop" Usually resulted in keen eyes being brought to the speakers direction, or attempted stifled boyish tittering from greenhorn members.

They were surely not harvesting faeces though, though, she had often imagined there might be some sort of market of which could be exploited in that regard. Having spoken to a number of farmers who professed the wonders of ripe shit tilled into dirt to create a healthy crop.  Though, for the most part, she found herself relegated to the menial service crew, and not someone of whose opinion carried any weight.

It was this case that made her light in all ways, a slender little stick of a girl with obscenely large cat-like ears set atop hair that was more a bluish purple then it was black.  This seemed to be rectified by time, as, at least for her the only measurable proof of her maturity was its gradual darkening, and slow swelling of her hips.

No, she wasn't blessed with things that would readily discern her from male companions, least, the overly girlish looking ones that drew odd stares from the larger, more imposing versions of whose pretty faces never truly lasted long on the road.  No, she was gifted with other things, one of which was a keep perception, and the other, more of a damning sort of trait, was a slightly over active imagination.

It wasn't though, that she did not have firmly planted feet in the physical world, or even the reality of her situation.  No, she had accepted the world as it was a great deal better then most she had observed.  It wasn't that her life was something that could be looked on as remarkably fortunate either, so a good deal escapism was a healthy way of keeping in touch with the daily routine.

There was little point on reflecting on the past for someone in her position. Less she should desire to cry.  She often estimated that eyes became puffy from so many tears in which to prevent all that wet lubrication from allowing them to simply pop free from their sockets.  She'd seen it happen, though, usually the result of someone being brained especially hard from behind.

No, that wagon ride rarely entered into her daily thoughts, not the cushionless seat, not the trembling that wooden wheels provided the occupants.  Or the slow sounds of the agonizing death of her uncle, of whom, cared very little for her in the first place.  She'd never thought to help him, as he was pulled out of the drivers seat and beaten into a ugly mangled, and broken version of himself.

There was of course, little for her to do in the situation, though, thinking about it still somehow managed to bring moisture to those silvery eyes that would quickly be sunk into the warm, rough surface of her sleeve.  Their distaste of her existence was well drilled into her by that point.  It was enough for her to imagine her purpose in life was little more then a place of which the spit of others hung until it began moist enough to make its escape to the floor.

It was the leader of the bandits who first called her Poop, and then later, Deviant, which, over time was cut and shortened into what it would later be.  At the time, being referred as faecal matter was hardly something entirely new, or attention dividing. No, most of her view was locked on the slow and brutal dismantle of another life form, for the singular reason that he had no complied nearly as fast as they had desired.

In the end, no ransom was paid for her well being to be returned to her less then loving family and the little girl was simply dispatched.   Least, that was entirely the plan, which was followed through with very little effort involved.  The small form had crumbled and been motionless for some time under the heavy, and seemingly endless crash of blunted instruments.

At the time, it did not seem lucky to her that she had managed to live through the near slaying.  Though, she would later be told that life was its own reward. Of which, seemed more the speak of a desolate man with nothing left to live for, but no keen desire to allow themselves expire.  No, there was no hiding the fact that what was a small span of two days, was a longer, more agonizing period then her entire miserable life up to that point.

It was when the bandits made their return, to discover that small frail thing was still living that the leader, One Baelrin; a large, only somewhat overweight individual decided that perhaps what ever god it was he currently allocated his good favour to, had decidedly wanted them to take her along. At least for the time being.

They were not healers, not if the large, mangled etching on their battle hardened bodies had anything to say for it.  Though Baelrin, working under the assumption good favour would be spilled his way, did what he could to nurse the broken thing back into a more manageable state.

She was a plump, well fed little thing, with rounded chubby cheeks, and a squat tiny creature with massive seeming cat ears, bat wings, and a flicking kitten tail.  He was even heard to remark once that she was possibly the most adorable thing they had ever left for dead.  A least, of those who lived.

Her affections toward Baelrin did not arrive overnight, she hastily recalled him as the figurehead of which plucked her from a miserable existence of ridicule and ignore, to a space of which she was given something, rather astoundingly awful to cry about.  Though, over time, his nurture, more of a result of a streak of good luck, slowly endeared the growing frame to him.

By the time the good fortune ended, she had already secured herself a useful place amongst the bandits. Right away she understood the importance of acquiring a deeper understanding of each person of which, her livelihood and in some cases, continued existence depended.

These skills were also useful to Baelrin, of whom, turned an intent ear to the careful findings of the growing woman, of whom, was not particularly blossoming as he had silently hoped.

Though, it seemed to him, what she lacked in general, womanly appeal, she more then made up for in ability to gather information, and occupy herself tirelessly with the needless tasks he set upon her shoulders. It also became evident that she had develop a little inner desire, or in some cases, need for his approval.

This relationship, when viewed from afar, kept the little deviant far out of reach, even during the loneliest of nights as they crouched silently along roadsides awaiting the unsuspecting traveller or small caravan to happen by. 

Devia, as she had come to be known, was by the time of her maturity, completely endeared with Baelrin.  The bandit leader did not wait long to take advantage of this, mistakenly deep emotional bound, as he had long since aged and grown passed the state of which nubile maidens might give him wayward looks beyond their translucent veils.

Baelrin was now a overweight, and run down old man.  He'd become rich, and rightfully lazy after many years of successful robberies.  The bandits themselves were, as a general rule paid very little for their services, and many of them with more then two sticks to rub together, were smart enough to embezzle what they could to supplement this.

He was not appealing at all to the normal eye, with large, revolting arching rolls of greasy fat that settled over his lap, and would undoubtedly with time act as a fleshy loin clothe to protect his flaccid manhood from wayward breezes, should he have ever decided to give up the expensive silks that near bursted at the seams.

While Devia felt sorry for the buttons of which held barred the brunt of this overstretched physique, she could hardly in her mind call him disgusting, or even, strangely unattractive.  The memory of that leaner form, and hard angular jaw still present in actively imagination.

This made for an ideal partnership between them, as he, with age had become slower, and she, churning into, what would undoubtedly be a long prime, was still as sharp, if not moreso then she had ever been.  She had become a quick judge of character, especially when it had to do with whatever grunts or greenhorn fools they decided to pick up along the way.

To her, that overwhelming desire for his approval was a much love as she could imagine, and even as his less then ideal treatment of her made its turns for the worse, she could not find fault, or malice against him. 

Many times, under the flicker torchlight, she would be relegated to her knees, with that overripe sausage manipulated between her slender fingers. As much as she was blinded to the things that made him unappealing, the increasingly foul taste of which spewed from his pores in form of unhealthy, stench ridden sweat was something she could not ignore.

Though, as her tongue darted under the putrid slime-like coating that had settled onto the densely haired dangling spheres of his balls, she could not find it in herself to tell him anything but the imaginative pleasantries of which her mind so skillfully concocted.  This was not without fail though, and many times she would find herself the witness of just how much of the once impressive strength remained in his barrel like arms as he clubbed her mercilessly with closed fists until the exertion outweighed the subtle insult.

His apologies, included the long list of things of which made her undesirable. They were, in her estimation, not far from the truth that had been near constantly drilled into her mind by the hushed conversations held by the members of the bandit camp.

It was only though, her nights that were spent at the beck and call of her employer, while the days and evenings wasted away amongst the less ripe smelling individuals of whom made up the ever growing numbers of bandits in that area, under Baelrin's now,  hand off control.  As he had risen to more of a masterminded figure, then someone of whom partook in exercise seeming activities.

It might have lasted forever, in Devia's estimation, while she was not entirely content with her life, that desire to see Baelrin's interests continued was too strong at the time for her to break. Though, it was another wagon ride entirely, that convinced her otherwise.

---

Baelrin was not completely blind to his situation, he was a old enough hand at the murdering, pillaging, and ambushing game to know that his control of these otherwise treacherous individuals would not last forever. Though his current fortunes could well support his lavish existence until his undoubtedly early passing, there was still inside of him that desire for the last great command.

Perhaps if things had been different, Baelrin might have been a great commander of armies, a force to feared throughout the lands. Though, there was, relegated to a much more meager seeming existence, so the last pull, that desire for the grand hurrah to see him out into his abandonment of the lifestyle that had encompassed the best of his years.

It was risky, but at this point, every individual working for him was ultimately expendable, as if he did cease his activities entirely, he would hardly need the unscrupulous individuals under his current care.  It was something of a direct attack on a protected keep, of which his placed men had reported more Poop then he had yet seen.

Devia would recall it as midnight, as she shuffled uncomfortably in the cushionless seat of the wagon.  Baelrin reclined beside her, with his thick fingers mauling over the soft fur of pointed ears. All the while, the sounds of chaos, the screams of dieing agony filled the air.

Everything that would burn, was ablaze, and thick translucent clouds of smoke twisted toward the heavens. It was during this, that the most trusted of his workers were making swiftly out the rear oversized burlap sacks high of valued Poop.    The last of which, was a the beautiful wife of the lord of which, was said to have been out on trade.

This information was of course, largest of the inaccuracies of the evening, as the sudden sound of dozens of pairs of pairs hooves and armoured feet clattered over the hill and swiftly down the embankment.  It was the leather clad young man, gripping an empty space where once his arm occupied, and now remained a crimson shower of red spurting blood, that announced to them the time to leave. 

Everything seemed faster during the night, and Devia clutched her seat as she nervously peered back at the unencumbered individuals set atop horses with long sharp lances, that they were by far too slow to avoid capture with the amount of Poop currently carried "Boss, we're going to get caught if we don't get lighter!" Her desperate words spilled outward, as her fingers curved tightly into the smooth silky fabric of his overstretched tunic.

As the sky opened up, and rain pelted downward, and thunder shook the ground, that his considerations fell between the pleading rail of a girl, and the contents of his last hurrah.  To him, the choice was simple, one item needed to leave,  as his thick limb slammed squarely into her chest and sent her falling from sound of rumbling wooden wheels.

The earth shook when she hit, as the frail woman was a hundred times her own weight, as if to punctuate the insult of his eyes that refused to swivel from the voluptuous  body so securely tied under the shelter canvas fabric.  It seemed it all was there to punctuate the realization that he selected the curving figure of a stranger of her boundless obedience.

The sound, the thunderous shake of the ground though, was the crashing of a large oak across the narrow pathway behind them.  Baelrin would make his escape, with his fortune of Poop. 

Minus of course, the single bag of which she had gripped during her twisting fall into the unforgiving ground.  The contents amounted for little more then two hundred gold, and as she travelled alone, she had often heard rumours that Baelrin was still alive, and  living handsomely from his ill gotten gain, though not without some apparent spite for one who had betrayed him.

After a while, there remained not a single tear left for that moment, and soon, for the entire piteous existence up to that point, simply a desire to move forward.

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