Legends of Belariath

The Quest For The Baron's Silver

Morrigan Steel – First Signet Ring

Red. Red was the color of her vision as her eyes fluttered open and a trickle of warmth flowed over them. Red like the soft, scented rose petals she once made love upon so long ago. Her fingers twitched as the sensation of soft, sticky coolness was twined in her clutch. Softly, a moan passed her lips, or so she thought as faint voices started to trickle through her awareness. Then a scent tickled through her nostrils that certainly was not reminiscent of rose petals but more so of death and decay. A mixture of softness and cold, damp hardness lay beneath her twisted body.

“Are they both dead?” came the inquiry in a cold, calculating voice that sank down to her like a boulder tossed into a pond... “‘ppears so, sir. Yea want I should ‘ave ‘em shot?”. Blood freezes in her viens and her body tenses as the fingers burrow into the stiffening softness between her fingers. Her mind screams...”Don’t react! DON’T!” Then another voice rises like a serpent from a snake charmer’s basket to her tattered, pain filled consciousness..”You will fetch a fine price as a painslut to the drow..” she will never forget that voice that slid over her sink like an inky grime that seeped into her very soul. Her thoughts are pulled back sharply at the sound of the feet moving above then the answer to the question by the same cold, calculating voice totally devoid of emotion. “Yes. Shoot them both. I want to be sure they are dead.”

A painful breath then fear, hoping the rise of her shoulders, or chest, went undetected but the sense she is laying twisted and partially face down to wherever she is eases it just before the sound of a releasing of a string that echoes down into the pit at the same time she senses a thud into the softness she is laying partially twisted in. Then another release of an arrow that nearly corresponds at the same instant the lancing pain into her lower chest/side register. Her body lurchs with the force of the arrow slightly and its only the hardened clutch of her fingers within the stiffening softness and her above average tolerance of pain that keeps her from crying out. Her indomitable will to endure the pain but that will is near to crumbling like a detoriating castle wall...she can’t take another one of those.

“Tis nae reaction from ‘em, sir.” came the deep voice with a northland barbarian accent. She could almost sense the coldness before that ‘other’ replied. “Pity. We shall have to capture another beast for the pit. That bitch! I wish she had lived so I could extract each ounce of mithril from her hide myself, inch by agonizing inch, that that beast cost me to obtain. Let their bodies remain as feed for the next beast. At least I will get that much recompense from the meddling witch.” sharp sounds of retreating steps waft down to her along with a muffled, fearful “Yea, sir. As yea wish, m’lord.”

She laid, for what seemed like hours but what might have, in reality, only minutes as sounds of voices and retreating booted steps faded. It was then she allowed herself to focus more clearly as her hand released its grip within that softness, pulled from it as if it was extricating itself from a mire and traveled the long distance down to her side where a hot trickling flowed beneath her breasts and another trickle flowed from her back at an angle downwards towards her backside. Her other arm was pinned beneath her and slowly found its way between her body and this softness to grip the arrow at the fletching that was almost flush to her skin beneath her breast. Her upper arm, that was not pinned, twisted back to grip at the other side of the arrow where realization reaches her that the tip had been stopped by something hard, perhaps the ground, as to why it didn’t pass cleanly through her.

A soft sigh as the knight/cleric realizes what next must be done and her jaw clenches. She must not make a sound. Swiftly, as much as sore muscles will allow, she snapped the fletching from the arrow and shoved herself forward onto this softness as the sensation of wood completing its journey through her flesh. She would have only impaled herself further if she had laid back upon the trapped shaft and tip of the partially buried arrow, she surmised. She lays, breathing heavily of the stench of the body she lays upon as pain runs rampant throughout her body not only from the arrow but of all the other wounds that were suddenly awakened by the quick movement. Consciousness threatens to flee her, swallow her up like quicksand as she fights, no WILLS herself to hang at the very edge of the precept. The flow of blood must be stopped or she will die, she knows that. Ragged whispers pass her lips as she chants softly the mantra of healing minor wounds as her one arm lays semi twisted atop her slim, half naked form and the other traces light finger tips along the stickiness of the puncture in her side. Severe pain slowly eases then settles into a dull soreness as her eyes blink away the red that suddenly began to cloud her vision at the quick movement. The arm atop her body slowly crawls upwards towards her brow and fingers trace out the jagged line of a cut along her temple and brow. Again the healing mantra is chanted, or ‘mouthed’, more or less, and she feels the flesh crawl and knit back together like drops of porridge spooned into a bowl whose edges coalesce together until its like a seamless drop of porridge.

Several blinks and her vision begins to clear but all she can see at this angle is blood soaked fur beneath her cheek. The flat of her hand goes against this furry background and she shoves herself away only to roll off onto cold, hard stones that jut up into the back of her head, neck, shoulders, and hip and a roundness of an arrow shaft that lays now beneath her spine. Sizzling emerald eyes gaze up at darkness. Slowly, pinpricks appear in a roughly hewn circle far above, or at least beyond the range of her uplifted hand, like tiny jewels cast haphazardly upon black silk. Her hand lowers to fold across her midsection without capturing one of those pricks of light as that movement extracts its toll upon her weakened state. All she remembers is those pretty lights as exhaustion claims her.

Needles like her mother’s mending ones seem to prick over the upper half of her body and deafening sounds of thunder from the chattering of her teeth as her eyes flutter against the chilling drops of rain that cascade now down upon her body from the blackened clouds above. Clouds! She can see clouds! She turns her face to the side, towards that furry wall she pushed from at the same instant jagged lightening splits the sky. The horrible face she sees in that momentary flash of a creature that resembles a mix of an orc and bear. Its mouth twisted in a terrifying open maw send her into a reaction of shoving and scrambling back in a hurried disentanglement of nearly rigid limbs to a roughly hewn stone wall where her battered, slim form again collapses. Her face lays, cheek down, on a large, muddy stone as her terrified eyes rest on that form, her breasts rising and falling in sharp gasps. Again, the flash of lightening that outlines hazy details of the pit to an almost instantaneous crystal clarity and the dead creature that lays, unmoving, a few feet away.

Her eyes pick out what details she can between the flashes of a rough hewn rock and dirt pit, but obviously not rough enough to warrant climbing out of, even in top form. Nausea washes over her and her gaze flickers down to the tiny puddle forming in a depression scant inches from her nose. Her teeth chatter incessantly now but her eyes have picked out enough between flashes to relay there is no shelter from the chilling drops of rain that fall into the pit. She remembers being colder than this when she laid in that cage the dark elf had her in before after having the troll dunk her time and again in the ice cold winter stream. She didn’t have any protection against it except the meager fur that was tossed her, not even clothing, yet she survived. She’s at least partially clothed and has something now, she didn’t before, a warmth spell. She allows herself the luxury of one as she lays upon that ground, her limbs easing with the warmth for a while as she listens to the drumming of the rain and watches it mar the smooth surface of the growing puddle. Her mind begins to wander, the puddle almost like a mirror for her memories as the rain stills, the lightening softer, then gone as the storm moves off. Her fingers reach to touch the pool as a vision of Opium reflects across its surface as rays of sunshine bring out the highlights of her hair. So pretty she was, that day. The day she received the summons....

Sunshine, like strands of liquid gold fell about Opium’s willowy frame as she stood before the window to their shared, Spartan like room within the Inn in the village of Nathalion. The usual sounds of a ruckus was dimly heard up here as Morrigan leaned to tug upon her boots, her gaze lifting to roam that delicious form before her. She stood from her side of the bed and walked towards Opium, to slide arms around her waist and look out over the view below of the landscape dotted with a few buildings and beyond that, forest and distant mountains. Morrigan nuzzled along her ear then rested her chin upon Opium’s shoulder as she felt her move slightly within her arms and the soft, sensual voice teasing her about being a sleepyhead for just missing the dawn.

“It’s your fault. Not that I am complaining, mind you, but you wore me out. Feel free to do it again.” Morri chides Opium in her usual, playful manner as Opium gives her a light swat upon her hip. Their peace and enjoyment of the morning was interrupted at the wispy sound of fluttering wings just before the appearance of a piegon upon their windowsill. It cooed softly as its head bobbed, its beady eyes peering up at them both. Opium leans back against Morri then starts to lift a hand towards the pigeon with a softly exclaimed “Oh!”.

“No, love, remember..” Morrigan softly whispers as her hand gently reaches to cover Opium’s, before she take the pigeon off the sill. “He’s only trained to go to those whom he recognizes. Let’s not undo his training, though, if you like, you can pour him some water in his cup and seed into the cup affixed to his stand while I tend him.”

“Of course, m’lady.” Opium says before slipping from her arms to do as Morrigan requests while Morri offers her finger to the bird, her eyes darting towards its leg to spy the tiny casing affixed thereof. She lifts the bird and closes the window then takes it towards the stand and lets it crawl from her finger to the stand before attempting to remove the small casing from its leg. While it picks at the food and water she moves to the chair at the small desk to tap out the small slip of parchment to read.

Her slim fingers peel off the thin waxing of her Liege’s seal and unfurls the slip as she holds it to her searching eyes that quickly move from line to line.

“Morrigan. As we spoke, several months ago, you would be given an opportunity to regain your honor and return to my favor again, as if you were unsullied by your acts you so grievously committed and admitted to I, and Silas, my personal physician. Thus far, as instructed, you accepted punishment and attempted to make right your wrongs committed to said persons/owners. Also, without question, you have followed the clerical path and laid down your quests for revenge for wrongs done you upon undeserving innocents and stayed your anger from those that did injure you. You have proved, to my satisfaction, you have mastery over the beast within.

Your next step is to restore your honor by undertaking and completing this quest. Future steps will be discussed at another time. Baron Barticus’s signet ring was stolen several days ago. As you well know his lands lay adjacent to mine and he has petitioned for help in this matter. I need not stress the significance of a signet ring to you, or the severity of chaos it could cause with false orders being sent, much less documents signed and sealed with it. Sir Bartholmew was killed trying to retrieve it and I am also contacting and sending Sir Gustus and his knights but they are, at best, a fortnight away. You may secure a guide, I believe, in the village of Tinnus that lays about a days ride southwest from you. Check at the Wooden Dragon, you may place your name on my account there. From there on, once the guide is secured, you must travel to Castle Colonius, where the signet ring was traced to by Sir Barthlomew before his death. You must use your own resources to secure lodging from this point on and to hire the guide, upon which you will later be compensated for. It will take all that you are, all the skills and cleverness you can muster to win this. Morrigan, it may even cost your life. R.S.V.P. your acceptance or decline. If you accept, Morrigan, may the courage of the wolf sustain you. Signed, Your Lordship, Ralston Wolf.

The parchment is dropped to the smooth surface of the desk, where it curls. “Chaos, indeed! Mayhaps, even war!” she thinks as she places her face in her hands a moment and rests elbows upon the desk. It -was- serious if he was calling Sir Gustus to divert from his work with all the knights beneath him to undertake this, but she was closer, though very alone. Castle Colonius was about another three to four days ride after that, if she remembered correctly, from the village Tinnus. And..Sir Bartharlomew...he was so young and handsome and more gifted than her, yet he failed. Will she? She has one thing in her favor though, that he did not. The burning desire that haunted her day and night of the restoration of her honor. That alone may make the difference.

“M’lady?” whispers soft against her ear as gentle as a summer’s breeze then the light touch of Opium’s hand upon her shoulder. Morrigan lifts her sizzling green eyes towards Opium’s softer, hazel ones.

“Sir Bartharlomew was killed upon a quest, one that I have been asked to undertake and which I need to prepare and leave immediately for. Love, if..if anything happens to me you remember where I told you Lord Wolf was, right?” she turns to take Opium’s hands in hers as she gazes into her frightened eyes. At the shaken nod of Opium’s head she continues. “You must go to him. If there is anything that can be done, he will see to it. If not. I am sure he would find a place for you within his court.”

“M’lady..do you have to do this?” Opium asks, tearful, although she has never often questioned what Morrigan has had to do or face, until now. The very threat of loosing her too real this time. Morrigan looks steadfastly into Opium’s eyes, “Yes.” That was all that passed between them as they held each other for nearly half an hour.

Hurriedly then, Morrigan packs a few change of clothes, cloak, a fur rolled up tightly, some rations and her weapons that she carries towards the stables where the saddle bags of supplies and clothes are placed upon a saddled up Ehleannur, her dapple colored clydesdale stallion. Opium and her had said their goodbyes within the room and the lone figure of the knight leads the stallion next towards the forge where she notifies Yugo of her absence. Fortunately, the forge was in a lull and she hadn’t had work for a few days previous but she still felt it necessary to alert him to her possible absence of beyond a few days. Within the matter of a few more minutes finds her mounted up and riding towards the edge of Nathalion and the flitting of a bird in a bush causes her to think of the re-released pigeon that is even now winging her reply of acceptance back towards Lord Ralston Wolf.

The day passes uneventful and she arrives in Tinnus with nightfall, spotting the large, wooden building in the small village that she assumes is the Wooden Dragon. Wearily Ehlanneaur clops up before the stable beside the large, wooden building and Morrigan slips from his saddle, equally weary. A snot nose, dirty face young lad races out from the stable as Morri reaches for her horse’s reigns. “I’ll take care of him, for a copper!” She reaches a hand out to run through his tousled dark hair and nods. “What’s your name, son?”

“Bartharlomew!” he declares proudly like a rooster from atop a morning rooftop. The name jolts her a moment as her eyes rivet to the young lad’s face, a sadness fliting in them. “Good name. I hope you make it proud to be spoken. Just a light measure of oats and corn for him tonight, if you can.” she tells him as she moves to lay the saddle bags over the rail to carry in with her, then unsaddles the horse after leading him inside the stable, knowing the saddle is too heavy for the lad. She lets the blanket for the lad to get since he will brush her horse down for her and takes the rolled up fur and lays it with the saddle since she mostly considered needing it for any night she may have to camp out. She leans, reaching to her boot and extracting a mithril to toss the boy, having distributed varying amounts of her funds over her body so if’s she robbed, its not all lost. Some even hidden within her saddle.

“I will, m’lady! Tis kind of bad in there sometimes, but tonight is a good night. What’s your name?” the boy chatters as he sets about her, anxious to tend the horse, his eyes wide as saucers at the mithril. “I’m Morrigan. Well son, most of these places are, at times, I’m used to that. Do you know of any good guides that might be around in there tonight?” she inquires of the lad, the mithril long tucked away and probably to be routed out of the lad by his father or guardian later, she surmises.

“Samuels is good, though he drinks a lot. He’s here every night!” the lad rambles on as he starts to brush out Ehleannur. “Good. And..see this, Bartharlomew?” she asks as she lays a mithril on stall door, a faint prickling along her neck that perhaps they’ve been observed. As the lad looks up she knocks it off into the hay within the stall and leans back. “Get it later, mind you and check his shoes, will you?” The boy’s eyes widen at the second coin and he nods slowly from his place inside the stall, then smiles really wide when he realizes if he leaves it there his guardian won’t get it, not knowing about it. “M’lady..’sure to lock your door later.” is Bartharlomew’s soft, barely whispered words as he turns back to the horse.

Morrigan gives a slight nod, not entirely surprised and turns to stride from the stable and gather up the saddle bag to toss over her shoulder before walking into the wooden building of which a faint, weather-beaten, paint peeled sign swings above the door announcing it as “The Wooden Dragon.”

The inside reminds her alot of the Inn of Nathalion. Alot of the same smells and debauchery, just different faces. She walks to the bar with confidence she doesn’t feel as groups of eyes rivet on her slim form dressed in leathers and a simple shirt. A tall, blond human female with gorgeous looks who suddenly feels like a naked morsel being served up from the looks she receives. The tender is a portly, balding man who offers the ledger. “Welcome to the Wooden Dragon! One of the best establishments around!” he proclaims, his eyes too looking her over and mentally, she kicks herself. Perhaps it was the fatigue but she is beginning to think she should have cast her swap gender before arriving then abruptly discards it. She probably was better off as is, they would have killed a man. “Thank you. Just here for the night and looking for a Mr. Samuels. Lord Wolf is to pick up this expense.” The portly tender’s eyes widen and he flips the page, directing her to sign instead on a page under Lord Wolf. “I did not know he had any lady warriors!” he exclaims, louder than she would have liked, causing even more eyes to come her way. “He does. Now, Samuels? And a hot meal? Please. Oh..and some wine. Elven Red if you have it.” she gives him a nod then looks to the room and those closest that seem more curious than they should be, none of whom whose looks she likes. A beady eyed young fellow, a few bar wenches, a smattering of others she guesses to be a mix of warriors and thieves, and maybe even a mage by the one tall man who is dressed in robes and the only one who isn’t sporting some sort of obvious weapon of one form or another. “Samuels. Right over there, in that corner booth. Stew and bread alright?” the tender inquires as he points out a rather swarthy looking, harden man slightly older than herself. “Perfect.”

She shifts the saddle bags and walks towards the man, whose attention seems more fixed on how quickly he can reach the bottom of his bottle rather than anything much about him. She stops before his table and gazes down at the man who appears like he might be rather handsome under all that stubble and long, dark hair that drapes scraggly over his broad shoulders. “Samuels, I presume?” she inquires of him. “Aye, what about it?” Human, she ponders, not seeing elven ears or the usual wide cheek bones of the barbarian bloodline. “Mind if I have a seat? Could be another bottle in it for you.” she offers, finally getting at least enough of his attention for him to turn up bleary, red eyes to her. “Bottle first.” he gruffs out.

“Sure enough.” she answers with a wave to the tender... “Another bottle for my friend here.” Now, if -that- didn’t bring some piercing stares she wasn’t Morrigan. The portly tender brings over the bottle casting a *are you crazy?* look her way before plunking it down and scurring off to hurry up her meal. Samuels gives a slight nod and she drops her bags into the seat, then her slim frame with a sigh of relief as her meal and wine shows up. “Whadda ya want?” Samuels drawls out as he checks out the bottle and seems satisfied with the quality of it.

“Need a guide and I’ve been told your the man for the job. Destination is Castle Colonius.” Again, the piercing stares of those near just as Samuels head snaps up. “Those that go in, poking their noses about..don’t come back out. Sure you want to go there?” Samuels asks as he lifts the bottle of brown liquid to his lips and letting some of the drink drizzle down each side of his mouth, chin and throat, then a pop as he pulls the bottle free and plunks it back down on the table, his sleeve lifted to wipe off his lips.

A chill settles in her stomach at his proclamation and she stirs around at her food a moment before she looks up, a forced calm upon her face as she takes a bite of her meal, then a sip of her wine before answering, giving the appearance of a thought out a reply though in truth she was quaking to her boots and wishing she hadn’t been asked to do this. “Yes. I’m sure. That’s where I want to go. I’m willing to pay a reasonable sum, if you’ll guide me.”

“One hundred mithrils, up front.” he tosses out in a cold tone then lifts the bottle again, making another trickling river down either side of his mouth. “Fifty now, fifty more once you get me there. And..you be a real gentlemen might be a tip in it for you.” she equally tosses out as she takes more bites of her meal, not realizing how famished she had become during the long ride.

“Seventy-five then. Up front. Rest later.” he counter offers, his eyes narrowing slightly. Again she takes a few more bites, appearing to measure it. “No, sixty up front, take it or leave it. We leave first thing in the morning.”

“Morning? What about supplies?” he queries as its now his turn to be somewhat surprised. “Most folks generally give a guide at least a few days to get organized and all...” Morrigan shakes her head. She thinks to herself at his excuse, or time enough to spend your up front money then be a no show. “We’ll get what supplies we might need and I’ll rent you a horse, then we’re off. As early as we can get around. Will you or won’t you? I don’t have much time so if you won’t, I have to find another who will.” She states, getting irritable at his hedging.

“Alright, alright. Sixty and we leave tomorrow.” he gives a slight scowl at this pushy woman before scratching at the stubble. “Anything else?”

“No. Just be there. You’ll get your sixty in the morning, before we leave.” she gave that no ifs, ands or buts in her tone before shoving the plate aside with the food about three quarters gone and reaches for her bottle of Elven Red and her saddle bags before rising. “Until morning then, Samuels.” He had started to open his mouth to argue then simply nods as another bottle is brought over for his pleasure and placed on her tab.

“Ya loose something special in there?” Samuels requires of her as she turned to go. She glances to him, over her shoulder as she presents a lovely profile to him. “I’m not paying you enough to tell you that.” she tosses back. Just have to be firm with them, she’s found and moments later find her disappearing in direction of her room.

She walks the hall, skirting around a few drunks and some wenches who were “entertaining” some customers. A slight shake of her head and she unlocks her room and begins to slip inside when one of the drunks grasped her ankle. A soft sigh and a squaring of her shoulders as she glances down, a chant next to flow from her full lips as her hand took on a bluish glow. “You don’t want to tangle with me, just let go,” she warns.

“Oh, but I do, lass.” came the surprisingly unslurred voice as the scallywag refused to let go and looked up to her with a grin she didn’t think she liked. It was about then she sensed another coming down the hall towards her and a swift glance over the edge of the saddle bag on her shoulder confirmed it. “Back off boys and I’ll buy you a few bottles. Maybe even toss in a few mithrils?”

“We’d rather have fun.” came the gruff voice of the burly man approaching far too rapidly down the hall. She closes her eyes a moment as she prepares for what seems like is going to be a rough scuffle when the burly man stumbles and lands hard, face down amid a spray of glass and liquid, a few feet away. Her eyes open quickly and dart towards the fallen man as she feels the sudden release of her ankle and the other scurrying away from her. “I’ll be collecting my tip now,” said Samuels as he steps over the body of the unconsciousness man with the jagged neck of a bottle in his hand, which he raises enough to be sure she notices it. “Or you can just deal with good ole Jaques and Kal when Jaques wakes up. Oh, and no magic tricks either,” he gestures with the broken neck towards her glowing hand, “cause I guarantee mine are worse than anything your packing.” Quickly she looks him over, weighing options. Obviously, she’d rather not but she would much rather survive this quest and with as few injuries as possible.

“Very well, then. Come in.” was her disheartened reply before they both vanish into the room. It was going to be a long, three or four days.

With thanks to Morrigan Steel

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