Thread: streetlight swag

When Naila was escorted into Rusko's lair, his entire crew fell silent. Their salty eyes lay trained on the girl as Edmure ushered her forward. Truthfully, they were all eager to hear what degree of words Rusko was looking to exchange with her - by the murderous gleam in his eye, they were likely going to be uncivil. He rested his hand on the forearm of his cathedra, fingers flexing and coiling about empty air. You've been defiant, he began, his eyes as stormy as the seas outside, You've been audacious, impudent ... and ungrateful . I should throw you to the sea. The men shared hushed whispers until Rusko's deep voice shattered their concentration. Quite frankly, I'm unsettled with the notion of your presence. The Drowned God has often taught as that women are a blessing, yet, they are quite the opposite upon a vessel. I was taught to treat them with respect regardless. Yet ... I cannot have respect for a woman who shows no gratitude. Murmurs of agreement rippled through Rusko's crew like the plague. Some nodded, others discreetly noshed on their meals. It was evident that Rusko craved dominance - in more aspects than one - and having one insolent mare among a herd of obedient stallions urged him to break her. I will feed you, he continued, I will give you shelter, I will oversee your safety, even. In return, you obey . You listen and adhere to orders given to you, absent lippy bilks. His fingers furled into a tight fist, one he slammed into the arm of his chair. What is so fucking hard to understand! Obedience! You're on my ship, woman. I built this vessel with my own bare hands. I carved the keel, I shaped the planks, I erected the mast ... my blood is in this galley. But I will gladly spill that of those who defy me on my own fucking vessel. Tell me why I shouldn't let the Drowned God have you. An epiphany was precisely what it was. Samosa stood still as a statue while Troen began feeding her his observations. Even her buttery soft robe couldn't quite compare to his mellifluous tone, no matter how many times she stroked the fabric. Forgive me for not being forthcoming, she replied solemnly, But your physicians do not understand true rot of the flesh like our shamans do. They study herbs and roots and unguents, yes, but not ... other unmentionable things. Troen wasn't altogether too uncomely. He was handsome, albeit a diplomat with soft hands, or how Samosa had perceived them, and he smelled of earth and autumn and cloves. As he stood, Samosa nearly winced she could hear his joints snap and crack as he rose, likely in response to the the torture inflicted on his body when his palace was sacked. She felt surprisingly at ease when his lips grazed her shoulder, equally so when he drew her closer to his chest. My people know sacred things ... impermissible things, things your people would coin taboo or disgraceful. Yet, our practices are sought after by your most accomplished physicians. She rested her hand upon his shoulder, reaching to the crown of his neck to unfasten the sling supporting his arm. The material and gauze all unwravelled as she cradled the injury. The queer markings on her fingers, knuckles and palms began to thrum she could feel her bones nearly rattling as if being shaken, but the vibrations were welcomed. You ... call this magic. We call it something else entirely. She raced his skin with the utmost care, watching as the veins in his arms - as blue as sapphires - began to rise into view. The bone is near shattered, she grimaced, I could remedy this, Troen, but it will be painful, and it will take time. But as your injury remains ... your arm will heal improperly.