The Gloomcatcher

08: Favors Come With a Price

O R E P H N I L

    "Nay, nay," said the lilliputian, odd looking, pressed face boatsman when they reached the Bay after sunset, "why do ya not un'erstand? I'm off. Can't take ya."

    "No, we need a ride right now," said Orephnil, bouncing his shoulder beside Neriath so that they blocked the way.

    Apparently, all the other long boats were gone or were either preparing to set off with their riders, unfortunately, they were late. The sun dipped below the horizon and it was soon going to be dark; his boat was the only one going to be anchored while he as he had said, would go whistling home for a delicious food.

    "What've gotten into ya, boy? You cannot command me!"

    "You're taking us or I'm taking your boat," Neriath deadpanned.

    "Blasphemy!" the boatsman threw up his hands. "Ain't no way yer doin' t'at!"

    "I know what to do with you, slimy shit," growled Neriath and before he could say something, she instantly had her dagger out, the blade kissing the neck of the boatsman.

    "'oly, Nos'or!" cried the lilliputian man at once, beginning to whimper as if in abject fear, "mercy, mercy at the name of the God of Fire!"

    "I believe in no fucking god."

    "Neriath!" cried Orephnil in horror, striving to remove her hand from his throat. "Why the hell are you so spontaneous?"

    He couldn't believe how everything for her ended with blood and gore. She sickeningly twisted his hands behind and he groaned in pain. Her eyes found his and he swore he had never seen such cold-blooded, remorseless eyes. The gleaming blade pressed further down on the man's throat, threateningly. How she had her body cladded with heavy metals and weapons of indisputably finest quality, he hadn't known but he was always surprised with the smoothness by which she would pull them out as if she had done that for all her life.

    "We're wasting time," she grunted. "I say, kill him, throw his body in the water and take the boat with us."

    What is wrong with this woman?

    The boatsman had gone pale, his lips quivering with deadly fear and his legs shook feebly as he begged for mercy. Thankfully or rather surprisingly, at the harbour, no one seemed interested in their riff-raff as they bustled around busily. The boats preparing to set off with men and women.

    "You told me, you don't like your hands covered in blood."

    "You're missing a word. Always." She reiterated, "I don't always like my hands covered in blood."

    "Can this not be an exception too?" Orephnil wasn't going to back down as he stared at her resiliently, unwilling to look away and after what felt like hours, she lowered the weapon, cursing incoherently.

    But there gleamed rage in her eyes as she said, "there cannot always be an exception. Let me be clear, hence forth, I will cut open throats of hounds who stand between me and my goal."

    He almost flinched at her words. And what is your goal exactly?—he was going to ask but the boatsman threw a fit.

    "'ooligans! Cutt'roat! I will get t'is wench un'er arrest!" The shaken man babbled with feigned confidence while skittering backwards slightly.

    "How much money do you need?" Orephnil asked instead, beginning to lose his patience with everything.

    "Five Qreude," answered the man despite scarcely breathing.