With Holy Flame and Bastard Blade

Eris - 1

"Enter at your own risk," comes a voice, a chuckle, outside the tent. Eris lets her eyes drift toward the sound. "The witch is a death sentence."

Footsteps shuffle, heavy breathing, and finally an audible swallow. The tent flap pulls back and a man enters. He is tall and broad, shoulders filling up the entrance of her tent. Black hair hangs past his ears. It falls across his forehead in uneven chops, like a knife was taken to the long pieces in frustration. He wears a dark tunic and a fur coat. His skin is pale, and dark eyes widen when he sees her. The wind allowed inside at his entrance pulls at the flames, candles around the tent quiver. She hushes them with a raised finger. The man breathes heavy once more. Fear dances in his eyes with the fires reflection.

Eris stands, soft, navy silks dancing around her frame. Her opal colored hair rests softly against her shoulders. She seems to glint in the firelight, rings and jewelry decorating her body. When she waves him toward the seat opposite her, the bangles on her wrists create music of their own. The late evening hour makes her warm colored skin appears sinister. The knife tattooed on her sternum seems to glow.

A slow grin pulls at her lips as she watches his cautious steps. He lowers himself into the seat across the table from her. The wood hisses under his weight. His closeness brings with him the distinct smell of horse and sour ale. Perhaps he needed liquid courage before facing the priestess.

She sits down and waits for him to speak. When moments go by without a word, she raises a dark eyebrow in his direction.

"My lady..." he says, his voice is deep and rough. He coughs once to clear it. "I come on behalf of another."

Her hands curl tightly around the arms of her chair. She glances at his attire. He is clothed in rich fabric and the sword at his hip gleams with rubies. But he wears no crest, no family seal on his breast. A sword for hire. An expensive one. His request comes from someone with money.

She settles back into her chair, letting her muscles relax. "What Lord do you serve?"

The man swallows hard. "My Lord does not wish to be named, should this request find the ears of his enemies." A reasonable request, the Pit is not the safest place for sharing secrets.

"Go on," she says, waving her fingers at him. She sees the restrained flinch in his shoulders at her movement.

He takes a deep breath and does not meet her eyes when he speaks again, "The Lord of Hayle has fathered many children, some base born, others true. But his eldest daughter, Cynthia Hayle, is to be married to the son of a powerful noble." He pauses, wiping sweaty hands against his pants. "The marriage would cost the Lord I serve a great deal of money and power. He wishes for the marriage arrangement to end. Permanently."

She sighs, letting her eyes close as her head rests against the chair. His breathing is shallow, and each movement she makes, no matter how small, causes him to hold his breath. The priestess bites back a grin. Not all men who wander into her tent are so frightened.

"The reward is ample, enough to compensate for any danger you might encounter should you accept," he tells her.

Her eyes open and he nearly jumps from his chair. "What reason do you have to come to a priestess for a job that any sword can accomplish?" She runs a finger down her sternum, brushing the blade on her chest. "This dagger has killed many," she murmurs. "And many far more prestigious than the daughter you describe. Why does your Lord ask for my hand in this?"

The man sits forward and leans against the table. His eyes are wide, sweat accumulates over his brow. It is not her reputation alone that causes him this distress. "My lady, this daughter carries royal blood. She may be distant, but she is protected. Her father has seen to it. Guards of Alsalazard accompany her at all times."