Riven Isles

38 | Poison and Passion

"You have a foul mouth." With a sigh, I pour alcohol onto a cloth and reach towards his lean frame. "This may hurt. Please remember to stay quiet as we don't want any attention on this ridge, remember?"

"Eh, who's the boss, 'ere? Me, poofter. Me." He snatches the cloth from my hand and takes me by surprise. The lift of my brows is entirely involuntary as the goblin scrubs his damaged brown skin as if the alcohol is no more abrasive to his wounds than lavender soap. I blink. Grumbling, he takes the bottle out of my hands. I feel it slip away, but scarcely register the theft until he is drenching the cloth in it a second time and cleaning his self once more thoroughly.

"That will do, Mr. Cobbe," I mutter, perplexed as I unfurl a roll of gauze.

He spits and raises the bottle to his lips.

"No, don't!" I protest quickly. My nose wrinkles and I wince, too late. "It's medicinal," I add weakly.

The liquid dribbles down his leathery throat, scampering from his prominent bobbing Adam's apple. He casts the bottle aside, emptied, with the blood-soaked cloth and wrings his wet lips with his good hand, narrow eyes scrutinizing me in a threatening manner that I cannot fathom. As if he dares me to tell him off for possibly killing himself with my cleansing spirit.

"Does the trick, dun' it," he growls, smacking his lips obnoxiously. His spindly talons grab at me. "Gimme that bandage and I'll do it myself. All I's wanted off'a yeus was sum'n for the pain. Get back on yer rifle and keep a sharp eye on the ginger."

The bandage is shoveled from my hand and he starts winding it around his own. My teeth clench and I shake my head. Be calm, Sim. Anger does strange things to the body as well as the mind, and the last thing that I need is for my hands to shake enough to dash the trigger.

I reposition the wooden butt of the rifle firmly twixt my shoulder and the earth. My dominant left hand loosely holds the grip, comfortable with my index finger hovering steady by the trigger in the case that it is needed. I squint over the sights, positioning the muzzle's point over the red-haired woman's chest. Not her heart, nor her skull.

She looks strong. Muscular, but in a way that it is subtle. Like a cat. Or, more fittingly, a wolf. My lips peel from my teeth musingly at the sight of her malicious smirk. Even at a distance, high on a ridge overlooking the small and empty clay village, I can see the characteristic fangs of a werewolf and read her alertness through the twitching of her slightly pivoting ears.

Officer Langley stands in shadows below, surely unaware that he has been detected. The Witch's ears pivot periodically towards him. She knows.

Her piercing emerald eyes shine hungrily, fixed on Captain Avery as she paces towards him with a swagger. She has the full bosom of a top dollar whore, but covers the lot as if to make it clear it isn't for sale. Her clothing is masculine, her visible physical strength arguably equally so, but her femininity is boasted in the bright red of her lips, her groomed eyelashes, and her long, curled ringlets, tied back only just enough that they do not dash over her plucked brow and scintillating gaze. In the sway of her hips she carries the fierceness of a tigress. A leader, unmistakably.

Captain Avery, on the other hand, may as well be drooling. Tactless, and yet paradoxically charming. As if swaying like a drunkard—though assuredly sober, on this occasion—somehow builds charisma. That captivating casual air, nauseatingly arrogant but inexplicably tempting. With the lusting dilation of his sparkling eyes and the haughty, beguiling grin lifting his groomed whiskers, I wonder if I will be observing a fight or passions between these powerful persons. His arms spread amiably, seemingly unaware of the long blade held easily by one, and his grin strengthens. If it weren't for the length of his hair and his unshaven jaw, he might have been attractive. I lick my lips and exhale quietly, leaning in over the rifle. Arrogance is not attractive.