To Lose It All (Closed)

[Cassandra Coven]

37th of Summer, 510 AV They had come in the darkness, in the dead of night when even the sentries standing at watch struggled between wakefulness and the sweet embrace of slumber. Due to a broken wheel in one of its wagons, the modest caravan had failed to make it to the next traveler shelter, forced to camp in upon the onset of dusk. They were easy pickings for the evil elements that preyed on groups such as they. Bandits, thieves and highwaymen – hardened men whose sole purpose it seemed was to burn and pillage, rape and kill, forcefully taking what they felt was rightfully theirs from those weaker than them. The guards were murdered in their sleep, not even knowing who or what had claimed their lives. Their killers were half way to working through the caravan handlers when one of the merchants screamed before she could be silenced. With the camp now alerted to their presence, the bandits threw all attempts at stealth to the wind and proceeded to the slaughter, cutting down any who were not of their group. The sellsword hired to protect the caravan had formed a small group for men to try and repel the attackers but they were to few. A mockery of a battle ensued, where the antagonists picked off the inexperienced group one by one with ease. Realizing their last hope at keeping their wares and goods would die with those defenders, the surviving merchants and other members of the caravan fled, losing themselves in the darkness and the trees of the wilderness. Cassandra numbered among them. Bothered by increasingly painful headaches the last few days, the young woman had already been outside the light of the camp's fire before the attack started, retching her gut out, unable to keep any food down because of the pain. She had worried her condition might be due to the strange mark that had appeared on her abdomen before she had left – fled really – Syliras. It was the shape of a hand, red – a bloody handprint? The mark of the gods' curse upon her perhaps, for the crime she had committed that led her to flee the city? She did not know, but it was likely the case and she was terrified. She had not shown anyone the mark yet for fear of what the repercussions of that might bring. And yet those around her still saw her discomfort and tried to ease her pain. She ended up giving them their own pain to feel more often than not however. It was not her fault though, no. It was just that sometimes the pain she experienced was so great that she would involuntarily grip the one helping her, digging her nails in deep into their flesh, or scratching them as she flailed about in anguish. And these wounds she inflicted had a strange quality about them. Most would not stop bleeding immediately and would often cause more pain to the wounded than would be normal for such a scratch or cut. There was one whose wounds almost turned septic in fact. Interestingly, the pain Cassandra felt would subside for while after she had inflicted such wounds on others – not that she ever noticed of she would be too busy apologizing to the person she had hurt then. And so, because of guilt, it came to a point where she tried to endure the pain by herself, which was what led her to lose her dinner in the bushes just as brigands were silently murdering her traveling companions. She was on all fours, knees all weak and wobbly and not caring that she was dirtying her clothes on the dusty ground, when she heard the scream and subsequent clash of weapons. She was not a brave girl, nor did she know anything about combat and fighting. She could wield the simple knife she kept hidden on her person with decent skill, having used it for... self defense... before, but against swords and maces, it was a paltry weapon. And so she stood, alone and in the darkness, terrified as she saw good men and women killed by men with dark eyes and evil grins. When she saw that small group of the merchants still lived and were trying to run into the woods, she fled with them. They would be pursued, of course. Not immediately, but eventually. Bandits like these did not like to leave witnesses, people who might report their activities to the knights who patrolled the Kabrin Road, after all. But for now, they were safe. Each ran to a different direction than their compatriots, not wanting to be caught because of the other. Cassandra ran away blindly like they did. She had run a good ten chimes, enough to wind her and put a stitch to her side, when she heard the galloping of a horse behind her. She shrieked in fright, alerting anyone with keen ears within half a mile radius of her location, before she started running again. Or tried to, but the pain in her side almost made her double over. Hurt or not, a woman could not outrun a horse anyway, and the horseman caught up with her easily. Luck was with her at that moment it seemed, for the rider was not one of the bandits she fled from but on of the members of the caravan. It was Dillon, the young and idealistic assistant of the sellsword who offered his services to protect the traveling group. Blood matted his straw-colored hair, blinding one of his gray eyes. Whatever wound the blood came from did not seem to affect his vision however, for he rode by and easily scooped Cassandra by the waist, pulling her up upon his horse. Realizing his identity, the young woman clung to him, fairly quivering in terror. Kind-hearted, Dillon took a moment to slow his horse in order to placate her. “Apologies, lady... Cassandra, isn't it?... but I had no time to stop and calm you down to have you join me. I think the bandits have already finished with our camp and would no doubt be looking to kill the remaining survivors right now. I can't help the others, but at least I got one of you...we should flee.” She wanted to protest, to ask him to gather the others and lead them to safety, but too weak and terrified now, she could only nod in understanding, eventually just settling her head upon the man's back when they had arranged themselves more comfortably on the horse. “I ask that you hold onto me tightly; we must ride through the night. They have horses too. Ravok is the nearest city, maybe we can get assistance from there.” Once again, Cassandra could only nod. She had seen too much horror and after the adrenaline rush, her headache was returning again. What else could she do? She hoped they could evade the bandits; she did not want to die!

[Cassandra Coven]

They rode hard and fast, Dillon driving their mount at a frantic pace, Cassandra holding onto him for dear life. Unused to riding horses, the young woman's grip on the man was hard as steel, her strength borne of terror. She was afraid for her life, for both of theirs, really. They had barely left the clearing where the young mercenary had chanced upon her when they heard the sound of hooves pounding on the ground in the distance. They were being pursued. Their raid successful, the bandits were looking to eliminate all witnesses. That, or they were aiming to net themselves some slaves or playthings. Cassandra surmised that it must be difficult after all to find female companionship in bandit lairs. She didn’t know which fate was worse. Still, no one has caught up with them yet. They were safe, for now. The journey was taking its toll on them, however, especially on Cassandra. Just one bell of travel and already her hips, thighs felt sore, like they’ve been hammered for half a day. Both her legs would cramp up at every bump on the road, at every sudden turn of the horse. Reflexively, during these moments, her hold on Dillon would tighten, nails piercing clothing to dig into the soft flesh beneath. And the man would scream for her to stop, unknowing why a simple scratch from the frail girl would hurt him as if she poured acid on the little cuts. Cassandra would obey of course – she did not mean to harm him, she wouldn’t hurt a soul! – but she would feel relief, especially on that first time, when his pain released her from the pain in her head. Such cries from the mercenary only served to orient their pursuers to their location, and they were dogged constantly now. Two bells, three bells, they rode, disregarding pain and fatigue in the effort to flee. But a horse bearing two people tired faster than one with only one rider. Dillon and Cassandra found their mount slowing in its gallop as the night gave way to early morning. The enemy made an appearance several bells before Syna's rays graced the sky. On Dillon’s request to check for pursuit, Cassandra had twisted around to check behind them and, right at that moment, the bandits burst out from the trees a bow’s shot away. There were two of them, rugged ruffians riding roan mares. Ugly fellows both, they were lean and mean looking, and even in the pre-dawn darkness, the young woman could sense the violence about their bearing. One had a scimitar out and was madly waving it about, a vicious grin erupting on his craggy face when he spotted the two. Fear clutched at Cassandra’s heart once more. With trembling hands, she urged Dillon to push their mount to run faster, but it was all denial in the face of adversity. The bandits’ horses were faster; she knew with certainty that the men would catch up with them in no time. Their flight merely delayed the inevitable. Dillon seemed to realize this as well as he pulled the horse to a halt and asked the young woman to alight, firmly but gently. Terror-stricken, Cassandra complied immediately, her movements automatic, not realizing the man could leave her right there and then. But he didn’t. “Run!” he whispered to her harshly, his tone brooking no argument. He drew his saber and oriented his horse to the direction they had come from, his gaze now going to the ever-closing bandits in the distance. “Ravok is about half a day’s walk from here. You can make it, Syna’s light will guide you to their tower. I will meet you there later. Go!” He meant to fight them! Cassandra realized. He would try to hold off their pursuers just so she could escape. Such chivalry! She did not know why he would do such a thing but she knew she did not deserve it. The man was too honorable for his own good, how did he end up as a mercenary and not a knight? “No! Please! We should escape together, the horse – ” “The horse can’t go much farther and they would still catch up with us eventually. Better I fight them here now with the advantage of a mount. When I am done here, I will rejoin you.” It was bravado, nothing more. While Dillon looked like he knew how to use his weapon, he had little to no chance against the bandits, especially if they flanked him from opposite sides. Both of them knew it. But he did not give the young woman the chance to give voice to the truth. “It has been a pleasure serving a pretty lady such as yourself.” With a nudge, he sent his horse charging. Cassandra’s hand followed him as if to snatch him away from the danger he would now face, but it was a futile gesture. She was alone and, bereft of the nearness of Dillon and horse’s body heat, the cold of the early morning air was beginning to seep into her bones. She knew she should start running, and perhaps find a place to hide from the bandits, but she stood rooted at the spot, fear and hopelessness rendering her immobile.

[Cassandra Coven]

The fight ended almost as fast as it began. As Cassandra watched in apprehension, Dillon set his horse on a collision course with the nearest one, the bandit wielding the wicked looking scimitar. An instant before they hit, the mercenary leaped at the ruffian, expertly deflecting the man’s weapon with his own so he could tackle him off his mount. The impact threw both of them heavily down to the ground. Dillon was able to stand up, albeit on shaky feet. His opponent did not. Even from her vantage point, Cassandra would distinguish the grotesque way the fall had twisted the man’s neck. The young woman almost threw up at the sight, but there was nothing left to heave from her stomach. She would have been better served had she started running then, but she wanted to see the conclusion of this, hoping that the noble mercenary would prevail. He didn’t. The other bandit rode up to him and, with but a few flicks of his wrist, Dillon fell on his knees, the hilts of several daggers protruding from his neck and chest. He fell face first to the ground, the bandit not bothering to check if he still lived. He just wheeled his horse about and bolted after Cassandra once he had spotted her. The young woman realized she should have followed Dillon’s initial orders. She turned then, to flee for her life. With his horse, the bandit caught up with her in an instant. A boot planted on her back sent her sprawling down the dirt. She was going to die her, she knew. Alone, without even the formality of a proper burial or a funeral pyre. Nobody would care, nobody would know. Beasts would feed on her lifeless body, she knew. Where would the man’s blade enter her body? On her back, piercing her lung, making her labor for every breath as she drowned in her own blood? On her neck perhaps, severing her carotid artery so she would bleed to death in minutes? On her spine perhaps, paralyzing her and leaving her to perish from exposure or the wildlife, whichever got her first? Such thoughts only heightened her terror and, unable to bear not knowing what her fate would be, Cassandra scrambled to turn around, crawling back on all fours when she found the bandit right in front of her. The man did indeed have a dagger out, with several more sheathed on his belt. He leered down at her, a malicious grin plastered on his face. “Please…please don’t kill me… please,” Cassandra begged, her voice shaking. She had thrown one hand out in a pathetic attempt to ward the bandit from approaching any closer. It was a useless gesture, for the man merely ignored it as he took another step nearer. She could smell him now and he ranked of stale alcohol and dried sweat. His toothy grin seemed like a beast’s mandible, waiting to devour her whole. The glint of his blade promised pain most horrible. The image of Dillon's death was still fresh in her mind. She knew without a doubt this man would not end her life as mercifully quick as that. “Please…please…” The young woman felt a warm wetness spread between her legs and she knew without looking that she had lost control of her bladder in her fear. The bandit noted the stain on her skirt however, and he laughed, a horrid, grating sound. “I’m not goin’ to kill you yet, sweet’eart,” the man cackled, black tongue licking dry lips. “You an’ Bimmy still have some fun to be doin’.” Cassandra knew what her fate would be then and she wished the man would just kill her outright instead. She wanted to scream as the man pinned her to the ground but her terror had already frozen her vocal cords.

[Cassandra Coven]

The man pressed down upon her, heavily and violently, his free hand pinning one of Cassandra's wrist above her head as his dagger tore her blouse open, the keen blade slashing off the buttons that held the clothing in place and kept him from the fleshy prize he sought. The young woman struggled against her aggressor, slapping and pushing the man away with her free hand, but he was too big and too strong. She could not begin to slide her body from underneath him or even break his grip on her. His breath was most foul, forcing her to turn her face away rather than endure the malodorous stench whenever his leering, stubbly face drew close to lick at her cheeks. The man would laugh whenever she tried to recoil away after such an act. But her ceaseless struggling to get away have begun to erode the bandit's patience. He boxed her in the temple, causing her vision to swim and her ear to ring. The man took advantage of her momentary disorientation to completely rip open her blouse. Cassandra's bosom, only covered now by a simple undergarment, lay exposed for him to prey on. A horrible smile lit the man's face, only to darken into a scowl when the young woman's free arm moved to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty. “Get away!” she sobbed. “Please...” The bandit raised his fist, threatening to smash it against her face, and Cassandra flinched. “We can do this the easy way, bitch, or we can do this the 'ard way,” the man growled. “Just means I cut you up sooner if you don't stop your wigglin'!” Cassandra saw the truth of the man's words within the black pits of his pitiless eyes and she swallowed hard. What he said was no idle threat, he meant to attack if she did not stop her struggles. It seemed she just had to endure what would come next and hope that the bandit would spare her. Would he even do that once he's had his way with her? She doubted he would let her go. Tears threatened to flood her eyes as she realized that her life might end before Syna's orb hit its apex in the sky. There must be some way to get through this alive! “Please! Please don't kill me!” she begged. Her lips were trembling, her hands shaking in terror, but she pressed on. Her next few words would leave a foul taste in her mouth but she must press on! She wanted to live! “I...I'll do what you want, I'll give it to you. I'll...I'll make it good. Just please don't kill me, I don't want to die... Please...” The man laughed his horrible laugh once more, a cackling sound that reminded the young woman of a cat regurgitating its meal. “What makes you think I'm needin' your petchin' permission to take what I want?” He flashed his dagger before Cassandra's eyes then, dangerously close to cutting her face up before he pressed it against her throat. The young woman could feel the blade's edge kiss her flesh and knew that it drew blood. “I'll petchin' take what I petchin' want! And when I'm done with you...” “No! Please, no!” Cassandra pleaded. She was desperate now. The man would still kill her! What could she do? Her mind raced; she needed to come up with something fast! She needed to...to..appeal to his sense of greed? No, appeal to his sense of lust! Since he only wanted one thing from her. “Please, Bi...Bimmy? Please, if you let me live, I'll...I'll come with you! I'll come with you! Just let me live, please... I – I can be good. I've very good! Let me...let me show you...” Tentatively, she raised her hand to the man's face, the submissive servant asking for permission. The man seemed unsure still, though the pressure of his dagger on Cassandra's throat seemed to lessen, his grip on her trapped wrist becoming loose. The young woman, with nothing left to lose, pressed on, cupping the man's face with her hand. Her other hand soon followed and, before the bandit could realize she was using her charms to make him dance to her tune, raised her head up and locked her still-trembling lips against his dried and cracked ones.

[Cassandra Coven]

Cassandra immediately regretted the act as soon as her lips touched the horrid organ that was the bandit’s own dry and peeling lips. She had never been curious of the hygiene habits of men who live away from civilization just to avoid the law, but she had a fairly good idea of it now, discovering that they had next to none. If she had thought the man’s odor stank before, it was nothing compared to his breath, which not only felt hot and rancid against her face, but also reeked of whatever disgusting meal he had last eaten mixed with the stale stench of chewed tobacco. His tongue, rough and course as it snaked passed her lips as he took advantage of her seemingly sudden willingness to please him sexually, felt like raw sewage in her mouth. Grubby hands roamed all over her body, lingering around her chest and buttocks as they squeezed and groped. Dark memories surfaced in her mind at the touch, screaming at her to lash out, to break free, to make him stop! But she fought against it, realizing it would only lead her to a quick but painful death – something she desperately wanted to avoid, to say the least. Not physically strong and helpless against the strength of the man, the young woman knew she could not get out of this one with force, and so she employed her one weapon: her womanly charms. But the bandit's whole being sorely tested her endurance and will to allow him to despoil her body. He was foul and loathsome, and his mere touch made her skin crawl. But her desire to survive, to avoid the pain promised by the man's wicked-looking blades, overrode everything else, and so she suffered through the ordeal in silence, going so far as to pretend that she liked it to make her charade more believable. She imagined herself separate from the event, pretending that she was just a witness to it and that someone else had to go through the whole thing. It was difficult, so difficult. Digging her nails in her palm, using the pain to control herself, Cassandra resisted the urge to retch at the revolting sensations, knowing full well this was her only chance at survival. She needed the bandit to believe she was willing to give him everything in exchange for her life. She prayed that he would spare her, perhaps even let her go? She was not afraid to hope, for hope was the only thing she had now. But she knew she had to go through this step by small step. She must make him believe her every want was to please him! Just to survive! At least, she thought, her ploy seemed to be working well so far, as evidenced by the growing bulge in the bandit’s trousers pressing against her thigh. Cassandra hoped the man had stopped using his head now, that his actions now stemmed from his baser instincts. Yet still the bandit seemed content to suck on her lips and explore her body. She could tell he was taking his time, savoring her. How often were highwaymen such as he were able to find women who were willing to give what Cassandra was giving now anyway? Evil man, disgusting man! The young woman yearned to push him away, to escape and wash herself clean from his touch. She felt like such a filthy thing, to have to go through this, but this meant survival! Life! She must push push him further to make him drop his guard completely. Perhaps she could escape then? With sheer effort not to gag at what she was about to make herself do, Cassandra ground her hips against the bandit’s, her body language cuing him to take what he was doing a step further, telling him to take her there and then. Like an actor following the script, the man broke contact from her then, but he pushed her back to the ground, holding her down by clamping his hand over her mouth and putting pressure on his muscled arm so she could not get away. Grinning in perverse pleasure, the bandit gazed down on her, lusty eyes taking in her pitiful state. “You like that, don't you, bitch? Wantin' ol' Bimmy, eh?” He released his hold, only to slap her once, twice. Cassandra's cheeked burned at the blows, but she only nodded meekly, playing along. She could tell that violence excited the man and she feared he might cut her up. Her terror doubled as she wondered if she would truly be able to get out of this alive. “Say yes, bitch,” her ordered her. “Ye...yes, Bi-Bimmy,” came the soft reply. Tears threatened to fill her eyes once more. She could still weep? Another blow came, this one darkening her vision. She clung desperately to consciousness, clawing her way out of the darkness. When sight returned, Cassandra saw the bandit still on top of her, but manically trying to undo his belt. He had dropped his dagger now as he fumbled at his belt buckle. This was it, it seemed. Her chance, getting close. She must play the part well! Slowly, feminine hands inched their way on the man's thighs, caressing, stroking. “Let me help,” she whispered coarsely, her voice coming out as if bleeding with passion, though in truth it was more fear than anything. The man returned his gaze on her, a dumbfounded expression on his face. She knew at once that no woman has ever said such a thing to him, the ugly, filthy creature. But she still had one more thing to throw at him. “Touch me,” she rasped, inhaling as she arched her spine, thrusting her chest out. Tempting. Luring. Let him do it. Please... The bandit could not resist, of course. Would any man, in such a compromising position, in a moment so heated, with a woman so, so willing? His hands came forward eagerly to grasp that which was willingly and readily offered to him, undoing the clasp that held Cassandra's bra in place to behold the prize he so yearned. Cassandra's breasts were the last things he saw. Delicate but nimble hands darted to one of the many daggers on his belt and before he knew what was happening, Cassandra had stabbed him in the neck, once, twice, three times, her fear and frustration coming out with each blow. Blood sprayed everywhere, and he didn't even have time to groan in pain. When his neck was a pulsating mass of messy flesh, the sharp blade went to his chest, piercing his lungs many, many times. With each strike, Cassandra screamed out her terror, driving it back as she let her disgust and hatred for the man out through her actions. Filthy... disgusting... animal! Cassandra pushed him off and he fell off her, quite dead, but the violated young woman was not done yet. She straddled him and kept slashing and stabbing until the adrenaline had worn off. When she was done, the bandit's face and upper torso could not be recognized as belonging to a man, so ravaged was it by dagger's keen blade. As her fury subsided and strength fled her arms, she staggered off, only to collapse a few paces away to cry out the myriad of emotions spilling out of her heart.

[Cassandra Coven]

Terror and relief warred with each other to free themselves from Cassandra's heaving chest as she lay in the ground. Weak from her ordeal, all strength having left her limbs, she curled up in a fetal position, her body racked by shivers and chills. Whether it was from killing and mutilating bandit that lay just a few steps away from her, or from her escape at the clutches of the same man, she knew not why her body reacted that way, but she knew she felt guilt for killing him despite his evil nature. She was no murderer! And yet wasn't that the very reason why she had fled Syliras? A man had died by her hands then, he was her lover in fact, someone she thought might give him a new life, and yet she took his life. Though to be fair, the act was brought about by memories too dark, too traumatic, that she hardly knew what she had done. She was sorry, yes she was, but being sorry did not bring back the dead. Fearing reprisal from the keepers of that city, she had fled. And now here she was, having just committed another murder, although this time the victim did deserve it. He was a man of dark passion, of evil and malicious wean, and she had to do the deed to preserve her own life. It was self defense, anyone could see that! And yet she still felt remorse over it. Hers was a gentle spirit, suited for a cloistered life, but she had been tested by the harsh realities of the world and she adapted. It was the most basic reaction if one wanted to survive after all. She still maintained her nature, but with each unfortunate event – and in her case they were dire misfortunes indeed – she learned ever to protect herself first and foremost. Cassandra's hand clenched reflexively at the thought, despising how the world was shaping her to be, before realizing that she still clutched in her hand the dagger she had used to kill the bandit. It was an evil looking weapon, long and sinuous and fully intended to slip in between the ribs of its victims, and she recoiled in horror from it, flinging the blade away into the bushes. But the blood of the man still stained her hands and she tried vainly to wipe them away on her clothes. “I am not a murderer!” she cried, lapsing into sobs again. Tears streamed from hazel eyes once more as the young woman bemoaned the cruel twists in her life. Still, despite her words, deep down inside she knew, the murder, the taking of the bandit's life, it had all felt strangely...soothing. Long minutes passed before Cassandra mustered the will to collect herself. She took a moment to secure the clasp of her undergarment, modesty a habit for her despite there be no one to spy on her half naked form. It was then she noticed the absence of the evil mark below her breasts. There had been a handprint there before, appearing the dead after she had killed her lover, a cursed mark from some god to be certain. And yet now it was gone. Simply gone! Relief flooded the young woman's heart once more. This must be a sign! she thought. For surely it meant that the gods, or at least one of them perhaps, have granted her forgiveness for her previous transgression... the taking of Markain's life... even the death of the bandit. Perhaps it was even that act that had precipitated this removal of the evil mark. “Thank you, Priskil!” she whispered in joy, assuming it was the goddess' hand that brought the change about. Standing up, she tried her best to fix her clothing to make herself look halfway decent. Almost all the buttons of her blouse were missing, and her skirt, unnoticed earlier when her one focus was to stay alive, had been ripped at the front when the bandit tried to ravage her. These were all workable, yes. Easy enough to tie the ends of her blouse together and shift of the rip on the skirt to the side. It would make her look risque but at least should would not look like a beggar. She must make herself look presentable, when she walked into the gates of her destination. Ravok, wasn't it? Yes, she could work with what she had at the moment, the goddess had given her hope! But first she would need water. The bloodstains and dirt must be washed off immediately before they fully dried and settled in the fabric. Fortunately, she thought she heard the gurgle of a stream nearby. With light footsteps, Cassandra made her way to the sound of water, carefully averting her eyes from the messy corpse nearby. The stream was at a secluded spot, and totally hidden from view, a perfect place! She stripped, removing even her undergarments, and dumping them in between some rocks where water collected, leaving them to soak for a while and allow the light current to wash away the stains and grime. Meanwhile, she took a dip at the deepest part of the stream, about waist deep for her, to wash herself. It would not do to walk into Ravok looking like some refugee from a war, now, would it? Happily, Cassandra rinsed herself, starting at the hands which was completely caked with the bandit Bimmy's blood. Just dipping them had immediately turned the water to a light crimson, though this was slowly seeped away as the water was replenished from upstream. The young woman scrubbed her hands and arms, eager to get the sticky sensation off of her. Strangely, some of the red coloring seemed to remain on her skin, especially at the back of her hands. She scrubbed them again, more vigorously this time, but the coloring persisted. Taking them out of the water, Cassandra brought them closer to her eyes to inspect them. To her horror, what she initially thought were stains were actually her own veins colored a deep crimson, their hue obvious even through her skin. It was the same tinge as the handprint she thought vanished from her abdomen. “No...no...no!” In denial, she tried to scrub them off again until the flesh of her hands were raw from the friction. But the coloring remains. She thought she had been forgiven, but it was all a trick! Whichever god or goddess had marked her had removed the hidden mark she had before, only to make it appear where it would be blatantly obvious for everyone to see. To know that she had killed! A murderer! “Why do you do this to me?!” Why indeed. It struck Cassandra that she could not remove the marks unless she actually amputated her own hands, if that would even work at all. Even if it did, she knew could not do that to herself. Panic welled up inside her; she knew not what to do! She must cover her hands somehow! She needed someone to help her get through this, but the one person who could have, Dillon, lay dead in a pool of his own blood. “Oh, Dillon...” Cassandra lamented. Dillon, who did his best to rescue her, fighting off the bandits even at the cost of his own life. Dillon, who had pulled her up on his horse to save her from the massacre of their camp. Dillon, who...who...had riding...gloves... In a rush, Cassandra donned her clothes, still wet from pool, and fled to the body of the young mercenary. He remained in the position where she had last seen him, lying face down in the dirt, daggers embedded in his chest and neck. She did not want to disturb the dead but he would have no use of his belongings now as he met with Dira, while she could still use what would have rotted with the man's corpse. Gingerly, Cassandra pulled off the man's gloves and put them on. They were not her size but fortunately they were rather tight and clung to the skin and fit her almost as good as if it were hers. For good measure, she took the dagger peeking from one of Dillon's boots, knowing she would need it for protection on her way to Ravok. She hoped she would not need it but there was still a couple of hours worth of walking before she reached the place. Loathing to leave the man's body in the dangerous wilds but know she had no choice if she was to live, Cassandra, in her wet, torn and ragged clothes, headed north to where she should have immediately gone when Dillon had first told her to run. Such a foolish girl she was, she thought. If she had listened to him, perhaps none of these would have happened. -FIN-

[Kelpie]

Cassandra: +1 Running, +5 Persuasion, +3 Seduction, +1 Dagger Lore: How Not to Flee, Brief Chivalry, Witness to a Horrible Crime, Caught in the Hands of the Vile, How Witty Tongues and Womanly Charms Lengthen Lives, Enduring the Unbearable for the Sake of Survival, Murder, The Nature of Vexation (Partial) Cassandra has received the following: -Dagger -Dillon’s gloves Mod Note: Great job with this, Cassandra. You made Bimmy so realistically nasty and gross that even I wanted to gag. (If that was your intention, kudos!) Poor Cassandra, being forced to murder but being akin to a cloistered sister. I am definitely interested now to see how life takes her, and where she goes on her travels (aside from Ravok of course!)