❛in which she kills❜
The Red Death was well-known. She was a tale used to scare children from talking to strangers, from wandering in markets, from venturing past the garden gates and slipping out of their mother's grasp. Her name was whispered arou...
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"life is the art of dying." atticus
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tw: graphic violence
THE SUN HAD NOT YET RISEN when Nim was ripped from her sleep. She had awoken to two harsh knocks and a grumble of annoyance from the corridor, muttering something about that damned girl. She had grumbled at that and then rolled out of bed, slipping out the dagger from beneath her pillow, stumbling over the katanas still strewn about after her last escapade.
For once in her life, Nim was thankful that she had fallen asleep in her red leathers ( wriggling into stiff leather in the dark was the bane of her existence; she practically had to butter herself up just to pull them above her hips ).
She swung open the door just as Otto raised his fist again, face set in a firm frown.
"Yes?" Nim asked, and at the sight of his harsh stare, she raised a hand in an effort to wipe the sleep from her face.
"Brought another in," Otto rumbled, "Day." And then he reached into the folds of his thick coat and practically thrust a yellowed envelope into her face. "And another from Rask."
She slipped it from his fingers and then reached into her room to slide her working coat from its hook, tossed her dagger onto a bookshelf. Otto took off the moment the fabric slid over her shoulders and arms, marching down the dark hall, voice booming along the empty, tree-ringed corridor.
"A merchant, this time," he declared. "Apparently dealing in all that pottery, clay and such."
Nim hummed, "Dealing to who?"
"The usual noblemen."
"And you've -"
"Yes."
She huffed at that. It was frustrating, usually, to deal with Otto. Frustrating because he was blunt and rude and as mercurial as a thunderstorm. And frustrating because he was in the know - he was closer to Beron than even she was, practically tucked in the warmth of Beron's armpit or something. And so he knew Nim - knew who she was, what she did, knew to what extent her power actually reached.
Nim just had to bear him and trust that he liked having this power over this - this knowledge, this treat to dangle before her.
"Good," she quipped. His steps seemed to grow heavier. The trees around them, which curved and twirled to create a sort of tunnel, quaked slightly, their leaves quivering, a sort of fiery mirage created by Otto's heavy steps.
The ground sloped then, brown bark giving way to soil and roots and then to dampness, to minerals and dark stone. Torches burned brightly in the darkness, flickering light and then casting their shadows against the walls. As they swung left and then down and approached the dungeons - holding cells, they had been instructed to begin calling them, sentries appeared. They were on guard, dressed in shades of dark reds and oranges. Their hands flew to rest on their swords as Nim rounded the corner, muscles tightening and backs straightening.
