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chapter eighteen. grains of sand
[ 𝑨𝑵: cheeky note before the chapter. i struggled a lot knowing what was going to happen and how to portray it for the last year. i decided to stay true to what i originally conceived but want to place an extra warning here. without spoiling anything, please note that this story may be triggering. if it arises that you feel like this story might not be for you anymore, there will be no hard feelings on my part. i've also put on the mature rating to better reflect the story's direction. ]
Rain drops the size of fat gold coins fell from dark clouds onto the dark lands below, carving rivulets in the dark earth, quickening the ground to dark mud. Against a gale, the caravan snaked up the mountain path at a laborious pace.
Minthara sat astride a sinewy courser, chevroned by her entourage. An ox pulled cart, piled high with blood-stained booty and supplies, rear guarded by the watchful eyes of Loviatar's servant, quick to rap those knuckles that leered too close. Trailing far back, a troupe of rowdy goblins, restless from unsated blood lust. Grouching amongst each other, their bloodshot eyes attached in resentment to the middle pack of prisoners, spared the wind's buffet by their proximity to the cart's back.
Two days had passed since the flint could strike a spark. The screams and smell of death had washed squeaky clean. Two days of drudgery. Just the squelch, squelch, squelch of their feet and the chatter of their teeth and the growl of stomachs rationed to the limit.
None expected the raid to have run so afoul. They had had all the advantage. At least, that was what they had thought. Brothers and sisters, lost. Those who survived, maimed and aching. Minthara had made it clear that the half-elf would reach Moonrise alive. But in the glow of the moon lantern, she shone, clear as a bullseye. Death was not the only revenge.
It began with a stone. A little one, barely the size of one's thumb pad. Grizzly Marrow had the genius of his 'mini trebuchet', fashioned from the bendy reeds from the roadside and twine. They practiced first on the dwarfs, of whom the woman one turned to glare. But when she opened her mouth to snitch, they hid their toy, and she took one look at the leather whip's handle, shiny from the rain, and that was that.
Finally they built up the courage and took aim. The first shot was a miss but the second connected. A muted cheer rose among them. But faced away, the satisfaction of her pain was stolen. Following attempts either did not land or produce much the same result. They would need to try for something dramatic.
