Ashtik: The Champion of Black.

Chapter Twelve: Sing of Spiders.

The bard made her strings cry. It was fitting; for she would never cry again. She had already drunk her last cup, sang her last song. She could live – easily so – but she wouldn't. They never wanted to be saved. Not when damnation was so beautiful. Not when death came with a cherry kiss on cherished lips.

She watched the bard's deft hands as they danced across her pale wood harp. Such practiced grace, such perfection in her precision. Her delicate hands and her gentle smile, her soft amber eyes and her scruffy pixie cut hair. It all served a purpose. It all hid the monster within.

They locked eyes a half dozen times throughout the song. Promises were made with simple glances, and moonlit bedsheets glittered behind her eyes. The tune carried a final note. A resonant tear, echoing through the candlelit ballroom. It was a moment of awe, a moment of silence, before the thunderous applause rang out.
The worst part of any song was the applause. Why a crowd of fools thought it necessary to be the loudest thing in the room that had moments before been filled with such quiet majesty is a mystery best left for those who cared to study foolish men.

"Buy me a drink?" the bard whispered. She sat at the other side of the intimate little table and made no secret of her intent. She bore a greedy little grin in the corner of her pink painted lips.
"That would make a change."
The bard chuckled at that, "Not used to being on that side of the table?"
"Not used to actually paying for drinks."
"Then I'll not change your habit," the bard giggled. The noise was false no matter how pretty. She laughed to disarm, to lull. "Darren!" She called out. A young man dashed to their side, a cloth in hand and a smile cracking his cheeks.
"My Lady," he bowed.
"Yeah, be a darling and get me a whiskey. Oh, and something impressively expensive for the raven-haired beauty here," the bard ordered. Darren made away without another word, nor regard for the dozens of drunk gentlemen vying for his attention across the halls.
"I didn't take you for the whiskey type."
"I'm not," she chuckled, "I'm just trying to impress you."
"There's nothing less impressive than someone trying to impress."
"Your lips say I'm unimpressive, but you haven't blinked away from me once. Then again, you haven't asked my name yet either," the bard sighed. She leant forward onto the little table. Her amber eyes caught the candle light as they danced to some unsung tune known only to this woman.
"Names mean so little, I know what you are and that's enough."
"Then I'm at a disadvantage," the bard said.
"Get used to it."

The drinks arrived in iced glasses. For the bard, a double of some near ancient bourbon, a slice of lime on the dish at its side. Then the server placed a crystal flute of sanguine delight. The smell was obvious, though the bard had little chance to recognize it. She took her whiskey and pretended to take a sip as she narrowed her eyes.

"Why don't you tell me then, darling, if not who you are; then what you are?" The bard asked from beneath her glass.
Smoky black lips touched the crystal flute. Darren had done his job well; it was just the vintage she sought. Rich, decadent and well-aged. It would have been perfect, had it not been a man.
"I'm nothing but a spider in the attic, darling."

The night carried along. The spider weaved her web. This was a part of society she should have adored. The flowing dresses, the perfectly sewn suits. The beauty and grace of dance and song with the raw heat of passion. Had that been what she saw, she'd have lived in ecstasy, but this was as false as she. Men danced with politically convenient women. Women drank not for the love of wine, but for the boredom of company. The dances were rigid, the passion was stale. Everything was flat, even this bard. She needed no effort to wrap this auburn-haired songstress around her finger. There was no sport in it, no thrill. She twirled her new partner across the floor. The green hem of her gown dusted the dancefloor as she spun. She took her hand, and her waist, and held her close enough to feel the bard's ragged breath on her neck.