Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

3 - Blood and Thunder (OM)

Ophelia is not known to be the most honest person in Port Notales. She's not known to be a liar, though, either. She's in the nice little area in between the two - they call it deception. Mixing truth and falsity together; she stares into the pot they swirl in, raising a brow at what she's gone and created. Fear doesn't infest her body, no, if she lets it in it'll begin to dictate her actions. She'd go and become no better than the mob that wanted her head. She's deceptive, no doubt, but she's also got her head stuck safe on her shoulders.

However, she feels as though there's some kind of ribbon loosely tied about her neck. And although she's not afraid, she's got this feeling of unease that tells her someone is going to come right up behind her and tug the ends, pulling the little strip of satin free of her skin. Once that's gone, there'll be nothing keeping her together, and her head will roll right off and smack against the rough dirt road she walks along now. Maybe she'll look up at herself, at the near black streams inkling down her body, and maybe then she'll finally admit to the fear hugging her.

It's safe to say this has made her a little paranoid. Thales audibly groans beside her, throwing his head to look at her. "Could you quit looking all around like you're having neck spasms, or something? It's making me sick to see you so...aware all of a sudden." His voice is full of something bitter, but it couldn't be towards her, could it?

"Yes, well, get me a nice, numbing drink and you won't have this problem any longer." Thales doesn't reply, and something like pride surges in her chest. Getting the last word. My favorite.

Something brushes against her arm and all that pride fizzles into something that makes her jump at least ten feet in the air. She falls against Thales, her trembling fingers gripping his arm for support. Panic swells like the very waves on the shores of this wretched port, and she can't push down the tide. Oh god, oh god...

Thales shrugs her off, snatching his arm back. "Don't touch me." The look of disgust he flings upon his mother clamps her protesting mouth shut, it makes her unfold her fingers from a fist, it makes her back lose its confident posture just a little bit - the change would be noticeable only to someone that inspected her back on the daily. And of them, there were none.

Her boy marches ahead, leaving Ophelia to stand in his dust, staring after him and the building that's finally come into view. She swallows a lump of saliva collecting over her tongue and glances at where she once stood, where her arm had been brushed by something that spread the distance between the two apart.

It'd been the gnarled branches of a bush, wheat-like leaves coming off, fuzzy, and dead. A bush. A bush scared me. Ophelia feels the blood rush from her cheeks, and shame take its place. I'm losing it.

She looks up once more, beginning a slow trek up the sloping path behind her son. The building before them sits upon a hill overlooking the sea that gives the port life. It's built hastily, some boards tipping down, all of them covered in chipping white paint. There's more splintered brown than anything. The shingles upon the roof are all but stripped away by storm and rain, something Ophelia can feel stirring in the air.

She doesn't like it. So she picks up her pace. She doesn't catch up to Thales though; she's always a few steps behind, slowing down when she feels she gets too close, speeding up when the distance starts to make her anxious. Never has she felt so conflicted about distance, such an irrelevant thing to her. I bet it's the whole "sober" thing. Only for a day. God, there's no way I could go any longer than a couple.

Thales stops at the front step, hesitating as if to wait for her. Some part of her is hopeful that he'll turn back, wave her forward. She just doesn't realize how hopeful until he stares straight ahead and plants his sole on the step.

It's not disappointment, she tells herself, only frustration that fills her and dashes away her pointless fears of distance. She stomps up the stairs past him, careless over the creaks and dips that result. Soon her knuckles are rapping the door, a slab of wood that looks about ready to tear free of its hinges. This place is a dump. This "protection" Thales talks about - it's probably a scam.

She's just about to turn back and lash him with words when a groan surfaces from under the floorboards of the porch. It sounds as if the very building itself is groaning with defeat, or rather, the thought of defeat, the thought of one unfortunate visitor leaving it alone once more. How nice. A building that's more emotional than me.

The door swings open so quickly that Ophelia barely has any time to hop back before it rips through the wind and smashes right into her nose. In fact, it's not even barely - it happens. She feels the warmth of blood begin to gush free of her nose before she feels the pain, but once she does, a quaking groan escapes her, a groan that almost matches the creaks and moans of the house. Oh hell, this better not be crooked now.

The click of heels crosses the porch, and with it, a voice, old and soothing to even Ophelia's ragged ears. "Oh, darling, I'm awfully sorry about that. I should really look through the windows before I check for trespassers."

It's the darkly sweet undertone to the woman's voice that makes Ophelia lift her lip in disgust. She knows deception when she hears it, for it takes one to know one. Scam.

"We're not trespassers." It's Thales that speaks, and Ophelia whirls on him.

"I've got this, boy. This only concerns you for your own deals." Ophelia turns back to the woman, the woman they call Madame of the Eight Sirens. "We're not trespassers." A silence follows, and Moira rolls her wrist forward, urging her to continue. Ophelia gulps. "We're the Morvone's. And we need help."

Moira perks an eyebrow, pushing more wrinkles into the corner of her face. "Ah, yes. I've heard the rumours. They say you've been burning bodies in the bakery." She pauses, looks to the darkening sky, and smiles a cherry-lipped smile. "I like the alliteration of that one. Other rumours are horribly dull. They lack the luster of this one."

Again, Thales interjects, and Ophelia is too busy trying to shove the crimson back up her nose to care about shutting him up. "That's nice. So, protection? They say you offer it here."

"Somebody's in a hurry." Moira smiles once more, though it's tight this time, and the crinkling at the corners of her eyes show more than old age. "But yes, I do offer protection. For a price, of course. Everything comes with a price."

"So we've learned," Ophelia says. She takes a step closer, trying to assert whatever dominance she thinks she still has. Be honest with yourself, dear. You lost all that when you got hit with the door.

"So you've learned, is that right?" Moira again, this time with some sort of amusement in her voice. "Then you know our deal doesn't concern Thales, yes?"

"What do you mean it doesn't concern me?" Offended, her son definitely sounds offended. Looks it, too, with his face scrunched up in such a way that he shares no features to his mother. He must like it better than way. No wonder he's always got that horrid scowl.

"Don't throw a hissy-fit, boy," Moira says, completely indifferent to his face, "You're a grown man. Make your own deals." And with that, Ophelia is whisked into the brothel the Sirens call their home, leaving Thales to stare after them, steam billowing out of his ears.

Ophelia must admit - she wasn't expecting the colorful grandeur of the interior, judging by the outside. Moira wastes no time in getting to her point, though, pulling the woman out of her momentary awe. "I ask three things, and I'll do what I can. Not much time, your son is about at his wits end - I can tell."

Ophelia only pushes her chin back, probably looking monstrous in the process, but frankly she's uncaring and just wants ice for her nose. "On with it, then."

"Your sins, your son, and the truth."

And the chins come out, for Ophelia understands nothing. But she can't question. If she questions, she puts her own life at risk. If this woman reuses to protect her, there'll be no one left to keep away the brutality of Port Notales.

So what does she say? "Deal."

~~~

Score - tbd