Liridia

Chapter 4: Dark Alley

Liridia
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I hate frilly things. Anything that is showy and not practical, is not worth my time. Except this time, I need a frilly, showy but practical dress for the ball so I can blend in but still deliver a killer throat chop or spine cracking kick. Ugh. The tailor in this particular shop sought me out so I could get rid of the man who made his family bankrupt and made them go down the toilet drain of life to land in this rough town.

No one trusted them enough to hire them because of their reputation in the big city, a poor man who can't be trusted to work at any establishment even with talent is still a poor man who can't be trusted to work at any establishment. Just like if you dressed up a pig, put a wig on it and taught it tricks, it's still a pig. This tailor still owes me a favour that I would like to cash in for this special event.

"M'lady, how can I help you today?" The old man smiles as I walk into the shop, the bell attached to the door jingling to signal my arrival.

"Why hello, kind sir. Do you remember what I did for you on the twenty-first day of the third month last year?" I say putting my hands into my pant pockets. His eyes harden and thin smile appears on his face.

"And what did you do-" he starts, but he silences when I brandish a hand drawn picture he drew for me to identify the man by.

"Oh, I see. You want to redeem the favour." He states, his eyes falling to the floor and not coming back up.

"Yes, quite so. I need a dress for the fifth kings ball." I say sweetly. He looks up surprised, not expecting something as innocent as that.

"Well. Why didn't you just say so! What particular style would you like?" He says getting out a pad and pencil and staring up at me intently, waiting for the details.

"Something not frilly, practical but gorgeous and something with the main theme of the colour red. Please." I say watching his delicate pen fly on the pad of paper, his f all twirly and curling into the r, his s's swirling in a circle and curving back into o's. Wish I could do that.

"Is that all? No lace bodice or a slit down the front to show your right leg? Nothing else as 'frilly' as that?" He says looking up from his pad with an arched eyebrow.

"Surprise me." I finish, starting to walk further into his shop, so he can measure me. "But if I don't like it, or it's not my type, or if it's too flashy... well, let's just say you'll owe me more than a favour." He nods and gets to work straight away, ushering me into the closest fitting room to the left.

The hours go by as I watch the tailor measure me, offer materials and colours for my approval, and I like the burgundy and the scarlet, but I choose the burgundy because it apparently says 'Lady-like, respectable but gorgeous at the same time', his words, not mine.

I leave the tailor with a sincere smile, he has a long night ahead of him. I journey to my temporary home alone, passing the taverns, with jeering men who want me to 'come a little closer deary' but I ignore them and continue, their compliments of how young, beautiful and lovely I look following me.

They don't know me, if they knew what I do, what would they call me? Witch? Murderer? Something more terrible? I don't know, I don't care, I shouldn't care. But I strangely do. I pass the homes, inns and bars, and I cross the road and walk down the dark alleyway.

I hear screaming, further down the alley, pleads for help, pitiful wails that no one hears. Except me, I do.

They ring in my head long after the screaming stopped, someone should've helped her, I should have helped her.

I run towards where the sound was, my cloak swishing and seeming to merge in with the black night. I come to a stop, dead end. I hear someone shuffle in my direction, close. I spin and unclasp the cloak, covering myself with it for me to blend into the shadows. I hear a gasp and someone is terrifyingly close to me, I hear their breathing, their muttered words of 'where did she go?' And I squish myself against the brick, making myself as small as possible. They walk past me and I count the footsteps. Twelve. This is a small alleyway, only four can fit comfortably, and these people must abuse and hurt women, so it has to be a small group.