To Kill a Nightingale

Moments of Truth

Bashnag sighed.

Torches already flickered down in the cellar as he silently descended the last few steps. Nightmare shapes of shadows danced on the dilapidated brick walls. He stole another glance over his shoulder. Waited. Sighed again.

The woman might have been sleeping, it was difficult to tell for sure. At least her stubble-haired head hung low and her chest heaved slow and deep. No one had touched her. Yet. Bashnag should know, as it would be his thankless duty to do so.

He stopped in front of the woman, studying her. Grimaced in disgust. What a foolish wench! What madness had prompted her to imagine that she could just dance into the Nightingale's turf and beat him at his own game? What utter insanity had gotten her to believe that she could even get close to him, let alone kill him! A fool! A damned harebrained crackpot of a fool!

Why, woman? Why? Why did you have to do this to me? Don't I have to suffer enough as it is? And now I have to deal with this nonsense!

A sudden noise made him look over his shoulder for the hundredth time.

A rat. The mangy thing scurried across the floor, stopping in the middle to sniff in his direction for a while, then disappearing through a crack in the wall. Bashnag managed a little smile. Unlike most folk, he did not despise the creatures. He'd even adopted a pet rat once when he was a pup. One of those curly, fluffy ones. His name had been either Fluffy or Curly. Which one, Bashnag couldn't remember.

"Good punch."

He started, perhaps even let out a noise quite unfitting for someone of his aspect and trade. He turned to the woman with a scowl or what he at least hoped was a scowl.

The woman, Fair-Shield, had her head up and was looking at him candidly, working her jaw. A bruise marred almost the entire right side of her face.

"Sorry about that," he muttered.

She raised a brow. Grunted softly. "Interrogation time? The Nightingale, as you call him, wants answers?"

"I'm here on my own."

"I see. " She looked down. In addition to the shackles around her wrists, there was a shackled bar keeping her legs bolted to the wall. "Well," she said. "Guess I'm all yours."

Bashnag grunted.

"Hmmm. I don't think I've ever been with an Orc before."

"Nor shall you today," he rumbled.

"Oh, come now. Don't tell me you're not the least bit interested."

"I'm not."

She looked at him, a touch puzzled. "What is your name?"

"Bashnag. Bashnag gro-Ghasharzol." The Orsimer took pride in their names. Even when there was nothing to be proud of.

Fair-Shield nodded, as though she'd well known the answer already. "Your brother, Grushnag, sends his regards."

He almost felt a jab at that. Grunted it away. He pulled a chair underneath himself, gave this peculiar warrior in front of him a hard regard. "Who are you?"

She shrugged. "You know my name. I'm Runa Fair-Shield. Look, is this about your brother? Because if it is—"

"My brother," he growled, "knew full well what he got himself into. He got exactly what was comin' to him. We shall speak of it no more."

Pause. "Fair enough."

Bashnag stared, looking for the right words. Looking for the right thoughts.