Hunting the Hunter Ch. 03

What was worse, she knew, was that she wasn't giving Mirisa anything to rat her out for. Oh no, she was on her best behavior. If she was torturing anyone here is was definitely Mirisa.

"Patience is a virtue." she called over her shoulder. And she was the most virtuous mer who ever lived. She was a fetching saint.

"If you're getting antsy you can always do a walk-about and see if the others have anything useful on them. Otherwise...don't interrupt." She gave her a half-smile and cocked a brow at her.

Mirisa hefted a sigh and shifted back. She shot one last unimpressed look at the Dunmer before trotting off into the woods to look for something more interesting to do.

Inanna gave it a few minutes and watched the trees carefully for movement before deciding it was safe to begin in earnest. She began by obliterated all expression from her face and made a slate mask of it, turning slowly to look at her victim, cocking her head and holding his gaze for a very long moment before twisting her mouth into a smile that stayed miles away from her eyes.

"Alone at last. I thought she'd never leave." He shuddered slightly under her palm. He must have felt the winds change she thought darkly. 'No more cloying zephyrs for you my friend.'

She stood suddenly and stretched her arms high over her head, letting the bones of her arms and back snap and pop loudly. She then pivoted on one foot to walk languidly away, tilting her head back to let the warm sun spill down over her face. It was such a beautiful day. She stopped, about ten or twelve feet from him and spread her arms out, palms to the clear blue. Taking in a deep long breath, she let out a low "mmmmm" of pleasure.

She turned again, smiling a bright eyed smile...with lots of teeth.

"You know what I call this Jackie my boy? I call this the perfect start to a perfect afternoon. The sun is shining, the day is young...there's a beautiful girl..." she drawled out with a lewd sway of her hips as she sauntered back over to him. She wet her lips quickly and tipped his chin up with her forefinger. "Don't go ruining it now by making me torture you to death."

He was still giving her his hard look. There was trepidation there, to be sure, but he thought she was bluffing. Oh dear. We can't have that now can we?

Inanna swung a leg over him and knelt straddling his lap, running her hands down his chest, pausing to pick at the leather bindings of his armor.

"So...what's your sign big man?"

He blinked in confusion, then sneered in disgust.

"Get off me you disgusting dark elf whore." He rasped out. Clearly he was still feeling the drain she'd laid on him. Good.

He spat at her. She cocked a brow at him and wiped the spit off her cheek and onto his shoulder.

"Gee, just trying to be friendly. Some people...no manners at all. Your mother would be very disappointed." She patted his cheek. "That's ok, if you're not going to be polite, I'll just skip the niceties." She saw him stiffen, preparing for another blow.

Instead she just ran her fingers lightly up to the sides of his forehead, drawing light massaging circles over his temples. He blinked up at her in confusion. She watched as his pupils contracted ever so slightly. Oh ho, was he starting to get nervous?

She flattened her palms and closed her eyes, focusing hard and reaching out with her will, her very self, to touch the self of the other in her hands. It was an intimate act, and invasive.

She felt what little will remained in him and pulled it out, unfolded it before her, feeling its contours like a lover feels the face of their beloved in the dark. She saw a glow, golden, like sun, like a field of wheat, like a crown. Something rose, strong and steady, immune and unshakable, a mountain, strong against the ravaging wind, unbendable, unbreakable, and masculine... it pushed against her and resisted her exploration. She had what she needed. She released him and snapped back into herself as her eyes shot open.

His face was a sheen of sweat from the strain of resisting her though all that energy had been spent for nothing. She smiled placidly down at him and sat back so that she was half straddling him, half sitting on his legs.

"I'm The Steed. Not terribly interesting really. We're notoriously impatient though. Oh, and fast...we're really very fast." She began conversationally, then chuckled. "Guess I should have told you that before I let you take shots at me eh? But you," She poked him in the chest, "you are The Lord. And that is Very interesting. It means, big strong man that you are...it means I can whittle you down to zero and you can just," she made an exploding gesture with her hands, "pop yourself back up to a hundred and ten percent." She smirked.

"That is so long as I don't get too carried away. Of course," she continued, her smile becoming serpentine, and turning her eyes liquid, "it also means so... much... more. Doesn't it?"

She pressed her finger to his lips.

"You don't have to answer. If fact, let me tell you a little more about myself."

She laid her palms on her thighs and squared his eyes with hers. She morphed her expression into one of hardened intensity.

"My name is Inanna. I am Dunmer. I am a huntress of the Urshilaku, born, raised, and trained in the blood and ash of the red mountain." She rose slowly so that she once more leaned over him, drawing her mouth to his. "I am death... I am destruction," Her lips were inches from his, and she drew the full force of the flame into her, or rather, out of her and the heat of it burnt like cinnamon over her tongue, "I am fire." She breathed the last words against his lips, and she saw him shudder. She laughed darkly.

"I think you begin to understand...My Lord." She drew her hand from her thigh and slid it up over his stomach, letting it emit a low heat that pierced his leather, but did not burn. But he could feel it...oh how he could feel it. Nord, and born under the Lord, doubly weakened and sensitive to that one element. Her element.

Long dark fingers wrapped around fair skin, and though they did not tighten or flinch, the flesh beneath turned from white, to pink, to dusky rose. The Nord whimpered as a terrible scent, like burnt offerings, reached his nose.

"The question is," she whispered against his mouth, "who has the deeper well? Are you wondering if I will weaken and fade before you need call on your precious blessing, or if the depth of my destruction is equal to your great strength, or perhaps that it is far, far greater?"

She pulled away slightly and chuckled again.

"I can go all night like this. I have incredible...stamina." She looked thoughtful. "Though I suppose if I were to increase my efforts..." she fanned the flame by a fraction, enough to make him cry out against the pain, and draw a stream of tears from his eyes and whimpers from his throat, "I suppose then I may only be able to keep it up for a few hours...maybe up to five or six...I don't know...I've never had the chance to try it." She turned her eyes upon him again. "Why don't we try together?"

Slowly she increased the heat, swallowing back her own revulsion at the scent of burning flesh, and her own disgust at the torture she was inflicting on the man. Her free hand curled in on itself, still sitting on her thigh.

This was no way to die. This was no fight, no hunt, there was no honor in it, and she was no sadist. But he had information, and she had made her decision. If a Dunmer can't protect what's hers, she doesn't deserve to keep it. She kept her twisted smile plastered to her face and shielded her thoughts from herself.

Whimpers turned to cries turned to screams. Finally she released him.

"Sorry about that, you see what I mean about getting carried away...I'll try to keep my excitement from getting the better of me. Now, shall we? Or do you have something you want to tell me? I don't need much...just a name..."

She shrugged and ran her hand along his jaw line. The flesh at his throat was burnt to the point of mutilation: seared, black, and broken. Her stomach turned a little at the thought of touching it again, but she swallowed that as well and let her hand trace delicately down his chin towards the mess that used to be skin. She pouted slightly.

"I'm sure this is no way for a Nord to go." She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Not with a roar and a blade...but with a whimper...up in smoke." She leaned away.

"No." He gasped hoarsely. That was quick. Small miracles.

"Hmmm? I didn't quite catch that."

The flesh made a horrific crinkling sound as she pressed her hand back over it. The fist in her lap tightened.

"Please..."

"A name."

"I...I don't know the name..."

The flames flared brightly in her eyes, red on red on black.

"I...there's a fort...but I don't know who hi...hired...please..."

"Where?" he whimpered and said nothing. She tightened her grip and snarled.

"Tell me and I'll let you take another shot at me. Hold your tongue and I'll burn you alive, one limb at a time."

His terrified eyes shot open into hers, searching for and finding what they needed. The truth.

"Wariel...N-north, uh, of Kavatch."

She released him and leaned over, running a finger over the ropes, igniting the dry strands.

She backed slowly away as the ropes snapped open and the man rolled forward onto his hands and knees. She turned her back to him and retrieved his sword. He was looking up at her when she turned to toss it in front of him. She watched silently as he took up the blade and rose to his full height. His wounds were gone and his eyes glowed with strength and violent hate. She braced her legs and stood, arms hanging loosely at her sides, still unarmed.

"White has first move." She said softly and without humor or sarcasm; her facades were stripped, they had no more use here. Now there was only the two of them. Two fighters facing in single combat, the way it should be. Lord Boethia's final and favorite dance.

He cracked his neck and twirled his short sword once before he began to circle. She matched him step for step, the opening prayer of the ancient ritual. He tested her, teased her, leading with his right foot forward, her left foot back. His blade flashed and she spun away, leaning, drawing him in, as he pushed her back. Boethia was as much a lord of seduction as combat. The two intersected in so many interesting ways.

Her opponent's eyes burned with fury, and hers with elation. She felt the wind of his blade on her face, and it felt like freedom. One last frustrated swing, and the tip caught against the branch of the tree she'd been dancing towards.

She dipped, to quickly for him, and came outside his sword arm, catching the wrist for leverage, and slung her leg high over his arm only to twist it violently back. The shoulder popped, and he released the blade. She caught it up in the same movement and twisted the blade, driving it forward and up into his throat. A quick death, taken in battle.

"It's all we can hope for in the end." She murmured to the body that now lay at her feet.

"May you find welcome in the halls of your ancestors."

Her hands were damp again. She wiped them on her leg before realizing it wasn't sweat, but blood, and her own blood. The nails of her left hand had bit into the palm, leaving a row of little crescent wounds. It must have been from when she'd tortured him. Strange how she'd never felt it.

There was a soft sound behind her. Mirisa. She released a sigh.

"Well, looks like we have a place...which is a start." She murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder.

The blue eyed lion shifted into a blue eyed woman.

"I heard."

They stood watching each other. Inanna was looking for a hint as to what was going on behind those indigo pools, but Mirisa was giving her that strange contemplative look that had so stunned her when she ran into Feric that bizarre and fateful day. And so, she remained inscrutable.

She knew Mirisa had seen most of it, and probably the worst parts, which she could live with as she had no illusions about getting her to like her. That didn't mean she wanted it getting back to Feric. That wouldn't do at all.

"I guess we should go then."

"I guess so."

Ugh. This was going to go nowhere fast. Inanna sighed again and turned away to find her bow and wrench her blade out of the tree where she had left it. Mirisa was already shifting back and passing her, giving her a fleeting look before taking off in the direction of home.

Inanna trotted obediently behind her, her feet finding their path autonomously from her mind. She let them, and preoccupied herself with wondering how exactly she got herself in this delightful position.

**

As thoughts wandered, a letter arrived.

It arrived in a small boat which moored itself on a small wharf, which sat, mild and unassuming, on a small island. Upon this little piece of white sand and grey stone, stood a few small and twisted trees, or rather slender hard trunks topped by smooth and colorful buds and canopies of mottled gold and green and red. Mushrooms: as drawn by a child or madman. And, over these giant mad mushrooms, loomed a thing more spectacular and monstrous. A tower, twisted and leaning like the spires of a daedric temple, yet smooth and flowing it its form. A massive organic trunk sprung from the ground, twisted round with thick hard vines and swollen buds, and capped with its own bright and prismatically colored dome, the bottom lip of which tipped out over the unassuming little wharf some fifty feet below.

From some strange knotted portal at the lower regions of this strange warped growth emerged a young Khajiit male. His fur sleek and carefully groomed, and his ears pierced with many fine gold, obsidian, and amethyst rings. His light silk robes fell gracefully about his lithe form as he wound his way down the thickest of the winding vines, molded flat and smooth, wide enough that three could walk abreast and not fear slipping from the edge onto the tangle of roots and sand below.

The ferryman who stood at the dock bowed to the Khajiit, who, if not for the telling silver bracers around his wrists, might have passed for a noble anywhere else in the Empire. But the ferryman served house Telvanni, and so did the finely cut slave before him. Both knew it pleased a Telvanni lord to have servants and slaves who could put the elite of any other house to shame with their dress and manners, even when that lord was an eccentric recluse whose servants and slaves were rarely if ever seen. The slave took the letters, among them one signed 'Velothi,' and returned the bow. The ferryman touched his broad flat hat.

"Have you any deliveries Muthsera?" He asked politely in a gravelly voice.

"Not today Sera, But my Master is expecting supplies from his brother soon, perhaps we will see then my friend." The Khajiit's Dunmeri was nearly perfect, altered only by the slight sibilance engendered by speaking through a mouth full of sharp teeth.

"Send my regards to your honored Master. Be well till then."

"I shall. Be well."

And off the letter went, tucked safely in a silken pocket as it wound its way around the bloated stalk, and into the knotted portal. Had it not been tucked away, or for that matter, had it been a sentient thing, it might have been awed and amazed at the sight that would have greeted it upon entering that strange tree, for inside the colors where as bright as the capped roof and the mottled walls were luminous, shimmering membranes stretched between elegantly curved vines as thick as a man's chest. The walls themselves throbbed with energy, life, and power, and the whole was lit with a humming glow that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once.

This was the servant's entrance.

Dar'Basha shook back his sleeves and murmured a well used incantation. His bracers were not actual slave bracers, that is, they did not hamper will or strength. In fact they did quite the opposite. They had their uses, but were ornamental for the most part and only a symbol of his station. He was free to have his will, and as seneschal and one of the few servants allowed access into the great lord's private chambers, he needed it. As it was, the only way to access said chambers was to levitate four stories up to it and into the roof of the great dome.

He floated demurely up past a myriad of splendid and amazing sights that would have your average imperial farm boy gaping in awe and landed lightly on the wood-like floor of his master's chambers. The room in which he stood was something like an empty round chamber with nothing but a great hole in the center and a series of circular doorways running round its perimeter. His sensitive ears caught voices and he followed the sound, knocking politely at the portal in question. He heard a heavy sigh and winced.

"One moment." The Khajiit relaxed, if it had been a bad time, the response would not have been so polite. This was merely a mild annoyance, which was merely standard.

"Come."

Dar'Basha entered and bowed. The scents of machinery, alchemicals, and Akaviri cherry blossom tea mixed strangely in the air and made his nose twitch.

"Honoured Master. Madam."

The room was one of the tower's work rooms, or rather one of the master's work rooms. On a bench against the far wall were a range of little metal bits and pieces and part of what looked like the remains of a Dwemer centurion sphere along with a good number of apparatus which looked better left untouched.

Like many of the more reclusive Telvanni, he was something of an experimentalist when it came to the esoteric arts. He was also renowned as a very clever artificer, and a leading figure in cutting edge arcane technique. This fact gave his small but select staff a great deal of pride and, necessarily, a great deal of nervous apprehension. Now and then experiments, particularly of the 'leading edge' variety, were known to get out of hand, and more than one curious sorcerer had met their end the hard, and often explosive, way.

The master stood rigidly in the center of the room and nodded in acknowledgment. He was a tall, lithe Mer with hard narrow features. His skin was a light silvery grey and his hair stood in short gold and auburn spikes, a testament to his mixed merish heritage. The style would have been almost youthful if not for the heavy grey that had begun to permeate it. So, instead, it combined with his hard gaze and often intense silence to give him the somewhat off putting appearance of being slightly mad. The effect was bolstered by an unusual web like tattoo which dominated the left side of his face and neck from hairline down to the collar of his exquisite teal robes. A select few knew just how far down it continued. No one but he knew what it was for.

Madam, for her part, was not the mistress of the house, but a favored guest, and, Dar'Basha knew, one of the 'select few.'

She was sitting demurely by the work table lifting a cup of tea to her red, heart shaped lips which were set very charmingly in an elegantly pale heart shaped face, which in turn was framed with carefully arranged glossy chestnut curls. Over the delicate cup two smiling green eyes shone out towards the Khajiit as he handed over the packet of letters, and she wriggled the fingers of her free hand in greeting.

"There aren't any incendiary spells this time I hope?" She called lightly from across the room. The Seneschal bowed deeply to her when the Master had turned away, flipping lightly through the pile.

"I am afraid, Muthsera, I could not detect anything, but then my skills are only passing fair."

"Oh don't be so modest Bash, you did catch that last one. Besides, I'll personally attest to how very skilled you can be." Her lips curved into a slightly wicked smile.

Dar'Basha glanced to be sure the master was still turned away, then gave the woman a sly grin in return.