Kinky adventurers Ch. 01: Pt. 01-04

"Kit? What's going on?" Ilya asked, mouth half full of pastry.

Now it was Kit's turn to look back at her friend and be greeted by a surprising sight. In one quick motion, the street cart vendor had done two things. First, he had grabbed Ilya's thick, shoulder length mane of light blue hair with one hand and pulled her head back, exposing her neck. Second, he had brought a nasty looking knife to her throat.

"Back away, Amazon," he said to Kit, his voice suddenly low, frightened, and nasty. Every shred of the jovial sweets vendor was gone. "Leave the bag and back away and nothing bad will happen to your little friend."

Kit's stomach dropped into an endless, dark well.

Sb: Can I do anything here?

I: Make a wisdom saving throw, Seb

Sb: Oh boy, my favorite. Umm, 9?

I: You're temporarily paralyzed with fear. This guy caught you completely off guard and that blade feels awfully real against the soft skin of your throat.

Sb: Shit. Sorry, Em.

The look of helpless terror on Ilya's face froze Kit as well. She could feel her assailants getting to their feet behind her, but didn't dare move herself.

Oh, Sixto is going to kill me for this, Kit thought as, for the second time in less than a week, Kit put her hands up and slowly started backing away from the scene.

Sb: Question, DM.

I: Yeah?

Sb: Does this trigger any of the trauma from Ilya's backstory?

Si: Whaaat? Backstory character reveal? No way!

I: Hmm, yeah, I think it would. Normally, I'd make you roll for it, but with the fortune telling fresh on her mind and the 9 you just rolled on that last wisdom save, I'd say go ahead and act as if this is all really triggering.

Kit took one, two, three slow steps backward. She noticed the other market visitors had backed away and were giving the five of them a wide berth. Sensing victory, the sweets vendor jerked back viciously on Ilya's hair. For Ilya, it was a bridge too far. The initial shock of finding herself with a knife to her throat was gone, and while she still felt the imminent threat of the blade, another, deeper feeling welled up inside her.

Somewhere, beneath layers of repressed memory and buried hurt, Ilya remembered her hair being pulled. By someone who hurt her. Someone who scared her. Someone who hurt her brother. Someone she loathed and feared with all her being.

"Stop HURTING ME!!" Ilya screamed. She reached back with both hands and clutched her assailant's head between them. As she did, the river of energy inside her raged into a furious torrent. She didn't even utter an arcane phrase, the key word 'hurt' being all she needed. A sudden blast of necrotic energy leapt from her fingertips into the man's skull, searing him with psychic pain and burning his flesh wherever her hands touched his face. He screamed out in agony, eyes rolling back into their sockets. The knife clattered to the cobblestones as the man's limbs shook and spasmed as if wave after wave of terrible pain were rippling through his body.

Kit's two attackers froze in horror, midway through getting to their feet, the backpack forgotten. Ilya was still clutching the sweets vendor, screaming, her face contorted in fury.

"Ilya!" Kit called out. At the sound of her friend's voice, Ilya's eyes focused on Kit and the present moment. She let go of her assailant, who crumpled to the ground behind the stall, and brought her hands in front of her again. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from them, but they were entirely unharmed.

It was as she stepped toward Ilya that Kit noticed the figure to her left, a raised crossbow in his arms trained on Ilya.

"Put the crossbow down," Kit said quietly, a rare, deadly intent in her voice. Kit was a good read of people, and she could tell this henchman was panicking. At this close range (he stood perhaps 15 feet away), Kit could see the wide eyes, the trembling of sweaty hands on the trigger.

"This fight is over," Kit repeated. "No one else needs to get hurt."

But the henchman wasn't looking at Kit. His eyes were trained on Ilya, his panicked breathing the result not of Kit's deft brawling, but of Ilya's unnatural powers. The smoke was still rising from Ilya's hands and the smell of burning flesh now mingled with that of baked cinnamon.

Kit felt the moment he decided to shoot. The tensing of muscles, perhaps, or a sudden, subtle shift in facial expression. Kit wasn't sure how she knew, she just knew. And she wasn't about to let it happen. In a single, fluid movement Kit drew the knife from her belt and threw.

It struck the man square in the forehead an instant before the crossbow went off. He sank backward to the cobblestones as the bolt flew harmlessly overhead, colliding loudly with the side of a nearby building.

For a few moments of silence, nothing could be heard. The market goers stood frozen in place.

Then the sound of footsteps running on pavement rang out as the original two attackers turned tail and ran. Then the hubbub of voices returned as bystanders also fled the scene.

Picking up her bag, Kit grabbed Ilya--still in shock--by the forearm and ducked down an alleyway. "We gotta get out of here," she said in a low voice. "We can talk later."

*********************************

Sixto managed against the odds to stumble back to the Hearthstone. After that many consecutive days spent with company--no offense to Ilya, Kit, and Ash--he was desperate to get away and be by himself. Well, not by himself exactly. He went to one of his favorite bars where there were plenty of people, he just didn't know any of them personally and they didn't know him. Sixto enjoyed sharing a space with others without having to engage directly with any of them. Just knowing they were there, minding their own business gave Sixto a comfortable, easy feeling. It sure was better than drinking alone and, in his opinion, also beat having to spend the evening pretending to hold a conversation.

Once he was good and drunk, Sixto made his way to an establishment he knew where he could procure the services and companionship of a certain lady he liked. He never stayed the night when he visited, but he brought street food and a bottle of bourbon--her favorite--and they had a good time. He left a few extra coins on the pile of her clothes, slipped out after she fell asleep, and tried his best to make it to the Hearthstone. To his surprise, he made it.

Before he could even find the innkeep to ask for a room, however, he caught sight of Ash sitting at a table in the corner. She didn't move or even make a sign that she recognized him, but Sixto immediately knew he wasn't going to be able to crash into an anonymous bed in an anonymous room and not have to worry about anything until morning.

Heaving a huge sigh, Six made his way slowly across the room to where the black and white tiefling sat waiting for him.

Si: Am I managing to hide how drunk I am?

I: Make a deception or performance check, your choice. Yuna, make an insight check.

Y: You got it! Hmm... [rolls], Wow! 23!

Si: Not great. 6.

I: Yeah, it's pretty obvious you're sloshed. And Ashara wasn't exactly born yesterday.

Y: No. She. Wasn't.

"You really let yourself go," Ash said appraisingly.

"Shut up. Tonight was my night off."

"Night off? From what, exactly?"

"From you all," came the retort. "But it seems I can't even get one godsforsaken evening without you lot ruining it."

"You can save your recriminations for later." Ash glanced quickly around the common room. Other than the young attendant at the bar, there was no one else awake. A fire burned low in the hearth and a few candles burned in brackets near the door and by the bar. The low orange light cast Ash's striking features in a conspiratorial tone. Satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, she spoke in a low voice, "Someone attacked Ilya and Kit."

Six's brow immediately furrowed in concern and surprise. He struggled to think through the haze of alcohol swirling around his brain. "Here? In the city? In broad daylight?"

"Well, it was technically past sundown when it happened, but yes. Here in the city. In the middle of the night market."

Sixto stared ahead, trying to compute.

"Let's not talk about it here," Ash suggested. "Kit got a room and is lying low there with Ilya. She's pretty shaken up."

"Who, Kit?"

Ash gave Sixto an incredulous look. "No, you dolt. Ilya. Even getting enslaved by bullywugs barely rattled Kit." Sixto thought about it a second, images of Kit tied up naked floating across his mind. They were nice. He nodded his head, conceding the point.

E: I bet they were.

Si: Mmhmm. They were.

Ash got up from her seat at the corner table. "Come on, let's go.

Sixto wearily followed Ash out of the common room, up the rear staircase to the second floor, and down one wing of the inn. All the while, he kept turning what Ash had told him over and over in his mind. Why would anyone attack Kit and Ilya? Were they after the box? Who were they? What was in the box that could make such a tempting target?

Inside the room Ash led him to, Kit stood against the wall by the window, arms folded across her chest. Despite the late hour and the fact that they were in their room in an inn, Kit still wore her leather armor and her sword was still buckled to her belt. She looked up as Ashara and Sixto walked in, a somber expression on her face.

On the bed sat Ilya. She sat with her back against the headboard, her knees drawn up under her chin with her arms wrapped around her legs. She stared straight ahead, blankly. She didn't move as Sixto walked in.

That's not good, Sixto thought.

Kit recounted the encounter, efficiently and succinctly. Six's eyes widened as Kit narrated the part where Ilya cooked a man's head with her bare hands. He grimaced when she informed him that she had put a knife in the face of a man who was almost certainly involved with the syndicate.

"That's bad news, Kit," he said ominously. "You've started making enemies of the wrong people."

"I'm pretty sure I didn't make enemies of them. I'm pretty fucking sure they made enemies of us."

"Doubtless," Sixto replied. "But as far as they're concerned, all that matters is that you killed one of their people. They're not going to forget it."

A pause ensued. Kit looked from Sixto to Ilya, her gaze lingering on her friend. Kit's expression softened as she spoke. "So we're marked individuals, then, Ilya and I."

"I'm afraid so," Six confirmed. Neither Kit nor Ash questioned Sixto's authority to speak on the matter, nor did they ask him how he knew any of this. For both of them, it just sort of made sense that he would know, and they left it at that.

Y: Ooo! More juicy backstory reveals!

Si: Oh, you clowns have no clue. Not a clue.

Another long, quiet moment descended.

"So we lie low for a while," Kit said, finally breaking the silence. "Then Ilya and I get the hells out of Tristanfell. In the meantime, you and Ashara can finish the job, deliver the box to our contact and collect our pay. They don't necessarily know about the two of you. You can do whatever you want at that point."

"That's not a half bad idea," Ash chimed in. "They might not know that we're together, and in any case delivering the goods tomorrow early should be easy and quick. Unless they know where we are now, they're going to have a hard time stopping us before we reach the clothier's guild."

"Unless they know where we have to deliver the box," Sixto countered. "In which case going there will mean walking straight into an ambush."

"Possibly," Ash replied quietly. "Do you have an alternative plan?"

Sixto was quiet for a time. "No," he said finally, heaving a heavy sigh. "I don't. I'm not about to waste the last two weeks of effort for nothing. And I hate being pushed around. Besides," he continued, "running away with the box in tow will only invite further trouble. And I sure don't plan on just handing it over to the first person who asks."

"I didn't feel like handing it over earlier this evening, either," Kit concurred. "But refusing cost me." Her gaze again drifted to Ilya, who was now slowly rocking herself back and forth, her legs pinned to her chest by her arms. "It cost Ilya, too."

"I have a feeling it's going to cost us even more before this is over," Sixto muttered darkly. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

*********************************

"So, tell me again how you failed."

A woman-- long, dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin--leaned against the graceful, oval arc of the stone balustrade. It was late evening and the warm summer air smelled of jasmine, which grew out of a dozen large pots all along the convex balcony. Two stories down, a fountain splashed playfully in a rear, walled courtyard sumptuously endowed with flowers, bushes, and trees. The lights of Tristanfell made the sky glow the faintest orange, but in the cloudless sky stars were still clearly visible.

The woman--in her early thirties, maybe--cut a striking figure as she gazed up at the stars. She wore a long, open coat made of black linen over slim, leather breeches and a midnight blue silk tunic with a v-neck that teased her cleavage. It was obvious she was not wearing a bra. Her eyes were on the stars, but her mind was otherwise occupied, and she failed to notice their exquisite beauty.

"And this time, give me all the details. I don't want excuses, blaming, or coverups. And don't gloss over anything, either. I want the full story. Deciding who is to be punished for this failure is my prerogative and mine alone." Her voice was quiet and had a condescending drawl to it, but the sinister implications were impossible to miss. Three individuals stood in front of her, looking distinctly uncomfortable, if not downright fearful. The man on the left with a tall, brown mohawk and mullet and a young, pale face swallowed hard and looked down at the marble floor of the balcony. The man on the right had short, black hair, tan skin, and a handsome face marred by dark purple burns marking both cheeks. The burns extended past his face, burning long fingers into his hair. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and said nothing.

Then the woman in the center--a lithe, wiry half-elf with lavender skin who wore her hair in a cascade of dark braids down her back--began at the top and, with occasional and mostly unhelpful contributions from the man with the mullet, recounted their failure to procure the item their boss had tasked them with retrieving. She omitted no details she could remember. Throughout the recounting, the man with the burns stayed silent.

"Most interesting," the woman commented, swirling the details of the encounter in her mind like rich wine in a glass. "Tell me more about the girl, the younger of the two," she said, her interest piqued.

"She's a witch!" The mohawk shouted, as if this were crucial information he felt obligated to share. The woman with the braids backhanded him sharply on the side of his head. He fell momentarily silent, his boss watching him blandly. "What?" he grumbled quietly. "She is."

The cold eyes of the questioner turned back to the half elf. She said nothing but the request for clarification was clear.

"She is a magic user, boss," she said. "That much we know. Like I said, she did that to Demetrius," indicating the man on her left with a sideways tilt of her head. "How she did it, we're not quite sure." After a pause, she added, "If you ask me, boss, she didn't seem to be in full control of what she was doing. A little bit like a loose canon, maybe."

"Hmmm." The trio's boss considered this a moment. "And how young is she?"

The woman with the braids thought for a moment. "I'm not totally sure, boss. Maybe 20 years?"

"Years don't concern me as much as maturity. Does she seem world-wise? Naive? Innocent?"

"We followed them for a while, boss," the half elf offered. She seemed rather trusting and curious, like a big city was all new to her. She trusted Demetrius instantly."

"I'd say she's pretty naive, the way she dresses," the mohawk muttered. The half elf backhanded him again without even bothering to look over at him.

"Oh?" The boss' eyebrows shot up. "Now you've piqued my interest. Tell me more, Lombardo."

Now that he had the boss' attention, Lombardo wasn't so sure he wanted it. Desperate to offer useful information to make up for his failure, he found himself quailing under the deadly woman's observation. Shifting from one foot to the other and looking at the ground, he started to ramble. "Well, she was wearing this skirt sort of low on her hips, and it only came halfway to her knees. And then she had nothing on above it except this leather bra sort of thing that wasn't laced up all the way, if you get my drift. So there was nothing covering her body down to her hips, and her legs were all bare, too, and if she don't know that makes her look easy then she's pretty naive if you're asking me, boss..."

"Lombardo," the boss interrupted. The mohawked man looked up to meet her gaze. "Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you." Lombardo froze, his heart sinking but unable to look away. "What a woman decides to wear is her own gods-damned business. Your frustration at finding her attractive but being unable to have her is your problem, not hers." She let her words hang in the air for several uncomfortable seconds before continuing. "But thank you for the details. I'm now thoroughly turned on myself."

All three of the trio looked at her, but didn't dare speak.

"And if she's as new to the city as you say, she may prove useful. It's time we try a new approach to recovering that box."

*********************************

Sixto couldn't help glancing this way and that as he and Ashara made their way early the next morning to the clothier's guild. He had barely caught a few hours' sleep alone in his room before Ash had woken him. The guilds opened notoriously early ('the early bird gets the worm' and all that rubbish) and after the attack on Kit and Ilya the previous night everyone was eager to get the package delivered as soon as possible.

Hoping that the syndicate wouldn't be on the lookout for them, Sixto and Ash had left Kit and Ilya at the Hearthstone and headed out by themselves. It was a beautiful morning, a fleeting, cool freshness still lingering.

That will be gone in a couple of hours, Six groused. He didn't like the heat and wasn't looking forward to another scorching summer day in the Sunshine Coast. Sixto noted to himself with no small amount of pride that even when transporting a mysterious package that the syndicate was willing to kill to get its hands on he was still capable of grumbling and complaining.

If there's one thing in life I can rely on, it's my miserable pessimism, he thought cheerfully.

Another thing cheered him up: the seriousness of the situation seemed to have wiped the unflappable smugness from Ash's face. Instead, her face looked blank and expressionless. She didn't seem to be nervously examining her surroundings for possible threats the way Six was, but she wasn't observing the world as if life was a sardonic joke that only she appreciated.

I guess my grumpiness is more enduring than her sarcasm.

They passed through the market district in silence as the sun rose and the working people of Tristanfell got about their business. Mules pulled street carts into place, laborers loaded fruit and vegetables onto stalls, merchants unlocked the doors to their establishments, and the shitshovelers began their morning shifts.

Si: Do I notice anyone watching us, following us, or otherwise acting strange?

Y: Yeah, I'll jump in on this, too.

I: Go ahead and make perception checks for me.

Si: 12.

Y: 10.

The pair crossed the main market bridge--the one Kit and Ilya had crossed after visiting the fortune teller the night before--without incident. No one seemed to be following them, nor did Sixto notice curious glances in their direction. Well, more than you would expect when traveling with a tiefling wearing a white dress and black corset.