The Tattooed Woman Pt. 40

All the best to those following this story. Welcome to Spring! The time of Imbolc, and the Goddess Brigid. Happy feasting to one and all.

Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 40: A Child of the Old Gods.

With a tearing snarl of sheer venomous rage, the Dragon lashed out! Lunging forward, eyes blazing, his arm whipped round in a deadly blur. The sound of his striking fist was like a harsh crack of thunder, and the impact shook the air as the woman's head was snapped to one side. His heart burned; his wrath was unchecked, and every part of him wanted nothing more than to wreak catastrophic ruin upon this thing.

His brother might be all but gone, but he himself was stronger now by far. His Master had healed and hardened his ruined body with brute magic, strengthening his limbs, adding to the sheer power of his fire, toughening his scales beyond all reckoning. He had consumed the beating heart of one of his own kin, and though he could still hear her screams, he felt her power in his very bones! And so, he struck his foe with unbridled fury, rightly confident of victory.

When last they fought, he and his brother Typhonus had near enough been her match. Even so, the battle had been brutal and vicious, with no quarter asked, or given, and bloody ruinous wounds were inflicted aplenty upon the combatants.

But that was then. Adair had been miserable and weary. Heartsick with loss and ashamed by the unthinking vengeful excesses her fury had provoked. When her foes had come upon her, she was spent and done; standing forlorn in the vale before the mountain where she had lived, in the very place she had spoken her wedding troth. Her home had been despoiled, and was now nothing but haunted, cold and empty caverns, where once dragonfire and crystal had glowed. Lost in solitary gloom, she thought to crawl into the barrow she had erected over her murdered husband, and join him in that long sleep, never stirring, until the very world ended.

She had no desire for battle, and had fought out of habit, without frenzy or focus, uncaring wither she lived or died. And when, at the end, her burned and scorched body fell, it was not pain, or anguish, that she felt, but relief.

Aye, that was then. This was now.

Time heals all wounds they say, and now she was awake!

Demeritus stared with growing horror as her head swung back to him and he looked into those dark, dark eyes and saw that wicked, hungry smile.

Then she fell on him.

A blow struck his face with such force that bones shattered, and broken teeth erupted from his mouth in a bloody spray. Another impact caved in the ribs on one side, and claws of black diamond tore his flesh, hidden scales and all, like gory paper.

Gurgling in shock, he began the change, but, immediately, talons wrapped around his throat, and he was jerked forward like a rag doll; to find himself looking into eyes every bit as golden and serpentine as his own, and a voice, like some evil waft from a burning abattoir, whispered in his ear, "Oh no! Not so fast Demeritus. If you change, I change! Then we shall really see how well you fare, Dragon!"

Whimpering, he threw up an arm to shield his face, only to shriek in anguish as it was wrenched brutally aside, and the sound of snapping bones filled his ears.

Long fingers wrapped around his throat as he was inexorably borne to the ground and, despite his frantic struggles, the creature began to slowly, deliberately, throttle the very life from him. And all the while, over his choking and rasping, his desperate whimpers and hopeless gasps, all he could hear was her evil whispers, "Not yet, oh no, not yet..."

At the back of the tent, Quintus had all but soiled himself. In his time, he had been stalked by ravening Hellhounds, shot at by Drow, and exchanged sorcerous fire with a monstrous Dracolich, but never had he seen such a terrible, unearthly rage, such a display of sheer unbridled hatred and brutal strength. The Dragon had come looking for a Demon, but had found something far, far worse. She was of the Danu, a child of the Old Gods, and they were not forgiving! Her long hair whipped this way and that like a nest of demented serpents, livid tattoos coiled about her arms, and her eyes were aflame.

The stricken Dragon spat blood and gurgled as his bulging eyes began to roll back, "El...."

The wizard licked his lips, "I-I think he's trying to say something."

Fingers like coiled steel tightened all the more, sinking further into the creature's throat.

"Elle..."

"It sounds like he's trying to say, "Ellén."

Adair froze, paying no heed to the pathetic struggles of the creature beneath her, and for the longest moment Quintus thought she would just ignore him. Then, with a cry of raw frustration and rage, she released the thing she was ruthlessly murdering and threw herself backwards.

Demeritus rolled to his knees, desperately wheezing for breath, with blood and spittle dripping from his smashed mouth.

A ruthless hand coiled in his hair; his head was jerked up and the icy tip of a long black talon came to rest against his eye. Swallowing bile, he looked up into the face of Fury, "SPEAK!"

The voice was a crushed whisper, "H-he... has her!"

...

She had fled the destruction and ruin of Morrigan's Stone with the dying scream of the Great Red Dragon still ringing in her ears. Hurtling up into the stormswept sky, she had ignored the violent flash of lightning and the deafening roar of thunder to explode through roiling dark clouds. With wings beating almost as swiftly and desperately as her pounding heart, she had streaked through the sky, straining with every sinew, to escape the darkness she knew would be following.

Dragons were swift. In their day, they had ruled the skies, rightfully proud of their unchallenged might and majesty, and Ellén knew she was swifter than most. Even her mother, fair Shalidar, Mistress of the Southern Skies, was hard pressed to match her speed, and, with her smaller size, the young Dragon knew she was far nimbler.

But, as the clouds blackened around her and ice began to form on her wings, she knew there were older and darker things than Dragons abroad this night.

Frigid rain fell in sheets all about, and even with the fire of her Draconic blood burning in her veins, she shivered with cold. Her hot breath froze in a bitter mist, and she began to tire as the unearthly chill leeched the strength from her very bones.

Lightning crackled, and the icy talons of fear wrapped themselves around her heart as she saw the great shadow above her. Its mighty black wings folded as it dove at her like some colossal bird of prey.

Terror lent her speed and at the last instant, she veered aside. The massive shape roared past her, and, for a terrible moment, she caught a glimpse of a ragged, smoking crater on the side of its head; a deep angry pockmarked scar where a cadaverous eye should have been. With a scream, she peeled away and climbed towards the dark stormclouds, hoping to lose herself in their perilous embrace.

Howling winds buffeted her, thunder crashed all around and livid forks of lightning split the sky like the spear of some angry war god. Sleet lashed at her, and the terrible cold numbed her limbs but she grit her teeth against the pain and endured; for she knew that down there, somewhere below her, the one who hunted her was circling, like some monstrous shark lurking in the depths.

Currents tugged at her as she slid through the maelstrom, pulling her this way and that even as she tried to conceal herself in its violence.

Then a shadow loomed out of the murk. With a shriek, she desperately threw herself aside and it screamed past, missing her by so narrow a margin that she felt its fetid breath upon her scales. Sensing the fiend circling for another pass, she folded her wings and dove! And from the howling cry from behind her, and the growing shriek of the frozen air passing over its great wings, she knew it dove after her in relentless pursuit.

She was swift, but she was tiring, and slowly, inexorably, the monster closed the distance between them. Time and again, ebon claws reached for her, and time and again, she flitted aside by the barest margin, and, as she heard its cruel laughter being borne by the uncaring wind, she knew the fucking thing was playing with her.

Up ahead, she saw the very centre of the tempest; a massive swirling vortex of black cloud illuminated by livid flashes. Banking desperately, she hurled herself towards it, diving straight into its hungry maw, "Better the teeth of the storm, than the jaws that follow."

The screaming wind struck at her like a living thing, lashing at her, threatening to tear scale and wing from her body as it battered at this tiny trespasser that so arrogantly intruded upon its fury.

Folding her wings about her, she plummeted like a rock, only daring to open them at the last instant as the jagged peaks loomed up at her. Screaming through the air, she broke clear of the storm and hurtled across mountains, and the speed of her passage uprooted trees and set avalanches to rumbling in her wake.

The eye of the cyclone was shockingly quiet after the earsplitting clamour of the storm, and she had a moment to once again feel the warmth of the sun upon her wings. Then, with a rush, darkness descended on her. With a triumphant howl, vast wings folded about her like a vampire's black cape, and as helpless as any sparrow mercilessly snatched from the sky by an eagle, she was borne inexorably to the ground.

She struggled, but the crushing grip tightened about her, and in her ear came a hateful whisper, "Foolish child, your Queen might claim The Mist, but it is I who rules the storm."

...

Hildegard chuckled as Cassie pouted. It was so unlike the normally good-natured girl, but the display of childish sulking was so entirely normal that it simply delighted the woman. After all the madness, magic and violence that had encompassed their lives, it was good to see that the young woman she had known as "Little Cassie" was still in there.

The interior of the dress shop was a wonderful panoply of silk and samite. With gorgeous Elven gowns and shimmering shawls spun by faerie artisans. The Dark Elf matron who owned the establishment had bridled a little at first at being called to serve a human. But a single glance at the collar worn by Hildegard, and the emblem it bore, had immediately silenced her, and soon enough indentured attendants were serving them wine, as a pair of conjured sprites flitted about. The impish things giggled merrily as they deftly stripped the torn nightshirt from the complaining girl and set about measuring her. One glanced at the tattered old shawl the girl had draped across the arm of an ornate chez lounge and whimpered. The shawl, of course, kept its own counsel.

The seamstress had gathered up the torn remains of Cassies nightshirt, holding the offending garment at arm's length as though the rags somehow offended her greatly. With a disdainful sniff, she turned to Hildegard and enquired, "Shall I dispose of... this, for you Mistress?"

Cassie sputtered, "Oi! That's my good nightshirt! With a bit of thread and some time I can mend it."

The Dark Elf raised a brow, "Why bother?"

The little human blushed, "It's the only one I've got."

Shaking her head, the seamstress gave a sigh, "As you wish."

Muttering a few words of incantation, the Dark Elf flicked her hand at the torn cloth, and Cassie stared, goggle-eyed as the tears and rips mended themselves before her eyes.

After a moment, the woman nodded in satisfaction, "That should do it," and passed the nightshirt to a sprite for folding.

Cassie blinked in amazement, "Th-thank you, Mistress."

"'Tis a cantrip, nothing more, young human, now be still if you please, so that your measurements might be properly taken."

As the creatures fussed, Cassie turned to her friend, "Hildy, what are we going to do about Mistress Narissa?"

"What do you mean, girl, the collar and chains have been removed, have they not?"

"Aye. she gave her parole true enough, but she still won't leave the stupid dungeon!"

Garrow ruffled the girl's hair, "'Tis pride, lass, nothing more, I'd not fret. The Dark Eldar have ever been a prideful folk, and that one is as prideful as any, and more stubborn than most."

Holding up a formal stolas, Hildegard eyed it and measured its length against Cassie's slim form, "Aye, she's right enough," she chuckled, "why, I suspect if we turfed her out of the cell, she'd probably just beat up the guard to get back in!"

"That's daft."

"Oh yes? Well, I heard a tale of a young lass who wouldn't take off her manacles even though she had the key in her hand, and all just to spite a Drow."

Garrow's ears flicked at that, and her eyes flitted to the young woman.

Cassie snorted, "That was different!"

"Oh, how so?"

"Well... Drow."

Hildegard paused to eye the girl, and then cast a glance at Garrow. The Half-Orc raised a furrowed brow as she considered a moment and then shrugged, "Fair point."

"Gods! You're as bad as her!"

"Nope."

"And why not, may I ask."

Garrow grinned, "Because I'd have wrapped the manacles around his scrawny neck and strangled the bastard, then taken his blade and killed as many of the others as I could get my hands on."

"Murderous rogue."

"That's what you pay me for."

Obviously bored, and much to the disgust of the Dark Elven seamstress, the Half Orc lounged against the heavy frame of a tall mirror and began picking her nails with the tip of the razor-sharp dagger she had produced from... somewhere, "Gods! We've been at this all fucking morning. Just how long does it take to buy fancy knickers for a lass as small as her? You'd think we were fitting her for plate and mail."

Hildegard sniffed, "Matriarch Aventine said to get her suitable dress to "match her station" and you know what she's like," she lifted a brow and gave her bodyguard a mischievous grin as she waved at the many garments around her, "and don't you fancy some silk of your own? I'd wager Fergus would appreciate it."

"He can kiss my arse."

"I think that's the idea."

It was sometime later that the three women finally vacated the dressmaker's shop, and Hildegard was still laughing.

Stalking behind her, Garrow growled, "I only let you buy the fucking thing because you said I could choose a decent bar where we can wet our whistles properly and get some good vittles. I'm never going to wear it."

"And why not? Fergus would love it."

"I'd look ridiculous."

Cassie reached to take the woman's hand, so huge and hard compared to her own, and she smiled up at her, "I think you'd look pretty."

"Oh, don't you star-"

The Half Orc paused and gave a disgruntled snort, "Well, shit."

They were supposedly heading to a bar Garrow had once favoured, and walking along a lane between a small blacksmith's workshop and a barber surgeon's stall, when the Half Orc halted and scratched her ear, "Fuck."

Hildegard looked at her, "What's the matt-"

Garrow moved to the gnomish blacksmith working the forge and lifted a hammer from the anvil. The sweat-stained gnome looked at her in surprise and she gave him a broad wink, "Cheers, mate. Just borrowing it."

As she did, a cloaked Dark Elf and three leather-clad ruffians stepped out in front of them, weapons drawn and leering.

Hildegard gasped, and taking hold of Cassie, took a step back. Garrow snorted, "I'd not bother, there's four more back the way we came and from the sound of their big flapping feet they're coming up behind us right quick."

The Dark Elf cast back the hood of her cloak and favoured them with a malicious smile, "Kill the bodyguard and the slave. You may despoil the human whore but keep her alive. She shall be our guest and serve as pointed lesson and hostage against the actions of the noble Captain Ashunara."

Garrow shook her head, "You done? Or do you fancy explaining your evil scheme a wee bit more?"

"Insolent slu-"

The hurled sledgehammer took the woman full in the face and sent her flying backwards in a welter of gore and smashed bone.

Eyeing the still-twitching corpse, the Half Orc snorted, "Idiot."

The three ruffians stared at their dead employer and looked round in horror as the ex-gladiator drew her sword in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other and charged!

They were hardened killers all, well suited for murder and mayhem, but the sight of a blood-crazed Half-Orc coming straight at them was more than just a little sobering. The nearest was a balding intemperate thug with a ragged scar marring his face. He was armed with a heavy mace, but he never got the chance to use it, as Garrow gave a bloodcurdling snarl and ripped her blade across his throat before he even raised the thing. He crumpled in a hot spray of blood, and she laughed.

The second swung his falchion at her but she ducked beneath the blow and slammed her shoulder into him. He staggered back and looked down, seemingly surprised by the hilt of the dagger protruding from his gut. He looked up just in time for her to rip the blade upwards, opening him up like a gutted fish.

The third lunged, slamming his blade into the woman. Garrow grunted and twisted her body so the mail under her coat took most of the blow. Moving close, she spat blood in the man's face and her head whipped forward in a vicious headbutt that flattened his nose with a sickening crunch. He grunted in blinding pain and then screamed as one hand grabbed him by the balls and another wrapped around his throat, and he felt himself lifted bodily into the air.

The four cutthroats charging up the lane paused as they were met by the sight of a giant bloodstained Half-Orc woman hurling a flailing body at them.

One ducked under the flying ruffian, and two others threw themse lves to one side, but the last was too slow and they both went down in a tangle of limbs.

Garrow grabbed the first man and slammed her blade right into his neck, killing him instantly. Another of the men stabbed at her and she grunted before backhanding him with enough force to stagger him. He raised his blade again but was far too slow, as a fist like a mallet smashed his jaw to shards and he crumpled.

The third man ran up intent on stabbing the monstrous woman as she pulled her sword free, but he stopped as Hildegard stepped up behind him and slammed her ladies' blade into his back. He grunted and turned on her, slashing out, and she staggered back with blood seeping from her ripped bodice.

With a snarl, he advanced on the stricken woman, blade extended, but his look of fury turned to one of bloody horror as Garrow reached round from behind and ripped his throat out with her bare hands.

The last of them had disentangled himself from the corpse lying atop him and would have risen had Cassie not given a wild shriek and leapt upon him, grabbing his lank hair in both hands and furiously bashing his head against the cobblestones. Seeing stars and tasting blood he lashed out blindly, hurling the slightly built girl aside, "Fucking bitch!"

Snatching up his dirk, he rolled to his knees and tried to stand, only for a heavy boot to come down on his back and send him sprawling face down on the hard stones with a grunt of pain. He rolled and looking up, his already sallow face paled.

Garrow looked at the hilt of the knife sticking from her side and sniffed before turning her bloody gaze back to the would-be murderer and her lips parted, "Fucking pricks."

The man's scream ended in a crunch of bone as she brought her boot down on his face. She stamped twice more for good measure and spat on the corpse before looking about.

Cassie was helping Hildegard to stand, and she could see the woman was bleeding from a cut across her body, "She okay?"