Satet-ka

A searing breeze wafted through the outlaw camp whipping up the Necromancer’s ice blond hair.  Neverlin sat on the jagged lip of an old well dabbing perspiration from his forehead with a fine silk cloth.  Stealing a glance down the deep hole, he noted the slightest hint of bubbling on the surface of the water. 

“Well, what is the cause magician?” Satet-ka inquired in tone more contemptuous than curious.  Without answering, Neverlin withdrew his attention from the fetid water and examined the circular ridge of the well.  Tainted water had plagued the surrounding villages in Keshetta for a few weeks now.  Hundreds had perished and thousands sick with fever.  The High Priest summoned Neverlin ostensibly for assistance in solving the riddle of the poisoned water supply.  Nevertheless, Neverlin knew him well.

Satet-ka's wishes were seldom one dimensional.

She stretched her legs out and the setting sun reflected off the smooth skin. The waters splashed gently against the stone walls of the docks, the shouts of the trader's were dying out.

She didn't even feel like making the journey back to Sepermeru. The tiredness was all-consuming. And why? Surely not because of that small journey to tackle another frost-covered ape. No it was something else.

The priestess took out a leather bound book from her bag, an ink bottle and a quill. She put an inkbottle right there next to herself, not disturbed by any as she was sitting so close to the water. Her eyes grew thoughtful, thinking, trying to sort out what has happened. She finally dipped her quill and started writing..

Excerpts:

(Continued from WAR: Neverlin's Terms.  http://aoc.rp-haven.com/story/neverlin/war_neverlin039_s_terms)

Neverlin paid no attention to the warm blood threatening to spill over the tops of his fashionable single-strap sandals.

 Instead, the Necromancer devoted his focus on the heavy leather tome he clutched in both hands.  Immersing himself in the monotonous text, he scrutinized every word, silently searching for a single name.  Torches lining the stone walls of the Mitran temple sputtered in protest as a gust of wind swept through the cold chamber.  The shift in light momentarily illuminated a corpse sprawled face down before him on the white marble steps.  Her visage was a mask of desperation; her stiff hands still clinging to Neverlin’s calf.  As the evening wore on, the dead Mitran Priestess’s brilliant azure robe slowly turned a shade of dark plum as a currant of blood seeped from the slash across her throat. 

The blonde woman angrily swept the mugs off the table, not caring if they were half-full.  She was sitting in the Green Man tavern, on a break from Stygia.   Her hands shook, and she reached down and picked up the note she had written, a note apologizing to everyone for taking her own life. 

She scrunched it up.  Fortunately, Caradoc had noticed the knife she was playing with and had taken it off her, and she had no way to carry through on her note.  She put her head in both hands, and let silent tears roll down her face. 

The woman had begun to identify with those she tried to help.  Now at rock bottom, she felt alone. 

The four figures stood on the concourse to the inner gate in Fort Invicta. The dark haired Cimmerian glowering at the his red haired kinsman and the blonde Aquilonian, while another Aquilonian, a finely garbed young woman,  stood watching with a mixture of hope and concern.

“You two will make peace!”