Sivian's Story: Final Part - One Last Meal

  • Prince

    Jared had only heard the staccato screams of his men below, incomprehensible words about the blood drinker. He darted from bags filled with treasure to his sword, using the ornate jeweled sword as a comfort between shoving items in a sack. Thumping was heard down the long hall, had they gotten there so quickly. He tossed his bags from his balcony and they landed with a loud clang

    Oh God she's here! Run Lord! he heard form outside of his door, he hadn’t even made it to the edge of the balcony when he heard his men die outside of his door. The sound was not graceful and faded as quickly as it had come.

    He was frozen at the stone railing of the balcony. His mind roared at him to descend down the rope tied to rail.

    Weakling all of them, guards ran to face them, inflated by some sense of self that did not reflect their actual ability. Sivian had barely raised a weapon, her squire moved like a dervish through them, angered by her Mistress’ captivity. Sivian swelled with pride she could never tell the squire, she would be a knight soon enough and the displays of swordsmanship and ferocity was testament to it.

    The fleeing men led the way, retreating back to a master she knew was deserting them.

    The final doorway. The language didn’t matter, fear sounded the same from everyone. They should have died with more dignity.

    She put her hand on the door latch and pulled it down and pushed it open.

    The door parted with a familiar creak, something so ubiquitous to his room, took on an overtone he would never forget. There would never be a creaking door that did not remind him of this feeling.

    In she stepped, covered in drying blood that stained the cloth wraps around her. He had known she was a warrior, and kept her weak for it but weakened all that changed was he could see every muscle in her body pulse and coil with every step she took towards him.

    She spoke, a slow harsh language with long vowels. He didn’t understand a word but the intent was only murder.

    He looked away intent to fling himself over the balcony, but that was too slow his lapse in focus on her the window she needed, he was already over the edge when she grabbed him by the back of the tunic. The seams held and he cursed as he sailed back into the room. He hit the polished stone floor and slid, coming to a stop only because he made contact with the slick black greaves of a thinner woman who stared down at him with wild eyes. If the Blood Drinker was terrifying in presence alone, this woman was the devil’s true visage.

    He scrambled at got to his hands and knees looking to the blood drinker. “Please, I have wealth. Just...just spare me. You can have it, I will tell the garrison to stand down, just spare me. You can have everything...everyone.”

    Watching him grovel made her sick.

    “Lady Vansen, do me the honor of avenging you. This man is not worth the stroke from you.” Her squire spoke but the words fell on deaf ears. She held up a hand to silence the younger woman.

    She walked up to the slaver lord and squatted down in front of him. “I wish you understood me. I wish you knew that should we ever encounter your people...we will kill them. If you spit on us again...we shall massacre you, make it so generations will fear even speaking our name as if to summon us from the darkness.”


    The sound of horns took her attention, the ships were loaded only the vanguard was left. She could not dally.

    The horns, her eyes darted. If he would die he would take her too. He pushed off his knees and feet and bowled her over and his hands found her neck and he squeezed as hard as he could muster. His eyes were so wide the whites could be seen at the top and bottom of the iris.

    “I will kill you devil bitch!”

    He never even noticed that the guard didn’t even move, no one even flinched.

    She gurgled and her eyes rolled backwards-

    Then she laughed.

    A smile spread across her face and she stared him hard in his eyes. The savage rage on his features turned to fear, the inevitability of it all washed over him.

    Sivian grasped his wrists and the pop and twist made his hands go limp around her neck instantly. She pushed him off her and got to her feet. He tried to push himself up on his hands but the bones were shattered and he could support no weight. She laughed again and walked over to him and grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up to standing. She had no more words for him. She pulled him close his scent was a mixture of sweat and perfume and piss.

    There was no feeling at first, then a warming pain that he could not put a word to. He could feel the warmth of his body pulse in and out and with each pulse in his limbs grew colder, as if she was draining his very soul from him.

    She breathed him in with each mouthful until he could barely feel his eyes open. There was no more pain though. This death was almost peaceful.

    He crumpled to the floor. His limbs didn’t respond to him anymore.

    He could see them at the door. Tears rolled down his face as the door creaked open again and they all left save for the black armored thin woman. The Blood drinker patted this woman on the shoulder and she too left the room he was alone with this woman now. Was she to be his final executioner?

    The seas roiled below them, but she could care less. She held firmly at the front of the ship watching the horizon sprawl out in front of them.

    Sivian’s squire showed up next to her and held on as the ship pitched hard forward.

    “I hope they disregard the message M’lady.”

    Sivian looked to her and her face was somewhat pained. Perhaps her squire wasn’t ready yet, perhaps she was only fury and no reason.

    “I hope they heed it. War is not something to wish for…”

    “Yes M’Lady I am sorry.” The squire said. “The other Sir’s wish to dine if you are ready.”

    “Thank you squire. I will be there in a moment.”

    “No one is missing, few wounded, many dead. We are trying to identify who has fallen as we speak My Lord.” The Page cleared his throat and reached to touch the door infront of them but the lord stopped him.
    “I haven’t gone in yet. I am-” he looked over his shoulder. “-fearful of what I may find.” he pointed down. Congealed blood oozed from under the door.

    “Then I shall My Lord.” He pushed the door open and the squelch of the blood being peeled up from the floor and the thickness of it being backed up against the sweeping door heralded the smell of death.

    Who knew there was even so much blood left within him to paint the room so. Jared was merely rice in a sack he had been trodden so. One might have expected him to be crushed under a stone not by men. Painted about the room were symbols they had never seen before, on every flat surface even the ceiling there was script painted in the slain lords own fluids.

    “Heathen monsters.” The lord said.

    His attendant vomited.

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