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 Post subject: Naylura, The Hex Scribe
PostPosted: Fri Feb 15, 2019 8:06 pm  
Joined: Fri Feb 14, 2014 5:02 am
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The Hex Scribe

She sat, cloak raised, in the dusty hovel of an inn. The food was barely edible and the drink might as well have been warm piss. She never wasted a thought wondering how the illiterate peons lived in such a way. The answer was obvious to her. It would be like asking why does one breath or why is water wet. Completely disinterested in her so called dinner, the cloaked woman sat cross legged with book in hand. Her free hand leisurely traced the grooves in the wood table as she read ignoring the hard looks from the inn’s patrons. Did she notice the suspicious eyes and lower muttering all around her? Perhaps, but in the same way a lion notices the passing of ants.
Her brows furrowed as she turned a page. Her finger unconsciously returned to its previous position and went back to tracing the table. This book was a frustrating undertaking. One of the thousands she combed through in hopes that it held the secrets for which she searched...for which she needed. However, it seemed that this tome would be much like the rest, disappointing. She was about to turn another page when a sudden and violent thud came upon her table. She not jump nor did she gasp. She simple lowered the book enough so that she could see who or what had made gravest error of their existence.
Standing in the table, almost in defiance of her, was a gleaming dagger. Her eyes, bright and red, studied the three men who had come to her tabe. One, who was dressed in mail and had arms like the trunk of an oak, grabbed a stool and took a seat before the dagger. “You ain’t from around here.” The man said in a gruff voice giving a nod toward the weapon. “We ain’t keen havin’ yer kind stinkin’ up our tavern.” She lifted her free hand, turned the page, and allowed her finger to return to the table. Her eyes returned to her reading. “You deaf, witch?” the second man called from behind his larger friend. “You and this table are about to have somethin’ in common if you don’t get yerself out of our tavern.” The third added with a tone that was hungry for confrontation. However, the cloaked woman was not one for confrontation. The drama was lost on her and she had no interest or time for the wagging tongues of men.
“Damn ink skins are worse than tieflings,” the second man muttered to the third while eying the woman with disdain. By this point she came to the realization that these men were not going to allow her to finish her reading. The drow woman sighed and clapped her book shut. “That’s right...now get,” the first man spat while throwing a pointed finger toward the tavern door. Yet, the woman did not move. “You deaf, witch?” the second man repeated. The third man’s smile withdrew as he noticed something. “Hey, look fellas. She’s nervous,” he said pointing to her fidgeting finger on the table. “You sacred, ink skin? Just go and no one has to get hurt.” The first man said firmly. Her tracing finger suddenly stopped. She spread her fingers and rested an open palm where she had been tracing. Here eyes flashed, a symbol shone on the table, and in the next moment everyone in tavern fell...writing in pain. Tears ran down choking hands as men clawed at the invisible bindings around their necks.
She stood and tucked the book under her arm. She stepped over the dying men paying them no attention. She was about to exit when she heard something that actually peaked her interest. “You...ink...skin...whore…” the labored words gurgled out by the first man paused her advance. She turned and observed that he was not choking to death like others, not just yet at least. She could see the pain melded with hate stirring in the dying man’s eyes. Now that was worth her valuable time. She strolled casually back toward the table all the while watching the man and his writhing hatred. “I see,” the cloaked woman clucked to herself with satisfaction. She liberated the dagger from the table and gave it a look look over. It would do. She made her way back to the man and knelt down. She placed her book on the floor and lifted the man’s chin to get a better look at his eyes. Yes, it was there, she concluded. “What...what...the...hell...are...you…” she knew the man’s words were not a question. They were more of a demand of the universe to explain how such a fate could fall upon him. “That is a difficult question to answer,” she mused mostly to herself. “To you, however, what I am is simple,” she could sense it, the twisting agony and hate of the man was nearly tangible. “To you I am Naylura, the Hex Scribe...and you will make fine ink,” The dagger slowly dragged across the man’s throat spilling fresh wet blood across the inn’ wooden floor.
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