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"The Hunt Begins"Date: September 28, 2001 (Aether: December 26, 3908)  Fairway and Vicina - Haven It's a cold afternoon, as so many are these days, with summer forgotten and autumn an all too short memory. It keeps many from wandering the streets of Haven, with vendors retreated inside and few willing to pause on the street to converse with acquaintances. Those that are present huddle in cloaks, even the winged race, which produces noticeable humps beneath the wool covering. Though the coliseum nearby has been abandoned -- or at least, fallen into disuse -- in past months, there is one figure that takes a path suggesting she has just left the area. And it is a woman, blond hair pulled back into a braid. While her cloak bears a hood, it is down for the time being, though her hands are rising as though to pull it up once more. Cold though it may be, a trio of Praetorian guards show little disturbance by the weather. They stand in near one of the vending stalls, the owners of which are more than happy, perhaps too happy, to serve them. In the near vicinity of the group of men, there is no conversation, and the trickle of what few wanderers move on the street this afternoon, keep a wide berth around the group. Perhaps it is that halo of gold hair that draws the man's attention or her smell caught on the wind. Slowly, one of the guards swivels his head around to watch the lone woman's progress along the street. It is a handsome profile that follows her movements, but the eyes reflect an iciness that originates from more than the temperature of the air. His nostrils flare as if catching a scent. "Ave, Domina." One of the other guards calls out loudly. "You seem to be in a hurry this afternoon. Perhaps we might assist you?" Assistance with what, no one can say, but it seems somehow that the offer is not one necessarily of aid. Or to be refused. She is used to people calling her by that name and tone, though it has been some months since it was heard in such a manner. Amitrea turns, though, features already composed into a smile. "I am simply going home, Dominus, though your offer is gracious. Thank you." She inclines her head politely, but turns as though she will continue on her way. Her hands fall, apparently deciding there is no need to raise her hood again, having been noticed already. Closing in on the trio, three pairs of hungry eyes watch her. It is not till she has neared the group, that the ruin of the first soldier's face is noticed. The handsome features viewed initially melt across his far cheek into a terrible landscape of scar tissue. Somehow the eye on that ruined side has survived, but the ear is composed simply of a mangled lump of flesh, his hairline meandering and broken. While his companions seem not in the least bothered by his visage, it is at least now partially clear while the owners of the stall flit about like hummingbirds dancing in the open maw of a lion. "We. . . will see you home. . ." The scarred man's voice is just as horrible as his face, grating as metal across slate. "Safely." And before any response can be offered, the three men abandon their post and fall in beside her. "It is..." says Amitrea, voice grasped and squeezed by a sudden crush of fear that she desperately shoves down. "It is kind of you to offer," she finishes then, regaining some measure of composure. "I am sure it will be a very safe journey." She turns from the path she had begun, apparently intending to head toward the Rialto unless directed otherwise. Her lips twitch, the tip of her tongue moistening their dry surface, as though she would say more, but... there is little to say even if she could form a coherent sentence. And so the group moves in silence for a short distance. A woman with her three dogs marching along beside her. Any attention that is drawn, is fleeting. No one daring to ask questions, or look too long. She might imagine the warm breath of the men behind her, their eyes on her figure beneath the cloak. With the alpha on her left, the ruined side of his face is thankfully not visible. Though there is the sense that such an action was not done out of any courtesy for the woman's feelings. "We . . . have been waiting for you. . ." The Optio says, his voice little more then a grasping whisper. His sentences are punctuated with long pauses, throat laboring to form the words. "The Coliseum is. . . not a safe place. . to be." Amitrea breathes in, breathes out, and once again. "Waiting for me?" she asks softly, querulously. "The Coliseum is empty, Dominus. I merely went inside to look, as there have been no games since I arrived in Haven." Her shoulders hunch, making her smaller, or at least that is her intent. Approaching the Rialto, there are a few more people on the streets, though it is scant consolation. Her eyes lift -- more out of habit than anything -- to the Optio's face beside her. That too is scant consolation, finding the unmarred side of his face. In no hurry to respond to her words, they continue to walk, pressing through the path that opens before them. Scant few here raise their eyes to look at them. It is as if the entire group has been rendered invisible. Through the Rialto they move, pushing her forward. Leaving the marketplace behind, they turn up another street. While they appear to have been following faithfully along, it is in fact they who have been herding her, like a lamb, along the streets of Haven. "Exactly. . . why we have been waiting. . . domina. . . We care about. . . our citizens." No mention is made of this new direction of travel. As if everything is perfectly natural. As if, they've done this a hundred times before. "It is no place for. . . a woman to be exploring . . ." The more he speaks, the worse the quality of those words becomes. The proof scar tissue extends beneath surface appearances. He turns to look at her from the corner of his eyes. "Alone." "How fortunate that I am no longer so," murmurs the woman, eyes turning away from the harshness of voice and visage. Her eyes travel the surroundings quickly, trying to gain some idea of where she may be going, where they may be taking her. Hands clasp together, slip beneath the folds of the woolen wrap that surrounds her body. "I fear we've taken a wrong turn, D-Dominus. My home is the other way." The stammer, a hitch in her otherwise pleasant voice, is clear. A look at her face shows it pinched, drawn, or becoming so. Here now, into a section of the Quarter that is lined with the summer villas of visiting dignitaries. Ambassadors who have long returned to the gentle climes of Civitas Dei, leaving behind the empty husks of their houses. Here, the streets are empty. The quartet is quite alone. "We took bets." A jerk of his head towards the soldiers behind. Then he turns his chin, glancing over at her. Of her concern, her words, he shows very little interest. "They think . . . you are a Cyprian . . . gone to meet a customer. But. . ." And suddenly, he's on her. Pushing her forcibly into a nearby doorway, he slams her up against the closed door. Blocking her exit, he watches her with those cold dead eyes. Behind him, the other two soldiers stand. Even if she did get by the Optio, the chances of escaping them would be slim. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulls her in close. A sharp painful jerk up against the hard metal of his breastplate. Lowering his face to hers, he inhales deeply. In the close proximity, his voice is barely above a whisper, deceptively smooth. "You smell too good to be a whore." Leaning back, he lowers his head. Inhaling again, this time very deeply with his eyes closed, he is like a hound tracking a scent across the landscape of her flesh. "But you also smell. . like. . a man." Eyes open, and he roughly pushes her away back against the door, he asks, "Who did you go to meet?" Amitrea lets out a rush of breath and a muted cry as she's flung against the door, lungs forcibly exhausted of air. Like a rag doll passed down from brother to sister to child across generations, she is limp in his arms as he pushes her about. She keeps her face turned resolutely away from him, but as the threat of violence becomes a very real possibility, tears begin to roll down smooth cheeks. She is too proud, though, to break down just yet, to cry out for her life or what remains of her virtue. "My brother," she says, hardly over a whisper as she presses herself against the wall, that her only support from collapsing to the ground in a bruised heap. "I went to meet my brother. He... he worked there. At the Coliseum. Before... the games ended." Gloved hand coming forward, he reaches out to smear one of those crystal tears across her cheek. It is not that he is moved by her emotions, her fear. Drawn only to the tears themselves, where they leak out of her eyes. While she talks, offering her explanation, that hand raises up towards the elaborate styling of her hair. Fingers brushing across gold locks. Plucking one of the silver combs out of her hair, he drops it carelessly to the ground. The motion is repeated with another, as if he were pulling the petals from a daisy. As her hair falls loose of its artful coiffure, spilling out over her shoulders, his hand wraps in the long strands, grabbing hold of a fistful, which he brings up to his nose. "Brother. Hmmm. . . you may be telling the truth. You don't smell like you've been fucked." The ruined side of his mouth is frozen forever in a sneer, but now the other side twists upwards. "I'd know." Rubbing the hair across his chin, the mangled side of his face, he half-closes his eyes. Certainly there is the sense of violence, the very real threat that he might rape her without a second thought. There have been similar such stories involving the Fulminari, the least of which involve rape. It's clear she knows that. With the Optio having her within his grasp and his men behind him, there is almost no point to resistance, and that shows in the looseness of her limbs, the droop to her shoulders. After the fear that's been instilled in her of the danger of what she has been doing about the city, it appears that she has given up. "I..." Her voice is lost in tears, in sobs that shake her body. "I met my brother. My brother." She repeats again, twice more, volume dropping in measures each time, as though this is the only thing she remains able to cling to. She might well collapse to the ground now, if it were not likely to rip her hair out. Twining his hand deeper into her hair, he slowly reels her in closer to him. Closer, dragging the limp rag doll of her form against his chest. Lowering his head, as if to press that damaged mouth against her own. . . There is a bright flash of silver, and she is suddenly released backwards again. It takes a moment to realize what has happened. With his other hand, he unsheathed a dagger, and sliced through the thick tangle of hair. The severed hair is brought up to his face, where he once more inhales her scent. Quietly, he rasps, "I know what you smell like now." Holding the fistful of gold, his trophy, he steps back out of the doorway opening a means for her escape. Ravaged voice growing louder, he says, "Get home, domina. . .nightfall is coming. You don't want . . . to be on the streets after dark. . ." Letting her go? Without consequence? Surely impossible. Men like this, don't just let defenseless women go. Right? But here they all, each stepping away, permitting her exit. However, one look in those ice-blue eyes, is enough to read that this is not the end. If he had wanted to end it, he could have. If nothing, it is the beginning. A hunt. And she the rabbit, loosed in the city to listen for the closing of the hounds. Freed, she does now fall to the stones of the street beneath her, roughly so. A low moan slips from her lips as her knees and hip hit hard enough to leave likely significant bruises. It does take a few moments before she realizes what is happening, the rabbit throwing a dazed look up to the dog about to close its jaws on her throat. It is completely ungraceful, her scrabbling to regain her feet or any sort of forward motion to flee before the dog changes its mind. And even when she has regained her feet, she is in enough pain that she stumbles to the ground again before her wings unfurl and carry her skyward to avoid that stinging throughout her body. For the moment, they do not give chase. Allowing her to escape up into the heavens. One last glimpse of him standing there, holding his token, watching with dead eyes. FIN
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