Scene 1
Description: Priscilla kidnapped.
The evening strengthened as Priscilla stepped out from the drinking hall and into the quiet township of Quakestir. She'd arrived at the tavern earlier than expected, and felt thankful the residents from the last village overexaggerated the distance. On a journey as long as this, it was the small things to say the least.
Arriving early meant she got to a hot meal and a fiery drink (or nine) sooner, but it also meant she tapped out sooner. Leaving for the inn before true night fell meant the barmaid she'd been eyeing up all evening, the one with the dark, hawkish eyes, wouldn't be accompanying her. However, rising upon first light would jumpstart the final day of travel before she reached the mountains. Even from a 10 hour's walk away, the peaks smudged the skyline.
Adjusting the leather strap of her heavy dragongun, she rolled her dusky green shoulders in anticipation of a warm bath and a cozy bed. These were unheard of luxuries on the road, but Priscilla was accustomed to treating herself to the finer things. She deserved to, anyway, when she was between contracts. When as skilled as she, her type of work paid handsomely. However, there was a type of debt simple monarchs couldn't fix. That was why she was eager to pray directly to the Vulture of Blood for forgiveness when she was within the mountains.
The innkeeper barely blinked at the size of her weapon or her stature. They wore an unreadable expression, but their short, thin, upwards tusks belied their shared ancestry with her.
"A room is 20 dukes." They announced in a smooth, lilting way, without any prompting.
"I'd like a bath, too."
They gave her a once over, and perhaps the faintest glint lit their eyes.
"The only room with a tub large enough is 50 dukes."
Priscilla frowned. She understood the premium related to the cost of water and the maintenance of the inn's energy grid. It was likely both would be in short supply in a town like Quakestir. However. She had a pilgrimage no one was paying her for, and she had finery to indulge in. How else could she convince herself to sleep in a leaky tent the rest of the time?
"40."
They matched her frown, but only with their eyes. "How could I say no to a person of your caliber."
She was unsure about whether or not she should be offended as she placed the preserved wooden coins into their palm. However, she decided they were referring to her renown as a pest controlling warrior saint of the Vultures.
"Thank you," she smiled while receiving the key.
"Enjoy your stay," they intoned flatly.
As they shifted from a straight posture to leaning back over the show on their flatscreen, Priscilla heard the jangling of many metal keys. It was a pleasant sound in her drunkenness.
She glanced at her key; it was for Room 12. Finding her room was easy with the arrowed signs, and soon enough she was dropping her weapon and rucksack on a luscious bed. Her travelling half-pants and loose fitting cotton shirt were next. She slipped off her boy shorts and walked out onto the patio where a personalised hot-spring bath was steaming under a dim electric lantern. Sighing, she eased herself in.
The water had yellow and pink petals floating in it. Thoughts of fields of chamomile and wild roses were invoked by the colours and scents. But there was another scent hidden beneath the heavy florals; it was maybe jasmine or maybe allspice. Priscilla shook her head. She was there to relax and enjoy herself before bed; she was not there to care about what flowers she bathed in. The fact she was bathing in flowers was enough, she told herself.
Finally dispelling her anxieties, she stretched out her arms, tucked them behind her head and relaxed against the side of the tub. Yawning, she looked up at the stars. They brightened the sky even as the last light of day was still fading.
It wouldn't be long until she would finally ease her karmic burden by speaking with her favoured Vulture. Her thoughts spun until the lantern cast a shadow over her upturned face. Before she could move her numbed arms, her assailant wrapped a metal cord around her neck. This would've been her end had she been a being of thinner skin. As it was, Priscilla choked and gasped at the sharp, burning pain. A gag was slipped over her wide nose and over her lower jaw tusks. Once secured, it took two attackers to hoist her from the water.
The cord around her neck remained tight as one of them bound her wrists behind her back and the other pulled a hood over her head. She tried to speak, to wiggle the huge rubber ball out of her mouth, but her words came out as unintelligible grunts.
