The Tattooed Woman

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 2 (Rewrite version 1)

This is a complete rewrite of Chapter 2.

All the very best to those following this story. Apologies for the delay in submitting. I hope you guys are doing well.

Once again thanks go to Avicia (and others) for editing and other input. Their help has provided me with a whole lot of inspiration.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 1 - Chapter 2: A Night at the Inn

Ashunara cursed as she poked at the fire. Outside, the storm raged on, and she could hear the wind battering at the Inn's walls and tugging at the shutters fixed over the windows. Thankfully, those shutters were of good, heavy timber, securely latched, and well-suited to resisting the elements. Iron nails, made from metal shaved from old horseshoes and crafted in a proper forge dedicated to the Gods of the craft, had been used in their construction. They had been consecrated with an offering of blood given in tribute by the smith, and so, the sprites and zephyrs that howled about were confounded, as they could find no purchase to tug at them and so were left outside in the dark, shrieking their frustration at being barred entry. Above the Inn, the thunder that had shaken the heavens was moving off towards the mountains and subsided to a low and distant rumbling, like the echoes from some giant's battlefield.

The dark elf listened to the keening and shivered. She hated being cold.

After checking on the captives and seeing the sentries' disposition, she had taken the innkeeper's room for her own that night. It was large enough, with a good-sized bed that had a properly stuffed mattress and blankets that didn't reek and looked to be at least moderately clean. The chamber also had a decent fireplace and hearth that would be sufficient for a warming fire. But the wood laid aside for such a purpose had not been allowed to dry properly, and the faggots were still mostly green. There was ample peat on hand, but it was easier to get a blaze going with wood before adding such slow-burning fuel.

She had lit the lamp with a flicker of witchflame and could have created a magical blaze in the range easily enough, but the truth of it was that while witchfire provided decent illumination and was wondrous effective at fearing and driving off wild beasts and many of the hoons and apparitions that haunted the night, it didn't provide much in the way of actual warmth. So, unless she fancied freezing her tits off as she huddled in the bed, a more corporeal flame was required, and of course, the fucking wood was damp.

Grumbling under her breath, she found herself on hands and knees, blowing the embers to life, when the chamber door opened, and the blacksmith was unceremoniously shoved inside. Her ears easily heard the drunken giggling of a couple of her comrades, probably Tallis and Varoona, as the door was pulled closed behind him and their light but unsteady footfalls on the boards outside as they hurriedly bumbled off.

Looking across at the hulking man standing there, she shook her head and blew out an exasperated breath as she muttered, "Shite."

The man looked about the room and then back to the lithe form of the strange creature before him, eyeing her as she nimbly rose to her feet. Her movements were graceful and strangely predatory, which, given the havoc the wench had already wreaked on the settlement, was hardly surprising. Her eyes were dark, and he wasn't sure if her aquiline features reminded him more of a bird of prey, wolf, or a hunting cat. Either way, her unblinking gaze was unnerving, and he heard himself swallow.

A narrow brow raised, and her lips curled in a wry smile at his reaction, and he drew a breath, steeling himself for the torments that were to come.

Moving closer, the dark elf eyed the leather cords that bound his wrists and tilted her head up to regard the man's features. He had a swarthy look about him, not handsome as such, but not ugly either, and she could see from his eyes he had a strong will that was far from broken. There was a cut to his lip and bruising under one eye, doubtless injuries left over from the fight downstairs, but he had not fared so badly, which, given how hard he had struggled, spoke well of his hardiness.

She grinned, "Well, well, what have we here?"

The blacksmith sniffed but stayed stubbornly silent.

Ashunara regarded the man, taking in the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the size of his hands. He wasn't particularly tall for a human, but his arms looked thicker than her waist. He smelled of iron and leather, and his thunderous brows gave him a brooding, dangerous look that, under different circumstances, she might have found rather fetching. His dark hair was unkempt, and there was a feral mien about him. Like some wild creature doing its very best to play at being civilised. She grinned; it was a look she knew well. In truth, standing there, he looked not unlike a bear and strong enough to snap her in two if he had a mind. Chuckling at the thought, she drew her dagger and moved the blade towards his bindings.

His voice came out a deep growl, "Are you no feart that I'll hurt ye?"

The blade paused as she looked into his eyes, "Will you?"

His reply was a half-heard mumble as he looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze.

Elf ears are keen enough, but she raised an arched brow and asked anyway, "I didn't hear you."

"I said no! Damn you," he sniffed, "I'd no hit a lass."

Her grin widened as her appraisal of him was proved true, and she cut him free, "Not even a witch like me?"

"My da said that a man who needed to lift his hands to a wench wasn't much of a man."

Her teeth flashed as she smiled, "I'd lay odds you're sorely tempted, though."

His embarrassed, rumbling growl was all the answer she needed, "Well, I can hardly blame you, to be fair."

Rubbing his wrists, he looked down at her, and his eyes narrowed, "What now, woman? Am I to be your sport for the night?"

The laughter of the dark elf surprised him. He half expected it to sound somehow wicked and cruel, malicious for sure, and certainly not strangely musical and full of genuine mirth. Though the glitter in those Fae eyes was mischievous enough for a whole skulk of foxes, "Woman, is it?"

Turning, she pointed her poignard at the fireplace, "Now, Master Smith, you light yon fire in the hearth there, for I mislike the chill in the air. Do that for me, and I'll consider leaving your virtue well alone," she smiled, "for now."

Grunting, the man lumbered forward to crouch over the fireplace, and moments later, his bearded face was lit by the orange glow of flame. Feeding the fire a few more sticks, he paused momentarily for it to catch hold properly before expertly laying in a few bricks of peat. Leaning back, he grinned, and the fire glinted in his deep brown eyes.

Ashunara moved closer, enjoying the warmth, "It seems the fire spirits prefer your company to mine."

He grunted, "I'm a smith."

"Fair enough."

Moving back onto his haunches, he looked at her, "What now?"

The dark elf rolled her eyes. "Now, nothing. My subordinate is an intemperate sot with a singular wit. I'd lay odds this is her idea of a jest. It used to be the custom that after a skirmish, a Captain would have her pickings of the spoils. I have no doubt that at her instigation, our antics are the subject of bets and wagers aplenty among my sisters down in the common room."

His brows furrowed as he considered, "They would embarrass you so?"

"Ach, it's a jape, nothing more. Either I jump your bones and have my way with you, or I don't. There's no harm meant by it."

"Says you."

She grinned and then sighed, "I'd not fret. For in truth, I'm not in the mood for such games tonight, so you're safe enough."

The man's voice was dry, and she could hear the anger in its bass rumble, "You have no wish to celebrate your... victory?"

Ashunara snorted, "Victory? Oh yes! And what a victory it was. I successfully assaulted a handful of unarmed villagers and pillaged an inn. Surely the bards will sing of my triumph," shaking her head, she made a disgruntled noise, "not the most dangerous battle I've ever been in. Hells, it's not even the most dangerous bar brawl I've been in."

She sniffed, "'Tis not why I came here. I came to hunt slavers and steal back any of my folk they have taken. Pay them back, blood for blood, and yet here am I, indulging in the same filthy trade."

"Why do it then?"

"Coin, of course, Master Smith. My kind is not without guilt, and we've been creeping about the borderlands since long before your great, great grandfather was in the barrow, snatching the unwary and carrying them back to our lands. Can we then truly complain that your kind has been repaying the favour ever since the Veil thinned enough for you to make the passage? But, in my case, I command a Free Company. Sponsored by one of our Great Houses, to be sure, but Free, nonetheless, and armour, weapons, supplies, potions, and all other devices of our trade are expensive. If I cannot gain the ransom from freeing my own kind, then I must take and sell yours."

The human thought for a moment he could see something in those cold, dark eyes he never expected, but she looked away before he could be sure. Tilting his head, he heard himself muse, "It doesn't sound like it makes you happy, Mistress Elf."

"No, it does not. But 'tis the world we live in, and I did not make it so. Needs must, and I have my Company to consider."

Rummaging in her pack, she pulled out a flask. Unstopping it, she took a swig before absentmindedly passing it over to the surprised-looking man. He took the thing and sniffed suspiciously at the contents as he watched the woman, but she paid him no mind and just sat there, staring into the flames, seemingly lost in thought. He took a draught and nearly choked as the burning liquor scorched his throat, but moments later, he felt his innards warming, "Gods! What is this stuff?"

"'Tis called Morimatra by some," her lips curled in a distinctly wolfish expression, "quite hard to come by."

He grunted, "You'd pay gold for a brew like this hereabouts. 'Tis wasted on a simple man the likes of me."

"Oh, I doubt you'd be able to buy it here," her chuckle was nothing if not dark, "and if you did it would like as not cost you a lot more than mere gold."

Turning, she eyed him, "And I'll keep my own council on who I share my drink with, thank you very much."

Taking another swig, he shrugged and passed the flask back, "As ye will."

Ashunara looked at his physique thoughtfully, "'Twas a brave fight you put up earlier. You missed your calling as a warrior, I think."

The big man smiled and shook his head, "Kind words, milady, but no, the anger gets the better of me when I fight."

"Are you baresark then?"

"Aye, I fear it's so," he blushed, "and besides..."

"Besides?"

"It's nothing."

Ash lifted his chin and peered into the man's eyes, "Tell me."

His voice rumbled, and he gave an embarrassed shrug with those massive shoulders, "I don't like to hurt people, milady. As a child, it was always too easy to do so, what with my size and strength. And later, there was always some poltroon or other looking to provoke me into a brawl so they could prove themselves."

"A kind heart is nothing to be ashamed of, Master Smith. Sometimes, I think if there were more people like you and fewer like me, then this world might be a happier place."

She glanced down and saw an unusual clasp on his leather belt. Her eyes were drawn to the intricate metalworking of the buckle, "A fine piece of work this; yours?"

The man gave a self-conscious nod as he unclasped it and passed it over, "Aye, milady, just a bit of childish foppery, a hobby of mine, nothing more. The metal would have been wasted otherwise."

She admired the buckle for a moment more, turning it so the knotted metalwork shone in the lamplight, "Looks like something crafted by the Sidhe," grinning, she passed it back, "I have to wonder if perhaps some trace of Fey blood runs through your veins. It is said they were drawn to craftsmen, musicians, artists and the like. Have your family always been smiths?"

"Aye, we have worked iron and steel since before the days of my great-grandfather."

"Do you still hang a horseshoe above your door then?"

"In my smithy, I do. It's said to ward off goblins and... er... well."

"Elves?"

The blacksmith sighed, "Aye, Elves as well."

Ashunara threw back her head and laughed, "I'm sorry, Smith, truly. I should have tried to take you in your forge, and we could have tested its worth properly! Tell me though, do you hang it open-end up or down?"

"Why down, of course! So that all can share in whatever measure of luck and fortune we gain."

The dark elf smiled warmly, "You are a good man, Smith. Tell me, truthfully, mind, do you have children who still need you? I warn you, if you lie, I will know."

The blacksmith's brow furrowed, and he looked down at his hands for a long moment before answering, "Not anymore, milady. The plague was not kind here. Many were lost, my wife and daughter included."

"I'm sorry."

"Truly?"

Ashunara sighed, "Sadly, no."

The big man snarled, but she held up a finger to his lips to still him as she shook her head almost regretfully, "Don't be angry with me. It's not by choice, nor meant as a cruelty. 'Tis more the way we are. It is our nature. To us, when a loved one is gone, then that's just it; they're gone. This is especially true in our dealings with humans, for with our long years, we know that in time, we will eventually see every one of you in the grave. You'll not see a dark elf grieving, no tears from my kind, not for that anyway. We're just not built that way. We're... cold. We lack your spirit, I think."

"You sound sad about it."

She smiled, "Sometimes even one of my kind dreams of what it would be like to truly care for someone other than themself."

The blacksmith looked up at her, "Why did you ask? Would you have taken them as well?"

"Despite what folk say, I'm no Devil. I would not wilfully leave orphans in my wake unless I had no recourse. If you had children or the like, I might have left you here or taken them with us if you wished it."

The man drew a breath, and his eyes smouldered with rising anger, "You would have made my child your slave?"

"Ye gods, no! We have no child slaves. That is a barbarian human practice. But we try not to separate families if we can avoid it. Indeed, we treasure children, for we have so very few of our own," she grinned, "in our lands, your daughter would have lived free and healthy until she came of age and then would have been given a choice; to marry, or perhaps to voluntarily join a household either by adoption or, admittedly, possibly as a slave or otherwise indentured in some way if she so chose, or if she wished she could leave our lands and return to some human realm."

"Why would she have chosen to be a slave?"

"Oh, probably for love, I would think, but it is also not uncommon for human children who find themselves in our domain to eventually join a household or accept indenture, selling service in exchange for learning some skill or craft. Despite their status, they are usually more than well treated, and elven magics and skills can heal or protect them from many of the morbidities that curse humanity, such as plague. Their labour is payment for their training and keep. Eventually, they could buy their freedom if they wished and depart, but in truth, many don't. Do you not do a similar thing?"

"I suppose, as children, we are sometimes sold into service or as apprentices or serfs. A young apprentice's life can be hard, and a serf's is harder still. It's as close to slavery as makes no difference."

"So, you see, your daughter's life would not have been so bad in our realm. She would have been loved, and her father would have been with her."

"But I would still have been a slave?"

Ashunara laughed, "Oh aye, we're not exactly paragons of virtue, you know, but neither are we as vile as some say. Selfish and sometimes capricious perhaps might be a good description, for we like getting our own way and are intolerant of humans and the like, for many among us see you as a barbarous, short-lived sort.

She passed the flask back, and he raised a toast before taking a swig, "Well, cheers for that."

She chuckled, "What do you want me to say? That I don't feel that way, and some of my best friends are human? They're not, but I've fought too many of you wily bastards to take you so lightly. I'll leave such idiocy to the ignorant fops back home."

Lifting the flask, she drained the last drops from it. Grunting in annoyance, she momentarily glared at the offending article in disgust before tossing it aside and rose from the fireside couch to search her pack. After a few moments of fumbling, her grin widened as she found what she sought. She produced another flask, which was made of metal and curiously engraved. She shook it, and the sloshing sound from within cheered her, "Aha!"

The blacksmith looked up, "Huh?"

"More booze."

He peered, "What is it?"

"Dunno, I think I filched it from a Gnome tinker afore we left."

She tossed it to him and slumped back down, but after a moment, her fidgeting roused the smith, "What ails you, lass."

"I'm trying to get my thrice-cursed boots off to warm my feet by the fire."

Passing the bottle back to her, he made a gesture with his hands, and she lifted up one foot and then the other as she pulled the stopper out with her teeth and spat it neatly into the fireplace.

He nodded his appreciation of her accuracy as he pulled off the offending footwear, "Not bad. Gods! Yer feet are freezing!"

"Cold blood."

"What?"

She took a swig and made a happy sound, "Oh, that's most decent, some dwarven concoction, methinks," she passed the bottle over, "I told you, our blood runs cold. Have ye never wondered why human menfolk are so favoured by my kind? 'Tis because you are warmer than us. Almost as good as a hot water bottle on a chill night."

The man grinned for the first time that night, "You're jesting."

"Am I? Course, orc blood is the hottest of all, but they'd not waste their time on the likes of us as they think we make piss-poor mates. Too weak and scrawny for their tastes."

"But, I thought there were half-orcs?"

"Oh aye, for sure, but those are offspring between orcs and humans, not elfkind."

The man frowned, "Orcs take human women?"

Ashunara stretched out her feet towards the fireplace and sighed happily, "Huh? No, 'tis usually the other way round. Orcish women and human men," she shrugged, "I guess sometimes they fancy something soft, and some humans are near big enough to catch their eye."

"Seriously?"

She grinned, "Would I lie?"

...

It was sometime later when the raucous banging on the door roused them. By then, a third bottle had swiftly followed the second, and they were quite merrily draining a fourth, and both were well into their cups.

For Ashunara, there was quiet comfort in talking with this rough bear of a man. Just speaking of simple things and better days, of hearth and home on his part, and of travels and the things she had seen on hers. It was almost... restful. The man obviously wasn't overly afraid of her, and he didn't jabber on or wheedle like a gombeen, for which she was grateful. Slyly, she regarded the blacksmith from the corner of her eye. He was an impressive specimen, big and certainly strong. She had seen his fierceness when he fought, so he was no craven coward, but he had a good heart, which was rare enough. Aye, he would have made for a fine husband - for some other wench, that is, not for her, oh Gods no. He might make for a decent tumble or a gentle diversion as she drowned her woes on a rainy eve, but domesticity, even to a shaggy mathúin such as this, would have bored her to madness by week's end.