Rumor: An Inheritence of Hate

[Whisper]

The equality of leisure and labor, life's most wholesome balance, had been upset. The end of the day's setting sun marked no recess for the tormented, nor did the morning's rising sun offer new beginnings. Even the training had become morbid. With each new lesson, it became increasingly clear that the path was destined for fighting and survival, for accepting the air of a rancid world into monotonous lungs, and helping the heart become accustomed to the horrors of a land fallen beneath the hand of darkness.


The night knew no haste. Moisture stole from the covert crevices in a cave’s ceiling, and made slicks paths along black, jagged walls. In all the darkness there was but one light conceived, the dreary blot of a lantern so confined that its wielder could only see ten feet’s advance. Boots slapped wetly against a floor of smooth stone, but there was a chained sound that accompanied them – shackled ankles, linked together with the forced impossibility of bolting.

The collaboration of bones, rags, and eyes came upon a dry level. There was straw placed purposefully on the floor, and there was a table, of sorts – low to the ground, slated, with a single, empty bowl. It was the approximate size of a prison cell, and the lantern chose to illumine its expanse, as well the fearsome outskirts of the endless night on either side.

She slid into a crouch with her free hand, spread like a spider, against the stone; drab, beaten leather sagged upon shoulders, sleeves torn from long arms. Strapped to her back was a satchel, and it was a formless lump upon a thin frame, as the slope of her brow came to rest against the incline of the makeshift table. There the waiting commenced and continued on past the hour, before the hollow echo of a skipped stone reverberated with delusional distance.

“You are unarmed,” a low voice stated, surprisingly near; still, the slumped, chained figure did not lift her head – shaven pate – from the stone to regard the speaker.

“Jus’ li’ I was t’eh las’ time, an t’eh time b’fore tha’,” the muffled reply sounded neither wry nor sullen. It was flat.

“I’m sure that you understand my…precaution, dear,” even nearer, with the sound of leather scraping along dry stone. Certainly, the origin of the umbrageous voice was now in the light. “Do you have it all? For the sake of the gods, you look like a skeleton. Have a care. I would be devastated, were you to waste away to nothing and our dealings come to an end.”

Black eyes finally lifted, sunken and glassy, to regard the smirk of a tall, slick man – his moustache trim, and his hat tipped proper. The hair on his chin came to a devil’s point. His boots were glossed as the wet rock of the walls. The expression seemed without waver, until she replied: “I ‘ave as much as I cou’ git, bu’ I’m a li’l short.”

He moved quickly and bent, planting both his gloved palms to the stone of the table as he leaned across. His voice was a hiss. “This is three months in a row, girl. Do you take the possibility of threat so lightly? I can make it real for you.”

“’ateful man,” the girl spat, and did not draw back; the black of her great eyes grew wide with emphasis. Her hand lifted, and curled into a slow fist. She shook it as she spoke in heated tones. “I ‘ave done everythin’ in my power t’eh come through wi’ this fer the pas’ t’ree years. Jus’ gi’ me time; y’eh –knowed- I is good fer my word.”

“Calm down, you vile thing,” he droned and straightened, lifting his head with familiar and political contemplation. He even waved a hand at her anger, quite done with it. “I have my own deadlines, and your incompetence interferes. It disgusts me. It is obvious to me that I have been far too lenient, if you think that you can get by in this manner. “

“Y’eh leech everythin’ I ‘ave! An’ it ain’t ne’er enough for y’eh, y’eh bastar’. Yeh keep uppin’ t’eh damn price,” she grated at his turned back, coming up out of her seat. She sat back down immediately as he turned upon her with a hollow laugh.

“That is because the stakes are higher,” he lifted his hand. “In any case, I do believe I have a solution to our little disagreement. It guarantees both our satisfactions. Though I fear it is not negotiable, I suppose it is best that your hear it.”

Chains scraped against stone between her ankles as she sat there, bony knees up thrust; her shrewd stare was unblinking as she followed the gestures that accompanied his words. She did not reply, but let him go on.

“We have a list of those we consider to be your friends,” he began, and never looked toward her. “It has occurred to us that you are over-eager to defend them, and let us say that in the instance of next month, you return here without the proper payment. There shall be a warning issued soon after in the form of a dagger, toward any one of them that we should choose. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

For a long while, it did not seem that she would respond at all. Patience became more torment than virtue as air tremoured from lungs suffering the fever of suppressed rage. “I un’erstan’ tha’ y’eh are withou’ honour, sir. ‘ere is yer payment,” she whispered. Standing, the satchel was flung onto the clattering bowl at the table’s center. It caused the ceramic to teeter.

“Just remember,” he murmured, with an insatiably dry curl of his lip, eyes following the progress of the pack onto the stone-make table. He bent, took it up, and began to walk off – a tall and tapering shadow into the darkness of the black cave. “We are running out of patience.”

The girl watched him with daggers for eyes; boneless as ectoplasm, she had come to slide to the dry, rock floor, with folded arms and long fingers. The key to the ankle shackles would be at the entrance of the cave, in the designated place. It was all part of the deal, so that she could not follow him -- or them, for there was a doubtless company awaiting him.

"Jus' 'member," her whispered mockery, "I'm runnin' ou' o' reasons t'eh care."