Simple Pleasures

[Altias_Bromn]

That was what the new sign above the old bakery said. Simple Pleasures. Truth now left a bitter taste in his mouth, so the old sign had come down, scheduled to be burned some lonely evening.

The once governor had spent the last four days bringing the old bakery back from the dead. His quarters above had been left nearly untouched, but required a good deal of cleaning and reorganizing. It seemed that people had been through his things, but no one thought to take them. It's possible that members of the Order might have come looking for things. Things they would never have found. Things Altias was wise enough to have taken with him when he left. Now the room had been restored to its former glory and splendor and it smelled once more of Vanilla and Amber, despite the scent of vanilla, sugar and spice from the kitchens below.

He had not bothered to employ anyone as yet. He had spent all of yesterday tottering around the kitchen on his own, baking and organizing. Cleaning and restocking. The front of the store was now ready to be opened, but he had not bothered to do so. There was something, something that tugged at the corner of his mind, that left a poor taste in his mouth and an ache in his chest, when it came to this place.

Only this morning he had awoken upstairs, elegant violet silk sheets soaked in sweat, a scream on his lips, and murder in his eyes. The emotions fled him more quickly than usual, and disallowed him the ability to recall what it was he dreamed. All that remained was the feeling of rage, aching hands and the taste of copper on his tongue.

As he sat now, at his dressing table, the mirrored image of himself staring back at him, he washed the blood from his lips before rubbing minted balm into his bruised fingers. Fingers that hurt so much he could scarcely run the brush through his flowing red and ebony locks, forget being able to plait them into the tight braid of which he was accustom.

Rising, he recalled talk of a ball that was to happen this day. He had not actually been invited, though he was tempted to attend. At the very least, he mused, he would go by the venue. It would do him well to watch the comings and goings of the people of Myrken. To know who remained, who had come, and who was no longer here. Yes. He would attend, to some degree. And with that notion, the once governor, once cultist, once baker, began the painful ritual of adorning himself for such an affair.

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On the shores of Silver lake she sat, leaned against a tree. The sun was beginning to slip behind the hills, though just enough of the dying light touched her features.

She was young, perhaps 20 cycles. Her dark hair had been savagely cut to a short style. Crude, perhaps with a dull knife. She wore a sword at her hip, which remained safely cocooned in its sheath. Her form was dressed in simple clothing, favored by fighters, warriors and guards. Pants, a clean and tight shirt, and knee high boots. All in shades of grey.

Her face was pale, almost grey enough to match her clothing. Only a smear of brilliant crimson at her mouth, brightening her bruised lips. Her neck bore a thick ring of bruising, dark and ugly against her pale flesh. Her eyes were open, as if watching the setting sun, but in truth they had seen nothing since the early morning hours.

Sara Saunders was dead.