Chapter 1
Reacquainted with the Night
Since the simmering of the outbreak of Rhydin's fever and the quiet closing of the hospices, Delphinea Quinn had found herself back on the pavement of the rough dockside patrol. She had traded in the bloodied gauze and soiled bedpans of caring for the infirmed and dying for the hardened steel and assiduous gaze of keeping the southern most part of the WestEnd in order.
Her bulky form took up most doorways in other parts of the city, but here along the sea, where the passages and alleyways were wider to accommodate the cargo being unloaded from the teems of ships each day and night, she was able to walk, stand and loom unobstructed by her size. As the weather took a turn toward the autumnal season, Delphinea's bronzed physique sported more clothing than she was used to. While her arms were left bare to handle what weapons and trouble came to bear, her legs were shrouded in a cotton fabric that cut off at the knee where her sandal lacings began and crisscrossed their way down her shapely calf. One glove was worn on her right hand, a soft leather with an added pad between the first and second fingers so that her aim with her beloved bow would never be compromised.
This city had always felt so foreign to her. It was filled with all manner of people and creatures, most of whom cared nothing for the sense that the heavens gave the earth. The everyday violence which many turned a blind eye to, was something that ate at Delphinea to her very core. She prayed everyday for the strength and the grace to aid this city by bringing a sense of commonality and sisterhood to its people. But alas, to no avail. Delphinea did not blame men specifically, though she did find fault with most of the male population in this realm. They fought for no other reason than boredom and sexual supremacy, they caused unnecessary tensions and refused to exist in a balance of nature and the divine. And what was more, Delphinea blamed the women who fed on this behavior: the maiden who secretly thrilled at two men dueling over her, the female who simply shrugged with the adage that "boys will be boys."
The city of Rhydin, as she saw it, was falling into a pit of despair and its citizens were enjoying the ride.
"Hey're! Blondie! Whydn't you com'n over here and takcar'o me johns'n" 'S lonely!" The bawdy laughter than ensued signaled three other men backing the sailor. Usually Delphinea did not even acknowledge such comments or lewd suggestions, other times a simple turn of her head coupled with her iron stare was enough to assuage such talk. But this night she found herself out of practice, in a way. She had been tending to the sick for so long that her hardened self had slipped under the guise of mercy. "Yah, you! Tall drinka you is. Betcha she's a screamer," the grizzled beard of the sailor sported a remnant or two of the evening's latest meal as he continued to charm his chums. "Take hold o'yer johns'n and not let go, I say."
The catcalls and whistling began as Delphinea turned her body to fully face the small group of sea dogs who were gathered on the corner near to the tavern that was letting out for the night. Her sculpted legs, evident even under the fabric of her pants, took their strong strides with patience. The men began to call out once more, "Aye, 'ere she comes fer yer john-hiccup-son, mate!"
The bearded leader clapped his hands together as he nodded to his oily friend and rubbed his palms over each other, his tongue licking at his lips. "I ain't gonna tellya t'be gentle, girlie. I needa rough ride like you about now." His thick chuckle belched over his lips as he drank in the Scathachian Priestess with his greedy eyes. "Now, you be a good girl'n I'll letya climb me like a'mountain. How's 'at soun' licker?"
The great form of Delphinea stood before the group, her legs at shoulder width apart, arms at her sides, her chin dipped so her stern gaze was leveled at the bearded sailor from beneath her lashes. As the men called out other suggestions for how she should spend her evening and what she might do with her thighs, Delphinea simply stood there as if she were soaking it all in. It was as if a marble statue of Scathach herself was preparing to pass judgment on the men as closing arguments were heard. Perhaps the sailors, even in their drunken states felt this, for their coarse laughter and vulgar commentary stilled as they continued to stare at the golden-haired behemoth before them.
"You should not address women in such a manner," her tone was icy, as if winter itself were creeping in her throat.
The men were near stupefied, but for an instant. Their merry gales of laughter rang out perhaps louder than before. "Aye! Com'on ov'r and sit in me'lap! I'll show ya how to ride a right pony!"
Without another word from the Scathachian warrior, she stooped down and picked up a small rock. Perhaps one of the first weapons that children learn to master; before blade, before bow, before firearms. The rock is the most primitive and the most organic. The simplest. And it was hurling with pinpoint accuracy toward the bearded leader of the raucous group. The chorus of rowdy mirth stopped as he was struck dead-on, right in the middle of his forehead and fell off of the barrel upon which he was sitting. Landing on his back, his hands flew to his face as he groaned with blood milking the space between his fingers. As the other men attended to their friend with a mix of concern and ridicule, Delphinea turned and walked away, leaving the drunken sailors in her wake.
Her patrols along the dockside were just starting up, she thought with a sigh.
Since the simmering of the outbreak of Rhydin's fever and the quiet closing of the hospices, Delphinea Quinn had found herself back on the pavement of the rough dockside patrol. She had traded in the bloodied gauze and soiled bedpans of caring for the infirmed and dying for the hardened steel and assiduous gaze of keeping the southern most part of the WestEnd in order.
Her bulky form took up most doorways in other parts of the city, but here along the sea, where the passages and alleyways were wider to accommodate the cargo being unloaded from the teems of ships each day and night, she was able to walk, stand and loom unobstructed by her size. As the weather took a turn toward the autumnal season, Delphinea's bronzed physique sported more clothing than she was used to. While her arms were left bare to handle what weapons and trouble came to bear, her legs were shrouded in a cotton fabric that cut off at the knee where her sandal lacings began and crisscrossed their way down her shapely calf. One glove was worn on her right hand, a soft leather with an added pad between the first and second fingers so that her aim with her beloved bow would never be compromised.
This city had always felt so foreign to her. It was filled with all manner of people and creatures, most of whom cared nothing for the sense that the heavens gave the earth. The everyday violence which many turned a blind eye to, was something that ate at Delphinea to her very core. She prayed everyday for the strength and the grace to aid this city by bringing a sense of commonality and sisterhood to its people. But alas, to no avail. Delphinea did not blame men specifically, though she did find fault with most of the male population in this realm. They fought for no other reason than boredom and sexual supremacy, they caused unnecessary tensions and refused to exist in a balance of nature and the divine. And what was more, Delphinea blamed the women who fed on this behavior: the maiden who secretly thrilled at two men dueling over her, the female who simply shrugged with the adage that "boys will be boys."
The city of Rhydin, as she saw it, was falling into a pit of despair and its citizens were enjoying the ride.
"Hey're! Blondie! Whydn't you com'n over here and takcar'o me johns'n" 'S lonely!" The bawdy laughter than ensued signaled three other men backing the sailor. Usually Delphinea did not even acknowledge such comments or lewd suggestions, other times a simple turn of her head coupled with her iron stare was enough to assuage such talk. But this night she found herself out of practice, in a way. She had been tending to the sick for so long that her hardened self had slipped under the guise of mercy. "Yah, you! Tall drinka you is. Betcha she's a screamer," the grizzled beard of the sailor sported a remnant or two of the evening's latest meal as he continued to charm his chums. "Take hold o'yer johns'n and not let go, I say."
The catcalls and whistling began as Delphinea turned her body to fully face the small group of sea dogs who were gathered on the corner near to the tavern that was letting out for the night. Her sculpted legs, evident even under the fabric of her pants, took their strong strides with patience. The men began to call out once more, "Aye, 'ere she comes fer yer john-hiccup-son, mate!"
The bearded leader clapped his hands together as he nodded to his oily friend and rubbed his palms over each other, his tongue licking at his lips. "I ain't gonna tellya t'be gentle, girlie. I needa rough ride like you about now." His thick chuckle belched over his lips as he drank in the Scathachian Priestess with his greedy eyes. "Now, you be a good girl'n I'll letya climb me like a'mountain. How's 'at soun' licker?"
The great form of Delphinea stood before the group, her legs at shoulder width apart, arms at her sides, her chin dipped so her stern gaze was leveled at the bearded sailor from beneath her lashes. As the men called out other suggestions for how she should spend her evening and what she might do with her thighs, Delphinea simply stood there as if she were soaking it all in. It was as if a marble statue of Scathach herself was preparing to pass judgment on the men as closing arguments were heard. Perhaps the sailors, even in their drunken states felt this, for their coarse laughter and vulgar commentary stilled as they continued to stare at the golden-haired behemoth before them.
"You should not address women in such a manner," her tone was icy, as if winter itself were creeping in her throat.
The men were near stupefied, but for an instant. Their merry gales of laughter rang out perhaps louder than before. "Aye! Com'on ov'r and sit in me'lap! I'll show ya how to ride a right pony!"
Without another word from the Scathachian warrior, she stooped down and picked up a small rock. Perhaps one of the first weapons that children learn to master; before blade, before bow, before firearms. The rock is the most primitive and the most organic. The simplest. And it was hurling with pinpoint accuracy toward the bearded leader of the raucous group. The chorus of rowdy mirth stopped as he was struck dead-on, right in the middle of his forehead and fell off of the barrel upon which he was sitting. Landing on his back, his hands flew to his face as he groaned with blood milking the space between his fingers. As the other men attended to their friend with a mix of concern and ridicule, Delphinea turned and walked away, leaving the drunken sailors in her wake.
Her patrols along the dockside were just starting up, she thought with a sigh.