VanCleef

Night had fallen hours ago, and the only light that pervaded the sheltered cove was from the torches placed strategically along the deck and docks below it. Drissilda was asleep, her soft snores drifting on the air as she lay curled up on the hard wheel, her head resting in Plea’s lap. The little thing had cried herself to sleep, blue-violet hair in disarray about her normally smiling features. The warlock remained awake, one hand absent mindedly smoothing her tresses whilst the other kept a death grip upon her wand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, from a combination of mourning and the stress of keeping ever vigilant.

Their guards were always watching. Lounging about the deck, leaning upon the carefully stacked boxes and barrels of illicit goods, likely pilfered from families far worse off than any mason in the little brigade. Eyes glued to the two women, fingers sliding threateningly over the swords at their hips. Occasionally, one would tug his mask down just to flash a feral grin at Plea, teeth bared in a caricature of a smile. The tousled warlock would narrow her icy gaze at that individual, staring him down with a sense of bravado that she didn’t –actually- possess.

This seemed to go on for… days. Well, it had really only been about twelve hours since they had been cornered, but the caster dared not sleep. The moment her chin struck her chest would be when they were swarmed, she knew it. Nevertheless, Plea’s vision was starting to get blurry; her slender form exhausted from the stress and strain that the day had put upon it. Just as she was about to slip into the welcome arms of sleep, movement caught her eye behind one of the guards. His eyes widened, body stiffening straight as a board…. And then the man’s eyes just rolled back, clunking to the deck in unconsciousness.

Before the other two currently on duty could react, a black cloaked figure was bursting from the shadows behind them, reaching out to grasp their heads and slam them together with earth shattering force. The ‘crack’ resounded dully over the water as they too crumpled to the decks, naught but huddled heaps of useless flesh.

Plea sat stock still, staring in bewilderment at the crouched figure that had dispatched their guards with such grace. He wore the shadows with ease; they coiled lightly about his wiry, well-built form. Obviously a rogue, from the way he had so easily surpassed the defenses and rendered the three defias useless in a matter of seconds. And human too, if she were able to judge that build. He was staring at her; she knew it, even though the edge of the cloak’s hood effectively masked his features from her. Just staring. Crouched there like a bird of prey amidst the bodies. Waiting, for something.

Slowly, the warlock put up her wand behind one ear, clasping a hand over Drissilda’s mouth to muffle the snort that would occur as she shook the priestess’s shoulder to wake her. The elven woman gave a sort of flail as she was startled into wakefulness, muffled ‘Mmph!’ exiting from behind the pale hand as she groggily returned to the real world.

Moon touched eyes stare in sleepy confusion at the unconscious guards, and then at their dispatcher. It took several seconds for the meaning of this picture to click into place; this was a rescue. She bolted upright, swaying on her feet for a moment, mouth opening to speak. But her friend yanked her back down again with a quiet, hissing ‘shh’. There were still pirate patrols in range to hear them if they weren't stealthy enough. Quieting, both sets of feminine eyes fix upon the cloaked man, silently inquiring the next move.

Once the attention had been gotten, and the women had processed his purpose, the male would give a quick nod in their direction. With catlike quiet he crept to the pile of lumber that sat to one side of the causeway, carefully lifting a plank. He did it with infinite slowness, pausing every time he thought he heard even the minutest sounds from above or below them. The two trapped survivors watched with desperate hope in their eyes, gripping each other’s hands in a white knuckled hold. Carefully, the plank was slid into place, connecting the two to the deck once more with this rickety, unreliable bridge. A gloved hand was offer, as knees steadied the end of the wood for them.

As always, Plea was the decisive one. Maneuvering the plank into place on her end, and planting her own robed knees on its end. Grasping her Night Elf friend gently by the wrist, she tugs her towards this bridge of hope, silently shoving her in the direction of the man. There was a hot, whispered argument; clearly Drissilda wanted –her- to go first. But Plea won, stubbornly keeping her position as the lithe elf crawled across the plank to their rescuer. Carefully, the man grasped her outstretched hands, drawing her to the safety of the deck and silently biding her hide behind on of the many barrels whilst her companion might repeat the endeavour. He waves off her murmured thanks impatiently; there was a long way for the three of them to go before anyone could be considered safe.

Plea drew in a shaky breath that whistled past her teeth as she eyed the plank. This would be difficult. There was no one to hold her end steady… Carefully, the girl crept out upon the board. It wobbled dangerously beneath her, making a harsh clanking sound upon the deck. She froze, like a deer in a hunter’s sights, terrified that she might just have given them away. But the ship sounds went on as normal, waves lapping at the hull, quiet movements below the decks that were muffled by the thick bulwark. After a moment she continued onwards, the plank wobbling precariously beneath her. It threatened to throw her at any moment. Upon nearing the end, she heard a grating noise, casting a frantic look over her shoulder. The plank was starting to buckle. Lunging forward, the warlock grasps the rogue’s offered hand, allowing him to yank her into the safety of his grip as the plank came loose, spirally off below to land with a soft ‘whump’ on a pile of rope. They froze, perfectly still, listening. The brown haired girl wrapped up in his strong arms, which had tightened fearfully upon the noise that might alert the ship. She could not help but note that he smelled distinctively of mint, as most rogues did. The scent helped distract from both magical and manual means of tracking them. Clever.

After a long, tense moment, the man unfolded his arms to allow her to stand, when there were no ready sounds of an alert. Plea rushed to the barrels, tugging on Drissilda’s hand to draw her out from behind them. The two women turned their gaze to the rescuer, who swayed to his feet, stretching to keep himself mobile. The pale warlock quietly mouthed a thank you, the man cutting her off with a slash of his hand. One gloved finger points to the unconscious defias, and then to the women. His free hand plucking at his well tailored clothing. It dawned on Plea almost immediately what he was asking; but a frown crosses over her features. She snakes a hand up, to slide fingers over Driss’s long, unmistakable ears. The elven woman giving a shiver at the touch, as her ears were –extremely- sensitive. Her innocent gaze looking between the two in complete confusion. The man’s shoulders lifted and fell in a lax shrug, distorting the moonlight that fell over them. Bending down, he reaches into his boot, drawing out a crumpled bandanna. His carefully placed feet making no noise as he crosses the deck, to place hands to the elf’s head. With a brisk, practiced motion, he wraps it tightly about her head; pinning the ears beneath its confines and hiding them from view. Stepping back, his thumb is jerked once again at the bodies lying sprawled upon the deck. Clearly, they should hurry.

Plea knelt, awkwardly stripping one of the men of his clothing, piece by piece. This visual aid helping the priestess understand, finally, what was being asked of her. She too clumsily fumbled with the clothing upon one that looked about her size, nervous of waking the man. The cloaked rogue crouched between them, unseen eyes undoubtedly on the victims to assure if they did wake, that he’d snuff them out again. The young warlock uses her billowing robe as a tent in which to change clothes under, Drissilda mimicking the action. Their rogue companion gives a sigh, the sound drawing out a tad, as all he could see was the occasional flash of bare skin thru the tiny gaps in the arm and neck holes. Plea narrows her gaze at him in irritation, only to receive a cheeky and condescending pat on the head, to assure that despite the dire situation, that had been a jest. Of course, the whole thing went completely over the Priestess’s head, but most things usually did if they were of that nature. Confidently the rogue sways to his feet as they finally shrug out of their robes, to place the finishing touches upon the disguise. Their blood red masks.

Now came the hard part. Getting out alive.


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Sorry for the. Um. Two year gape in updating. I got totally distracted with work an' stuff. But, now I lack it! So, I'll try to update this and my other story every tuesday. Alternating between them.