Quiet steps in the dusk were heard as the witch, Gwynedh, slipped down the dark streets of the sleeping city, only a few individuals left who still lingered in the streets as they finished the day's work and bid farewell. The sun had already come down in the west, and the night had begun to fall, leaving Gwyn what little pleasure she might gain in this world that pained her so diligently. But not all was well... Squinting in the darkness, her stormy eyes could just barely make out the languid figure of a man, stumbling along the cobblestones, and tripping about himself with every step.
"Help... Help... me... Please...," the figure moaned at her, reaching toward her with his listless, fumbling hands. "Please..."
Gwynedh continued to watch him with a blank expression on her face, crossing her arms, gazing up at the bright stars in disapproval but breathing in the night as she calmly waited for him to either leave her alone or regain at least some of his sanity and control.
Acaeleus steps towards her, his hands held up to either wide, wide of him. As he says out loud in a drastic tone. "He.. Help me! Please!"
The man did indeed disturb he, and cruel life had taught her to be cautious, so silently and without show, her dagger slipped out of its sheath and soon the man found himself face to face with this woman, and in the grasp of death, as she pressed the cold steel of the blade up against his soft neck flesh. "What do you want from me...?" She hissed into his ear.
Bobbing his head slightly, in a strange manner, was the only motion he gave, before he began to sob once more. "What?!?! What are you doing?!?!" he would cry out, in a clearly perturbed, put on tone. "Help me!"
The man continued to shake within her tight grasp, and the witch furrowed her brows in curiousity, though she worried not for this man. His hand rubbed his face furiously, as he continued to cry out to her in desperate shrieks. Gwynedh blinked in confusion, mumbling more in her native tongue. Suddenly and angry, she shook his shoulders with her free hand and her knife before him, "Don't be insane. Just tell me what you want."
Without warning, as if in response to her violence, Gwyn felt a prick at her side, through the cloth and mail of her armour. She jumped, annoyed, and pushed the man to the ground with a foot in his back, hissing.
To her annoyance, all the man's response constituted of continued sobs, "Help me!" With his face planted in the floor in helplessness, a chuckled choke emitted from the man's throat, entwined with his cries. ".. Brigands.. Easterners.. They.. They killed her!" He whined.
Gwynedh listened quietly, frowning at the man's apparent insanity, "Well, I am sorry to hear that.." She spit sarcastically.
As he struggled to get out of her grasp, the man jerked his hands forwards, planting his palms on the cobblestones as he cried out. "Let me go!... HELP ME!" He would roar, and his voice was followed by a feral laugh that escaped his lips.
Merely blinking in response, Gwynedh took her foot off of his back and watched him, clueless, a brow raised above an inquisitive, and stormy grey, eye.
He crawled forwards, then rose to his feet, and turned his hood slowly to face her. Seeing once more a smile on his face, she stared at him as he stood to his full height then, his hands calmly slipping down to the pommel of his longswords before he cried out again. "She's hurt! Someone call a healer!" He looked around frantically. "I.. I'll have to!"
Gwynedh turns to leave, rolling her eyes, when suddenly her body jolted and she let out a choked moan before dropping to the ground.
As she falls, the man's arms flash forwards, catching her gently in his arms, looking around in a drastic manner. Putting on desperation, he cried, "Help.. HELP!" In a show of which looked like some reserve of heroism, He lifted her up and ran to his horse, slipping her up onto the saddle. "I'll find a healer!"
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Snickering darkly to himself, once far into the hills, when the lights of the city had faded behind him, he tilted his hip to the right side as they rode westward. Pulling out a strip of cloth, he blindfolded her with it, and tied it behind her head tightly.
The dark man of Harad slipped down the side of the saddle, his strong, chiseled arms slipping around the paralyzed form of Gwynedh in a deceptively caring, gentle manner.
Dragging her within the hall of the Raikaviri Estate, a feral laugh escaped his lips, echoing into the night.
