RVA: The Red Vixen at Sea, Part Fifteen
Nov. 15th, 2016 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalFourth time's the charm, Melanie thought to herself, looking at the stairs again with distaste. But there were four tentacles in the sand, curving around the bay where the ardalian had to be hiding, leading up the stairs to the altar. She had to wonder at that. Surely there was no real reason why attaching a puppeteer tentacle to a victim had to be done at the highest point of the island. Perhaps it was a tradition. The presence of the stone altar slab certainly pointed to that.
She decided to worry about it later. For now, Melanie had a task. Even better, she could do it at the bottom of the stairs instead of climbing all the way to the top to confront the ardalian’s puppets. So she set her improvised spear into the sand, and drew out her real weapon from her pocket.
The gleaming silver safety scissors were one of those items where the purpose was so basic that the design hadn’t changed in its essentials for hundreds of years. Fifteen centimeters long, the handle at an angle to the cutting blades for ease of use and improved cutting pressure, the tips blunted to prevent it from accidentally poking someone, a healer from Foxen Prime’s pre-spaceflight era would have recognized it easily. The only difference was the material it was made from, a gleaming stainless steel-diamond composite that held wickedly sharp edge that would never blunt. An edge that could cut through cloth, leather, nylon, plastic, rubber, and even steel of a certain thickness.
Melanie’s cracked lips drew back from her fangs in a smile. It was a wicked smile. A Red Vixen smile. The sort of smile she’d used when she wanted to show someone she knew exactly what she was doing. She hadn’t indulged in it often even with her alternate persona, and proper Lady Melanie Lovejoy had never used it at all. She was smiling it now though, for all that she’d missed it, as the blades of the scissors sliced through the flesh of the first of the tentacles as easily as paper.
The rubbery tentacle fell to the ground in two pieces, yellowish ichor spilling from two two ends and soaking into the sand. From the direction of the altar, there was loud yowling scream, probably that of the kinis, as its connection to the ardalian was cut. Quickly, before remaining three could be directed down the stairs, Melanie cut their own connections to their captor and puppeteer, their screams echoing even louder than the constant sound of the rushing waves. Then she slipped the scissors back into her pocket, jogging back up the stairs as quickly as her weary legs could manage, trying not to trip over the flaccid tentacles running up the steps.
When she got to the top, she found the kinis and the two humans lying still on the ground, apparently dead from shock with the cutting of their connection. To her surprise the wazagan was still alive, though it lay on the ground curled up in a tight ball, arms covering its head, rocking and sobbing as it muttered, “Waqur rabbighfir warham wa'anta khayrur rahimeen! Waqur rabbighfir warham wa'anta khayrur rahimeen!” over and over in a language that Melanie didn’t understand.
As for Rolas, he lay facedown on the altar, head hanging over the edge, arms and legs bound with rope to the four corners, one of the puppeteer tentacles already merged with his spine. As she reached for him, his body convulsed, arms and legs yanking so hard at his bonds that they tore open the skin at wrists and ankles as his back bent. Then just as suddenly he collapsed, puppet strings seemingly cut, as a low rattle of breath left his lungs, his body still.
“Rolas? Rolas!” Melanie screamed, lifting his head with both her paws. A dead face looked back at her, muzzle agape, eyes open and unseeing. Too late, too late! Something must have gone wrong as the ardalian tried to establish a connection. Perhaps the shock of her cutting the connection to its other puppets had affected it. Perhaps there was something unique about foxen biology that made a compatible connection impossible. None of that mattered to her as Melanie yanked the safety scissors from her pocket, nearly dropping them in her haste as she cut Rolas’ bonds, rolling him over onto his back, lifting his neck slightly to clear his airway before she put her doubled palms over his chest and began pumping. One, two three…
She pumped his chest over and over, the idiot rhythm of the pop song they’d played in the emergency resuscitation class she’d take as a girl so long ago coming back to her. By the time she’d reached a count of thirty her arms, especially her recently dislocated right shoulder, were screaming in pain and fatigue. Melanie checked Rolas’ airway, and was about to start pumping again when he pulled in a shuddering breath, chest rising as his eyes rolled back and forth in his head.
“Rolas? Rolas? Do you hear me, Rolas?” she panted, shuddering in terror and relief,as she held onto him, ear pressed to his chest, listening to the now steady beat of his heart.
“Who…?” he muttered softly.
Oh, no! Don’t tell me we have to start all over again “It’s me, Melanie! Your wife, Melanie,” she sobbed. “Please, Rolas. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten again.”
His arms reached up, wrapping around her. “Mel-a-nie,” he sounded out slowly, as if it saying her name for the first time.
“Yes, I’m Melanie,” she agreed. “Do you remember anything else?”
“Mel-a-nie,” he repeated, his arms suddenly tightening around her like a vise, pinning her arms to her sides, squeezing the breath out of her.
Too late, in her haste to cut him free of the altar and turn him over, Melanie realized that she had forgotten to cut the last, most important bond holding Rolas prisoner.
“Mel-a-nie,” the ardalian repeated with Rolas’ mouth. “yOU wiLL bE a GOod toOL.”
Her reaction as immediate and unthinking. Years of sparring with her old pirate crew had taught Melanie no end of dirty tricks. The knee, for example, that she rammed into Rolas’ crotch definitely had the salutary effect she’d hoped for. The senses in Rolas’ relatively healthy body must have been able to transmit pain across the puppeteer link much more effectively than its old, half dead puppets, for his body convulsed and she was able to slip out of his suddenly slack grip. Even so, she was barely ahead of him as she almost fell down the stairs towards the beach, Rolas leaping off the altar and stumbling after her.
When she reached the bottom she snatched up her improvised spear, turning around and back pedaling as Rolas approached her. Despite the threat he kept moving towards her, and Melanie as forced to back up, not daring to actually use it against her own husband, even if he wasn’t in charge of his body at the moment. If I spear him in the gut with this thing, I doubt the first aid kit will much help for abdominal bleeding.
“Me-la-nie,” the ardalian repeated. “fighTING Is useLESS. JOin wiTH THis othER, ANd bE PArt oF ME.”
“We’re already joined together,” she snarled, baring her teeth at it. “Forever!” She reversed her grip on the spear and swept out, catching Rolas’ ankles. He fell to the ground, stopping his fall with his paws. Before he could push himself back up though, Melanie was in motion, jumping over his head and onto his back, switching her grip again and bringing the point of her spear down directly onto the ardalian’s tentacle, severing it as the knife buried itself into the sand.
Rolas screamed, a long, high pitched cry of pain that seemed to be ripped from his throat. Then he collapsed to the ground again, body shaking.
“Rolas?” Melanie asked, dropping to her knees in front of him.
For a several seconds he could do nothing but shudder, flinching away from her violently when Melanie tried to touch him. Then finally Rolas swallowed, raising his head to look up at her, his eyes red with tears. “Mel?” he asked softly, voice rough in his throat.
“Yes, Rolas,” she answered just as quietly. “I’m Melanie. What do you remember?”
“I was upset, could smell you were pregnant, wanted you on Windskimmer to work things out,” he said, panting, looking as bone weary as she felt. “We… we argued. I…” He lowered his head in shame.
“Shh, that’s over and done, Rolas,” she said gently. “Keep going.”
“There was the storm… Fell into the sea… Woke up on the beach, couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t remember you.” He tried to push himself into a sitting position, hissing in pain.
“Stay still, Rolas. I think trying to move with that thing in your back is a very bad idea,” she advised.
He nodded and went on. “We lost Windskimmer. I bawled like a cubling. Then we were hunted by those poor creatures, and I… Oh, Mel, I’m so sorry.”
“That was the ardalian, Rolas, that wasn’t you.”
“All I could do was watch it happen, Mel,” he said, tears welling up. “I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t stop it.”
As he began to weep, she gathered him up in her arms, rocking him gently. “It’s over,” she breathed, “it’s all over.”
To Be Concluded
She decided to worry about it later. For now, Melanie had a task. Even better, she could do it at the bottom of the stairs instead of climbing all the way to the top to confront the ardalian’s puppets. So she set her improvised spear into the sand, and drew out her real weapon from her pocket.
The gleaming silver safety scissors were one of those items where the purpose was so basic that the design hadn’t changed in its essentials for hundreds of years. Fifteen centimeters long, the handle at an angle to the cutting blades for ease of use and improved cutting pressure, the tips blunted to prevent it from accidentally poking someone, a healer from Foxen Prime’s pre-spaceflight era would have recognized it easily. The only difference was the material it was made from, a gleaming stainless steel-diamond composite that held wickedly sharp edge that would never blunt. An edge that could cut through cloth, leather, nylon, plastic, rubber, and even steel of a certain thickness.
Melanie’s cracked lips drew back from her fangs in a smile. It was a wicked smile. A Red Vixen smile. The sort of smile she’d used when she wanted to show someone she knew exactly what she was doing. She hadn’t indulged in it often even with her alternate persona, and proper Lady Melanie Lovejoy had never used it at all. She was smiling it now though, for all that she’d missed it, as the blades of the scissors sliced through the flesh of the first of the tentacles as easily as paper.
The rubbery tentacle fell to the ground in two pieces, yellowish ichor spilling from two two ends and soaking into the sand. From the direction of the altar, there was loud yowling scream, probably that of the kinis, as its connection to the ardalian was cut. Quickly, before remaining three could be directed down the stairs, Melanie cut their own connections to their captor and puppeteer, their screams echoing even louder than the constant sound of the rushing waves. Then she slipped the scissors back into her pocket, jogging back up the stairs as quickly as her weary legs could manage, trying not to trip over the flaccid tentacles running up the steps.
When she got to the top, she found the kinis and the two humans lying still on the ground, apparently dead from shock with the cutting of their connection. To her surprise the wazagan was still alive, though it lay on the ground curled up in a tight ball, arms covering its head, rocking and sobbing as it muttered, “Waqur rabbighfir warham wa'anta khayrur rahimeen! Waqur rabbighfir warham wa'anta khayrur rahimeen!” over and over in a language that Melanie didn’t understand.
As for Rolas, he lay facedown on the altar, head hanging over the edge, arms and legs bound with rope to the four corners, one of the puppeteer tentacles already merged with his spine. As she reached for him, his body convulsed, arms and legs yanking so hard at his bonds that they tore open the skin at wrists and ankles as his back bent. Then just as suddenly he collapsed, puppet strings seemingly cut, as a low rattle of breath left his lungs, his body still.
“Rolas? Rolas!” Melanie screamed, lifting his head with both her paws. A dead face looked back at her, muzzle agape, eyes open and unseeing. Too late, too late! Something must have gone wrong as the ardalian tried to establish a connection. Perhaps the shock of her cutting the connection to its other puppets had affected it. Perhaps there was something unique about foxen biology that made a compatible connection impossible. None of that mattered to her as Melanie yanked the safety scissors from her pocket, nearly dropping them in her haste as she cut Rolas’ bonds, rolling him over onto his back, lifting his neck slightly to clear his airway before she put her doubled palms over his chest and began pumping. One, two three…
She pumped his chest over and over, the idiot rhythm of the pop song they’d played in the emergency resuscitation class she’d take as a girl so long ago coming back to her. By the time she’d reached a count of thirty her arms, especially her recently dislocated right shoulder, were screaming in pain and fatigue. Melanie checked Rolas’ airway, and was about to start pumping again when he pulled in a shuddering breath, chest rising as his eyes rolled back and forth in his head.
“Rolas? Rolas? Do you hear me, Rolas?” she panted, shuddering in terror and relief,as she held onto him, ear pressed to his chest, listening to the now steady beat of his heart.
“Who…?” he muttered softly.
Oh, no! Don’t tell me we have to start all over again “It’s me, Melanie! Your wife, Melanie,” she sobbed. “Please, Rolas. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten again.”
His arms reached up, wrapping around her. “Mel-a-nie,” he sounded out slowly, as if it saying her name for the first time.
“Yes, I’m Melanie,” she agreed. “Do you remember anything else?”
“Mel-a-nie,” he repeated, his arms suddenly tightening around her like a vise, pinning her arms to her sides, squeezing the breath out of her.
Too late, in her haste to cut him free of the altar and turn him over, Melanie realized that she had forgotten to cut the last, most important bond holding Rolas prisoner.
“Mel-a-nie,” the ardalian repeated with Rolas’ mouth. “yOU wiLL bE a GOod toOL.”
Her reaction as immediate and unthinking. Years of sparring with her old pirate crew had taught Melanie no end of dirty tricks. The knee, for example, that she rammed into Rolas’ crotch definitely had the salutary effect she’d hoped for. The senses in Rolas’ relatively healthy body must have been able to transmit pain across the puppeteer link much more effectively than its old, half dead puppets, for his body convulsed and she was able to slip out of his suddenly slack grip. Even so, she was barely ahead of him as she almost fell down the stairs towards the beach, Rolas leaping off the altar and stumbling after her.
When she reached the bottom she snatched up her improvised spear, turning around and back pedaling as Rolas approached her. Despite the threat he kept moving towards her, and Melanie as forced to back up, not daring to actually use it against her own husband, even if he wasn’t in charge of his body at the moment. If I spear him in the gut with this thing, I doubt the first aid kit will much help for abdominal bleeding.
“Me-la-nie,” the ardalian repeated. “fighTING Is useLESS. JOin wiTH THis othER, ANd bE PArt oF ME.”
“We’re already joined together,” she snarled, baring her teeth at it. “Forever!” She reversed her grip on the spear and swept out, catching Rolas’ ankles. He fell to the ground, stopping his fall with his paws. Before he could push himself back up though, Melanie was in motion, jumping over his head and onto his back, switching her grip again and bringing the point of her spear down directly onto the ardalian’s tentacle, severing it as the knife buried itself into the sand.
Rolas screamed, a long, high pitched cry of pain that seemed to be ripped from his throat. Then he collapsed to the ground again, body shaking.
“Rolas?” Melanie asked, dropping to her knees in front of him.
For a several seconds he could do nothing but shudder, flinching away from her violently when Melanie tried to touch him. Then finally Rolas swallowed, raising his head to look up at her, his eyes red with tears. “Mel?” he asked softly, voice rough in his throat.
“Yes, Rolas,” she answered just as quietly. “I’m Melanie. What do you remember?”
“I was upset, could smell you were pregnant, wanted you on Windskimmer to work things out,” he said, panting, looking as bone weary as she felt. “We… we argued. I…” He lowered his head in shame.
“Shh, that’s over and done, Rolas,” she said gently. “Keep going.”
“There was the storm… Fell into the sea… Woke up on the beach, couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t remember you.” He tried to push himself into a sitting position, hissing in pain.
“Stay still, Rolas. I think trying to move with that thing in your back is a very bad idea,” she advised.
He nodded and went on. “We lost Windskimmer. I bawled like a cubling. Then we were hunted by those poor creatures, and I… Oh, Mel, I’m so sorry.”
“That was the ardalian, Rolas, that wasn’t you.”
“All I could do was watch it happen, Mel,” he said, tears welling up. “I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t stop it.”
As he began to weep, she gathered him up in her arms, rocking him gently. “It’s over,” she breathed, “it’s all over.”
To Be Concluded
