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re: Defiance


Slowly opening her eyes, Nymaway stared at the wooden poles once again. “ I am still here?” A heavy sigh escaped her blood encrusted lips as she tries to sit up, but now moving was a real chore for her. The wound at her side now wreaked of infection, and her vision was a little blurred due to the fever she had.


After a few failed attempts of sitting up she starts to crawl to the barred entrance of the cell. The chains around her wrists and ankles feel like anchors to her. It takes all of her strength to get there and when she does she collapses. She sticks her hand through the space between the wooden poles. “ Water.” She hoarsely asks.


She keeps her hands there opened, hoping someone will hear her. Again she cries out. “Water!” Still those outside of the cell ignore her going about their business quickly preparing for the ceremonial sacrifice.


Gripping onto one of the wooden poles now she manages to scream. “ WATER!” She slumps over, sweat dripping from her brow. Letting go of the wooden pole, she lowers her hands bringing them back to her chest holding onto the chains tightly.


She could hear the undead warlocks fighting among themselves, she presses her face against the poles to listen hoping for some new information.


“ Why do I have to be the one to do it?!” Hissed one of the warlock's followers.


“ Because the master's rogue has run off! We need her body cleaned and dressed properly for this ceremony. You know how he gets!” Snarls the undead from across the table.


“ FINE! Give me the damn garments!” The follower screeches opening his bony hands up as the other tosses him a set of black and purple robes.


The undead follower snarls a few more times before grabbing a water basin and filling it. He slings a washcloth and the robes over his shoulders then picks up the basin walking over to the cell. His glowing eye sockets stare at Nymaway, his rotting mouth forms into a scowl.


Nymaway looks up at him, she reaches for him whispering. “ Water.”


The follower kicks her hands. “ Keep your hands off of me! I am going to open this cell and you are going to clean yourself do you understand me?!”

He unlocks the cell door then flings it open stepping over Nymaway putting the water basin down next to her. “ You better be clean by the time I come back here!” He tosses the wash cloth at her then glares at her one more time before throwing the black and purple robes down next to her. “ When you are done you put that on!”

Slamming the cell shut he marches off mumbling something about how he isn't anyone's chamber maid.


The need for water fuels Nymaway to move to the basin. She trembles as she dips her hands into the water collecting it then bringing to her lips. The water soothes her dry mouth and throat. Again she dips her hands back into the water collecting more drinking once again. She does this multiple times until her thirst is satisfied.


She finally has the strength to sit up, she looks at the water basin then the wash cloth. “ Clean myself up?” Looking down at her side she winces slightly as she reaches down with her cuffed hands she tries to pull away the piece of bloodied tabard from the wound in her side. She cries out in pain. The fabric of the tabard stuck to the wound, pulling it away was excruciating and it reopened it slightly. Breathing heavily she finally removes the makeshift tabard bandage, she then dips the wash cloth into the water then presses it against the wound. Nymaway lets out another cry in pain as she pulls the cloth away. She tries the best she can to clean the area with what she has but in the end her efforts are useless. The wound had started to ooze blood and yellow puss.


Tossing the washcloth back into the basin she growls. “ Clean myself up for the master?” Her hands dig into the ground of the cell she then sticks her hands into the basin creating mud. She quickly smears it all over her face and the exposed parts of her body.



With a feverish grin on her face she moves back to the corner of her cell and patiently waits for the undead follower to return. However a familiar scent catches her nose, she tilts her head then whispers. “ Oddvar?”

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