Lyra leaped forward swinging her sword at the fat, ugly man, her stance widening more to keep balance. The large man barely met her quick strike and seemed to heave at the effort of keeping her at bay. Pete Grastly used the advantage of his weight, quite a large advantage mind you, to throw her off balance causing her to take a forceful step back. She parred his second attack and stepped forward once more before swiftly cutting his large meaty side, drawing blood. He let out a vicious roar and Lyra felt her head become light as her brain slowed.
She heard the crowd roaring, cheering for her, the sound invigorating. The man with black ink covering his body from head to toe lay there below her, her hips grinding.
Lyra blinked once, and then twice. Her vision clearing of the strange image that overtook her briefly. Only then did she notice how all of time had slowed, almost to a halt. Pete stood there, sword slicing down at her. The angry glint in his eyes simmering, promising violence. Lyra took the strange opportunity to strike once more at his midsection, successfully gutting him like a pig. The blood sprayed, coating her face.
More, more, more, she demanded. Her heartbeat thumping rhythmically in her ears. Her panting appeasing the crowd as she reached the edge of her climax, nearly tipping over. She bent down and sealed her lips against the beautiful, dangerous man beneath her. Lyra kissed, long and slow, then pulled at the familiar string of life essence. Pulling his life from his own lips and into her own body. Then and only then did she reach her orgasm.
Lyra came to once more and found herself standing over the mutilated body of Pete Grastly. Although there seemed to be an extraordinary amount of blood pooling beneath her feet, staining her worn but sturdy boots.
Gasps and cries erupted throughout the audience and someone yelled out and a large number of burly men surrounded her. Lyra had no chance to defend herself from whatever attack was on its way before she was sucked into the strange dream again. The distant sound of chain clasping onto her hands and a white-hot flash of pain.
------------------
Lyra woke to the skitter of a rat crawling across her worn boot. She shifted to kick the little bugger and noticed the chafing on her wrists. Lyra saw a metal, slightly rusted, looking set of shackles attached to the poor, abused joints which, then, led down and attacked to her feet. Her wrists had rubbed raw, as well as her ankles, not used to the rough contact.
Glancing around, Lyra found herself in a small cell, probably the length of a tall man and the width of fat old Pete. There was also a small pot across from her, presumably a place to do her business, that looked far too, used.
She was in Das'Mahla's town jail.
Lyra would recognize the place like that back of her hand. She'd had more than one run-in with the law, well, really just Mr. Grastly. She'd always been more bark than bite when he'd 'accidentally' grabbed her ass or breast. She'd roughed him up more than once on that account.
But why was she here this time?
It was not illegal to kill in a duel, especially, one she'd not initiated. This was blasphemy, corrupt! She'd figure out who'd thrown her in here without due cause and gut them as she'd done too good Ol' Pete Grastly. Only then, after the remainder of her duel, did Lyra feel, or lack thereof, the empty space where her trusted blade had once sat.
She felt a pull of panic in her chest at not having the sword on her hip. Her protection was gone.
Lyra suddenly searched her tunic and found the mysterious fancy note still tucked away. She, abruptly, returned the note back to its hiding place when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed along the halls. She waited for a brief time before the outline of a man appeared in the dim lighting of the prison.
His silhouette was broad and borderline intimidating. It would have been had she not fought men bigger than this man. The man stopped short of the torch and she'd had to squint to try to make out any detail, and even then she came up unsuccessful.
"What do ye want from me?" Lyra bit out sourly, "Why am I here? I didn't do nothin' wrong! It was a fair duel!"
"Lyra Cain?"
"Who else would it be?"
"I've looked everywhere for you. You were supposed to meet an emissary for the Queen's court."
"Well, clearly, I wasn't able to attend. How long have I been here? I've only just come too."
The man hesitated briefly, seemingly weighing a choice, before responding.
"I'm....not sure but you managed to avoid the Royal Emissary."
"Aren't ye the Royal Emissary?"
The man stepped into the low-light and Lyra was met with a man in a strangely garish mask and outfit, almost something one might see at court. Which would make sense, if he was an Emissary?
"No, I am no Royal Emissary," he spit the phrase out like it was a hot coal, something that you didn't want in your mouth in the first place.
"Then who are ye? Why have ye come to speak with me?"
"I've been looking for you. I didn't think you were anything special until...nevermind."
"Until what?"
"Nothing, but I've your capabilities, and I'd like to hire you."
"I don't clean or cook. Not for a man at least."
"Not cleaning Miss."
"I don't fuck for money either, despite all the rumors." Lyra bit out angrily.
He let out a low chuckle. One that made her reconsider her previous statement.
"Not that either. I'd like to hire you for your wits, not your body."
"Pardon?"
The well-dressed man shifted closer to the bars bending down to her level. His broad shoulder flexing attractively with the movement.
"I'm..in a certain situation. I am in need of an investigator, who is subtle and efficient. Have you heard of the Red Knight?"
"Coincidently, Sir, I've heard that name quite a few times in the las' few days."
"Ah, so you're already familiar with that issue, that makes this a bit easier. Will you search for the real culprit of the crime the Red Knight is accused of and do so in secret, less you lose your head for undermining the Red Queen?"
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