Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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A thunderous pounding on Rhys' door drew her out of the dismal attempts to meditate. The fortress was never quiet, and even at this end of the building, her window still let in enough of the noise from the courtyard to distract her. Not that she was able to focus lately.
Rhys climbed wearily to her feet. She'd hardly expected to be called upon, and yet she felt relieved at the opportunity to move. Yanking open the door, barefooted and sleepy-eyed, Rhys found Ismay, her hand raised to knock once again.
"Ah! Rhys. Good, you're awake. Come on, girl. You're coming out with me tonight."
Rhys raised a brow. "I am? I'm off duty—"
"This isn't duty. Well. Not exactly. I'm taking you out for drinks."
"I don't drink."
"You do now!" Ismay slapped her heartily on the shoulder. "Come on, kid. Put your boots on. If you're not up for some ale, I'll treat you to whatever else on the menu that might tickle your fancy."
"Why?"
Ismay chuckled. "Because. We're practically partners now. I'd like to get to know you better!"
There was far more to this offer than an attempt to get to know her better. Ismay didn't manage to stay in her position for so long without knowing how to read people, and how to manipulate them. Rhys was certain she wanted something. What exactly, she wasn't sure.
"Give me a minute," Rhys muttered, turning to get her boots. There was no denying the woman, and it wasn't like she was doing anything else. Maybe she'd even manage to learn a thing or two.
It was a short walk to the boisterous tavern just outside the gates of The Wolf's fortress. A worn wooden sign hung above the door with a crudely painted grinning skull. The main room— wide, open, and hung generously with gas lamps— stank of sweat and booze. It was hardly the sort of setting she'd yearned for, but Rhys settled in beside Ismay in a large booth, strangely thankful for the company.
"Hey! Dovinnia, we need drinks over here!" Ismay bellowed, and Rhys couldn't help but stare at the burly older woman. When at Zaketa's side, she was quiet, doting, almost motherly in a gruff sort of way. "What?" Ismay chuckled. "I can't be surrogate mother and guard all the time."
"Yeah, yeah, what'll it be?" A surly, stout woman made her way to them, hand on hip.
"Red ale for me, as usual. And for my friend here, something..." She studied Rhys once more. "What's your problem with drinking, kid? The taste? The buzz? The cost?"
"I don't like to dull my senses with foul-tasting fermented liquid."
"Enough!" Ismay cried. "Dovinnia, bring her something sweet, with just a touch of liquor. A desert. That okay with you, kid?"
Rhys sighed and nodded her consent. "Water, too, please. Dovinnia. Thank you."
