Sorceress of the Second Sphere

11. White Road's Favourite Brothel - Loldirr

The light patter of rain, the continuous sound of hooves squelching into the muddied road and the silence from the three travellers around her had given Loldirr far too much time to think of events in the past and future.

For several days, Loldirr and her retinue had travelled south with just the bare essentials, eager to quickly make time but also to avoid any longing eyes determined to find out who they were.

A tear of water slipped from her hood, splashing effortlessly onto the saddle she sat on. Loldirr felt miserable, her mood dampened by the continuous rain that had dogged them since their second night of travel. Her travel companions were of no comfort. The Chevalier De Présage hardly spoke, while Sigurd Halfhand continued to incessantly yet they were both extremely unnerved by the spectre that rode behind them, the Death Wraith, Sir Gervais Vanderbilt.

Loldirr could feel his eyes on her constantly, he never slept, he never ate, he never spoke, he just watched, his endless white pupils staring underneath his black hood.

Her knowledge of the man, known to the world as the Widow Maker, was minimal. He was the spymaster of her mortal enemy, Arnaud III. Taking him with her on this quest across the breadth of Isovine must have appeared foolish. Yet with the knowledge and experience that those who questioned her had, none of them had ever experienced the bond that a Sorceress of the Elements, one able to manipulate the sphere of death, had with a Death Wraith.

She spun her head around, watching Sir Gervais' horse stride magnificently across the unpredictable terrain. He gave her a small nod, but there was no smile, no peace, just a turmoil that appeared to plague his heart endlessly.

Loldirr recalled the horrific memories of the other Death Wraith she encountered on her travels. The infamous Sir Wendon Pykeston, better known as the Shadow. He was the epitome of rage and while they did not share the bond that she did with the Widow Maker, she could feel his anger and existential hatred for her.

With Sir Gervais Vanderbilt, it was nothing but sorrow.

A drone could be heard in front of her, a familiar noise that had plagued their journey for several days, the drone of Sigurd Halfhand preparing to sing another one of his Fæordic tales of some famous warrior, lost maiden or the process of producing alcoholic beverages in the frozen wastelands of the north.

A huge sigh could be heard from atop of the horse behind him, "Enough!" the disgruntled Chevalier de Présage exclaimed, "You sound like oxen giving birth to a dozen screeching wyverns!"

A chuckle escaped the lips of Loldirr. It was the most the Ruvian knight had said on the entire journey since they left Ravenscourt, but for her, it was pleasant to hear a voice other than her thoughts.

"It speaks," Sigurd Halfhand retorted, "for I feared we were travelling with an eastern mute."

Yet as quickly as he had spoken, the Vicomte Jeffry Thibodeaux remained tight-lipped once again, the sound or lack of it appeared to frustrate Sigurd Halfhand.

"It appears, that perhaps I was not mistaken. How long must we endure this silence? A man needs sustenance to endure that torture that this journey is inflicting on me."

Loldirr wondered how she would tolerate this fractious party to Ruvia. She disliked Sigurd Halfhand immensely, ever since she had first met him in the Fæordic wasteland. He had continuously attempted to demean her at every opportunity at the althingy while attempting to unite the tribes of the Fæordic, something that she would always find hard to forget. Jeffry Thibodeaux was not a likeable man, he grunted and consistently looked like he had sat on a dagger his whole life. If he was not of noble blood, she could imagine that he would have been an enforcer for some criminal organisation like the Black Knife Syndicate, yet, instead, he was escorting her, a task by which he appeared incredibly agitated.