We strolled through a sea of cabbages on a thin dirt path. Our walk had neared a few hours at this point and Reilin winced with each step. New boots, she'd worn new boots. Trying to show off in front of Cora I surmised. I could imagine it, her tucking tail after our interview and purchasing a new outfit to stick it to the baker's daughter.
Cora, to her credit, wore an old, dust-streaked pair like a second skin. It took everything I had not to laugh. If I commented on Reilin's mistake she could categorize it as me being unfair, and lash outward. As things stood, it was a battle she fought internally.
I could tell though, the lesson wasn't lost on her. Blisters were the building blocks of practicality. They were something we all had to experience, myself included.
"Cow-pie!" Selenee called out, a moment too late from her station at our rear. It was a fresh one. I'd chosen not to say a word. No reflexes. No perception. Reilin's mind was in her blistered heels and now they were coated in shit.
Selenee had her pair of beech-wood sandals strung over her shoulder and, rightfully, was attentive to the road. Her toes had to be calloused, but you couldn't tell from up top. They appeared fresh and supple. You could trace the curve of her nails with a compass.
"Selenee, where have you trained?" I called back. I wasn't going to give the backer of this expedition room to start whining.
"Madame Turaneau's Academy of Dance, Mentor Serica," she replied. It was a trained response. This girl came with a pedigree. Of course I'd heard of the institution. Dancer's weren't a common class, often a second or third choice. They were the kind of girls you foundnd in The Amber Lodge, slinging cunt after shift for a few extra bells. Alicia Turaneau's students were the exception to this rule. They had nothing but respect for their craft.
The normal response to such a statement was "Tuition or scholarship?", but Turaneau didn't accept tuition. She hand-picked each and every one of her swans.
I felt the bile stewing in Reilin's throat. She dragged her heels through the dirt trying to scrape off the mess.
Selenee's background was a setback. Her nonchalance wasn't effortless, it was instilled. At first I'd taken her as a cleric.
Fool.
I'd marked more than a few of my own faults. This was the greatest. My reasoning was compromised in the face of beauty.
However, I'd just found my in. The few dancers of the Society bore arms. Selenee, notably, did not.
"You didn't think a chakram appropriate?"
The ring-blade. The dancer's signature implement, for those that felt the need to escape the tavern or back-room. She hadn't brought one. War-dancers were dervishes that cut in the escape, tempting you closer and punishing your indiscretion. During my own mentorship I had the pleasure of studying beside one. Darcee had been a brutal flirt, and wore a chastity belt woven of liquid movement.
"I-" She raised her hands to her shoulders in surrender, unaware as her forearms caused the conical tips of her breasts to jut, "I'm a non-combative."
"Excuse me?" I pried the jaws of my inquisitorial bear-trap open and set it before her.
Cora's eyes were wide. Reilin was a living smirk, and Selenee was dead to rights clutching her back for a ring that wasn't there, "There's emotional magic..."
Yes... Step on the trigger.
Emotional magic. It was the biggest pseudo-arcane pile of cow-shit anyone had ever stumbled into. Gyrating your ass and jiggling your tits to calm monsters and embolden the ones doing actual work. It wasn't magic. It was basic, inborn emotion. If you weren't willing to back it with a blade you had no place on the field.
"So you're bait."
"I... I'm not-" she took a step back, separated herself from us with three hours of lonely travel.
"What's the plan then? Cheer these two on while they batter slime? Does that sound like pacifism to you?" I circled the others and stooped to her.
"I'm support," she mumbled, shrinking under my stare.
I had no intentions of allowing a glorified slit-wetter sit second chair while I directed these two.
"Oh. I misjudged," I rounded my pack and yanked out a bandage roll, "Then tend to her blisters," I said, and sent an arm wide to gesture at Reilin.
She can wipe sweat and smear ointment until she decides she's tired of being the help.
She hesitated. Fire rose in my throat.
"That rogue. That's the one who's going to step between you and death. You better wrap your mind around taking care of her if you plan to put in an application," I slapped the roll into her palm and turned, "Cora, keep up. These two will find us if they're able."
Cora slapped her bar-mace into another pool of blue goop. She was on her knees and breathless. I poured a flask of tangy dressing onto a split ten ways cabbage.
I tore off a corner of cabbage and bit in. I hated to admit it but Ilia's flask-shaken vinaigrette hit all the right notes.
Maybe missing a ground garlic clove... you know what, I'll let her have this one.
Reilin's cheque was still tucked into my thigh-band.
Where is that scamp anyway?
Those two couldn't have gotten lost. It was a straight fucking path.
"Keep it up." I said to Cora, rounding to go check on my wayward mentees.
By the time I found them, the cabbage had disappeared.
Selenee had Reilin's foot at her mouth. She grimaced as she tried to pop a blister with her teeth.
I didn't give them the damn stiletto.
Snap. A holster button had come undone.
Why do I find this hot?
They hadn't noticed me yet. Reilin was braced, hands in the dirt, boots at her side, wincing. Selenee's eyes were on that injured toe.
Reilin's other foot was already bandaged. Sel had already popped eight or nine of these with her mouth. Nose wrinkled, Reilin squirmed, her thighs were pulled tight together. Like she could hide that she was drenched.
It was so bizarrely intimate. She yanked her foot back and Selenee gagged, then spat. She hadn't even signed a disciplinary agreement.
Can I backdate one?
I decided best not to find out, and left before they registered me. I couldn't let these two clock my lapse in judgement.
When I rounded on Cora again, she was surrounded by slimes.
They were bounding, thrashing against her bar-mace.
I extended a palm, wiped out half of them, and had her continue.