Lynesse

Retribution

“So if I’m a tiger,” Lyn said with a bright laugh as she walked next to Zal’jir back into the camp where all the mercenaries stayed, armor and axe spattered with the blood of Orcs, “what’s that make you, ZJ?”

The Darkspear rumbled good-naturedly, his own laugh a hollow rasp like reeds in the wind, “Zal’jir’s a bat. Bats stay oudda de tigah’s way.” He paused a moment, the blue fur on his arms bristling before his golden gaze drifted toward the mercenary camp, “There are people at ya tent, Girlie. Imriel. A few oddah’s from de west side of camp. One from de east.”

Her ears pinned back and her eyes narrowed, turning to look in the direction of where she’d pitched her temporary home. She could barely see it over the rows of canvas set up by the other mercenaries and she frowned, “How can you tell?”

“Shadow huntah. Zal’jir jus’ knows,” his toothy smile broke the tension, lips curving around his carved tusks, “Also– dey upwind.” His quiet, chortling hoots burbled up before dissipating. She reached over and shoved him, unable not to smirk. “ZJ gonna let you go, Tigah. Imriel gonna wanna talk business.”

She nodded, the brief levity gone in a flash, “Good fighting, ZJ. I’ll make sure you guys get a fair share of the fish catch tonight.”

The Troll inclined his head, the look in his eye a little distant as he regarded her, “Nah, Tigah. I see you soon. You gon’ be busy.”

“If you say so. Soon, then. Keep your blood,” she saluted him with a closed fist on her heart, not questioning his reasoning. After all, there wasn’t a point to question someone with a touch of Sight. 

Lyn slung her axe over her shoulder as he ambled back toward the spears and skins that marked the small subset of Troll fighters, not appreciating the quiet stares and hushed whispers that followed in her wake as she made for her own tent. Rumors tended to fly swifter than truth in the camps, but people were well meaning. She was well liked here. She helped others with food and supplies where she could. They looked out for her, she looked out for them. Imriel and his entourage were seated around her fire circle, grim faced and alert. The dark haired elf stood and saluted, “Lynesse. The blonde you’ve been sharing your tent with. Who is he?”

Her blood ran cold as she glanced up at the sky, taking in the position of the sun. Kelthius was supposed to be on his own mission. Her leaf-green eyes glanced over at the tent, then back to Imriel, “What happened?”

“Lyn,” he sighed and frowned, “….I don’t know the details. He’s not dead. At least, I’ve heard that much–”

One of the west-siders cut in. She was familiar, someone she’d traded bandages and potions to for blank paper and ink; Lyn could see the thin film of golden healing magic still clinging to her skin from being in the healing tents. Her gentle voice was strained as she spoke, “He was shot. Friendly fire, apparently. A general caught the two that did it. He’s going to live, we just don’t have any record of who he is and the people that think they know say the person he should be is supposed to be dead.” 

Her lips pressed together in a thin line and she nodded, calculating her response, “I want a full record of his injuries within an hour. Please. Caliber of the bullet included.” She turned to Imriel, and he mirrored her expression but stayed silent as she spoke calmly, “Can you get me in to see the suspects?”

“I can’t protect you if you kill them, Lyn. I might have your contract but there’s noth–”

She cut him off, “I am not going to kill them. You have my word.”

Imriel nodded and glanced over at the one west-sider and inclined his head, “See what you can do, Rendier. Tell them she’s an Inquisitor. Get papers ready.”

Lynesse made a point to commit Rendier’s name to memory as the smaller framed blonde saluted Imriel, the golden thorn bangle around his wrist that matched Imriel’s own gleaming in the bright sun. The healer spoke up again as she stood to leave, “Did you want to see him?”

“Is he conscious?” She looked over at the slighter woman, expression and tone very carefully neutral. 

The brunette shook her head, “He wasn’t when I left. He might be now. I don’t know. He needs to rest.” 

Her armor rattled as she shifted her weight, plates sliding against chainmail. She watched the healer for a moment more before turning to look back toward the other side of camp, where the healing tents were situated, the muscle in her jaw clenching and releasing as she thought. “No. Move him to Silvermoon if he’s stable. Imriel has my address. …Imriel, I need a gun.”

The leader of the Golden Thorn looked at her and raised an eyebrow, “You said you weren’t going to kill them. Do you even know how to use a gun? Lynesse.”

She smiled as the healer went off to complete her task, “I wont. And yes. …You’re the one who said I was an inquisitor, Imriel. Let me do my job.”

He exhaled sharply, but didn’t argue. 

As it happens, confidence can get you anywhere. Into secure places. Out of trouble. The soldiers guarding the tent would turn a blind eye so long as the prisoners weren’t left dead or dying; It went against every code to attack someone on your side, especially here. Especially now. 

The prisoners gibbered and fussed in front of her, wrists bound to stakes inside the tent they were being kept. “We shouldn’t be punished for trying to rid the world of a monster,” said one, vehemently, his eyes locked firmly on the gun she was loading, “You don’t know what he’s done, Ma'am. You don’t.”

She smiled and he stopped. Her tone was dark, “You’ve been mistaken, I think.” The sound of the bullet entering the chamber was loud in the almost deafening silence, “I am the monster. Now, that’s been cleared up. Which one of you shot him? Don’t make me come over and inspect your fingers for gunpowder.”

They both paled, unable to answer. She shrugged, “I’m not a fan of guns. You boys ever been shot? Nasty wounds. Bullets are concussive. They enter and do more damage on the way out than they did in. This sheet I have here details the entrance and exit wounds; there are a lot of sensitive organs in that area, you know?” She held up the page, the outline of an Elven figure front and back with little pen marks denoting all the physical wounds sustained. She looked at it again, memorizing it before folding it and tucking it into her belt. She leveled the gun at the first man’s belly, aiming for the general area the bullet exited on Kelthius, “I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t going to kill you, but this isn’t going to be pleasant either.”

The target exhaled shakily and gestured frantically at the leader, “It was him. He shot him. Please. Have mercy.”

“Not sure the definition of that word at the moment, seems to have slipped my mind,” she shrugged and went very still. “Unlike you, I prefer to face my enemy head on rather than shoot them in the back like a gods damned coward.” She pulled the trigger and the Leader went white, screaming as the bullet pierced his side, exiting out the back in a spray of blood. His partner paled more than Lyn ever figured could be possible. The guards poked their heads in at the sound, ready to intervene. She smiled at them and let them see that their captive was still alive. They nodded, one tapping his wrist to remind her she was on a time limit before they ducked back out.

She braced the gun against her shoulder as she watched both of the helpless men, “I am going to inflict every wound you gave him on your bodies. I am going to heal you enough to make sure you don’t die, and I am going to let you live. Tell everyone you would have boasted to that there are bigger, badder monsters out there. If anyone else comes chasing vengeance on a dead man, they contend with me. I am not a merciful woman. I will never be.”