#quaimason

[monettemason]

A little bird told me.

adult situations and language

Monette saw stars as she was struck hard across the face. She was lashed to the mast of a fishing smack somewhere out in the Northern Currents between the Broken Shore and the Howling Fjords. The little boat flew the snapping Alliance Colors as it coursed over the five-foot swells. Monette turned her head back to the Man in the Dark Coat, who was holding on to a rope to keep his balance in the swell. Monette looked black and blue, but the Man in the Dark Coat looked distinctly green.

The side of her face was numb and the rocking and pitching of the boat had her nauseous. The punches to her guts did not help either. Monette’s eye had swollen shut, and wrists chafed as she worked the rough salt-ropes. The cold sea wind had frost forming on the rails and had Monette shivering; her hair a dark flutter before her.

The Man in the Dark Coat sneered, “I am going to ask again,” he shouted over the winds “Where is Doctor Wellson or Quai Mason now!”

“I don’t know,” she called back.

The Man in the Dark Coat backhanded the other side of Mo’s face.

Mo shook her head and tried to put things together through the maze of pain and the early stages of cold-sickness, the deck was deathly cold. “This man does not know how to interrogate proper,” Mo complained to herself “he doesn’t even know to wait between . . . ;” Mo’s thoughts were derailed as he grabbed the back of her hair and twisted her face to his. Mo had studied his face intimately over the past half-day’s interrogation, and now Mo knew he liked garlic shrimp.

“Answer me woman!” shouted the man, and he gave a superior-sneer as Monette shivered in his grip. He started to speak and Monette cut him off.

“Don’t ask stupid questions!” she shouted back over the winds “Why don’t you ask me a question I can answer? Do I Have to conduct this this interrogation my-“ but her reply ended with Monette getting another punch to her breadbasket. She doubled over as far as she could go, the coarse rope biting against her skin, and a stream of bile and breakfast came from her lips. Mo coughed hoarsely.

The Man in the Dark Coat shook his head in exasperation. Behind him the hatch came open and the Lieutenant came forward unsteadily, his hands reaching for one rail, and then the other. He was still in his fighting leathers of the studied non-descript variety. Behind him an Old Salt kept the tiller true as he studied the skies as the fishing smack crashed through waves. He dressed in a warm woolen coat and puffed a pipe.

“Sir?” The Lieutenant addressed the Man in the Dark Coat, while eyeing the woman lashed to the mast. The Man in the Dark Coat turned and swayed on the rope, it helped neither of their lunches to rest easily. “What do you want!”

“Why is prisoner naked?”

The Man in the Dark Coat was taken aback by what he felt was a stupid question;  and then he leered “This brown bint is going to go to the men if she does not answer my questions.” He looked over his shoulder “Arent’cha?!” Monette was too busy gasping for breath to retort.

The Lieutenant nodded and leaned close. “Sir, according to the file provided, the prisoner avails herself of various treatments and potions for the various venereal diseases . . . like children.” He still had to shout over the wind “. . . many of our commando do not! I would rather that we not have to see to them getting treated!” There was only wind on the deck for long moments. “. . . and, I do not think your prisoner will last long out here. We’ll put the Tanari below decks . . . “

“SHE ESCAPED!” he bellowed, “The real reason she’s naked is she still got out of the fetters! Okay!” The Lieutenant looked to the Man in the Dark Coat and then to the prisoner and then back again “Prisoners do that.” The Man in the Dark Coat glared at him.

The Lieutenant nodded “Let me get the prisoner out of the weather, let her take time to realize her pain, then we can question her properly.” The Man in the Dark Coat shook his head and looked to the horizon and his stomach flipped over, finally he nodded “Your responsibility if she goes over the side, or ruins this mission!!!”

“Sir.”

Mo watched the Lieutenant come up to her. She glared at him, but he raised both his hands to her neck in a peculiar way and squeezed. Mo began to gasp for breath and her eyes went wide. She tried to keep her calm but she could only hear her heartbeat. Mo’s head rolled back as strong hands held her throat tight, and overhead the blurry winter clouds overhead came to blackness.

  Monette came to gasping for breath, “No, No, NO!” she cried. She looked to her arms overhead, twisted, and pulled. She strained like a madwoman in the long moments as her senses found her and the headache filled her mind after the fear had receded. Mo breathed as she left the panic behind her. She was in a tiny cabin, her arms secured over her head as she sat lotus on the floor. The Lieutenant looked up from the stack of parchments he was reading by the shark-oil lamp. The lamp and the pale winter glow around the aft windows were the only light in the room. It wasn’t the oubliette, and it smelled of old fish.

“A bad dream?” The Lieutenant set the yellowed parchment down, and pushed them into the folio on the table next to a long leather wallet, where both promptly slid to the ridge at the edge with the wave.

Monette’s eyes snapped to the Lieutenant, like a frosted cat. “So, you get first whack?” The Lieutenant chuckled shyly “No.” Monette looked down at herself and judged what they might have had done to her while she was out. After realization dawned, she carefully looked at her surroundings in worry; at least they put her in a shirt. Unbuttoned, but a shirt. Monette could tell a man had worn and worked in the shirt since it had last been washed.

The Lieutenant turned on the bench and leaned forward with his elbows on the armored leather of his thighs “But, you know how these things work. Or at least your record hints that you do.” He reached out carefully and put a hand under Monette’s chin. Monette looked to the hand and raised her head a fraction. She ached, it was still cold, and she was hungry and thirsty. Her un-swollen eye bore into his.

“So, tell me, where do you think this Doctor Wellson and Quai Mason might be?”

Monette shook her head in his hand “I don’t know.”

The Lieutenant reached back and opened up a leather wallet. From there his hand slid out a small metal tool the end of which was a small steel hook, the type that gnome dentists used. He turned it easily in his hand and brought the sharp tip up under Monette’s cold-hardened nipple. Mo flinched and raised her chest to escape the drag of the steel bite.

Mo’s face was then twisted in the Lieutenant’s tightening grip. He looked at her teeth appraisingly as he unhooked her nipple and brought the dental instrument up her forced-open lips.

“Think harder.”

In the tiny bunk cabin, the Man in Black looked up as he started to hear the real screams and sincere begging out of the brown cunt through the wooden bulkhead. It was all the better because he did not hear the distinct words, just the broad strokes of satisfying pain and humiliation. He smiled and nodded; he still thought the Lieutenant was an ambitious smug prick, but he knew his business.

[monettemason]

A twig snap.

Monette heard the thunder rumble over the fall of the heavy winter rains. She and Quai had pulled off the road and sheltered in a copse when the skies had grown threatening in the afternoon. The skies had opened up around dark. They had gotten up under the wagons an lit a small sentinel fire. One of the mule’s hooves pawed and splashed as they sheltered with canvas, steaming under their blankets. Thunder rumbled again, and Monette blew warm air over her fingers. Spiders, she decided.

Sitting against her saddle, Monette fiddled with the blankets and adjusted her grip on the new-fangled revolver. Quai was snuggled up beside Monette, snoring, but her angry-mouse squeak snore was lost in the heavy rains. The hunting spiders native here the size of big angry dogs, so pretty manageable. Monette’s tummy rumbled and she shook her head in the dark. Quai shifted and mumbled something, and Monette soothed her with a couple of pats. Monette put hunting spiders on the most-likely-dozen list of things to look out for right now, between blind Forsaken serial killer and Black Rock wolf pack. Nodding in the dark she adjusted her hand back against the wagon wheel and looked up at the bottom of the wagon. Amongst the generous pile of pungent manure they were hauling, were things wrapped in oily rags made by worse than almost everything on Monette’s little list.

Monette pulled her feet in a little more, and resisted putting them on Quai’s. She blew warmth across her fingers and then tucked both her hands up under the blanket. In the dark she let her hands get used to the revolver, carefully pointing its muzzle somewhere over her hip. Hammer forward, and her finger away from the trigger. Four years ago she could not conceived of using such a contraption.

The rain kept falling, and Monette lost track of the time. The little touch clock that Fielton had made for her before the assault on Other Draenor was lost when Jinx sank in the waters off the Broken Isles. Her mind drifted along with the rain gusts, newly remembering and sorting out old things she needed to do. The cold and sound of rain brought her to the Westfall, over ten years ago. She was laying in the miserable damp, holding little Atya close to her. The gang was around them, and they were trying not to breathe. Off not a furlong in that rain-dark afternoon cloaked soldiers were in a line, the rain riling against their steel armor, their horses’ breath steaming as they clomped though the dismal fields.

Clement eased over from sighting his poacher’s crossbow “They’ll hear us . . .” he hissed under the rain. Monette could feel the old shortbow in her hand, and knew her hip quiver had five tatty arrows, the rain turning their calico fletching into drooping flowers. Her daughter Atya was half under her, sniffling and crying. She was two years old and it was not her fault she had a bad cold, it was not her fault that she was out in a hedge row in early March rains, it was not her fault she was sick, and cold, and tired. Monette soothed Atya’s head with her mud-stained hand and held Atya’s head to her breast, wishing better than this for her. Monette lifted her head and glared with blind hate at that line of soldiers combing the winter rows for the Westfall rebels. If it was just her, she told herself and then looked to gang. If it was just them, she reasoned . . . she looked down to her child whom would not stop crying, and who could blame her.

Monette’s hand left Atya’s head and reached for one of those soggy-fletched arrows, preparing to set it to the string. Clement reached out and grabbed her arm, hard. “That” he gestured carefully with his loaded crossbow “is eight to one . . . armor, horses, mud-frost ground”. Monette turned her head cat-swift, and Clemet flinched back with a look of alarm. He glanced away and then amongst the others before he leaned back in “Even if you get your five; that is still a whole troop of cavalry . . . forty in all.” From along the ditch Mikhail whispered “We can’t get taken in . . . they’ll string us up as soon as they find a branch tall enough . . . all of us.” Monette felt the assent of the rest group, wrenching her eyes shut, her arm still held from nocking the arrow. Atya gave a wail, and Monette dropped her bow and held Atya close to her breast, half-smothering her while cooing softly and trying to wordlessly reason with a sick toddler. Clement let go of Monette’s arm and took up his own crossbow and sighted with grim desperation. One of the searching soldiers looked up and pulled his rain-heavy cloak from aside his face. Pausing his horse, his horse responded with a frustrated flick of its tail, sending a spray of raindrops like a short-lived cloud. No one dared breathe.

Monette felt the hot tears fall over her lashes, and the sobs started to break free. She bit her lip hard against making a noise, and gripped the new-fangled revolver senselessly. It was cold, and wet, and Lakeshire. Beside her was a warm life trusting her for safety. Other than the heavy rain all was silence, but Monette could not hear it. All she heard was a little snap, like a twig.

[monettemason]

Greener Grass

The codger’s guest’s wet leathers hung over the back of the smoke rack, a tall brown half-orc woman and the short-haired girl. The two had stopped their wagons and negotiated with the old man for fodder and shelter. A housecleaning, clothes mending, and cooking were enough for a couple of days stay. The coins the women offered for taking away the old clothes were a kindness. The codger petted his old hunting dog and set his walking stick against the wall. A half an hour and he was asleep.

Monette leaned in and the needle bobbed in and out of the old calico dress, her thumb working to turn the weave to the firelight. Quai got up and went over to feel the leathers, and then bent over to gather up the Economical Kunai that the pair favored. “I wish we could wear our armor,” she sighed.

Mo looked up to reply, but the sight of Quai in a flannel shirt bent over in those orphanage-grade panties she wore, the firelight turning her ivory skin golden caused most of the words that were to follow to all get lost.  Mo blithely stabbed herself in the finger with needle. The pain managed to get through, and she sucked her finger and then shook out the pain.

Straight, Mo reminded herself, straight as a straight arrow fired by a straight shooter straight at straight-laced straight-arrow straightener . . . himself in dire straits. Quai guessed another couple of hours and took a double handful of the kunai and settled back down on the warm stones. Mo brought the cloth back up to her eyes and continued the stitch. “I know, but two steely-eyed leather-armored women festooned with stabby and shooty things, alone and steering two overfull wagons of pigshit screams smuggler.” She smiled in the firelight, Monette’s own brown skin burnished bronze. “Sooo . . . .” Mo held up the calico print dress for Quai to see. Quai looked up at dress as she got out the sharpening stone and pulled on her heavy gloves. “It looks nice, not me though . . . “. Monette let the dress back down onto her lap and bit the thread off. “You are . . . and latter is the idea. Farmer Brown and his . . .  skinny . . . dwarf . . . ward might just be found hauling pigshit overland”.

Quai took the rag and soaked it in mineral spirits. Taking up the first kunai she carefully wiped down the lacquered edge, leaving behind clean metal. Shaking her head, Quai turned the kunai over and carefully repeated the process. “You still going to try to pull off a guy?” Monette smiled to herself for some reason, and then turned the fabric in her thumbs and started a new dart to take in the top. “At least at a distance, padding the shoulders out . . . . the height”, the last part Mo mumbled “But the checkpoints, I don’t know. I have never carried it off . . . convincingly”.

Monette tossed her hair aside and raised the dress again. She knew at all the measurements, but there was measuring beyond measures. She held out the dress “Let me clean those while you try this on. Bloomers, blouse, and bonnet”. Mo waited while Quai looked at the dress, and took off the gloves. Mo let the dress fall to her lap and looked around the old upland cabin. The gray-haired owner was dozing in his rocking chair, and his gray-muzzled dog twitched an ear and looked between the funny smelling two-legged guests as they moved about. They had food, and they were nice. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the fire.

Quai took the dress from Monette and walked over to the corner and turned her back on the snoring owner and his dream-running dog in modesty. Taking off the flannel and set it away from the wet leathers, she pulled the dress up over her head and worked her arms into the sleeves, then tugging the hips down snug. Quai leaned over to get the bloomers and stepped into them “It feels good,” she assured Mo as to the fit so far, and then lifted the loose cotton up under her skirts, and tied the ribbons off. “It looks good on you,” Mo assured her. She took a bit of leather and rested a kunai in the crease. A dip of the rag into the mineral spirts and then a slow careful glide along the edge. Quai looked down and smoothed her hands down the fabric and then looked to her chest and frowned. Mo caught the motion, and she shook her head softly then reached out to soak up more spirits. “I can pad . . . if you want, it is just wool and scraps.”

Quai considered for a little bit, then asked by way of distraction. “Are you going to still wear his clothes?” She gestured to the cottage’s owner. Mo looked to him and nodded “We’re almost the same height . . . “and then she frowned to herself. Quai reached for the bonnet, and turned it the right way to wear. “Since we were reported dead, I don’t have much in the way of a wardrobe,” Monette finished.

[stanhisdilenta]

Homecoming 3

Tuesday, the 25th of November, mid-day

The only discerning factor that one could find, separating the roads of former Lordaeron from the land about them, is their regular patrol. Tis not the difference in grounding... the stone and settlement laid down so long ago is as yellow of hue as the rolling hills, laden in plain sight with their own demise. Nor can it be the footsteps, the trails they leave, for just as many show the straight and narrow path of a Dawnsmen or traveler, as do  those of an ambi-directional shambling indicate that of those fallen whom mock the road, and swarm every which way regardless. Tis the later that keeps me on a constant circular rotation in my travels to Light's Shield, though if anyone were to mock such an effort, I'd remind them these roads travels were once folly without an entire battalion looking every which way. Perhaps those were the days where the roads breathed their last, when men and women like Dundren and Ariah clung to them, just as much as myself, as an uncorrupted bastion amongst what we knew then to be enemy territory. Curved swaths....more akin to flecks of paint on the greater canvas that was this land not so long ago....John would never say such...he knew that even though they appeared as cobbled purity when compared to the yellow drab growing out of death all about us, they were no safer than any path taken, just perhaps more even keeled to allow one to see eradication incarnate undulate toward them... I unsheathed my blade and plowed it through topsoil and a layer or two more at the stirring of my commstone. Breathing in an out as I cursed my lack of wits... there was just chatter, turned down for mine own safety, but increasing. Though the distance was great, words I had always listened for.... injury...loss....Quai. Those caught mine attention as I held it to my mouth as asked for report, the other hand wrapped white about the blade which remained earthen. "We lost Trin." The Chancellor said such with an air of her station, authoritative and collected, but not lacking grief. I know her well enough to see her hand just as clenched and gripping as mine own, wondering what she could have done to change the path. I had just only seen her. I passed her on my way out of command, wearing something odd, smiling at me in a way -somehow- more so. Who was I to only afford her a nod... not much more than a glance. Surely the matter with Ms.Elliot had stirred mine tempers, but to give nothing but a droll cursory toward the woman, to remember in my own mind that -that- was all I decided to -regail- someone with.... I clanked back along the road, or what'er my mind's eye chose to call it, back to Crown Gaurd, back through the portal to see that none else would pass.