Reluctantly Rogue Pt. 02 Ch. 05

(Note: This is a long, ongoing story. It is a story with sex. It's a sexy story. It is in many ways a story about sex. But, it is not strictly a sex story. Many chapters may even be SFW.

This chapter is mostly SFW.)

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CHAPTER FIVE

Towers and Traps

"Hullo?" Atyr called out into the dark of the tower. "Wetlyn? Sorry to intrude, I'm hear to ask for your help!" His voice echoed faintly in the cool, musty air of the room, and a soft silence fell once more.

Stepping carefully over the tripwire, he moved a few paces further in, casting a nervous eye back over his shoulder at the ruined door. "Hullo? Are you here?"

No answer came. Atyr looked around him as his eyes began to adjust to the gloom. It was a large room, round, and built of un-cut field stone; rough, grey rocks of differing sizes and shapes that looked to have been plucked from the top of the spire itself. Floor and ceiling were hewn wooden planks. The beams above him trailed long strands of ancient cobweb, dusted white and teased into ribbons that reached almost to the floor. As he stepped forward, they clung to him, breaking free in delicate, dry streamers that draped and floated behind.

Scanning the room, he looked for anything that he might use to brace the door against the waiting pack outside. A broken chair lay under one narrow window, next to a collapsed table. A wooden chest lay upturned and open against the far wall. Other broken, decaying furniture lay in places around the room, none of it hefty enough to stop the muscled forms of his pursuers. Across the floor was strewn countless summers' accumulation of detritus. Sticks, small rocks, leaves. Over everything lay a thick layer of dust, undisturbed save for his own footprints. If the old witch really lived here, she must not have entered this room in some time.

Across the room a wooden staircase spiraled upwards. If she was here, that must be the way. He called out once more. "Hullo? Wetlyn, are you here?"

Hearing nothing in response, he began to pick through the musty chaos of the floor, stepping over rodents' nests and collecting a veil of cobwebs on his arms and head.

He stopped. There was a tiny glint of light from the floor. Another tripwire. Following it with his eyes, he found the simple wood release, and then the heavy weighted net on the ceiling. Smiling to himself, he backed up. Finally, some part of this whole fae adventure that the woodsman in him could appreciate.

Leaving it undisturbed, he stepped over and continued on across the room, warier now. One wire was interesting, two was a pattern. As he passed the trap, a long string of faint mist lifted off the line and wrapped itself around his chest, vanishing into him. He took note: Experience from avoiding traps.

Ahead was a straight, clear run of floor heading to the stair. It was very straight, and very clear. Too much so. He distrusted it. Inching forward, he peered around, at the junk piled on either side of the open way, and at the dust-grey boards. At first he saw nothing, then he noticed a single plank shorter than the others, breaking at a different point, where no joist seemed to run. Looking at it, he couldn't see what effect stepping on it might have, but he walked long around it to be safe.

From the wall in front of him, a second bit of ghostly, grey mist launched itself and buried into his chest with a confident warmth. Staring at the place the Experience dart had come from, he saw a series of small holes bored into the walls. Could those somehow be rigged to fire at whoever triggered the floorboard? His respect for the old woman's cunning increased. Perhaps she could teach him something of trap-laying.

He had almost reached the bottom of the stair now. He called out once more. "Hi, Wetlyn, I'm coming up! I'm a friend!" He paused. "At least, I hope to be a friend. I wish to beg a favor of you!" As before, silence was his only answer.

The last trap was an obvious one. The landing at the bottom of the stairs was a trapdoor. No attempt had been made to hide the edges. Clearly, it would tip the unwary intruder down into... well, probably something nasty. Atyr stepped neatly across, onto the bottom step, and waited for the satisfying rush of Experience. It never came. Well, clearly he didn't have this fae-mark stuff all figured out yet.

He started up the stairs, and they collapsed under him. All at once, the risers kicked out, the treads snapped down into a ramp, the trapdoor fell open, and a tripwire sprang up behind his heels. He slid, flipped backwards over the wire, smashed his back against the rim of the opening, plunging down, down into the dark, and crashed painfully onto a cold stone floor below.

Atyr was certain his ankle was broken. It felt like a bad break, too; his foot lying with an odd orientation to the rest of his leg. He didn't even attempt to stand, waiting instead for his fae-touched healing to knit bone and soothe tendons.

It was almost perfectly dark in the room where he sat, tumbled against the wall like a child's doll, forgotten in a corner. The only light was the thin glimmering rectangle around the edge of the trapdoor, now closed again above him. Through the pain, he nevertheless had to admire the cleverness of that one, both the ingenuity of the trap, and the craftsmanship it must have required.

In the dark, he noticed what he had before in the crevice under the great stone: not quite a light, but the idea of a light. The symbols on his arm glowed in his mind, two rings around the border of the fae-mark; a dull red, and a foggy grey. More questions, always more questions...

The floor was dry, no groundwater seeped in it seemed, here at the peak of the spire. Atyr wondered if he could find anything to make a small light. Casting about him in the blind darkness, he could feel nothing but dirt and pebbles, scattered across the flagstones.

He wanted to stand, to try to find a way out of this cellar, or dungeon, whatever it was, but his ankle still hung at a revolting angle. The healing seemed to be taking longer, perhaps due to the damage to the bones. Dragging himself painfully across the floor, he felt a variety of objects. Larger rocks, various bits of some sort of fabric, assorted leavings of the long years, and finally, what he sought; a pile of small sticks, dry with age. Further scrounging rewarded him with two small coins, kips, he assumed, and more importantly, a few bits of straw. Forgetting his new purse, he dropped the kips into his pack, and collected the dry stalks.

Carefully arranging his yet unhealed ankle on the floor, he settled himself and set up a small pile of the straw. Then, by touch, he set some of the smallest sticks in one pile, and slightly larger ones in another. He pulled out his strike-light, and set to work getting a good spark to catch. The dry tinder flared, and a whiff of harsh smoke hit his nostrils. He swiftly fed some of the smallest kindling into the little fire. It didn't light. Working swiftly before the tinder was burnt up, he slid out his belt knife and set to work shaving the sticks into the flame. The little flicker of yellow was dying. He tried to breath more life into it, but it was fading fast into a red glow. Then it was gone, and the darkness fell again.

Not giving up on light, Atyr opened up his pack, carefully removing objects one at a time, and setting them aside neatly. There must be something he could use among the contents. He tried to remember, did he still have any dry tinder saved? Likely not, he hadn't expected to need it in Woodstead. His hand found the cool, smooth shape of the tiny vial of blood-like liquid and he rolled it idly between his fingers. First the coin had fallen from the dead wolf, pressed into his palm. Now this strange glass bottle, appearing under his hand as he fell onto the body of the grey-skinned monster... As with the tripwires, once was odd, twice made a pattern.

He hardly had time to consider the meaning of the coin and bottle, when the trap door dropped open again above him. Blinking at the suddenness of the dim light, he saw a woman's form silhouetted. She reached out over the hole and dropped something small that glinted as it fell. He heard glass smash as the object hit the stones in front of him, and a pungent aroma like wine and crushed flowers washed over him. The door swung closed above him. His head began to fuzz over, and the pain faded. His nervous energy melted into a calm, relaxed acceptance. Things didn't matter so much. It was fine. This was fine. He wanted to rest. He felt heavy, heavy, too heavy to move. He would sit a while...

A small crack sounded, and now a harsh scent like smelted metal filled his nose. Slowly, the room flared into an odd, purple glow that seemed to come from nowhere in particular, and left no shadows. The fae light drew forth bright, uncommon hues from many of the objects about him. It was very pretty. Like nothing he'd ever seen. He looked at his hands and found they glowed slightly as well. That brought a happy smile to his face. He looked around him where he sat, at his possessions, and at the glowing white sticks he had tried to burn. He realized dimly why they hadn't lit. He wasn't the first to have fallen into this trap. They were bones. Wasn't that silly of him, trying to start a fire with bones...

"I will not stop you if you wish to drink that." The crisp, clear voice was that of a young woman, and came from immediately behind him.

He blinked slowly. It was a pretty voice. He liked it. Tilting his head back lazily to look for the source, he leaned too far, falling over and bouncing his skull against the dirty stone. It probably hurt, he supposed.

"Stand up." The woman's voice came again, and he looked around, finding her now. She was young, and beautiful. So beautiful. As he gazed at her face, glowing with the unearthly light, he was certain he had never met a person as beautiful as this woman. He grinned at her.

"Stand up," she said again, and he did.

His ankle collapsed and he fell limply back to the ground. He'd forgotten about that. He looked at the foot, it was facing partway backwards. He frowned slightly. That wasn't how it should be, was it?

The beautiful woman spoke again. "Drink it. I am busy and this is wasting my time."

He blinked at her, trying to find his words. "... Hmmmmm?"

She stared down at him for a moment. So beautiful... She stooped, carefully pulled the small vial from his hand with her finger and thumb, uncorked it, and handed it back to him.

"Drink." He did. The red liquid poured down his throat. Heat rushed through him, and his whole body felt momentarily alive, alive in some way he didn't know he could be. He lay back onto the floor, enjoying the sensation, and gazing at this wonderful lady who had found him.

She stood beside him, waiting in silence, then reiterated her previous command. "Stand up. You're ready."

He stood. His ankle was fine. Oh, that was nice...

"Walk that way." She indicated an open door behind him, darkness behind it. He nodded and smiled. That was how she got in here. Oh a door, oh that made sense. He walked through it, and she followed behind.

She slipped past him in the narrow hall, and he followed her drowsily down it, and through another door, and up some stairs, or maybe... down some stairs? There was a door, anyway, he was sure of that. Or maybe that was the first door again he was remembering. It didn't matter. The warm air of a new room flowed around him, soothing him with the smells of old books and indeterminate spices.

"Sit." She pointed to a large chair. It looked so very comfy. He sat. It was. It was so very comfy. He wiggled his way back into the soft cushions. The beautiful woman leaned over him, her low-cut dress hanging down to reveal the delectable cleavage within. He stared contentedly at her breasts as she clamped the metal restraints on the arms of the chair tightly around his wrists.

"Smell." She held a small glass tube under his nose. Happily, he sniffed it. A clear, cutting odor like nothing he had ever experienced shot up his nose and brought with it the panic of drowning. His head jerked back and his eyes filled with tears. He choked, and gasped, then drew in a long, full breath as the room clarified in his vision.

"What in the fae-cursed, luckless fates is going on!?" He stared wildly around him, the sudden motion of his head sending a sharp pain down his injured neck. The room was immaculate, a gorgeous study with rich wood trim and red and purple drapery in abundance. Shelves of books lined the walls, and an ornate writing desk stood under the large window. He collected himself and stared up at the woman.

"Returning is often disorienting. No apology for the outburst is necessary." Her face was impassive. "You are now fully aware?"

Looking at her, he realized his previous assessment, however addled, had been correct. She very likely was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Probably only a handful of summers beyond his own score, her youthful features nevertheless held an austere sophistication. White hair flowed long around her shoulders like a veil, draped over the red and purple silks of her dress. He hadn't realized witches would have apprentices, or servants, or whoever this young woman was, but if he had imagined them, he would have pictured some sort of small, twisted, impish creature, not this. Not her.

Keeping his thoughts off his face as much as possible, and remembering he was here to ask favors, he answered her as politely as he could. "Yes. Thanks. I feel... pretty normal I guess." Except for having just escaped a pack of grey, mannish monsters and then falling into a dungeon and having my wits stolen and then returned to me as I find myself locked in a chair in a witch's tower, pretty normal, yeh.

"Good. You will answer my questions." It wasn't actually a question in itself, but she looked to him, as if requiring a response.

"Um... I hate to interrupt, but my friend is still out there with the, the grey monsters, they grabbed--"

"If your friend was taken they are likely dead."

Atyr swallowed, and shifted in his chair. His ribs throbbed angrily at him. He winced. "If you could help me, if we could check--"

"The trolls do not save their prey alive. He is dead."

He tilted his head. Trolls, is that what they were? "I'm really sorry, but I can't give up on her that easily. If you can just let me go I can go look for her myself. Please."

Cold eyes considered him for a moment. "A woman? She is your friend? Or your lover?"

He shook his head swiftly. "Friend, not a lover. Definitely not. But also not a woman, she's one of the fae. A sprite."

"A sprite? You come with surprises. Nevertheless, she will be dead by now."

"Please, if I could just talk to Wetlyn. I think she knows my friend. Could you tell her that the sprite Pesky is out there, and that she needs help? I know they aren't on the best of terms, but--"

"Pesky." The young woman cut him off. "Your friend."

He nodded, noting a sudden stiffness to her face. "Look, I don't know what's between the two of them, if you think it's a bad idea to mention her to your master we don't have to, but please, I can't leave her out there alone." He chewed his lip, looking down at his restrained wrists.

The voice was cold now. "I doubt she is in need of any aid you can provide." She paused. "I do worry for the trolls."

Atyr was unconvinced, but he didn't know how to proceed.

She spoke again. "For what do you wish to see Wetlyn?"

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Pesky had urged him to hide nothing and speak plainly with the witch, but did that apply to her underlings as well? He decided to play it safe with a limited explanation. "A friend of mine, an elderly woman, is in need of magic. I was hoping I could ask Wetlyn to help. I could be of service to her however she saw fit in return."

"What 'magic' do you require?"

"I... it's actually pretty complicated, and I'm not sure myself. I was hoping if I could talk to her, I could explain the situation and maybe she could... suggest something?" He shrugged, realizing how completely unprepared he had been for all of this, from the moment he started up the spire this morning. And it was hardly past midday.

The young woman stared at him a long moment, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts. She turned and walked over to the desk, pulled out the chair and slid it across the room, placing it directly in front of Atyr where he sat restrained.

She sat neatly down upon it, back straight, one leg crossed across the other, hands lightly clasped in her lap. She looked at him, eyes unblinking in her elegant face.

"Very well. I am Wetlyn. You may make your request, but first I have my own questions."

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Welcome to the witch's tower, dear reader! I hope you enjoy your stay. :)

-ScryBells