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Old 10-30-2005, 05:00 PM   #29
Amanaduial the archer
Shadow of Starlight
 
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Rakin

Contrary to what the two lords thought of their own luxurious apartments, decorated and lavished with all the frivolities that Rakin had suffered Sangalazin to load onto his ship, the Captain nonetheless held to the opinion that his chambers, not theirs, that were the finest on the ship. Not that he had yet had a good look what exactly the two lords had chosen to do with their rooms – but Rakin had had nearly a decade with the same ship, unusual for any captain but for a corsair especially, and, although Rakin was not naturally a particularly frivolous man, his rooms were…well, they were exactly how he liked them. It was not, after all, unheard of for superior nobles of Umbar to move into the rooms of the Captain of a ship on voyages such as this – but neither Azaryan or Sangalazin had so much as paid a passing interest around Rakin’s rooms. Whether this was a slight, or whether the two Lords simply considered themselves too good to take anything second-hand, this was just fine with him. Based to the front of the ship, under the main deck, Rakin’s quarters, which consisted of a generous two rooms, allowed him a fine view over the sea ahead of them and to both sides – a fine view 180 degree view over his watery domain.

Originally the rooms had been furnished sparsely – what was the point in lavishing too much time and energy on what would probably only prove to be a temporary residence? – but as time had passed, the rooms had picked up ornaments and items apparently of their own accord, Rakin’s personal barnacles. The desk, for example, brought aboard from a raid of a particularly affluent merchant’s village stop, by some whim of the captain’s, made of fine, heavy oak and subsequently screwed to the desk to prevent it shifting its dangerous bulk in stormy weather, was cradled by the curved, windowed side of the room that surveyed the sea; or the floor to ceiling shelves worked into the wall on one side of this, it’s locked doors hiding the captain’s secrets. But scattered around the room were more ornamental items – a rich, dark rug, seemingly woven of a hundred different shades of black, covered the boards; wines and spirits from a dozen different plundered parlours and offices; and, crossed above the door, above his bunk, elegantly adorning spare wall, were the Captain’s special collector’s items – his swords. Rapiers, long swords, daggers, blades curved, straight and serated…they hung, secure and seemingly sedate, but with every edge gleaming with unmistakable malice, around Rakin’s rooms. Deadly yet elegant, the finest blades from a score of shores - undeniably beautiful, but unsettling nonetheless.

It was in his parlour of stolen treasures, sipping a particularly fine red wine, that the Captain now reclined, his boots casually crossed on another chair as he watched with detached interest the figure, bound only at the wrists, that was sprawled on his carpet. The room was almost silent, now the boatswain had left, leaving Chakka and Rakin alone to ‘have a drink’ together, and indeed the Captain gave an air of a gentleman in his club, settled back watching the sun, a drink in his hand. But as the sun rose further, flooding the room with bright sunlight, Rakin turned his head to Chakka and gave him a bright smile, his canine’s glittering fiercely. “Well well, Chakka, looks like the sun is almost at her peak – nearly midday. Will she be leaving with an extra pair of eyes, or are you planning to hang onto your sight for a while longer?”

Chakka did not respond, sprawled tense and still on the rug where the boatswain had left him, his eyes closed tightly shut as in tormented sleep under the blindfold. Rakin gave the prone slave a slightly puzzled look, then took another sip of his wine and set the glass down on the desk. Turning away from Chakka, Rakin faced the windows, surveying his kingdom with satisfaction, his hands gently running over the little vials and instruments that lay on his desk, some apparently designed for medicine making, some for darker means – sharp blades, needle sharp incisor blades, a set of brass knuckles. “And we both know what will happen when midday comes, don’t we? Or at least, we know what should happen…”

Raising his eyes from the dangerous, glinting array, he shaded his eyes against the sun, then nodded slightly to himself – and as if on cue, Chakka gave a long, low groan of pure agony, twisting on the carpet. Rakin raised his eyebrows and nodded once more to himself, like a critic on a performance – had to hand it to the boy, he wasn’t going easily. He’d keep the façade up to the end – if a façade it indeed was, as Rakin suspected. Or knew, rather. For no matter how calculated his imagined demonstration of the poison’s potency, Chakka had one disadvantage against Rakin: he had not actually seen it at work. Rakin had – and while the slave wasn’t exactly a picture, once the poison got to work, it really wasn’t pretty. His eyes, for example—

Rakin turned, an inquisitive scientist, and advanced almost excitedly towards the slave, grasping Chakka’s chin and, turning his chin eagerly from one side to another. There was no response and, under the light coloured blindfold, no blood either. But despite this, Rakin almost began to doubt himself. Chakka was, after all, very strong; maybe the poison would affect him in a different way to the scrawny creature that Rakin had seen the effects demonstrated on previously. But…well, there was only one way to test, wasn’t there? Rakin held Chakka’s chin up, mentally counted to three, then in a quick, vicious movement, ripped the blindfold off, and scrutinised the slave’s face. Despite himself, despite all his self-will and strength of mind, twelve hours in almost pitch darkness followed by bright sunlight even across the eyelids could only yield one result for Chakka, if he still had his sight: his eyelids flickered and, under them, Rakin saw the tell tale glimmer of white. With a triumphant yell, Rakin dropped Chakka back to the floor, resisting the urge to clap his hands in vicious delight, before he retreated a step or two to squat down before the slave, a wide smile twisting his fine features

“Blind man’s bluff, eh, Chakka? Oh, very clever, very clever indeed – although I never really did like that game.” Rakin’s smile faded as quickly as it had come, his mood altering abruptly, and he moved forward, sliding the knife from his boot and pricking it against Chakka’s throat, his eyes narrowing and his face closing up angrily. “Open your eyes, boy, and tell me exactly how you managed to get out of that one.”

Last edited by piosenniel; 10-30-2005 at 10:24 PM.
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