The Amell Legacy: Transgressions

[Marian Hawke]

Content Note: sexual abuse, torture, ABA

Prologue * Act 1 * Act 2 * Act 3 * Act 4

Prologue

Marian Hawke rose from her bed: a small cot tucked into the anteroom off the main chamber, where the untouched master bed was still carefully made. She ate breakfast -- leftovers -- and set to work making bread for the day's meals -- only one small loaf, which she'd probably eat whole for supper with the last of the stew she'd warmed for breakfast. At sixteen and a half, she was well used to providing simple meals for herself and her master.

What she was meant to do here all day by herself, with her master missing, she had no idea.

She tried reading over her latest essay, proofreading the text, but she didn't know what she didn't know. Usually her master would have given her a critique by now, in penmanship if nothing else -- the half-elf was notoriously sloppy with a quill, having used pencils far longer than most Alydrans during her schooling. It came of having to work for what scraps she could earn, rather than having scribes or noblemen for parents, able to pay her way into prep schools and acquire private tutors.

(Her mother could afford private tutors, of course. Bethany and Carol had them. But never Marian. Never the bastard.)

She tried working her way through the volumes she'd borrowed from the temple's library. But she'd read this set already, and couldn't focus; she didn't have permission to check out more without her master, so she'd have to make do for the time being.

And so, by mid-afternoon, Marian sits in the windowseat of the rooms let to her master. The rent had been paid this month, and the grocery bill was covered as well when she'd risked going out for some milk with eyes downcast and a hesitant demeanour. Somehow, despite being abandoned here, her way is still paid -- something she didn't understand how to deal with. She is alone. She doesn't like being alone.

The most glorious pair of figures she's ever seen walks down the street.

Before long she's trailing after the couple, through the Alydran streets, to the Bastionite quarter, where she offers her services as a scribe or messenger or "anything, anything you need really, I'm good for it."

Judging by her black (drab grey) tunic and white (off-white) leggings, it was clear she belonged to Alydra; nevertheless, the Paladin pair ask her to run a message or two, and pay her a few coppers for her troubles. As she watches them depart once more, she leans against a low brick wall, whistling softly and remarking, absently, as she was wont to do in her solitude, "That has to be the finest ass in all Draslina."

[Haliel Lightsong]

A low, almost sung voice comes from the other wise of the wall. ''I thank you on their behalf. Though I must admit, I have not heard that particular slang shortening of aasimar before.'' All Marian can see at the moment is the back of a head. Fine, almost golden hair with just a hint of feathering held back in a ponytail with a pale blue ribbon. 

[Marian Hawke]

Marian coughs, violently, barely managing to disguise the laughter for a few minutes before she gives up and just laughs. "Wow. You're clever," she manages, wiping tears from her eyes. "I'm Marian."

[Haliel Lightsong]

Rising to her feet, a younger, more blonde version of the 'finest ass' steps around the decorative wall. Heavy steel full plate covers her from neck to sole and wrist, but her face is breathtaking. Sapphire eyes, both in color and pattern, are above a tiny button nose and pale rose lips. She must be an aasimar as well, as no human could have those features. She cocks her head to the side, looking a bit puzzled. ''I... am? Thank you, I suppose. I am Ray Lightsong.'' She bows slightly, the sunlight gleaming off her highly polished armour, broken only by the Bastionite tabard she wears over it.

[Marian Hawke]

Marian looks her over, eyebrows raised. "That you definitely are. I-I mean!" 

She blushes, then, glancing away. "Right. I should... I should probably get back."

[Haliel Lightsong]

The aasimar's face falls, a look of... resignation filling her eyes. ''Of course,'' she says softly. ''Sorry to have held you. Walk with hope, Miss Marian.''

[Marian Hawke]

"Are you busy?" blurts Marian, suddenly. "I-- I mean, I was going to have supper, and... if you're... you know... if you don't have other plans..."

[Haliel Lightsong]

The aasimar stills, eyes widening with surprise. ''I- well, no? But- I don't... well... I can watch?''

[Marian Hawke]

She reddens. "Uh. Sure? It's just some stew and bread, nothing... Just, I'm all alone right now."

[Haliel Lightsong]

Lightsong glances to the side, towards where the two older aasimar had gone. ''Alone... yes.'' Snapping back to Marian, she offers a smile. ''I was just going to sit in the temple and listen to the choir again. It... could be nice to... do something else?'' That last is accompanied with a slight shrug, the metal of her armour not inhibiting the gesture at all.

[Marian Hawke]

"Great," chirps Marian. "Say, do you know anything about history?" 

All the way back to Alydra's district, Marian talks Haliel's ear off about history. Specifically, elven history; specifically, the pre-sovereignty structure of elven tribes on their own tribal lands. It's a thing she's seen Alydrans do before, particularly when uncomfortable: because they go so in depth into an area of study, they can talk for hours about the minutia of it without having to handle pesky social interactions or feign interest in the weather. Still, it's not like it's a bad topic, per se, and she certainly knows enough to keep conversation up.

"So, ah, these are my master's rooms," says Marian casually, unlocking the door and leading Haliel upstairs. The rooms, she knows, may seem shabby to the aasimar; there's only three, a study, a bedroom, and a central chamber, which is fine for a single scholar alone and sufficient for a scholar with a very small, skinny, merikos apprentice, but a little small to be entertaining a guest.

[Haliel Lightsong]

I had no idea that the elves used to have ruling tribunals that had no other power but to judge the actions of the Elders. I think I vaguely recall the phrase but thought that it was just another name for the Elders. Not a tribunal of rulers that judge, but a tribunal that judges rulers. I like it. And she's happy to be talking. To... me. Even when I asked that silly question. Actually, that seemed to make her rather happy. Oh... We're here. This is... nice. It feels... warm, somehow. Quiet but in a... it's an accepting sort of quiet. Like a glorious view of the stars at night. 

''Your master?'' she asks politely, wondering what trade the merikos elf is taking. Oh! I should use my training. Alydrean, based on the robes and district of course. No component pouch I can see. No weapons. Hmmm. Aha! She has some ink on her fingers. So perhaps a scribe or sage in training? A second later and any pride in herself vanishes. Well done. You guessed that an Alydrean might just be a scribe or sage. Mother and Father would be so pleased at the proof of your training.

[Marian Hawke]

"Yes. I am apprenticed as a scribe to Seeker Halene who was Dakesh. It's a great honor," she adds, nodding a lot, sounding less like she's bragging and more like she's stubbornly defending her master against a perceived slight. 

"Ballocks," she swears, going to the hearth where she's left the bread dough. "It's overproved," she says, sighing. "Flatbread it is, I suppose." So saying, she goes to the little cupboard, getting out ground corn, flour, butter, the last of the cooking oil. "Sorry, make yourself at home, I'll just... ah, I just have to make the flatbread." Stupid, running off like that, with bread rising. Should have been in an hour ago. 

[Haliel Lightsong]

''What did it prove?'' Lightsong asks, moving to stand next to Marian. Certainly a sage, given that she's running an experiment of some kind. She's too worried to sit, having noted that the chairs seem a bit... small. ''And can I help with anything?''

[Marian Hawke]

"Huh? Oh, uh, the bread. It, it rose too much, so now all the yeast is -- have you not made bread before?" It was one of the first household chores Marian had begun doing for Helene: cooking simple, down to earth dishes like stews and breads so the great scholar would remember to eat something even when Helene forgot Marian was there. Marian had learned to make bread in the kitchens as a young girl, before she was old enough to be sent away; nothing fancy, but she'd learned the basics, and anyone could make simple stews. 

"Here, I'll teach you."