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Thread: [M] The Knife That Cuts the Deepest [BurningKirby & Ashen]

  1. #21
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    Despite how unnerved the woman looked, Ophelia was still eating. Anne watched her subtly, wondering what she had gotten herself into. She was hired to murder a man, but would she even get past his nutcase of a wife? But it wasn't like that, Anne realized, and she scolded herself for the thought. Ophelia was spirited, but she was prevented from showing that passion to anyone. I scared everyone. The childlike tone to her voice, a little girl in trouble; Anne couldn't help but feel sorry for her. There was more than she was letting on, and while Anne wanted to learn of this woman's affinity for blades, she knew the time was not now.

    Ophelia questioned Anne, and the assassin for a moment didn't answer. She just looked over Ophelia, at the imperceptible quiver of her shoulders, the drying trails on her cheek. Was this a good idea? Finally, Anne shifted so that she could easily pull her blade from its holster without slicing herself. She held the blade firmly, a hand in its basket-shaped guard and another supporting the curved blade. "Like them," she mused quietly. "I was made for them."

    In the next moment, Anne was offering the blade to Ophelia, against her better judgment. What's the worst that could happen? she asked herself. Even if Ophelia did lash out, Anne could easily grab the kid and bolt out of there before she could manage any real harm. The girl just needed a chance, Anne thought, and what better way to get closer to her than to give her one? "We call that one a cutlass," she explained, "because of how short it is, its curved blade, and its intricate handle. It's a seafaring weapon, known for its close range and its ability to cut through rope." She was watching Ophelia as she spoke, speaking gently so as not to startle her. She seemed like a different person with a blade in her hands, and Anne couldn't know what to expect. "I believe it's important to know a bit about a blade before you wield it. Knowing what it is made for can help you become closer to your weapon."

    A stray glance met Milo, who seemed to be having enough fun with the grass around him. Anne wondered what lay beneath this picture perfect family, after all. A father with a bounty, a mother with a weapon obsession, a nameless blank slate; just how much would Anne ruin by the time she was finished?
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  2. #22
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    Ophelia's heart seemed to double its pace as Anne drew the cutlass from its hiding place beneath her cloak. She froze. This is it. She's had it with me. She could do naught but watch the blade as Anne turned it about--

    only to place its hilt in her cold, sweaty hand.

    Ophelia had gone numb. She struggled to form words and in their place came from her mouth a stifled gasp. She had been ready to begin crying again but her shock held the waterworks back, at least for now. Her eyes darted from the sword to Anne's face and back, as though silently asking permission. The look the woman gave her seemed to grant it, and Ophelia tightened her grip on the handle and raised the blade's tip skyward. As Anne described its uses to her, she took note of its weight, her eyes scanning up and down its length all the while. It seemed in decent condition, though she was no expert, and were they not in the shade it would have likely glinted brightly in the sun.

    For the first time in quite a while she felt... calm. Anne had a confidence about her when talking about the sword and this gave Ophelia a sense of security that she desperately needed after what had happened in the market. It was comforting, in a strange way. But wait... How could-? She retreated into her mind, considering what she'd just been presented with. After a few moments, she realized how she must look to Anne, sword in hand and vision glazed over. Ophelia turned to face her, brow furrowed. Her eyes were laced with concern and pierced into the woman's.

    "Anne. Why do you have this?"

  3. #23
    The Ashen One
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    Ophelia's fascination and admiration for the foreign blade were quickly dissipated by her question, needles to Anne's ear. Of course, she should have expected it. There was no logical reason a woman like Anne should have a weapon like this. In truth, she couldn't even remember where she'd gotten this cutlass. Had this been something she plucked off of one of her victims, or had she stolen this one from a stranger? Maybe this was one of the few she'd bought herself; smiths gave up their goods when threatened, and Anne had no shame. But she couldn't tell Ophelia any of that, not when she was posing as some cousin of one of the king's own men. She turned her gaze to the blade, to the steel she'd sharpened herself, the rusting basket handle, the invisible blood staining the sleek curve, and she spoke with the confidence she didn't deserve.

    "My father was a schoolteacher," she started. "He taught boys all sorts of things, from mathematics to literature to hunting and fencing. My sister and I wanted to learn too, though such a thing was unheard of in my town. Girls simply did not receive an education. But my father, he believed in us, and he gifted us each a blade. They were secondhand gifts from the school, but she and I loved them. When I got better at using mine, he bought me this one, brand new. Because it is short and so specialized, even we could afford it. I have carried it with me ever since."

    Anne was making mental notes of the lies she was spinning. That one, however, wasn't all false; her father had taught boys, and she and Kirsti had been interested in learning. The difference was that her father would have never taught them like he taught his boys. Anne was telling a better version of her childhood, a version she wished had come to fruition. How different would her life have been then?

    Dismissing the thought, she shook her head. "Never mind that. Those who love the dangers of the blade, we have to look out for each other, no?" Anne reached for the sword and placed her hand in the basket. "Do you want to learn to properly wield it?" she asked, rising to stand under the shade of the tree. "You often use one hand with a blade this lightweight, allowing for easy movement." She demonstrated the proper way to hold the cutlass, and even showed off dance-like steps, as if dodging invisible enemies. "Does your husband have any swords? I could teach you how to joust if we had two blades. Ah, here, you try. Hold it firmly."

    Anne offered the blade to Ophelia again. Her actions had a few intentions. Moving the focus of the conversation to proper sword etiquette would hopefully distract Anne from her story about procuring the weapon, true, but Anne also wanted to see Ophelia get good with a blade, to bond over this tutoring and give another woman the power society denied her. Even if she doubted her actions would mean much, she thought it a nice thought nonetheless, and she hoped Ophelia would take to her instruction.
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  4. #24
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    Ophelia listened intently as Anne explained how she had acquired the strange blade. As she heard of Anne's father and how he had taught two women, his own daughters, the art of the blade, Ophelia's fingers came to rest on her lips- one of the habits she developed as a child that she exhibited when deep in thought. All her life, she had been told that swords had no place in a woman's hand. That they were incapable of wielding them properly. That it would only serve to hurt herself or someone else. It seemed almost beyond belief that Anne's father would teach her a skill so widely considered taboo for women, but the conviction of her words was beyond doubt.

    As Anne finished, Ophelia felt a warmth in her belly at being described as one of those "who love the dangers of the blade." She felt herself blushing. The next moment, Anne had the blade again and was asking if Ophelia wanted to learn. Me? Learn to use a sword? The idea terrified her, but the temptation was impossible to resist. "I don't know that I should... Would you really teach me?" She asked, biting her lip as she looked up at the woman. The expression on Anne's face made it overwhelmingly clear just how serious she was. "Then yes! I would like to be taught very much."

    Anne began to demonstrate. Ophelia was utterly silent as she watched, not daring to interrupt the graceful dance that was happening just before her eyes. The woman moved as though trying to disrespect the pull of gravity itself. Ophelia's mind blanked. Next she knew, Anne had asked her a question. She stumbled on her words as she came out of her stupor, "Ah, Rolf does have a sword in the house, yes. He keeps it in case of an intruder. I'm not to touch it unless I absolutely need to."

    As Anne returned the blade to Ophelia, her eyes met the woman's briefly. There was something there. Happiness? She didn't have much time to consider it, as now it was she who must perform. Ophelia rose from where she had been seated slowly, once more feeling the cutlass's weight in her hand. She struck a pose with her hand on her hip and sword-wielding arm extended as though she was some master of fencing. The blade was light as Anne had said, but she still found it difficult to keep her arm in this position for long without it shaking from the strain. That would probably come with time. She tried slashing at the empty air a few times with it. Even this proved somewhat difficult. Her arm refused to curve and arc in the precise movements she had seen Anne display. Instead of a battle-hardened fencer, Ophelia looked more akin to a child messily dragging a paintbrush across some poor canvas. She stopped to catch her breath and looked back at Anne. "I might just be hopeless," She said through deep gasps for air, the edges of her lips curving up in a weak grin.

  5. #25
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    There was doubt on the poor woman's face as Anne offered her the blade. Anne couldn't blame her; how long had both of them been told that the world would just about end if a woman were to ever grab hold of a man's toy? Ophelia was a child, scared of the blade but far more scared of herself, of the warnings she was suddenly disobeying. But Anne watched those doubts dissipate. The hope in her voice, overflowing and innocent, brought a smile to Anne's thin lips. She'd struck a soft spot, and that would be very, very helpful in the coming days.

    She was an enthusiastic student, and Anne found more joy in her silent mesmerization than she had found in anything in a long while. She thought of the blade Rolf must have had, probably a pristine light silver broadsword or even a bulky claymore, and her own curiosity fluttered. "Rolf won't know what we do not tell him," she said softly, "unless Milo there has a quicker tongue than we think." She glanced over at the child, oblivious to the play of the two women. Anne turned back to Ophelia to find her studying her for only a moment. Then, she was getting up, ready to try out the blade herself.

    Ophelia was... less than graceful. The heroic pose she struck, the weak attacks at her invisible enemy; Ophelia was a knight-in-training from the fantasy stories Anne had always been read. In those stories, a boy would find a mentor to learn the blade, and he would go on to save some princess or another. Now, Anne had to laugh at the irony. Ophelia was no knight, and Anne was no mentor, and the noble in this story was to be dead, not rescued. But still, Anne mused over the sentiment. Her father had taught all his life; maybe she'd taken after him after all. "How fortunate for you, then," Anne said with a smile, walking behind Ophelia, "that I put all of my hope in the hopeless." She placed firm hands on Ophelia's hips and shifted her. "It's better if you bend your knees a bit. You want to be jumpy when you're holding a light blade, as it allows for easier movement." With her leg, Anne gently nudged Ophelia's shin, separating her legs. "Be aware of where your feet are. They should be as far apart as your shoulders, with your sword hand leading." Grabbing for her hand with the sword, she plucked a couple fingers off the barrel. "You're holding too tightly. If you expend too much of your strength into just holding your weapon, you'll never wield it properly."

    As Anne adjusted Ophelia's form, she suddenly stopped herself. So natural was her instruction that she'd nearly forgotten that this was the wife of her contract, that this was some noble lady from a different world, and she was running her hands all over her. Shying, Anne stepped away, as if to judge Ophelia's stance from a distance. Anne coughed awkwardly, trying to clear her mind. Ophelia's dress was so soft under her fingertips, but her skin, the gentle skin of a wife, of a mother, of a tired woman too used to doing housework. What did Ophelia think of Anne's own hands, of the cracked skin, the speckled dirt, the growing callouses? Noticing herself getting distracted again, Anne tried a new approach. "With practice, you'll grow to acknowledge your new limb, and you'll move it like moving any other. For now... not bad for a first try. How did it feel?"
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  6. #26
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    When Anne placed her hands on Ophelia's hips, the wife felt herself jump a little at the unexpected touch, tingles running up and down her spine. She muttered an apology and something about hands being cold under her breath, but made no attempt to stop the woman, who continued instructing her as if nothing had happened. She could feel her face getting red as Anne made slight adjustments to her posture here and there. Though being touched all over like this was embarrassing, Ophelia made sure she took careful note of everything the woman told her.

    The moment seemed to last forever. Ophelia's face was burning up by the time Anne finally stepped back to admire her work. At last the wife could relax a bit and let her cheeks return to their usual color. The distraction removed, she immediately noticed how much more comfortable her now-adjusted stance felt compared to the one from earlier. Though her arm still quickly grew tired from the weight of the sword, it was far easier to wield than it had been previously.

    As Anne asked how she felt, Ophelia turned to the woman, letting her sword arm drop to her side.

    "It felt... more difficult than I had expected it to. In fact, I'm pretty sure my arm is already numb." Her eyes met the woman's and she let out a light laugh. "Oh, but your instruction was wonderful. I did really feel the difference once you adjusted how I was standing. It was a revelation. I'll be sure to take it into mind from now on. I can't promise you'll see too much of an improvement. I doubt I was ever meant to seriously wield one of these." She lifted the blade slightly, gesturing at it with her free hand. "Though, I'm willing to put in the time to learn."

    Ophelia paused, a look of concern growing on her face. Once more their eyes met.

    "But how long do we even have? Surely my husband couldn't be gone much longer than a day, yes?"

  7. #27
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    Ophelia noticed Anne's rashness. Anne silently scolded herself. Even if the woman were graceful enough to not mention Anne's misplaced hands, her bold touches, Anne wondered how it harmed her progress. Did Ophelia hate her for stepping out of line? What business did a petty assassin have touching a noble, anyway? Anne averted her gaze, focusing on the shine of her blade. Be more careful, she warned herself. More mistakes like that and she'd wind up dead.

    Her regret was pushed to the back of her mind at Ophelia's words. Her praise at Anne's instruction brought a smile to her face. Ophelia's enthusiasm was endearing, and Anne found herself looking forward to more practice. Would Ophelia ever get good enough with a sword to spar with her? Had Anne ever had a sparring partner? A woman at that? The thought excited her. She'd never even met another swordswoman, and she mused about the similarities they would have, the understanding that a man couldn't possibly suggest. But what Ophelia made up for with enthusiasm, she lacked in confidence. Anne moved towards her, raising her sword hand and extending it. "You see this?" she murmured, motioning towards the curve of her elbow. "You weren't made for the sword, no, but the sword was made for you. It mimics your curve and your strength in the hopes that someday, you will be worthy of accepting all it offers." Anne took the blade and buried it in its sheath again. "You have the eyes of a warrior," she said softly. "Don't let the men tell you otherwise."

    Anne turned away from Ophelia, focusing on Milo. He'd gotten little attention since he'd been out, so Anne sat down and tried playing a hand game. "More than a day," she replied absently. She'd sent Rolf to a town a couple days away by horse, judging from the distance on the map she'd used to pick the town. She had a few days until he'd go there and come back, then, but she doubted it would be enough time. She'd have to write to him again, some other excuse, at a later date. "He was needed in a distant town. I should think he'd be back in a week or less. Don't worry, he's doing his duty. That's why I'm here, remember? I'll keep you from getting lonely." She reached out a hand over Milo, and the child followed her fingers with his eyes. Anne glanced at Ophelia, judging her reaction. "Are you worried?" Anne asked. "I'm not privy to the king's matters, but... I'll try to be as helpful as I can." She tried on her most genuine-looking smile, hoping it would be enough.
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  8. #28
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    The suggestion that Ophelia had any potential to wield a sword was alien to her, but she did her best to not make it too obvious how much it meant to her to hear such praise coming from someone with as much experience as Anne had. Being told that her eyes were like those of a warrior was far more difficult to brush off, however, and she found herself allowing her cheeks to fill with the darker shades of fall once more, juxtaposing against the vibrant spring encompassing her pupils.

    Anne seemed... vacant, when explaining Rolf's absence. Or perhaps not vacant, but distracted somehow, as if something about it took her mind away to far away lands Ophelia couldn't begin to fathom. It was a bit worrying, but Anne did have a tendency to act as though much more was happening just below the surface. Perhaps it was nothing. Ophelia pushed the thought from her mind.

    "A week or less? Oh my. That's-- unprecedented. But, if you say it is the king's official business, then I suppose I can do nothing but wait. I too have never been privy to the goings on in my husband's business and I don't see that changing anytime soon." Ophelia paused, considering how Anne lightly played with Milo before returning to more important matters. "I don't know if I'm really in need of company, though I also am not one to turn it down when offered. Would it be an inconvenience to you at all? And where would you stay? I'm sure we could try to throw something together for you at the house if you don't mind. I can't exactly make promises of luxury, as we aren't used to housing guests."

    Even as Ophelia said this, she had already begun to rearrange the house's furniture in her mind to create the most suitable possible environment for Anne to rest. She knew she could make something work, even if it meant... no, that'd be silly to even consider. And undignified. She scolded herself silently and looked into the woman's eyes. If at all the red in Ophelia's cheeks had faded as she had been caught up in her thoughts, it came back now with a vengeance as she recalled the woman's hands held firm upon her hips only minutes ago. Only this time she cared a little less to hide it.

  9. #29
    The Ashen One
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    Ophelia seemed shocked at her husband's lengthy disappearance, and the assassin thought maybe she should have done her homework better. Was a week so long? In truth, she didn't know how long the man was usually gone, but judging from Ophelia's reaction, it was shorter than a week. No matter, she thought, what was done was done, and Anne would at least squeeze a week out of this. She'd get more, but for now Ophelia didn't need to know any of that.

    She turned towards the noble lady when she asked if it would be an inconvenience if Anne stayed at her house. The woman had to stop herself from laughing outright. An inconvenience? I can't make promises of luxury. Anne averted her gaze, not wanting her bemused expression to betray her. How many cold stones had she slept on before? How many patches of burnt grass, how many fields filled with manure of all the animals Ophelia had probably never even seen? And the house of a noble wasn't a luxury?

    Straightening herself, Anne shook her head and turned her smile back to Ophelia. "It would be an absolute honor," she replied with the slightest bow of her head. "I will help out around the house as much as I can. Please, allow me to tend to the household chores, aye?" Anne gathered Milo up in her arms, his chubby hands drumming slowly against her back, and she stood. With their walk and picnic done, she figured it was about time to head back, anyway. Ophelia was distracted again; was she trying to figure out where Anne would sleep? When they had been in the house before, had Anne noticed the number of beds, a couch? Where would she sleep? Deciding not to worry about it, she motioned towards Milo. She was about to suggest leaving when she saw color rush to Ophelia's cheeks, roses under the dots of her freckles, and she paused.

    Was Ophelia... embarrassed? About what? Had Anne done something wrong? She shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to make of the blushing. If she kept messing up like this, there was no way anything would work out in her favor. If she couldn't fetch Rolf's bounty, it was her own head that would be served on a silver platter. If not for her, who would support her loved ones, now worlds away? Would they even notice she'd be gone?

    Anne cleared her throat, not wanting to think on personal matters for fear that her features would grow too grim. She needed to look presentable, pleasant, willing to put up with whatever Ophelia threw at her. The blush meant nothing--that's what she'd tell herself, anyway, since she couldn't match it with any meaning anyway. "Shall we go?" she suggested, hefting the toddler in her hands higher up her hip. "It would be wise, perhaps, to not travel long with a sword by my hip."
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  10. #30
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    Ophelia took point for the walk home. Anne followed behind with Milo still hanging about her like a koala. The housewife knew the way well and so didn't pay much attention to her surroundings as she led the woman holding her son. Her mind was chugging away, desperately trying to push through the swarm of emotions which had set itself upon her. How would they pass the time? Anne seemed willing enough to help with chores, but did she realize that there really wasn't enough to spread out over two people? They'd have to find something else to occupy the long hours of the day were they to share the housework between them. Perhaps Anne would be willing to teach her more about the way of the sword. That sounded wonderful to Ophelia, though she didn't think herself a very good student.

    Despite all of her thinking, she failed to come up with a solution before they arrived back on her doorstep. She opened the door and held it wide to allow Anne to get inside with Milo before closing it behind the two of them. At this point the sun's light had begun to wane, so she set about lighting a few of the candles placed throughout the house in preparation for night.

    When at last she'd finished, she returned to the living room where Anne and Milo were and glanced around in search of anything else that needed doing. Nothing seemed out of place, but she had a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something. It pained her to cast such a feeling away before discovering its source, but her child and guest had already waited long enough for her.

    Ophelia spun one of the dining room chairs toward Anne and plopped down on it with a light sigh. "I don't believe there is anything else which must be done for the night, other than putting Milo to bed later. Any ideas what we might do with our time?"

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