Ma Oxbrydl is separated from the others by a very arrogant warrior who intends to use her to lure her companions into a trap. But you know, never underestimate a woman who's skilled with knitting needles. -- Anon Guest
Her mouth felt like a century-old dovecote that had never been cleaned. Replete with the dead doves. Her head felt like the clapper of a bell. One of the big ones that had been ringing the hour in a clock tower. Her stomach felt like it wanted to turn itself inside-out. Ma Oxbrydl tried moving for greater comfort and soon realised she was tied to a chair.
Fabulous.
She risked opening an eye. It was dark, thank the gods. Less painful to look at, true, but also more troublesome to discern details. One detail stood out, however - a figure in one corner, playing with a butterfly knife. All in black.
"You are/ alive. Good." The figure spoke with two different voices. What she thought was a sleeve resolved itself into a short wing. Oh. The Raven-folk. Mimics incapable of originality. They had to be someone's minion. "You may/ scream./ Nobody/ will hear."
Ma Oxbrydl refused to give anyone the pleasure, even by proxy. "What's all this about, then?"
The bird-person put away the knife and hop-walked closer. "No screams?/ Master/ want screams."
"Master can keep on wanting." Her fingers found the knots. She'd untangled things more complicated than that in her handicrafts bag. "Care to tell me why I'm here?"
"Bait," cawed the Raven-folk. "Big hero/ come rescue/ big hero/ die die die!" The creature cackled someone else's laugh. "Fun fun fun..."
"You enjoy yourself then," said Ma. She had the knot loose, but held on to the rope so that it would not give her away. "Is the Master going to grace us with their presence?"
"Busy busy/ too busy/ trust you with it./ Not important," said her guard.
Ma waited until the Raven-folk settled on their perch and angled herself to see the door and the stair beyond. "So whose shadow is that?"
The thing about not having creativity is that someone without it keeps falling for the same old tricks. The bird hop-walked to the door and opened it to look and see.
Swift as a mother chasing a naked toddler, silent as a mother sneaking up on a child elbow-deep in the cookie jar, Ma Oxbrydl struck. Her only weapon was the rope she'd been bound with, but that was weapon enough.
She didn't kill the poor thing. A minion following the wrong leader couldn't be blamed for its actions. Especially not the Raven-folk. They did what they were told, not having the creativity to do anything else. So she loosened her strangle-hold when they fell unconscious, and then tied it up. With much better knots.
Poor little thing was small enough to hang off her arm like her Everywhere Bag.
Now she had the creature's weapons, their pack, and a decent enough map to get out of this place. Anything that was going to give her trouble on the way out was going to have trouble with her.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / ClearVision]
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