It becomes clear, upon inspection of the fort, that Dalia and whatever retainer of men remained with her have fled. Following her nose and instinct so ancient it’s almost premonition, Kara pursues. The scent, Dalia’s soap overlaid with grit, sweat and stress, leads her clear of the trees, has her cresting a clear grassy hill, tail swishing behind her in the darkness.
As Kara comes to the top, eager to peer over the lowlands and watch Dalia’s desperate attempt to flee before it’s thwarted, a beast of a woman steps out to block her way — 6’4 at least and barrel-chested, with the incongruously sweet face of a grizzly bear looking out over iron armour, bright in the moonlight. “I will not let you pursue the lady.” Kara expects more — everyone in this world loves posturing, but the bear simply hefts her poleaxe down like a castle statue, the sentinel stance clearly well practiced.
“The terms were fair,” Kara says, sword already in hand. “I won. She is to return to her farm. No harm will-”
“Liar!”
“Believe me, hurting her is the last thing I want to do. I’ve been inside that woman.”
“Disgusting heathen.”
“And what has Thala given you to earn such devotion?”
“Nothing. I am a devotee of Harvul, the God of Service.”
That’s a wrinkle. She’s not… like me, is she? Like Maynier? Surely not — how’d we all get clustered around Meadowbrook? Never one to show confusion or nerves, Kara cocks her head, “I can help you honour Harvul.”
“Go on. Make your joke.”
“You’re kinda taking the wind out of it, babe.” Kara chances a step closer, closer, until they’re as up close and personal as she can get without getting into poleaxe-skewering range. “You would make a fine Lieutenant.”
“I am sworn to protect the lady. It was Alyc’s last wish.”
“Alyc was a fool. I command Meadowbrook now. Help me bring her back, and join me — there will be no shortage of service in your future.”
“You will not pursue.” The bear’s arms never waver; the poleaxe doesn’t sway, or shake, or tremble — it remains iron-straight, which is enough to unnerve Kara, who understands how fucking heavy most weapons are.
“I must bring her back.”
Sensing the impasse, the bear strikes. Her rough hewn muscles and mighty bulk belie her pantherish speed, and the axe head slices through Kara’s swordarm — her dodge is clumsy, late, and only by miracle does she suffer a deep gash rather than total dismemberment. Kara wheels to the side, only to find the weapon’s heavy pommel, swung round in one smooth motion, rushing to meet her. It strikes her in the chest like hammer on anvil, snatching the air from her lungs and shooting fire through her body.
Shit, Kara thinks, as she tumbles down the hill, body scratched by rocks, I might’ve fucked this one.
Dazed, bloody, and winded, Kara struggles to her feet like a zombie — just in time for the bear to reach her. A heavy kick to the stomach doubles her over. Weapon discarded, the bear closes a massive paw around the back of Kara’s head and wrenches her into the air, throws her like a weightless javelin a clear ten feet.
Shit shit shit shit shit, she thinks, running on pure adrenaline now.
“I would not say you fought well,” the bear says, advancing. “But you lasted longer than most would.” She rolls Kara onto her back with her foot, presses it down on her chest, pins her to the earth — it may as well be an iron peg through her lungs for all her chance of escape. “Tell the other wretched heathens of Hel it was Tyra Bristleclaw who sent you.”
“Wait,” she hisses, blood on her lips. “Wait!”
Tyra looks down at her, unimpressed, and clearly in no mood for mercy.
“Tyra,” Kara manages, every breath a battle. “Beautiful. Tyra. Don’t. Dishonour.”
“You speak of the agreement.”
Kara nods, paying for it with a fire in her neck that spreads up into her head. “Fair deal. Pretty Tyra; please.”
The weight lifts, which would bring relief if not for the blinding pain in every other part of her. Tyra falls to one knee, lifts Kara in her arms like she’s a newborn babe. “I will not spare you for the sake of Alyc’s foolish pact, which he should never have made — and would never have made, had he the sense to listen. It would… discomfit me to break one so beautiful. Would that things were different, heathen.”
Both women are, despite the circumstances, uncomfortably turned on, and doing their level best to suppress the feeling under fear (for Kara) and pity (for Tyra).
“Thank. You.” Kara battles just to keep her eyes open, her lungs pumping, and her heart beating. Something cold touches her lips — bitter liquid stains her mouth. The potion flows into her, and her condition goes from Brink of Death to Needs Weeks of Bedrest.
Tyra lays the defeated woman gently in the grass and presses a tender claw to her forehead. “Should you pursue my lady again, no mercy awaits. Do not make me kill you.”
“Wait. Your face.”
Tyra, despite herself, sets her open-face helmet aside, considers the woman at her feet with full eyes. Kara, despite herself, leans up, pain lancing her back as she does. Their lips meet, for a moment, under the moonlight, before Tyra stands and leaves her there.
Kara limps back to Meadowbrook in the full darkness, relieved that only a few goblin watchers witness her shame.
“A trick!?” asks a stout goblin in a helmet that’s much too big for him from the parapet, unable to believe the cat — who he just saw execute a man twice her size with preternatural grace — could be injured by any other means.
“Yes,” says Kara, leaving gossip to fill in the blanks. “It did not work, though. I was victorious.” She raises an arm above her head triumphantly, gritting her teeth against the pain that shoots through her. “Allow no one out of doors tonight. If any try to escape, kill them.” She goes to limp onward and then, cocking her head, she adds: “Kill the first two or three at least, don’t leave me with half the town slain. Where is the chieftain?”
As Kara limps through the gates, across town within the chapel (which Jaika and Lily have claimed as a temple to Sayla), Kara’s first two disciples do their best prepare her a worthy bedchamber — once a modest, sparse space intended for a proper, self-denying priestess, Jaika and Lily have replaced the tiny cot with a full double bed laden with luxurious furs, have covered the plain wooden floor with a fluffy hide, have adorned the walls with the finest art that could be pilfered from the crooked wooden houses. A small round table and cushioned chair have been brought in too, laden with fresh fruits, bread, cheese and ale. Across from the bed stands a simple but well-crafted dresser, which the two women have stuffed to bursting with the softest clothes that the humble settlement had to offer.
So when Kara comes bursting into the temple and collapses on the wooden floor amongst the pews, Jaika and Lily, crying out in horror and concern, can at least use their combined strength to carry her into this new, supremely comfortable bed. Kara exhales and relaxes into the layers of softness, her nose bleeding, beautiful face horribly bruised.
“My love!” cries Lily, voice breaking, cradling Kara’s damaged face. The battered feline leans gratefully into the warmth. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
On her other side, Jaika scrambles onto the bed and pours sweet wine down her throat. Swallowing the blessed warmth, Kara feels her pain fade, ebbing like the tide, bursting with gratitude for whoever laced the stuff. “Do not trouble yourself,” she says, running a hand over Lily’s plump lip, “I live yet. We won a great victory for Sayla today.” Already rejuvenated by her disciples’s close care and attentions, she gathers herself up slightly on her pillows and says: “Send someone… fetch the Sister. She must know some healing magic. And then, after rest, I will tell you of the ambush — the dishonour of our foe.”
Kara wonders for a moment, in a rare example of self-reflection, if she doesn’t want Elsa brought for another reason, considering she’s just been denied another, separate older woman she’s been thinking about a while. It doesn’t matter; her will is unquestionable. Jaika goes to order her goblins while Lily stays with Kara, feeding her grapes and mouthfuls of sweet wine while cooing sweetly and stroking her forehead.
When Kara’s exceptional hearing picks up on the outer door to the chapel opening, she expects the priestess to sweep in, probably followed by a brief argument about oaths and duty if the sister is less than willing to help out.
The person who bursts in instead is Maynier, managing to look fierce despite the fact that Kara has seen her with her legs over her head. When she sees Kara, who actually looks even worse than she feels, Maynier’s face drops. “It is true!” she cries, “I will kill the fiends who did this to you! I will bring you their heads! Which way did they go!? I will make after them!”
“Calm yourself, darling Maynier. The cowards broke their word — they move to raise an army against us. I will need your strength here.”
“As- as you wish,” says Maynier, “Only, I can’t bear to see you like this.”
“Shh,” says Kara, whose eyes are heavy now, “Come.” Maynier drops to her knees, kneeling before her injured idol, who reaches out an aching arm to stroke the orc’s hair, like an overloved guard dog. “All will be well. We need not kill those that did this. I will do better than that; I will convert them.”
The outer door to the chapel thuds open again. “First, though, I must recover,” says Kara a moment before Elsa pushes through the door, Jaika at her back.
The priestess raises an eyebrow at Kara’s condition, but rather than arguing, as Kara expected, she merely gets to work laying out her tools on the dresser. “The patient needs space and rest,” says Elsa to no one in particular, checking the tiny hearth and throwing a log in. “Clear the room.”
“Filth! You cannot be trusted alone with the Prophet!” spits Maynier.
“Do as she instructs,” says Kara softly, and despite Maynier’s stricken, concerned look, that’s the last word on the matter. The three disciples filter out meekly, leaving her alone to the attentions of the priestess.
“I heard you spared the militia,” Elsa says, unsteady, uncertain.
“Like I said, Sister — I’m here to rule, not massacre.”
It’s clear the priestess doesn’t quite believe it, but she picks up her tools and begins to work, regardless.
Kara’s clothes are cut away in two quick movements, leaving her fully nude on the luxurious bed. “And here I thought you didn’t like me,” she says, as Elsa runs her hands over Kara’s nakedness, surveying her injuries. Kara, curious herself, looks down to find practically her entire left side bruised black. She groans.
“I don’t like you. But I am sworn to help even the vilest sinners, such that they may find their way back to the light.”
“You’d help a lot more if you did this naked.” Though Kara forbade Elsa from wearing her holy robes, given the town was no longer Thala’s, the priestess insists on dull grey breeches and an equally plain jerkin — though even that’s an improvement; they don’t hide her figure half as well as the vestments. Her long pink hair is held back by a modest braid.
“Enough. I will prepare you a healing remedy, but please, stop talking.” Magic is rare in the Cradle — proper, arcane magic, at least. Folk Alchemy rules the day in the villages. If anything, the array of bottled, dried herbs and worts before Elsa is rather paltry by typical standards.
Kara tries to keep her eyes open by watching the slight sway in Elsa’s hips as she moves back and forth along the dresser, preparing the mixture. But even that can’t keep her awake, and she comes to with the pungent potion under her nose. “Drink,” Elsa says.
She’s about to, when the smell makes her reconsider. A well of knowledge within her internal library, granted by the perk, warns her that this poison will just about kill her. Her right hand shoots up, seizes a rough bundle of pink hair. Elsa tries to pull away, but Kara’s anger has granted her strength — at least in the comparatively unbroken half of her body.
With her weaker hand she presses the slim bottle of Elsa’s lips. “Why do I deserve healing, Sister? Why don’t you have it instead?”
“I- I am trying to-” Kara twists her hand, tearing strands free and drawing a hiss from Elsa. “Fine! I thought to spare the village-”
“Spare the village? You fool.” She tosses the poison aside and draws Elsa’s face within inches of her own, radiating angry heat. “I’m all that stops the goblins from burning this place to the ground and leaving your corpses to the hyenas. Now fix me, or Jaika will water the soil with your blue blood.”
“Y-yes, I understand,” Elsa replies, before she’s pulled into a kiss that stuns her to silence. Kara releases her hair and slumps back, her burst of passion replaced by the cold austerity of burned-out adrenaline receptors.
“I fucking hurt.”
“I- I will heal you, heathen. I- I apologise, for my earlier deception.”
“As well you should. Now, please, Sister, get to work.”
It’s a few minutes of watching the priestesses round hips, grating her teeth, trying to concentrate on the beautiful woman or the finery of the room or anything except the horrible pain radiating up her side. Her alchemical knowledge tells her that the new brew that’s shoved beneath her nose is safe to consume, and that’s all she needs. She swallows it down gratefully while Elsa prepares a poultice for her ribs.
Kara has to fight to keep her eyes open while the warm mash of herbs is applied to the agony of her left side, Elsa sitting delicately on the side of the bed. Kara wonders how anything applied topically could heal an injury that feels so deep. She blinks, floats, sees dancing lights.
“You… gave me a sleep potion.”
“Sleep is the greatest healer,” says Elsa, leaning over to clean the cuts on Kara’s face.
“Don’t… don’t trust you-” mumbles Kara.
“It doesn’t seem you have a choice in th- oh!” The priestess cries out as Kara’s arm, still strong despite the agony that courses through her, wraps around Elsa’s waist and pulls her in tight against herself. It occurs to Elsa to struggle at the last moment, but it’s too late. The cat, dead asleep already by the sounds, has pulled her into an ensnaring bear hug, trapping Elsa with her weight.
“Release me, heathen.”
“...”
“At once!”
The woman does not stir.
Elsa feels the steady tide of Kara’s breath against her back, here in the room, now much transformed, that she has slept in every night, prayed to Thala in every night, for the last four years.
She says her nighttime prayers, as always, and falls asleep with Kara’s erection firm against her ass, tiny snores in her ear.