[Lore] Weakness

TW: Sexual assault, violence, gore, murder. A fairly fucked up read.

She did not remember how she got there.

It was her and Elyas’s weekly escapade, sneaking out of the Rowan manse to wreak havoc on the townsfolk, drinking and dancing and acting far older than they were. Qiyana was only fourteen years, barely a lady. The night was a drunken haze, hours spent in a rustic, rundown tavern. Elyas was flirting, or at least attempting to flirt, with the bar wench, the last she saw of him.

She found herself in the musty alleyway adjacent to the tavern, back pressed against cold, scraping brick. She could hear the bards strumming up tunes, the chatter and howling and laughter still going. All those bystanders, too engulfed in a drunken evening to care what was occurring right under their noses. There was a hand pulling her skirts up, creeping along her bare thighs. Another pressed against her chest, squeezing and pinching, bruising her delicate skin. His breath smelled like mead and sin as he whispered for her to be still.

Qiyana pleaded for him to get off of her. Her words slurred from intoxication. She clawed at his wrists, trying to pry them away from her vulnerabilities. She was weak back then, having never needed the strength to protect herself. Qiyana slammed her knee into his thigh. He bit down in response, leaving the outline of his teeth ingrained in her shoulder. Blood pooled beneath her white blouse.

"Get off of me!"

It did not matter how many times she repeated the phrase. It did not matter as her voice grew louder, as her body began to tremble, as hot tears leaked down onto his tunic. She was weak back then.

Her cries were answered as her throat grew hoarse from begging for relief. The man was pulled off of her by a familiar pair of hands. Elyas struck him so harshly that the crack of his teeth shattering reverberated against the walls. Qiyana stumbled back, horrified, as the perpetrator announced his title as Lord Westbrook. He sputtered threats at Elyas through his now-twisted jaw while Elyas stared at the man with a hostility she had never once seen in him before. His hand rested on the hilt of his longsword.

The scene around her seemed to spin. Her mind felt disconnected from her body. The alley narrowed, the sounds of the tavern warping into an amalgamation of undecipherable noise. Elyas was shouting. Or maybe he wasn’t. She could not tell. She was weak back then.

Lord Westbrook laughed through broken teeth. Spit and blood slicked his chin as he argued with Elyas. He kept referring to her as girl. He did not even know her name, she realized later.

Qiyana lurched. Her hand closed around the hilt of Elyas’s sword before he could react, before anyone could breathe. Steel sang as it left the scabbard. It was beautiful, flashing bright afterimages against the darkness. The lord fell upon the first careless slash. And then it kept going. She loomed over him, tearing through linen and flesh all the same.

The blade was heavy in her hands, awkward and clunky. She was weak back then.

His screaming stopped eventually, but Qiyana did not. Not until his intestines spilled from his abdomen. Until he looked inhuman, like he should be hung from a meat hook. When the sword scraped dirt where the lord’s flesh should have been, Elyas pulled her back.

He pried the sword from her numb fingers, pulling her head into his chest. He whispered reassurances, promises that she was safe. Qiyana believed it. She was weak back then.

The two of them were splattered head to toe in blood, sweat, tears, and guts, reeking of it. They fled, creeping through the darkness unseen until they arrived at the manse.

Lord Rickard would have to hear of this.