Even as Kre thought to be thankful that the young girl was still bound by the rope, she shuffled them off like they were no more bothersome than a curtain hanging in one’s path. The thick hempen rope fell to the floor with a thud and the girl stretched luxuriously in one smooth, rippling motion.
He found he still had Marce’s body cradled in his arms and he noticed that Marce still held his large dagger on his hand. He thought briefly about how this situation seemed so eerily familiar, a flash of déjà vu flashing through his mind. He crept his hand downwards, towards the bared blade, while the young Ylveryan girl scooped out a new bowl of stew for herself.
“Pick it up if it makes you feel better,” she called out casually. “Do you want some stew as well? There is still enough for another bowl if you would like.”
As similar as it seemed at first to his encounter at Cooter’s house, this was a turn of events that he hadn’t anticipated. Still, he gripped the dagger tightly and brought it closer to his chest. It gave him a small sense of security in this incredibly odd time.
The girl looked back over her shoulder at him and flashed her gold-flecked eyes back at him. “Well?” she asked pleasantly.
“What?” he responded quickly, shaking his head to try and clear it.
“Stew.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Are you even listening to me?”
He gestured to the stew pot. “Isn’t it poisoned?”
She laughed. It was more than a girlish giggle but less than a hearty guffaw. Somewhere just past polite chuckle and around a condescending chortle. “Drugged, not poisoned. And I put the herbs in the bowls not in the stew pot. You are safe with me.”
Oddly enough, hearing those words did make Kre feel a bit safer in her presence. It was as if they were old friends already. Old friends with a bunch of passed out bodies surrounding them. He stood and set the dagger on the table nearest him and nodded.
“You need to actually use your words,” she said with a frown. “It is going to be annoying travelling with you if you are stuck in being the soft silent type the whole way.”
There was something odd in her manner of speech, but Kre couldn’t quiet put his finger on it. Her accent seemed normal, which was odd in and of itself given her Ylveryan heritage, but it was just something about her word choice that gave him pause.
“Wait,” he stammered, snapping back to reality. “What do you mean travelling?”
She bounced over to the table and plopped down on the bench across from him and right next to Lowil. Then, she slid the second bowl she had been carrying across the table and waved for Kre to dig in.
She offered no immediate response to his question but simply stared at him as she picked up small bits of stew with her spoon and brought them daintily to her mouth.
“Can you at least not stare at me like that?”
“You are my dinner companion. Who else am I going to look at?”
Kre felt more than a little self-conscious given her scrutiny and, in an effort to alleviate the tension he felt, he took the dagger off the table and set it on the bench next to him. The girl noticed the rearranging of the dagger and smirked, “Not going to try and stab me then?” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“I haven’t decided yet. I am a murderer after all. You may think that I’m safe with you, but have you considered if you’re really safe from me?”
This time her laugh was full and genuine. It lasted a few seconds longer than Kre would have liked too, especially since he thought he had presented such a strong front. “Oh Kre. That’s adorable.”
“How do you even know my name?” he demanded, suddenly furious for no good reason at all.