Harvest Bonfire
The Black Coach has ridden at great speed through shadow, after extending an invitation merely by arriving, empty. The coachman has said nothing all the way, and now it has stopped short of the castle, instead of going up the broken, dangerous road.
For once it is sunny, and the small town square in which they have stopped looks almost gay and joyful, for there are flowers and corn dollies hung around the place, and people in their best peasant clothing are here, dancing around what would be a maypole, were this May.
It may be that Emma's growing used to the Black Coach's rare invitations - or, perhaps she's simply grateful there's no coffin, today. There's only the briefest attempt at questioning the coachman, before she gives up and settles in for the ride, though when the coach stops without a death-defying ride up toward the castle, she peeks out the window in unabashed surprise and curiosity. There's a smile, then, at the festivities, before she moves to clamber down and out of the coach.
Peasants of all sorts bow, and speak to her in a language that sounds like Vlad's accent, but has no discernible words whatsoever. Emma does what she does best - she offers them a sunny, warm smile and blushes prettily at the bows and greetings, inclining her head in return. "Good day," she offers in Thari, more for politeness' sake than in any hope it'll be understood.
The coach rattles off, and after a little confusion the peasants bow to Emma, or curtsey, and one gestures towards a table. There is one seat, and a lot of food and drink.
Emma turns her head, watching the coach's departure. She is, as it turns out, dressed quite finely, in harvest-appropriate hues. The redhead gives an appreciative smile, and moves toward the empty seat, murmuring thanks.
The food is good for peasant fare, although one of the drinks, which they press on her, seems to have been made by fermenting axle grease until the yeast gives up and dies. The wine is better, if only just, and the beer is very good.
Emma is, at least, polite enough to attempt a taste of the fermented axle grease, then cheerfully passes it off to try the wine. At last, when the beer is passed over for tasting, she lifts the mug approvingly and holds onto the mug. She seems to have little hesitation, when it comes to eating peasant food, though she does do so with ladylike manners.
The coach arrives once more when she is halfway through a mountain of food that she will not be able to finish without a rest break. Its arrival silences the crowd, and the dancing stops.
And it's likely that unless she were out on active maneuvers, Emma wouldn't be able to finish the food, anyway. She glances up at the coach's arrival, her brow furrowing at the crowd's reaction.
The door opens, and a woman steps out. She is blonde, slim, dressed in black and red velvet, and just starting to look angry. Her red lips part in shock, and her cornflower-blue eyes widen.
There is dead silence among the peasantry now.
There might be recognition on Emma's features - or a suspicion of it. She stays still, perhaps attempting not to attract attention. Of course, she's a tall redhead, dressed in fiery silks among peasantry. It might be hard not to attract attention.
Lyanka steps down from the coach, walking towards Emma with fury erupting as she comes.
The Countess is, apparently, angry.
Emma puts on a small, polite smile, as if she had no idea what the countess might be angry about. She waits for the blonde to approach, silent, smile not fading.
Lyanka draws back her hand to slap or punch, without any greeting at all.
"Do that, and I will burn you alive," Emma says, her smile not fading even a tiny bit.
Lyanka brings her hand around...
RPG: Emma challenges a difficulty of 10. Emma chooses Wits and the gift STY-SW. Emma succeeds.
... And an open-handed slap to Emma's cheek echoes around the square.
Emma's head is turned, very slightly, by the slap. She lets her head be turned an iota further than it might be otherwise - she always -did- have a sense of drama - before working her tongue against the inside of her cheek, then very slowly and deliberately rising to her feet. Already, that cheek begins to burn a bright red, the risks of such porcelain-fair skin. "Do you feel better, now, Lyanka?" she asks the other woman, as she rises. To her full height.
"Whore," spits Lyanka. "This is my land and you are banished!"
Emma's lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "This is Vlad's land, not yours. You have no power over me." The words are purred out, a particular emphasis to the nickname 'Vlad.' The particular, possessive emphasis of someone using a nickname frequently - perhaps intimately.
Whatever Lyanka shouts in her own language, it makes the peasants move forward towards Emma.
Lyanka then comes back into Thari to say, "I will have him when you are skinned!"
"You'd have -peasants- do your dirty work?" Emma clucks her tongue. And without warning, a ball of fire appears in her hand. "Come now. Are you so insecure that you won't fight your own battles? No wonder your husband prefers me." She leans in, whispering, "He says my blood is the sweetest he's tasted yet, you know."
RPG: Emma declares that she has the Fire Warrior (FIR-WR) gift.
RPG: Emma used the following +declare targets: Below Berg Chudewic
The peasants draw back as the flames appear. "He said that to me, first," replies Lyanka, "And he fed me his."
In the distance, as if anyone cared, the Black Coach creeps away once more.
Emma laughs, very softly, mindless of her single scarlet cheek. "And did he tell you how much he enjoyed ripping your gowns away from my flesh?" The ball of fire remains in her hand, burning brightly, not seeming to trouble the woman in the least.
"He does not dare talk to me, for I hold his soul in my inner well," hisses Lyanka, "And he cannot take it back."
Emma's smile widens. "Do you, now," she murmurs, gears turning. She takes a step closer to the blonde.
Lyanka says, "Spread your legs all you want. There is nothing he desires between them."
Emma takes another step closer. "See, the funny thing about that," she begins.
Lyanka waits for the sentence to be cone, rather than reacting with the violence she should, in such a situation.
Lyanka's sneer is of course beautiful.
Emma lowers the fireball, out of Lyanka's line of sight. She continues her sentence. "Your husband has never bedded me - and yet he still loves me more than he will -ever- love you. Turns out I'm not a frigid, jealous bitch."
Lyanka's chuckle is sweet and musical. "I am not frigid," she says, "Nor am I used as a tool of his."
Without warning, Emma's hand lashes out, for Lyanka's throat.
Lyanka's carriage is good, meaning she holds herself well, and presents a good target. Emma has her in an instant, and Lyanka brings up her pretty hands and her sharp nails to tear at Emma's arm.
Emma lifts her free hand, and its fireball, which elongates and draws out into a stiletto. "Your eyes are pretty," she says, mindless of the nails digging at her arm. "I think I'd like one." Her smile doesn't fade, in the least, as the stiletto is moved toward the other Countess's face.
Lyanka, going red, lashes out with a foot at Emma's knee. Stilletos are not only a sort of dagger - she wears tall, slim shoes. In her eyes is desperation.
Emma grits her teeth, her knee buckling as the stiletto connects with her knee. She loses her grip on Lyanka's throat, but as she does, she gives a good hard shove against the blonde's windpipe, attempting to buy herself a little space.
Lyanka falls backward, bringing up her foot to kick forwards again but connecting only with Emma's skirt.
Emma reaches to grab for Lyanka's foot, as it kicks out. She doesn't quite manage to catch it, but moments later, she's practically leaping on top of the other woman. In another circumstance, people would pay to watch this.
Lyanka oofs as the breath is driven out of her, and reaches to pull Emma towards her, trying to tear out her rival's throat.
Emma brings her fist back, letting herself be pulled close. And she swings, toward Lyanka's pretty mouth. And this is not an open-handed slap. It's a punch - a Marine-style, brutal blow.
Lyanka's head hits the ground, blood flowing red from bruised scarlet lips. Her eyes reflect a sky that is the colour they are.
"Remember what I said about burning you alive?" Emma asks, reaching to the shoulder of Lyanka's gown and launching herself to her feet. "I think you and I should take a walk into that bonfire." The redhead is all wiry strength.
Lyanka whimpers as she is hauled up, trying to pull away. The peasants move away from the pair, obviously scared.
"Has Vladimir ever mentioned my other expertise?" Emma asks, conversationally, as she hauls the blonde toward the fire. "I'm called Lady Death, my dear Lyanka. And you and I, we're going to spend hours in that bonfire. And fire hurts, I'm told. You'll smell that pretty blond hair burning, first, I suspect, even as you feel the heat sear your flesh. And then your flesh will begin to char and crack." She turns, moving to grab at the countess's other arm with her free hand. "And the best part is that I can hold you on the edge of death for hours, and hours. Just when you think that surely the agony must end, you'll find it doesn't." Her smile is wide - her eyes mad.
Now Lyanka tries to pull away, afraid of the fire or of Emma.
Lyanka's elegant shoes skitter on the ground, not stopping her from being hauled along.
Emma's hand tightens, and she says, "I warned you what would happen. But in your jealous, foolish arrogance, you didn't listen. Come now, time to accept the consequences."
"No!" Lyanka tries to fall to her knees. "Please no?"
Emma continues to back toward the fire, close enough now that the flames lick at the back of her gown. She remains mindless of it, but she pauses, an edge of the silk smoldering. "Why? Give me one good reason."
"I will go," says Lyanka. "Never return - you may have him and his castle."
Emma takes another step back. Eerily, the fire begins to creep up her dress. "No, you won't. You'll come
creeping back, when you think I won't notice."
Lyanka says, "I promise - even he knows that when I say a thing it is so. The word of Lyanka Vasilisa upon it."
Emma pauses, one coppery brow lifting. "And his soul? What good do castle and man do me, when you hold his soul?" Is the fire... creeping up her back?
Lyanka whimpers, "I cannot help how he feels," and struggles again to be free of Emma's grip and the fire.
"Deep inside, he loathes you. He -warned- me about you, that you would not try to hurt him through me - or hurt me," Emma replies, calmly. "Go now, and never return. On your word. If you plague this County again, I will see to it that you spend months in flames, and when at last I release you, I will sink your soul into the foulest latrine I can find."
Lyanka scrabbles for purchase on the ground.
Emma pushes Lyanka away from her, with a none-too-gentle shove. By now, the flames are licking at the front of her dress.
Lyanka turns to run. The Black Coach has returned now, but its door does not open to her and she disappears down the road, away from the castle.
Emma steps out of the fire, brushing her hands down toward her skirts in a gesture that speaks of ritual. The flames that lick at her gown are snuffed, and the redhead's nose wrinkles. "Curses. Ruined another gown," she murmurs.