| Meanwhile, In Sunsreach… |
| Summary: | Zarine Abara plots to continue the campaign against Prince Tristan Tracano |
| Date: | 1866-11-20 |
| Related: | the murders in Sunsreach |
| Players: |
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"She's here," the gruff man says as he throws himself into the empty seat at the rough-hewn table. "Should we take her?"
Zarine Abara cocks her head at Mitchell. One of her soldato, an assassin of quality— and a man who never questioned her orders. Unlike Rodrick. How pretty little Rodrick screamed as she reminded him who was in charge of this operation… she closes her eyes and shudders in pleasure at the memory.
"Miss 'Rine?" Mitchell says quietly, bringing her back to the present. He needed orders.
Hmph.
"No," she says with a sulk. "Too many eyes for all the wrong reasons, and Baral would skin me if things get out of hand right now." One day, Zarine vows to herself, it will be ZARINE skinning BARAL. But today is not that day. "Bring her in here. To me."
"The brat too?"
Oh yes. She had forgotten there was a child involved. There was always a child involved.
"As long as it doesn't squeal," Zarine allows graciously as she can muster.
Baral wanted to make a point to the Fool Prince that the Abara were not to be trifled with. It was known he had thrown his weight in with the Moreno— only showing himself to be the fool he pretended to be pretending to be. Probably that slut Saffran got her legs wrapped around him and that's why he's pushing their agenda, Zarine thinks with a sneer. They had four more targets— women the Prince had slept with— within their grasp. It upset him, she knew, and that pleased Zarine greatly. She was her sister's representative within the city.
Father… Zarine frowns. Father may or may not approve of this enterprise. It wasn't like anyone could ask him. He wouldn't remember, or he would think the old war was still raging between the Rivana and the northerners. Or he'd think Baral was Mother again— Mother had been dead over a decade. His head had gone soft. Zarine grunts. One of the Silva bastards poisoned him, she was sure. Baral disagreed, said sometimes when people get older their heads go soft. But what kind of soft is that, not recognizing his own children?
The door opens. Zarine sits up straight, realizing she hadn't even noticed Mitchell departing, so lost was she in her own thoughts.
The woman with Mitchell has a gleam in her eyes that Zarine can appreciate. The woman has the bearing of someone who was quite pretty once, but carrying her child had taken a toll. Where once she may have been lithe, now she hangs a bit heavily. And dancing in her eyes is a dark madness.
"Mistress Zarine?" she says softly. "I am Annabeth Ashedown. This is my daughter," and she gestures to the two year old girl in her arms, "Cassandra." She smiles darkly. "I understand you would like our assistance."
Zarine smiles back. "Oh, yes. You've already been quite helpful to us. But I can think of a few other ways you and your daughter can be of a better service."
Annabeth nods. "As long as I have my Tristan in the end— or no one does." She scowls fiercely. "He is mine, and mine alone."
Zarine shrugs. "So I assume… you would enjoy ruining his wedding?"
Annabeth smiles.
"Good." Zarine stands. "But first… we have a few more people to kill."