A Bunch of Lesbians Fight the Demon Queen, and Also God Maybe? Chapter 3

Keeping pace with Ren was a nightmare. Whenever he had purpose in his step, he may as well have been running with a stride that long. Priscilla seemed to have no trouble keeping up, which was odd, given the stick permanently shoved up her ass. Not that Lyra could particularly blame Pris for having a stick up her ass; witchblades, experts in dark and occult magics who turned the techniques of the Church’s enemies against them, were tolerated by the public with an eye of suspicion at best, and seen as corrupted things no better than the beings they fought against at worst. It wasn’t hard for Lyra to feel a degree of kinship with Priscilla; both were women seen by the more conservative elements of their society as fundamentally wrong. Well, actually, at the end of the day it was pretty hard for Lyra to feel too much kinship with the witchblade; that was on account of her being kind of a huge fucking bitch, though. Not that Pris was openly hostile to Lyra, but she held herself as someone above just about everyone around her, and treated the aforementioned people as such. In all honesty, Priscilla gave the impression of someone trying way, way too hard to fit in with a society who didn’t want her, in the desperate hope they might hate her a little less. And that, at the very least, was a feeling Lyra knew well. So in that sense, Lyra couldn’t hate the woman.

Another reason Lyra couldn’t hate Priscilla was that she was fucking hot. Hot in that ‘tie me up and step on me’ kind of way. She was tall, for one, and held her head high, looking down on just about everyone both literally and metaphorically. The entirety of her face seemed to be honed into a sharp instrument; she wore a perpetual expression of mild disdain and mocking amusement at the world around her. Once, she had completely shut Lyra down by simply giving her a stone-faced, tight-lipped look of dismissal and raising a well-sculpted eyebrow. Priscilla’s extensive work with strange magics had given her eyes a faint red glow and seemingly turned her hair from its natural auburn to a shining silver stained with just a hint of a pale teal; she tended to keep it tied back in a tight bun, though during combat she unfurled it. Apparently she could make use of it somehow. Lyra had seen Pris with her hair down exactly once, during a sparring match Lyra had borne witness to, and it was glorious. It seemed to shine and glow brightly, flowing perfectly with her movements to never be in her own way, but to always be lashing at her opponents eyes or creating the illusion that Pris stood where she was not. Simply put, watching Pris fight was breathtaking, and Lyra wouldn’t mind if Priscilla decided she wanted to take away Lyra’s breath.

Sadly, the witchblade wasn’t likely to take her up on that offer, though Lyra sometimes squirmed in her seat imagining the mocking, dismissive disdain she might express should Lyra ever ask. For a brief moment, Lyra considered not quickening her pace so she might make some devastating and devastatingly hot remark, but that sort of thing would need to wait, important work was being done.

Much of the seaside oldtown district of Ossos sat below the main city, and was solid stone. Why, exactly that was the case remained up for debate. The one thing people could agree on was that centuries or maybe millenia ago, someone or something, in particular someone or something quite powerful, had come in and shaped a small city from the towering rocky cliffs that faced the bay. What people couldn’t seem to agree on was who that was. The church wanted everyone to think it was some saint or other, the crown claimed a powerful god-king long ago had done so, and many a powerful practitioner of the arcane had claimed they could do such a thing in their sleep, if they wanted to, of course, which they didn’t. If one were to ask Lyra, she would say that most likely, a long time ago there was indeed someone very powerful, so powerful, in fact, that they could command a force strong enough to shape an entire district of what would one day become the city of Ossos city from stone. The caveat here being that such power came not from magic, but authority. Doubtless, Ossos’ old town was slowly and excruciatingly built upon the backs of years upon years of labor, performed by thousands upon thousands of poor unfortunate souls whose only crime was to be born in a lower station. That narrative suited Lyra quite nicely; the surrounding area wasn’t called the crimson cliffs for nothing, after all.

As her heels clicked lighty on the polished stone roads of old Ossos, thoughts of the old town's history, the task before her, and what a struggle it was not to stare at Priscilla’s ass through her cloak mingled freely in Lyra’s head. Continuing that purposeful stride of his, Renault led the trio down the winding, at times claustrophobic streets and alleys of old town, through squares, past shops, and ever onward toward the sea. At least, it was ever onward to the sea, but then, without warning, Renault found his destination, took a sharp turn, and entered a local tavern which was clearly frequented by military types given how many soldiers were loitering outside. Hurrying along to keep up, Lyra never really got a look at the name of the place—The Something Tide, it didn’t really matter. Inside was quiet; it was mostly stern or weary officer types who had seen a few too many tours. The floors and walls were all polished stone, with a massive carved bar dominating the entire establishment in the center, shaped into a near complete circle with only a gap for the barkeep to enter and exist. Seated at a table along the southern wall, enjoying a private drink and casually gazing out the window was Renault’s man. At least, it seemed that was his man, given the fact that Ren had walked right up to him. Lyra moved to do the same, before Prsicilla’s arm shot out to bar her way.

“Best leave this to the soldier-type.” Priscilla’s eyes flickered from Lyra’s to the man, Trevor, as she spoke. “He and Renault speak the same language. An occultist and a socialite playing hero won’t give the same impression to a military man.”

“What makes you think I’m playing?”

“Recognition, influence, power, attention, isn’t that all you’ve ever craved?” The burning red of her Irises bore into Lyra as Priscilla fixed her with an intense gaze. Internally, Lyra made a mental note to remember what it felt like being stared down by her like that.

“There are reasons beyond myself to do this; I would think a woman of the church would understand that quite well. For that matter, I would think a witchblade would understand why someone might feel the need to prove themself to others,” Lyra smirked, and eyed the chain Priscilla bore depicting two interlocking fists, one dark and one light, the symbol of Priscilla’s order. If Lyra’s verbal sparring partner had any biting remarks to lash back with, she kept them to herself; instead she simply gave Lyra one last long searching glance, then chewed her lip in thought as she nodded silently. Luckily, that particular moment of awkwardness was cast aside for a brand new one, as the sound of chairs scuffing against the floor and the thump of boots hailed the approach of Renault and the man who was presumably Captain Trevor Foller.

With him facing Lyra, she got a proper look at the man, and he wasn’t much to impress, not that Lyra was one to be impressed by men. Regardless, he was of average height, thin and wiry, and clearly strong. Coarse dark hairs sprouted all up and down his arms; a receding hairline made up for all the extra hair he grew on his body. The captain looked like a poster child for what living long enough to become an old soldier did to a person. His face was scarred, his eyes sunken and baggy, his gaze calm, but shifty, focused on everything around him at all times. There was a calm, careful deliberateness to his step and a grim determination written across his tight mouth and strong, clenched jaw. Standing next to a man like Renault, tall and broad with wavy blonde hair and a confident but calculating grin, Trevor looked downright forgettable. But he also looked like someone who knew his way around danger, and that’s what they needed more than anything.

As the two men approached, Lyra gave a friendly smile and held out her hand gingerly to greet their newcomer. “Captain Foller, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she lied.

Captain Foller responded by looking Lyra up and down, and pushing his lips into a professionally courteous smile. “You as well, m’am.” He nodded, and gave a similar nod to Priscilla, then made his exit, Priscilla following short after.

“Friendly bunch, talkative too,” Lyra murmured as Renault passed her.

“Play nice. The captain isn’t used to working with people who aren’t well, like him. Y’know, grunts and the like. And Pris, well, she respects your talent more than she lets on.”

“Yeah yeah, she just needs to keep up the bitchy ice queen act. You’ve said so before,” Lyra rolled her eyes and followed Ren out of the bar. As she emerged into he light, she was greeted by Priscilla looking expectantly toward the pair. t

“All that’s left is to gather your brat then, Renault?” That, at the very least, triggered a snigger from Lyra.

“I’ve already sent Laith ahead to handle the matter of transportation. We’ll be traveling to Cyres by caravan, then onward to fulfill our duties. And Pris, do try to keep such insults to yourself, like it or not, you’re stuck with us until this is over.” The only response Ren earned was a sarcastic two-finger salute, which was perhaps better than a biting remark.

All eyes fell on Ren, the only person who could have brought four such strangers together, and, seeming to get the hint, he nodded and set off out of the old city and toward Ossos’ eastern gate. As it would happen, the quickest way through Ossos was through the mercantile district. Typically, this would not be particularly notable. Ossos’ mercantile district was just like any other city’s; there were open air stalls, craftsmen, traveling traders, and no shortage of citizens going about their business. Lyra quite enjoyed the markets of Ossos; they were a fine place to get all manner of attractive clothes or tasty foodstuffs. Admittedly, her fondness for the markets did come largely from her own ability to make use of them. Having money did provide one such advantage, among others. Regardless, if one were to lay eyes upon Lyra, wandering through a crowded marketplace, her eyes drifting this way and that as she held up the rear of a group that was otherwise single mindedly focused on what was in front of them, one might think her an excellent target for all manner of pickpocketry.

This would be a mistake. Yet apparently, not one which certain individuals were above making. It was as Lyra made a halfhearted attempt to keep pace with her companions, all while looking for an excuse to dawdle or treat herself to some last minute bit of indulgence before she embarked on what would doubtless be an unpleasant journey, that she felt a swift light tug at her belt and a sudden slight lightening of her load. She scoffed; the nerve. Without bothering to turn her head, she flicked her wrist and stopped in her tracks just in time for the yelling to start.

“The fuck? Hey! Put me down, you goddamn wizard!” So her would-be thief was a woman; she had a pretty voice, if a little shrill in times of distress. Lyra made an about-face and eyed her newfound company. She was pretty, from what Lyra could see. The nondescript brown hooded cloak she wore did little to hide her face when she was hanging upside-down and nose to nose with her target. A pair of pale blue-green eyes narrowed, staring back into Lyra’s, all while the thief struggled against the invisible strings which suspended her. Dark, unkempt curly hair which likely would have partially obscured the pickpocket’s face hung just low enough for the longest strands to tickle the cobblestone beneath—or was it above?—her. From her neck hung a fairly nondescript amulet, depicting the masked face of Rhys, a sort of heretical patron saint for thieves and those who wished to remain hidden. It would otherwise be beneath Lyra’s notice, if not for the faint tickle of magic it radiated.

“Perhaps if you didn’t wish to find yourself floating upside down, you should have chosen someone else to pickpocket. Though I will say you were quite impressive; if I hadn’t magically enhanced my senses years ago I wouldn’t have caught you at all.” Lyra grinned, nonchalantly examining her nails as the cloaked thief flailed and cursed impotently. “You’re making a scene.” Her voice dropped to a low hiss. “Are you trying to get yourself thrown in jail?” That, at the very least, got her to quiet down.

“Come on, don’t turn me in to the guards. They’ve already got me on their books for way too much, I’ll rot in there. Half the city is looking for me,” she shot back, voice hushed. “Look, you caught me, okay, you can have your money back, no harm done.”

“Half the city? Oh my, I didn’t realize I was dealing with a famous criminal. Why don’t you tell me your name? Maybe I’ve heard of you.” Honestly, Lyra wasn’t sure what her plan was with this woman. Mostly she just wanted to make her think twice before snatching someone else’s coin. She didn’t particularly hate petty thieves, everyone had to eat, but given the quality of her clothing and her general cleanliness, nothing about the woman before Lyra screamed ‘stealing just to get by.’

“If I tell you my name, will you hurry up and let me go?” she snarled.

“I’ll consider it.” Casually, Lyra sat down on thin air, holding herself up with an invisible little cushion of magic.

“Fine, I’m Maya.”