Anna had been doing so well. Maybe she hadn’t exactly broken her bad habits, but she hadn’t engaged in any general thuggery for at least a few weeks. She had been getting low on funds, and having spent her last bit of coin on a room to escape the pouring rain that plagued the rivertowns of Blackwood, she hadn’t seen any harm in stealing one apple from the overflowing carts at the market. And maybe the guards would’ve turned a blind eye to it, had she been someone else. But she hadn’t wandered far enough away from her own skulduggery, and she’d been recognised.
She’d barely even managed to swallow a bite of the apple before they’d come after her. Normally Anna wasn’t too worried about guards, but word had gotten around, and it wasn’t long before it wasn’t guards chasing her, but two mercenaries on horseback running her down like a dog. Tired and hungry, she’d made a good run of it, relying not on her magic (which she had resolved not to use – in retrospect, she’d picked a poor time to take a stand) but her wits and athleticism. For all her tricks, though, Anna was no match for the muddy roads outside of the town. She lost one boot on the road proper, and when she’d veered into the forest in the hopes of slowing them down, she’d lost the other to a tangle of roots.
One of the mercenaries leapt from his horse and tackled her, and it was instinct that made her defend herself not with her hands, but with her magic. He was thrown off (not far, but enough for her to squirm away) with a grunt, nose bloodied, but his friend had already dismounted and clapped the iron collar around her neck before she even knew what was happening. And just like that, it was as though her magic had been stuffed inside a steel box. No matter how deep she dug, how hard she tried to draw from the well, she just scrabbled at the cold metal, denied.
Red runes glowed around the circumference of the collar. The mernecaries looked smug. Anna scowled. This wasn’t the first time she’d been collared, but she wasn’t exactly a fan.
“Back to Three Rivers with you, Half-Ear,” the one with the bloodied nose sneered. She was dragged roughly to her feet and draped rather unceremoniously to the back of the horse, trussed up like a hog.
“What about Eastwall instead? The reward for wyld mages is much larger, there,” his fellow wondered, mounting his own steed. Both horses were guided back towards the road, casual, in no real rush. Anna couldn’t twist her head much in the dampening collar, and she glowered at the mud. She had only herself to blame for this, but she didn’t like the idea of Eastwall. Three Rivers she could probably escape from again, but the Free City wasn’t up its own ass about the Elder Gods. Zealots were a lot less likely to make dumb mistakes in the name of research. They’d probably just hang her for being a bandit as well as an abomination.
“Too far,” the bloodied mercenary said, wiping at his nose and finding blood. He grimaced and slapped Anna’s ass, making her jump, “Cheeky bitch, I think you broke my nose!”
“Could be an improvement,” Anna suggested. Though the bloodied mercenary frowned, his friend laughed.
“It’s not like we don’t have entertainment for the trip,” his friend said, turning the conversation down a darker path. The bloodied mercenary made a distasteful sound, but his friend persisted, “What? She’s collared and bound. Maybe it’d fix her nasty attitude.”
“I’m not the one that needs fixing,” Anna said, all bluster and bravado. She didn’t especially care for this topic of conversation, but she didn’t want them to think she was afraid. She was, of course, but Anna hadn’t made it a year as a highwayman without learning how to bluff her ass off.
The chatty mercenary narrowed his eyes and moved his horse closer, drifting back a bit so he could grab her jaw and force her head into an uncomfortable position. Anna tried to struggled, but the collar was as tight as it was unwieldy: she had no choice but to look her captor in the eye. She didn’t like what she saw there.
“Looks more human than elf,” he drawled, releasing her jaw and running a finger along the jagged, flat edge of her left ear. It didn’t hurt, but the intent made her cringe, and colour burned on her cheeks, “Bet you’re a real fighter.”
Though his bloodied companion didn’t seem as enthusiastic to break the spirit of their prisoner, he wasn’t much interested in stopping his friend, either. He continued to fuss over his nose, neither of them paying much attention to anything else. After all, they were transporting a notorious prisoner. What was there for them to worry about?