“This will be your supply depot, your quarters will be that building over there,” the recruit drones. He points to a shabby brick building. Pre-war brick, not the safer adobe of the post-war years. “It’s yours, permanently.”
“Thank you,” Lucinda agrees, waves the women toward their new lodgings, follows behind, her bird swooping down onto her arm and cutting the motion short. “You ten settle into our lodgings,” she wrinkles her nose at them, keeps her voice neutral so the recruit behind her won’t see her distaste, “and I’ll go talk with this priestess.”
Twist nods, waves the others along ahead of herself.
“Siri, you come with me. Doctoring is close enough to magic.”
Siri snorts, but steps back to Lucinda’s side.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so, hopefully.”
“I’ll keep Watch up for you,” Twist agrees. Lucinda nods.
The recruit points them to a low adobe building, a flag hanging on the wall and a fire out front. The door is a sheet of corrugated steel wedged in the doorframe.
Lucinda knocks, tosses her arm into the air so her bird flaps up onto the roof. The bird croaks at her, and she makes a noise back.
“Come in,” a woman calls, voice rough and low in her throat. Lucinda hauls the sheet of metal aside, steps into the low, dark room. There’s a fission-battery lamp on a table at the other end, the sound of movement in another room, the rustle of clothing and the clack of dishes and the wheezy breathing of blocked airways. Just the sound of it makes SIri rub at her chest.
“It’s Lucia, ma’am, and her doctor,” Lucinda offers.
“Oh, I know who you are,” the woman replies. She’s still puttering around the other room. “I’ve heard the stories of you and your victories.”
“No deaths in our first victory,” Lucinda says, straightens her spine and inclines her chin.
“An impressive feat,” the priestess agrees, and her footsteps come toward the dark doorway. She steps into the light, and she’s not impressive--’dumpy,’ Siri thinks, with a bottom-heavy face and plain graying hair pulled back. Wearing the same cobbled-together outfits all the other non-slave women do.
Lucinda’s mouth opens, though, and her eyes go wide. She makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, so soft Siri can barely hear it, even standing so close.
Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (41a/?)
“This will be your supply depot, your quarters will be that building over there,” the recruit drones. He points to a shabby brick building. Pre-war brick, not the safer adobe of the post-war years. “It’s yours, permanently.”
“Thank you,” Lucinda agrees, waves the women toward their new lodgings, follows behind, her bird swooping down onto her arm and cutting the motion short. “You ten settle into our lodgings,” she wrinkles her nose at them, keeps her voice neutral so the recruit behind her won’t see her distaste, “and I’ll go talk with this priestess.”
Twist nods, waves the others along ahead of herself.
“Siri, you come with me. Doctoring is close enough to magic.”
Siri snorts, but steps back to Lucinda’s side.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so, hopefully.”
“I’ll keep Watch up for you,” Twist agrees. Lucinda nods.
The recruit points them to a low adobe building, a flag hanging on the wall and a fire out front. The door is a sheet of corrugated steel wedged in the doorframe.
Lucinda knocks, tosses her arm into the air so her bird flaps up onto the roof. The bird croaks at her, and she makes a noise back.
“Come in,” a woman calls, voice rough and low in her throat. Lucinda hauls the sheet of metal aside, steps into the low, dark room. There’s a fission-battery lamp on a table at the other end, the sound of movement in another room, the rustle of clothing and the clack of dishes and the wheezy breathing of blocked airways. Just the sound of it makes SIri rub at her chest.
“It’s Lucia, ma’am, and her doctor,” Lucinda offers.
“Oh, I know who you are,” the woman replies. She’s still puttering around the other room. “I’ve heard the stories of you and your victories.”
“No deaths in our first victory,” Lucinda says, straightens her spine and inclines her chin.
“An impressive feat,” the priestess agrees, and her footsteps come toward the dark doorway. She steps into the light, and she’s not impressive--’dumpy,’ Siri thinks, with a bottom-heavy face and plain graying hair pulled back. Wearing the same cobbled-together outfits all the other non-slave women do.
Lucinda’s mouth opens, though, and her eyes go wide. She makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, so soft Siri can barely hear it, even standing so close.