The Crowned Captive
Pretty Little Enigma

Rowan frowned down at the crumpled figure of the woman. She was a pretty thing really, with high cheekbones and nearly pouty lips that rested on a delicate ivory face. Eyebrows a couple of shades darker than her silver locks arched high above her eyes. Her fae heritage was obvious to anybody who cared look hard enough, likely obvious to even the humans she hid amongst. No scars marked her pale skin, curious given her foraging and hunting for food - likely a hint at accelerated fae healing.

Many true fae women would be envious of her, even with the bruise and blood smear the pommel of his dagger had left against her head. The closer he looked, the more confident he became of elven heritage, for she showed it well; her ears were the perfect replica of his own despite her being a mutt, nose delicate and eyes wide. She also showed her starvation prominently, with the sharp angles of her joints being obvious. She had put up as much of a fight as she was able, and it had still been far too easy. It displeased him how quickly he had incapacitated her. Given a better upbringing, she may have found herself useful for someone, and yet she now was nothing.

Pity getting the better of him, Rowan sighed and brushed his finger over the budding bruise, his magic erasing it. He turned then, inspecting her cloak and other belongings. It was a good cloak, made of soft yet heavy leather with a wildcat fur lining that far out-priced nearly every other object she owned together. It was a touch too small for her, though, and had more than a few years of wear. Was it a hand-me-down? A gift, or something she had grown into from a previous life outside the musty cellar? He stored the little piece of information in his brain as he pulled the cloak tightly around her unconscious frame.

The golden pendant strung around her neck had also piqued his interest. The ornate necklace was worth some money, even in the fae realms. In fact, he was damned sure it was of fae make, with delicate whorls and pins and depressions. He had seen many a similar pendant be a puzzle only the wearer knew. Some had held poison, others had magic spells of voices or images, and some held curses. This particular pendant had grime stuck in its seams, showing it had likely not been opened in quite a few years. Did she even know what it was? He dared not open it himself but did not want to place a potential weapon in the hands of his captive all the same. Unfastening it from her neck, he stowed it in his pocket and turned his nose up at the rest of her clothing. It was all far too well-worn for travel, especially the terrain they were to go through. He would have to make do with what she wore, and source more.

He looked back to the halfling then, disgusted once more. He would have to carry her out of the inn and through the town without attracting attention. With her cloak, he could hide her face and his, but would it be enough? In human villages, prying eyes peered through the streets even in the darkness, and the sun was high overhead. Rowan sighed through his nose. He had decided he had not gotten to have enough fun with the men in the alley. If the humans were fool enough to stop him, it would be at their demise

He hauled the woman over his shoulder then, picking his way out of the cellar. She was a slight thing, bones protruding at her joints. Though even with her starvation so evident, he could feel the silhouette of a woman’s figure. He imagined that once she ate something substantial, she would have a slightly fuller figure than most of the lithe elven women he was familiar with. With that and her delicate features, she would truly be something pleasing to look at. Maybe spending his journey back with a mutt would not be so bad.

She was featherlight as he trotted up the stairs. He felt a sorrow of sorts at that, and how much the woman had struggled. She looked as if she had barely entered her second decade and she had already known starvation intimately. Most fae children would not yet have left their childhood homes. That chord of pity sang through him again as he walked out of the cellar of the inn. Though people were milling around and he had absolutely no way of hiding his departure, nobody made to stop him. He could feel the prying eyes of the villagers as he slinked out the doors and clung to the shadows of the buildings. Whispers flew between them, but not a man or woman made to stop him. His hatred of humans was only solidified by their lack of empathy for the woman he was currently kidnapping.

Still not wishing to take his chances, Rowan took the shortest route to the forest and melted into the shadows. His ears were alert for signs of someone coming to rescue the woman, but no shouts or burning torches came. Even walking the long way around the village to his camp, he was uninterrupted on his journey quick.

As soon as he reached his mare, who had dutifully stayed put at his camp, he gently placed his charge down on the loamy earth. Her eyelids flickered, the only sign of her possibly waking up, but they quickly stilled. With a sigh, he fetched his ropes from the tent and began binding her wrists and ankles. There was no chance she would escape him, but he needed information from her before he started back to his king. Given the pathetic life she obviously lived, he wished to not have to hurt her too much for it. Fear would be his tool then, and he pitied the woman if she was strong-willed or dumb enough to not give him what he wanted with that alone.

A murmur escaped her lips as he hauled her upright, leaning her against the log. She stilled once more, and he began building the fire, feeding it until it was roaring. With a sigh, he placed his irons into the fire and dragged over a log to sit opposite her.

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