Chapter 1: Less Than Perfect Greetings

The heroines come face to face at the Inn of the Capital. But, as the old adage goes; "first impressions are everything".

Archer was drunk, plain and simple. There was rarely a night, or day for that matter, where this wasn’t the case. Even a single experience of her past would drive the most steeled nerves to the bottle. It was amazing it had taken her this long to do so.

                She sat in the capital’s Inn rather than the Public House. She may own a truly luxurious home in the city, but she rarely spent time among the locals, using it for nothing more than a bed at night. Even so, an Inn was more familiar to this ex nomad, even if her full set of battle worn and exotic armor did little to hide her among the seemingly lesser adventurers and travelers within its walls. She rarely took that armor off, and supplemented its protection with the dulling of her pain from the inside. None dared to question her since anyone willing or skilled enough to don such things are best not quarreled with. The fact that she drove off all problems with a drunken wave of her bow or arrows ensured solitude. But not tonight.

                A woman as conspicuous as Archer entered this den of rumor and drink. She was, by no means, a woman of current wealth, but her dress was of a higher class. Stiches were visible among the ruffles and, skilled though they were, the thread was little more than strands of improvised twine. Her hands twisted the unusually thick fabric of her parasol. It was held in front of her as low as her straightened arms would allow. Peeling one hand from her vice like embrace of the parasol’s security, she removed her flowing black hair from her face and surveyed the room, coming to the only figure that stood out. As she approached Archer she felt the gazes of the men and women around her. All wondered what was under this luxurious garment she wore, be it a lust for jewels, or the woman herself. She extended her hand towards Archer, hesitated, then placed herself on the stool beside the slumping knight. After this, she leaned her parasol against the bar, symmetrical with the bow of her hopefully soon to be friend, and affixed her dress so that she may sit upright and rigid.

                “Pardon me,” she rose her hand, calling for the bartender with a veil of excitement “I’d like a drink!”

                The bartender cocked his lips in time with his eyebrows, knowing she didn’t know what kind of ‘drink’ she wanted. Archer raised her hand to interject.

                “Just ahhoh” she stammered “a, you know.” She rose her hand, waved it as if the words would be summoned by her actions, and scoffed at this woman’s ineptitude within an Inn’s setting.

                But the Bartender didn’t know and looked to the woman who blushed, stammering along with Archer. With an eye roll he replied, “Alright.”

                The woman sighed in relief as the bartender slunk off to the end of the bar, removing a bottle of wine. She turned to Archer whose arm had, by now, fallen with a thud. The bar and patrons leapt at the sound.

                “Thank you for trying to help, Sir.” She began to bow.

                “I’m not a f*****g guy.”

                “Oh. Oh, ancestors, I’m so sorry I didn’t-“ She began to bow again.

                “It’s f****n’… Whatever.” She sighed and seemed to slump deeper.

                “Well… I’m Annette. May I ask your name?” Annette was attempting to recover the situation with soft smile.

                “No. You f****n’ can’t.”

                “Oh. I-…” Annette’s face fell before she noticed the flagon of wine placed by the bartender, and took a reluctant yet necessary slug.

                “Because I don’t f*****g have one!” Archer rolled her head, letting the anger out through a sigh as she returned to her slumping squalor. “But people f*****g… Called me Archer because, you know.” With considerable effort, she pointed to her dragon bone bow.

                Annette, a woman who, at some point, was of wealth was astounded. But before she could reconcile its possible value as compared to the treasures she had known in her past Archer cut her off with a simple grumble sounding vaguely of the word “yeah”.

                “Well, Archer. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you- well, would you happen to know a place I could stay that isn’t so…” She started to whisper. “Dirty?”

                Archer peeled her head from the table, cocking her head to expose her darkened skin and flecks of fire red hair from under her undone hood/mask. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin caked with patches of dirt. “What?” She asked in pure confusion.

                “Mrrrm!” Annette’s only response as Archer blinked a few times with considerable effort. Annette, having taken to her drink once more, sighed. “I wish to find a place to sleep that’s, more, or-“ Before Annette could find the more sensitive words Archer had raised her eyebrow, showing more confusion until one voice broke this awkward exchange.

                “Hey!” Exclaimed one of the first men to eye Annette. Him, and two other compatriots, now approached her, causing Archer to wave her hand and fall back to her previous position as Annette turned to face these new faces.

                “H-he- Greetings, mmmy na-“ She started nervously.

                “Yeah, yeah, we f****n’ heard. So, what? You dance on in here lookin’ so much better than us…” His compatriots now fanned out around her. The man who was speaking rested his arm in front of Annette on the bar, the other stood be him crossing her arms. His final friend stood between Archer and Annette.

                “Buuut I wasn’t da-“ Annette attempted an interjection but was overruled.

                “Yeah, we f****n’ know you weren’t. So,” the man finished her wine. “hows about you just tell us what you’re hidin’ under that dress of yours, and we’ll let your ‘transgressions’ slide.” The man smirked at his word choice.

                Annette could only stammer, caught with no advantages on which to draw. Archer, through willful ignorance or, more likely, the haze of drink, made no attempt to intervene until the female patron stepped forward, taking Annette’s hair in her hand, absorbing its aroma.

                “Who cares if she has money or not?”

The sultry tone was not lost on Archer’s ears as her eyes shot open, the bloodshot veins pulsing on their surface. She rose, and with the unrestricted might of a drunken brawler, she shoved the man between her and Annette to the side, catching him off guard as he stumbled into the tables beside him. But as she stood, she took hold of her bow and reached for an arrow from the quiver mounted on her back, following the motion of shoving the male brigand. Her bow was raised, drawn, and the spike of a dragon’s tooth dug into the flirtatious female’s nose, ripping it asunder. She stumbled back, as did Archer who had not felt the floor for hours.

“Now, I’mmm f****n’ drunk soo I dunno where this is gonna land.” Her bow swayed. “So, how about y- you all just f**k off and then you… uh…” Her lost train of thought allowed her to hear the man she shoved give a revealing shout as he brandished a chair above his head. Archer, in yet another fluid motion, loosed her arrow which embedded itself halfway through the lead man’s leg, and lowered her body to duck under the chair, jabbing her bow into the attacking man’s stomach in the process. Now wounded himself, he clutched his stomach and fell onto his chair.

Annette emerged from her makeshift shell composed of her arms, uncurling and releasing her vice like grip over her head. Her first thoughts were of horrified concern as her hand shot down to clasp onto her parasol, which remained where it had begun. Before the soothing relief of its fabric’s touch could alleviate her tension, Annette’s eyes soon became transfixed on the gore, and more specifically, the blood. Wide eyed, she was unable to move her head…  Until Archer took hold of her arm and dragged her towards the exit, stopping only to dig a small fistful of gold coins and precious jewels to toss behind the bar in payment to the cowering bartender.

***

                As the pair emerged from the Inn, a pair of capital police rushed in, increasing the commotion to which they were responding. Archer was still dragging Annette by the upper arm, leading her away from the filth she had so comprehensively trashed. But a silence loomed over them, and neither had quite an idea of where they were heading. Annette broke it.

                “S-so,” she began “how long do you think it’ll take them to clear that up?” Her gaze was still locked on the blood staining the Inn’s floor, even though it had left her field of vision.

                Archer slowed, something finally, and thankfully, stopping her. Her gaze was too, locked onto a target she couldn’t see. “I don’t… Well…” She sighed and went to rub her head only to clonk her bow into it. With an annoyance filled grip she squeezed her bow, only to relent. “If you want you can stay at my house.”

Annette wormed her fingers into the grip Archer kept upon her arm, trying to coax her to let go. Archer complied with mild swiftness.

“How do I know this isn’t some drunken whim?” Annette let out an awkward chuckle, before gulping it down, not knowing for sure if she had fallen into the fire from the pan. Her hands, again, caressed her parasol, keeping it close yet low to her person.

Without a drunken groan, Archer only rolled her eyes, turning half way to face Annette, while not making eye contact. “Well, ‘cause, I just maimed three people who’re gonna rape you and I think that … Uh…”

Trying to stifle her memories of the blood, Annette’s lips cracked into another smile. “So, you’ve showcased your chivalry?”

Archer replied with pursed lip sigh, her dark skin keeping her blush in check.

Annette replied in turn with a giggle and curtsy. “Then I suppose I own you my gratitude, Madam Knight.”

Turning to offer some reactionary rebuke with little thought, Archer stopped at Annette’s curtsy. “Just… Come on. Sleep in my guest… Room. It’s safe and soft and yeah…” Turning again to lead the way, she paused, turned yet again, and raised her arm behind Annette to motion her forward, and have some semblance of protection over her.

***

                The door front door to Archer’s manor opened, the hinges creaking with halfhearted calls for lubricant. Archer stumbled forward, apparently unaware that the door before her would cease its support once opened, though she quickly recovered. Annette, who was behind, attempted to reach for her comrade but balked as she recovered. Now, she turned her attention to the stately understated manor in which she stood. Lacking the typical sty one would expect of a staggering drunk, Archer’s home was well organized, practical, and with few things beyond what was necessary. Those beyond the utilitarian were shelves of books and papers, flowering shrubs in mosaic porcelain pots baring bright red fruit, and trinkets both exotic and ornate which showcase the travels of a truly worldly woman.

Annette followed close behind the staggering drunk, ceasing their ragged advance toward the ascending stairs in the back of the single room floor, she placed her hand upon Archer’s back.

“Um…” Was all that could part from her nervous tongue, but with a motion her meaning was conveyed. Archer turned to see the ashes of her once proud fire twinkling away within, what must be, her kitchen area’s hearth.

Archer’s weary eyes flickered back at the fire. All that could part her weary tongue was a groan, knowing a new road block stood between her path to bed. She stomped forward, almost preparing herself, then turned her stomps to the ashes. Annette watched her frustration as the ashes spread. With concern stifling any humor, she smelled the open bottle resting on the kitchen area’s table, and doused the embers in the wine.

Archer looked down at her wine and ash covered shoe, ignorant to the fact that the last source of light beyond the moon had just been doused. “The house is stone. It wasn’t… gonna… fire.”

“You still should ha-“ Annette was cut short by the incoherent babbles of Archer moving on and a wave of her hand. Annette, took this hand wave as a gesture to follow as Archer nearly crawled her way up to the second floor, occasionally egged by Annette on from attempts to collapse and sleep there and then.

The second floor was smaller than the first, but arguably more wonderful. A skylight illuminated the sitting area just adjacent to the two bedrooms. This sitting area engulfed the entire second floor with a balcony overlooking the first. A dark wood table blended into the room, a chair slightly ajar from it indicating use. A bookshelf and a dresser, with treasures and silverware respectively, straddled each wall with two of the same shrubs overlooking the first floor from their balcony posts. A single potted plant sat on the table, directly in the middle.

“Aahrigh so…” Archer paused, a small burp being stifled and Annette chuckling to herself. “Guest,” she motioned to the left “me.” She advanced to her room.

“Thank you for letting me rest here.” Said Annette. Though Archer’s back was turned, she curtsied. Archer lacked her drunken response and just plowed through her door, swinging it open and, in her flails, slammed it shut. Finally allowed to drop any act, Annette snickered for a moment before entering the guest bedroom. Now she begun a preset routine; she undressed, folded her clothes, procured a nightgown from the drawers, closed the curtains as tightly as she could, paused and darted her eyes about as she had no means to clean herself, then recovered to take all pillows, and even the blankets, to form a wall facing the window on which she then rested her back. A pillow and a single tightly wrapped sheet was all that remained for her use. Her night would have been punctuated by the late-night arguments Archer had with her full armor set she neglected to remove before falling face first onto her bed. However, Annette’s snoring drowned out any such distractions.

***

                Archer was roused from her ‘sleep’ by the aroma of fire and of seared fish. Rising with enough speed to awaken her hangover, her instant fear was, of course, fire. But the salmon registered something new in her now pain ridden mind. Someone was cooking her… food? Anger dulled the agony as she rose, taking hold of her bow, which laid tossed beside the bed. She placed her hand upon the bedroom floor, listening, smelling the air, and feeling for footsteps. Only one pair could be sensed. She stopped, thinking back to the night before, but such actions brought the pain back causing her to cradle her head. Despite this she exited her room, cautious in opening the door, but mostly curious as memories began to dull her ideas that this may be some vandal. Peaking between the thick stone fencing which lined the second floor’s balcony, she spied Annette, cooking over a new fire, it was small, poorly managed as large chunks of unburned wood sat outside the fire’s center, but the salmon she prepared seemed well seasoned. Her parasol relaxed upon a well-padded chair before the fire.

                With a sigh of remembrance, she purged her adrenalin and rose to her feet. “Hey! I said-“ She stopped her burst of obligatory anger and returned to cradling her head.

                Annette yelped, nearly dropping her salmon steak. Though her senses her were sharp, at least honed by her period of self-preservation, Archer’s steps left the dust of the floor still and untouched. But, as she recovered and realized Archer had startled her, she grew concerned.

                “Are you ok??” She bellowed through to the second floor, causing Archer to curl to her knees. Confused by the lack of response, she tried again. “Madam Knight!”

                Archer’s only response was a yelling growl, dripping with venom which Annette knew was meant to shut her mouth. Clutching the salmon and snatching an apple she has yet to prepare, she flew up the stairs to the sitting room’s balcony. Her haste was cut short by the screeching halt to change direction around the table as not to ram into its highly illuminated edge.  With care, she maneuvered around the skylight’s gaze, only placing the food before the chair laced in shadow. Only then did she dip below to place her hand on Archer, attempting to worm the other under her arm for support.

                “What happened??” She inquired.

                Archer, unable to move, simply held her head. “Shuht uhp…” She groaned.

With a gasp, even this was too loud for the poor hangover victim, she nodded.  “Ooh. I getcha.” Only now was the connection made in Annette’s head. A smile crossed her face and her snickers were stifled as she lifted Archer to her feet.

Archer gave token resistance as she was placed into the chair. With great force, she kept her head from resting in the salmon and her weary hand reached for the table.

“I’ll get you a rag and some water.” Annette said with glee and began skipping to the stairs.

“Wine.” Archer called back.

“Water, drunkie.” Annette replied.

With Annette, already downstairs, Archer saved her energy and refused to reply. As she bit into the apple, the force of that action was too much. She stopped before even removing the bite and dropped it on the table. With the fingers of courtesy, her middle and thumb, she took pieces of the salmon, letting them melt in her mouth. She had yet to take off her gloves.

***

                Annette, with little luck, searched in vain for water inside. She found only small buckets of still, dirty water among the extensive and untouched ingredients of an alchemy lab in the basement. These were not for drinking. So, twitching her lips, and knowing her only course of action, she roused her parasol from its comfort and took the door leading from the basement to the small garden behind the house. It was fenced, yet full of green in the oppressive city cobblestone. Vines and brush grew as they wish, trimmed only when they came too close to, or removed the sun from, a neighbor. Small herbs grew in a minute and easily missed planter box nestled along the house wall. These fared worse than most, awash in spiders and insects. Yet, they grew protected from the wind and still received the necessary water. Perhaps the death of the infested creatures returned whatever nutrients they stole from their hosts.

                Nevertheless, Annette saw, in the middle of this veritable garden of Eden, an iron pump. Surrounding this were benches, on which a bucket sat. She was thankful for this, as the moment she laid eyes upon it, she realized she had nothing in which to bring back her quarry. So, she began to pump. It was clearly in need of repairs, patches of rust indicated a lack of oil yet this lack of oil indicated use. This garden was not simply the product of rain.

***

                Annette returned, still brandishing her open parasol above her head and bearing a bucket of water with a rag from the kitchen upon its side. It was placed upon the table with a thud.

                “I have returned, my valiant savior.” She said, keeping her upbeat acting intact.

                Archer, again, clutched her head and waved her hand, motioning towards the goblet on the dresser. As Annette dipped the cup into the bucket to fill the goblet, she spoke again.

                “There’s enough here to wash off that smell” she remarked with a gleeful snicker “and I watered your planets while I was out there.” But her content smile was broken by a slight snap of Archer’s anger.

                “They didn’t need watering today! They’re fine! Don’t f**k up their schedule!” Her words were laced with a feeling of care not yet expressed by this stoic woman, drenched in the stench of alcoholic sorrow.

                Taken aback, Annette could only mutter “I-I’m sorry-“ which she quickly corrected to “my apologies.” She wished to explain her ignorance of the situation further, but her lips could only quiver. She moved to a chair opposite Archer, and thus, the two sat in silence.

Annette attempted to speak or occasionally tap her fingers to break this awkward and ear clogging lack of conversation. She sat under the self-made shadow of her parasol, never allowing her head to venture from this security.

Archer, through bitter instinct and adherence to her now defined character of drunkenness, rubbed her head or flinched at each infraction upon the silence. Her annoyance forced her to refrain from comment on Annette’s open parasol. Thus, she remained in the shadows of her home, created by the enclosed stone walls.

Then, they both drew breath.

“Thank you for-“ Caught off guard, they stopped and returned to their respective tasks with muscles relaxed. Archer ate, and Annette procured a goblet of her own to drink alongside her.

Author's Note

Please tell me any and all ideas, criticisms, and comments, be they good, bad, ugly, grammatical, or about symbolic meaning.