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Ζeral
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Zinestra Wynmyar-Windreaver was a lot of things, but she was not a hero.
For starters, most heroes were men, right? Sure, there was an exceptional heroine here or there, but by and large the bards sang of strapping knights and ladies fair. Second of all, she wasnβt even human. Worse, half-elf and half-human, her heritage was a recipe for disaster. Half of her ancestry just had to be high elves of all things. Just thinking about those snobby elitist bastards made her want to stab her own eyes out. No maβam, aside from leaning just a smidgen into the aesthetics of her elven ancestry (elves were hot, dammit), Zinestra drew a chasm a mile wide between herself and a properly blooded elf.
And of course, one could not forget about the upstanding propriety that came with being a hero. To always bow politely, to speak with honor and dignity, to uphold valor and justice andβ¦yawn. Look, she wasnβt a bad gal, but playing nice didnβt pay for inns and drinks and certainly didnβt pay for her enchanted twin blades or the polished mithril plates of her armor. The unending torrent of gratitude a village might shower upon her when she wiped out a local den of direwolves was nice, but a girl has got to earn her keep somehow, and she wasnβt about to take the measly amount of silvers those bean-stalk villagers scraped together.
So sometimes, just sometimes, she had to put on a polite smile, mingle with her fellow βadventurersβ, and boast of her impressive list of accolades long enough for one group or another to ignore her too-pointy-ears long enough to bring her along on a proper quest. And this one, this one was promising! A lich, they said. Mighty enough to have holed up in a massive and sprawling catacomb (always a catacomb, urg). A threat to the local Kingdom ofβ¦what was it again? Ok, so maybe she wasnβt listening the entire time. But treasure! There was going to be gold and jewels aplenty, and she was promised her fair share of it. (More than her fair share, really, but it was not her fault that the orc berserker couldnβt do math right).
Fast forward to the present andβ¦β¦β¦β¦β¦..yeah, whatever treasure she might get from this? Not worth it.
βFucking liches and their fucking dusty old crypts. You would think that with undead servants, they would at least have the decency to sweep the place. Cobwebs? So last year.β
To say that she was unhappy as she conjured a tiny bit of gust to blow some cobwebs off of her leather gloves would be the understatement of the century. Should she conserve her mana considering that she was deep in enemy territory? Probably. But what was even the point of being - pretending at being - a hero, if she didnβt look damn good doing it. Her name might as well have started with a V with how very vain she was.
And she looked very damn good. Somehow, after having carried the party through the first few underground levels, and then soloing the next floor when her cowardly companions ran off after a particularly fearsome pack of ghouls (hey, more treasure to her!), she still managed to maintain that precise blend of roguishly charming with a dash of aloof mystery. Ok, maybe she wasnβt all that mysterious, but the tavern wenches she dallied with didnβt need to know that she was just another bounty-hunter short on gold. Nah, she could put on that slightly forlorn, almost homesick look at the drop of a pin, just the kind of thing to inspire their mothering urges to score some free food in the process. (Not the only thing she ate that night, if she were being honest).
She had fought just hard enough for perspiration to glisten the graceful column of her throat (yay for elven heritage!), a hint of flush dotting her collar and an uptick in her breathing drawing the eye to the valley of her breasts below (more than a handful, she would know). But not hard enough for her pristine sable locks or her verdant form-fitting outfit to be matted with gore or other unsavory substances.
This was verging on easy, which she didnβt much care for unless the word that followed was gold.
Another few battles. Another door. She kicked it down, surveying the room with both blades drawn. This one was almost shockingly well-furnished, considering the desolate ruin everything else was in. It was wide, too, styled like a throne room. (The imagination of these villains, so incredibly lacking).
That pair of achingly beautiful chartreuse greens settled upon the two occupants of the room, lingering upon the female - well, hello - before tracing over the curve of those horns and other similarly inhuman features. Tsk, what a waste. Such incredible beauty, the kind even a notorious skirt-chaser like Zinestra could not say that she has seen many times in her lifetime. But a good demon was a dead demon, and she was never one to hold back on account of a seductive exterior.
The male, if the gaunt, skeletal figure could be called that, was not much to look at. (And therefore not worth describing).
She flourished a blade in a half-arc and brought it in front of herself, the other arm postured behind her back, poised as a viper ready to strike. Gust curled around her calves, rising to encircle her blades, augmenting her speed and agility alike.
βHey, lichy, lichy, any chance you wanna fork your treasures over and maybe Iβll let you walk out of here?β She grinned, lips parting wide enough for her slightly pointy canines to peak out. That was just a taunt though. He was apparently a pretty bad dude, er, lich, and Zinestra was not about to let him walk out of here. As for his pet demon? Well, if she interfered, what was another baddie to add to her tally?
For starters, most heroes were men, right? Sure, there was an exceptional heroine here or there, but by and large the bards sang of strapping knights and ladies fair. Second of all, she wasnβt even human. Worse, half-elf and half-human, her heritage was a recipe for disaster. Half of her ancestry just had to be high elves of all things. Just thinking about those snobby elitist bastards made her want to stab her own eyes out. No maβam, aside from leaning just a smidgen into the aesthetics of her elven ancestry (elves were hot, dammit), Zinestra drew a chasm a mile wide between herself and a properly blooded elf.
And of course, one could not forget about the upstanding propriety that came with being a hero. To always bow politely, to speak with honor and dignity, to uphold valor and justice andβ¦yawn. Look, she wasnβt a bad gal, but playing nice didnβt pay for inns and drinks and certainly didnβt pay for her enchanted twin blades or the polished mithril plates of her armor. The unending torrent of gratitude a village might shower upon her when she wiped out a local den of direwolves was nice, but a girl has got to earn her keep somehow, and she wasnβt about to take the measly amount of silvers those bean-stalk villagers scraped together.
So sometimes, just sometimes, she had to put on a polite smile, mingle with her fellow βadventurersβ, and boast of her impressive list of accolades long enough for one group or another to ignore her too-pointy-ears long enough to bring her along on a proper quest. And this one, this one was promising! A lich, they said. Mighty enough to have holed up in a massive and sprawling catacomb (always a catacomb, urg). A threat to the local Kingdom ofβ¦what was it again? Ok, so maybe she wasnβt listening the entire time. But treasure! There was going to be gold and jewels aplenty, and she was promised her fair share of it. (More than her fair share, really, but it was not her fault that the orc berserker couldnβt do math right).
Fast forward to the present andβ¦β¦β¦β¦β¦..yeah, whatever treasure she might get from this? Not worth it.
βFucking liches and their fucking dusty old crypts. You would think that with undead servants, they would at least have the decency to sweep the place. Cobwebs? So last year.β
To say that she was unhappy as she conjured a tiny bit of gust to blow some cobwebs off of her leather gloves would be the understatement of the century. Should she conserve her mana considering that she was deep in enemy territory? Probably. But what was even the point of being - pretending at being - a hero, if she didnβt look damn good doing it. Her name might as well have started with a V with how very vain she was.
And she looked very damn good. Somehow, after having carried the party through the first few underground levels, and then soloing the next floor when her cowardly companions ran off after a particularly fearsome pack of ghouls (hey, more treasure to her!), she still managed to maintain that precise blend of roguishly charming with a dash of aloof mystery. Ok, maybe she wasnβt all that mysterious, but the tavern wenches she dallied with didnβt need to know that she was just another bounty-hunter short on gold. Nah, she could put on that slightly forlorn, almost homesick look at the drop of a pin, just the kind of thing to inspire their mothering urges to score some free food in the process. (Not the only thing she ate that night, if she were being honest).
She had fought just hard enough for perspiration to glisten the graceful column of her throat (yay for elven heritage!), a hint of flush dotting her collar and an uptick in her breathing drawing the eye to the valley of her breasts below (more than a handful, she would know). But not hard enough for her pristine sable locks or her verdant form-fitting outfit to be matted with gore or other unsavory substances.
This was verging on easy, which she didnβt much care for unless the word that followed was gold.
Another few battles. Another door. She kicked it down, surveying the room with both blades drawn. This one was almost shockingly well-furnished, considering the desolate ruin everything else was in. It was wide, too, styled like a throne room. (The imagination of these villains, so incredibly lacking).
That pair of achingly beautiful chartreuse greens settled upon the two occupants of the room, lingering upon the female - well, hello - before tracing over the curve of those horns and other similarly inhuman features. Tsk, what a waste. Such incredible beauty, the kind even a notorious skirt-chaser like Zinestra could not say that she has seen many times in her lifetime. But a good demon was a dead demon, and she was never one to hold back on account of a seductive exterior.
The male, if the gaunt, skeletal figure could be called that, was not much to look at. (And therefore not worth describing).
She flourished a blade in a half-arc and brought it in front of herself, the other arm postured behind her back, poised as a viper ready to strike. Gust curled around her calves, rising to encircle her blades, augmenting her speed and agility alike.
βHey, lichy, lichy, any chance you wanna fork your treasures over and maybe Iβll let you walk out of here?β She grinned, lips parting wide enough for her slightly pointy canines to peak out. That was just a taunt though. He was apparently a pretty bad dude, er, lich, and Zinestra was not about to let him walk out of here. As for his pet demon? Well, if she interfered, what was another baddie to add to her tally?