A Short Blonde with Big Boobs and Loose Morals
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Flexible Morals Ch. 07 free porn video
Malik glassed his gaze over the floor of the kitchen, trying hard as he could to keep the sight from affecting him. The couple lay dead and bloodied. The husband had tried to put up a fight but it was plain that the extent of his magic had never been the in realm of combat. As such, Malik had easily paralyzed the two Vocals while Biris and Firis did the deed. The killing was never easy, though it was certainly easier than when he had first begun. Something about the way a life slowly faded into darkness. The staggered, empty breathing, the fast-vacating eyes and the way they always tried to move just that little bit more as though this could stave off death’s icy fingers. Finally their bodies were still and the hardest part of the job was over.
Yet, for some unclear reason, it didn’t feel that way. The only things left to do were to burn the house and report back. Two tasks that should have been simple. Something about this room told him otherwise. Perhaps he could have put his finger on it if the Skytouched brothers weren’t currently banging through cupboards in search of anything valuable.
‘Why don’cha check the other rooms,’ said Firis abruptly. The look he flashed to his blunter brother, and the cupboard he had his hands in, made Malik guess that he had found something interesting and wasn’t inclined to share. That was fine, let them keep the valuables. It was two against one, after all. No point in turning an otherwise uneventful operation sour.
‘Yeah.’ Malik nodded and turned away so that they could share their treasure in peace. He trudged down the short, narrow hallway, feet thumping on the floorboards. The space bent at a right angle, then ended with a window and two doors on either side. That struck him as unusual. Two Vocals, yet they had a home with three rooms. Even before he opened the doors, the story was falling into place. He didn’t like where he knew it would lead. Behind the first, a sensible bedroom with a bed made for two. Some Vocal art on one wall and a vase of wilting flowers on a nightstand. Nothing to interest him. He reached for the second door but already knew what would be behind it.
Malik had been in children’s rooms before. Somehow, they always had far more life than the personal space of an adult. This one was the same. The small bed in one corner with its sheets tossed carelessly. A set of drawers sat opposite with a chair in front. Several colorful bits of glass lay atop the drawers along with a few other trinkets that held a great deal of value to their owner. The curtains were flung open, one pulled wider than the other. He stepped deeper inside and ran his fingers over the frame of the chair. It was small, she was young. She? Yes, that had to be. He didn’t know why, but he knew. Malik crossed towards the bed and, with a wrenching in his heart, picked up the doll that had its head resting on the pillow. It had been stuffed to be soft and it bore the marks of age and love. A fuzzy, toy wolf.
Dawn forgive me, Malik begged. Where was the girl now? He looked outside, praying not to see her. Nothing. What had made her be absent for the killing? A fortunate twist of fate or a miraculous foresight on her parents behalf? Either way, it didn’t matter. She would be back soon enough, of that he was sure. Then she would join her family.
No, Malik thought with a grimace. That won’t happen. He knew what had to be done. There was still a chance that the girl could be saved. Why he wanted to, why this was affecting him in such a way, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was the innocence. This room told the story of such a carefree, harmless life. He’d never before had a chance to see, or foresee, the results of what an innocent life could look like when damaged like this. In the past, his only targets had been of an age sufficient to have seen plenty of the world. This girl’s life was new, yet he had already been sent to destroy it. No reason to let it be damaged any further.
Malik forced himself to tear away from the bed and head back along the hallway. In the kitchen, Biris and Firis were making a show of trying to pull up a floorboard that didn’t look remotely suspicious. They stopped as soon as they saw him.
‘Anything that way?’ Biris asked.
‘Nah, nothing valuable. Just their bedroom and this other room that was filled with junk. Barrels of sand and some tools I’ve never seen. Probably glassworker things. You find anything here?’ Malik asked, though he knew the answer.
Firis shook his head. ‘Junk and nothing more.’
Malik nodded, peered out the window and prayed that the girl would stay missing for a while longer. ‘Figure. I’d say they’ve probably buried their coin outside somewhere. Either that or it’s waiting at the shop that Gilbride said they owned. Better be the second one or we’ll never find it, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Firis with a look to his brother. ‘Hope so.’
‘Guess it’s time to start the fire, then.’
‘Right.’
The trio made their way outside, the two Skytouched moving a good distance away from the house to watch. Time to make more magic. Malik leveled his hands at the building, palms pointed at it with the small, yellow suncrest in each ready to fire away. He concentrated on the heat he needed and drew more power than he ever had before. There was urgency, the fire needed to be fast and strong. It would look odd, the way it burned, but that didn’t matter. They had to finish before the girl returned. Please, give me a few minutes more, he thought to the child, wherever she may have been hiding. Then Malik let loose with two, searing, yellow jets of flame.
===
This had to be the place. Most of the manor was empty, even of guards. Phyre had been up and down floors, opening doors and checking rooms. She’d dodged the occasional patroller, an action made easy with her voice to see them coming and the countless offshoots to hide in. Yet here, the guard was standing his ground. He stood halfway down the corridor by an entrance that didn’t stand out from any other. Phyre couldn’t see what was inside, that would have meant raising her voice much louder. Already, it was right on the cusp of hearing. She lowered and waited in her hiding place around the corner, a strange opening in the corridor that was filled with a sofa and a small table with a fifrey plant atop it. The sofa had been easy to push out and squeeze behind. Now, all she had to do was wait for Drop’s distraction.
Will it be enough, Phyre wondered. It was a question that had been plaguing her since the search had begun. Though he was undoubtedly special, he was still only a frog. Not even a particularly big frog. Surely their were plenty of other guards around to handle such a disturbance. Why would this one need to abandon his post? She tried to force such troubles out of her mind. There was nothing to be done about them. Either this worked or it didn’t, the matter was out of her control by now.
How long had it been? That thought didn’t do much to calm her nerves. Phyre had been wandering the manor for ten or fifteen minutes at least. What was taking the frog so long? It had to be his size, that was all. Drop would have had to make his own way back to the garden which must have taken a good amount of time. Then he would have had to get his distraction all sorted out. Yes, this was only taking so long because he was a small frog. He would be fine. He could—
A steady drumming of footsteps rumbled into range of hearing. Phyre tucked herself in deeper behind the sofa. Did Mr. Gilbride have any Vocal guards? She didn’t think so. A man thundered past her, rounded the corner and slowed as he came to his comrade. They exchanged a brief salute.
‘Emergency… in the garden. The Patab needs… everyone present,’ the envoy managed between gasps for breath.
‘What? Why everyone? What’s happening down there?’
The envoy doubled over and shook his head. ‘No idea but it’s chaos. The guests are going mad, complaining of some
monster and a squad of ours are caught up too. Come on, we have to go now.’
The first stood his ground, hand on his sword in its sheath. ‘He’s got me posted here all night.’
Another head shake from the envoy. ‘We’ve closed up the house. All the guests are out back in the garden. He wants us all down there to round things up and restore order.’
There was a moment in which it looked as if the first guard was about to protest further. Then he thought better of it and nodded. ‘Right, let’s go.’
Without another breath, the two men rushed past Phyre, back the way the envoy had come. She waited a few moments to be sure that they were gone. What had they meant? Absolute chaos in the garden, it sounded like far more than Drop would be capable of. And this monster, what was that? Then Phyre realized. The cat was here. Drop must have called him out of the woods or something. She felt a flash of worry and hoped that the guests would be okay.
Satisfied that the guards weren’t coming back, Phyre un-wedged herself from her hiding place and crept towards the now-vacant door. She reached for the handle but it wouldn’t turn. Locked. Of course it was locked. But there was no time to go searching for a key. She stood back and pointed a finger at the wood around the dull, iron handle and keyhole. In that instant, Phyre put all thoughts of protest out of her mind. This wasn’t a stupid idea that would get her in endless mountains of trouble, it was necessary. Instead she spoke a word that she had spoken countless times before when working with glass at her parents’ shop. ‘Yaastra.’
Phyre’s voice trailed from her lips and sank itself into the wood where she directed it. The word wound itself on, growing into an infinite whisper. She could feel the heat that it was generating and soon the door around the lock began to smoke. Wood blackened and iron glowed. Only once Phyre saw a hissing drop of orange did she cease the spell. All that remained of the handle was a gaping hole. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Just as Phyre had expected, this was Mr. Gilbride’s study. The left wall was lined with bookshelves while the right held a fireplace, currently silent. At the far end, in front of a large window with the curtains drawn, was a desk. The wood from which it was crafted had a deep, rich color to it, almost the color of blood. The shelves had been crafted in it too and made a stark contrast with the lighter colors of the books they held. But it wasn’t books alone that sat on the shelves. Phyre approached and reached up to take a little wooden box that was resting at one end. It stood out from all the fine quality in the room like a knot in a sheet of glass. The box had no hinges, the lid simply lifted off. Yet she didn’t open it. A smear of blue paint ran around the top and bottom to compliment the paleness of the wood from which it was made. All in all, it looked much cheaper and messier than everything else in the room. Why did Mr. Gilbride have it? Without thinking, she tucked it into her satchel and folded the flap closed. Then she turned her attention to the desk.
Desks were no mystery to Phyre. Her father had had one at their shop, though it was far smaller and humbler than this one. Despite being so much larger, Mr. Gilbride had still manage to clutter his with all manner of papers, scrolls and trinkets. If anything in this house could prove his involvement one way or another, it had to be here. Phyre moved around to the other side of the desk and immediately felt daunted by the task ahead. All the writing seemed to be in the common form, not litides. It would take forever to work through. She opened some of the drawers that the desk held and, sure enough, found yet more documents to add to the piles. She hefted several out, placed them with the rest and stared at the mess, unsure of how or where to begin.
With nothing left for it, Phyre slumped down into Mr. Gilbride’s chair and began sweeping her voice over the papers. She held several closer so that they would be easier to read. One reported on last week’s iron yield. Another seemed to be a letter from some merchant in another town. She moved on without reading anything more of either. Bills of sale, shipping logs, supply reports. So much information that told her so little of importance. Phyre shoved aside a mound of papers and reached into the bottom drawer to take out the next lot. Her fingers paused in mid flight. Something was beneath the pages, something that her voice had only just managed to reach through the stacks upon stacks of interference. Phyre pried away the sheets and clawed the object out from its tomb. Her fingers gripped a leather envelope, held closed by a length of string. With great care, she began to unfasten it, then realized that, given her method of entry, it was silly to try and leave no trace. Instead Phyre bit through the string and cast its remnant aside before flipping open the envelope and pouring its contents onto the table.
More paper, she might have guessed. Except, these ones were written by a hand that she recognised. The writing was crude and jagged, letters far larger than they needed to be. Plainly the font of someone who had difficulty seeing images on a page. A Vocal made these words and she knew which one. Her father’s name was clumsily scribbled near the bottom of each.
Phyre’s heart began to tremble in her chest. She couldn’t recall a time when Mr. Gilbride had been one of their customers. Perhaps when she was too young to remember? No, these weren’t bills of sale. They were letters, each with a date printed in the top right corner. Three of them in total. Phyre searched for the first one and began reading through it.
Winston Gilbride 26th Ash, 735
Forgive my legibility, though I thought you would prefer if I wrote in common as I cannot recall hearing that you knew litides. To the matter at hand, I have made my diagnosis of your wife Edith. She is suffering from a tainting of her blood, possibly incurred during her travels around the north sea. I have already begun bleeding the taint. As an addition, I have added a paste made from ground hornetcaps and kich leaves to her morning and evening meals. With any luck, we should see an improvement soon.
Warmest regards.
P.S. If you happen upon any Tapir root during your travels in Vast, I suggest you purchase it. I may have need of it, though I hope not to.
Phyre’s hands were trembling by the time she finished the letter. The healer who had worked on Edith Gilbride had been her father the entire time. Why hadn’t Mr. Gilbride mention that? She swallowed, tried and failed to calm her shaking, then reached for the next letter.
Winston Gilbride 3rd Luna, 735
It pains me to bear this troubling news. For a few days after Edith’s treatment began, things looked promising. Now, her condition is worsening. I fear the taint may be spreading faster than I can bleed it out. Bloodletting more vigorously I know will do her harm but, at this stage, it is our best chance. The effectiveness of my hornetcap mixture has diminished to the point of uselessness. We can only hope that her body is able to fight the taint in the smaller quantities that I will leave. In the short term, she will suffer. I suggest that you cut your trading expedition short.
Warmest regards.
The second letter joined its brother having revealed nothing that Phyre didn’t already know. Its story was much the same as the way that Mr. Gilbride had told it, though she hadn’t realized that he had been away for so much of his wife’s illness. The way he had told it made it sound as though he had never left the woman’s side. For a moment, Phyre felt confused by that. Then she saw when the final letter had been written. Right on the new year, a whole month later.
Winston Gilbride 1st Sol, 736
It has been several days now and still words cannot express my regret at having failed you. My confidence is shattered, my abilities no longer sound. I k
now that my words here will come as no comfort yet I will write them anyway. Her death haunts me. For this reason alone, I am strongly considering the prospect of retiring from the practice of a healer. Again, I know that such will bring you no comfort. In fact, I am unsure what purpose I meant this letter to serve. Perhaps to show you that I am not unscathed by your loss. I expect no forgiveness and deserve none.
Forever remorseful.
Phyre set the paper aside, her mind awhirl with thoughts. A large chunk of the puzzle had put itself in order. Her father, her father the glassmaker whom she had never known to do wrong, had been the healer who was unable to avert Mrs. Gilbride’s death. What did that mean for him? Was he somehow guilty? No, from the letter, he had done all he could. Sometimes, even when you do everything right, things just can’t be helped.
Like this, said a nasty little voice inside Phyre’s head. She immediately shut it out and instead tried to remember the time of her life when it was only her mother who worked with glass. The memories that she could find were faint beyond recognition. A time when she, like all children, lived day by day and never thought of anything outside themselves. This entire chapter of her father’s life could have been going on right under her nose back then and she wouldn’t have noticed.
What about Mr. Gilbride? she wondered and tried to make two pieces of information fit together. Could it be possible that he had told the Solar and the two Skytouched to kill her parents out of revenge for losing his wife? But why now after so many years had passed? No, that part didn’t make sense. Something was still missing. Phyre returned the letters to their envelope and replaced it in the drawer. She shifted her focus back to the desk in search of something more definitive. There had to be a record of Mr. Gilbride hiring those men, given how meticulous the rest of his records seemed to be. She didn’t expect to find a note expressing the desire that they kill someone for him, why would he keep a record like that? Instead, she searched for whatever papers detailed their hiring as footmen to the manor. Perhaps some clue lay within.
‘… I don’t want to hear your excuses. I stated that my study was to be watched for the entire night.’
Phyre froze, ears perked up and hair on her necking coming to attention. Ice began to flow through her veins. Mr. Gilbride was coming, she recognised the voice. The distraction was over already? How long had she been here? No time for such questions. Run? His study stood at the end of a corridor, only one way out. In a fit of desperation, she stuffed herself beneath the desk and pulled the chair to its original place.
‘Sir, I promise you I thought the order was yours. That was how Sivab—’
‘Hush, now I want you to repeat for me the exact words that I spoke when I posted you outside my study,’ Gilbride’s tone sounded weary. They were still a short distance away, though it wouldn’t be long until they reached the door.
‘Stand guard and allow nobody save yourself to enter.’
‘Until…’
‘…Until you relieve me personally.’
‘Precisely. Now I wasn’t— Forde, has my door always had a hole burned through it?’
‘N-no sir.’
‘Secure the room, will you. Try not to make another mess of things.’
‘Yessir.’
There came a hiss of steel being drawn, followed by a creak that heralded Forde’s entrance to the study. His boots thudded across the floor, then muffled as they reached the rug that sprawled there. Phyre watched as he scanned every corner of the room. Forde crept closer in, eyes fixed on the curtains. He probed the left with his sword, then the right. She held her breath, with it her vision, and prayed to Dawn that he would leave now. More thudding came as he turned around. Her heart leapt alongside the scraping of the chair. Then a hand wrapped around her dress and wrestled her out of hiding.
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