milliways_bar | (no subject)

The daylight is fading fast, and so Merriman has slipped out of the bar, intending to patrol the grounds outside before darkness falls completely.

He turns up the collar of his cloak as he steps outside -- and with all his senses heightened, it only takes a few moments for him to detect the tangled threads of the trap-spell, somewhere close by.

When he sees the man walking alone, his eyes narrow a fraction of an inch.

The element of surprise may help in other situations, but not always in Milliways.

Sharpe hasn't heard anything he could name... but he's been a fighting man for a long, long time, and he tends to know when someone's there.

He looks round sharply in Merriman's direction.

Merriman inclines his head, a little stiffly.

'I believe, sir, that I may be of assistance to you.' There's a definite ring of authority in his voice, vaguely military in tone.

Two responses to that - he's never much liked most officers, but a certain respect is due.

He bows his head slightly in return.

"Assistance in what way, sir?"

He takes a few steps forward, his face stern. He knows weapons, knows them well, and the pistol at Sharpe's side is undoubtedly loaded.

'It concerns a woman known as Blodwen Rowlands, and the difficulties she has been causing of late in the bar. I have a definite interest in seeing her work undone.'

There is a hum of magic in the air now, faint and barely tangible but definitely there.

Sharpe tenses, watching Merriman warily.

"What difficulties could a woman like her possibly cause? She's been nowt but kind to me."

'She is a very kind woman, I know,' Merriman replies, and his mouth twists slightly as if the words are bitter on his tongue. 'But not, if I may say so, a very good woman.'

Sharpe's tenseness makes the threads of the trap-spell stand out that much more clearly.

The winter sun has faded, twilight is deepening into the darkness of night.

And so Merriman raises a hand, fingers spread, and grasps the spell in a grip like iron.

It feels like an attack, on some part of him, and Sharpe's response to attack is predictable.

His hand flashes to his side, and draws the pistol.

Merriman's well within range, and knows it. But the spell must be removed, and so he begins the process of breaking the threads of the trap-spell.

It may take a little longer than he would like, since not all of his attention is focused on destroying the White Rider's work. Part of it at least is on the pistol -- or rather, on the hand in which Sharpe is holding the pistol.

Ordinarily, he's a very good shot. But Merriman's work is affecting his concentration, as he tries to ignore the discomfort.

His shot goes wide, hitting a tree.

The threads are coming apart faster now, since Merriman can devote more attention to the task at hand. Still not wanting to get too close to a man who is ostensibly armed, he brings his other hand up, flexing his fingers, and the shredded fragments of the enchantment begin to burn away.

A heartbeat later, and the trap-spell is severed. Two breaths more, and the Light has incinerated the last of the remaining threads.

Sharpe staggers and almost falls, the pistol dropping from a suddenly numb hand.

Merriman is quick, darting forward, and puts out a hand to steady the younger man.

'Easy, now,' he says, and though the authority has not left his voice the sternness has, somewhat. 'Breathe, young man. Give your head a moment to clear.'

He nods mutely, head down.

After a few minutes, "...what was that?"

'Dark magic,' Merriman replies, matter-of-factly. 'Knitted into a spell that was activated by the touch of a hand, and designed to ensnare the will of those who did so. Subtle, but effective.'

"And... she did it?"

'I did say that she was not a good woman.' If Merriman had intended his tone to be light, it falls utterly flat. 'She comes from my world, and though she is known as Blodwen Rowlands she is also a creature of a terrible force of evil known as Dark.'

His gaze darkens further. 'She and I are old adversaries, and I have been working to undo the harm that she has wrought on several of the bar's patrons. You are not the only one to fall victim to her spell, not by any means.'

Sharpe nods grimly.

"And you mean to stop her?"

'By all the means at my disposal.'

His voice is like the tolling of a distant bell.

"Good."