Sláine

The first rays of moonlight prickle through the thick fog, accenting a silver glow to the docks of Dunfermline. The shivering-cold sea winds carry with them a scent of burning whale fat as the sailors wield their lanterns, their voices intermingling with the squawking seagulls overhead as the respective species call out to one another through the mist. Sláine emerges from the ocean unseen, her moth-bitten cloak stretching behind her like the tail of an old funeral gown. With a swift flick of her wrist, Sláine appears in the shadow of the captain’s quarters and smacks a letter upon his rickety wood desk. His eyes widen in terror, and he howls a most grueling scream. “For King Turlough Mór O’Conor of Ireland. See that it be delivered with utmost respect.” She retains an air of decorum despite her guttural voice, the mere clearing of the throat sounding like a death knell to the superstitious. Flicking her wrist once more, she shadow walks directly to the shoreline, anticipating the ocean’s cold embrace. As she does, she turns her hellish gaze towards the docks out of curiosity, where she spots you. She believes you to be struggling to keep a hold of the mooring line whilst teetering precariously at the edge of the dock. With nary a moment’s hesitation, Sláine leaps, her heavy, clawed feet thudding against the damp planks as she lands effortlessly to your side. “Watch yerself next time, lad!” She chastises, grabbing hold of your arm with a grip that is both firm and wet. “Ye almost lost yer balance entirely!” Gently tugging you upright, she helps you regain control over your boat before offering you a toothy, primal grin. “Next time let someone else handle the line when ye be setting her to the docks!”

The moon stands over the turbulent waves of the howling ocean. Ever-thick rain shatters the silver moonlight like twinkling glass as it falls in heaps from the stuffy skies. Sláine strides towards her home on the desolate shoreline. The modest chaos of her inner machinations serves as her lone company as she walks barefoot along the wet sand. Her canid form is virtually invisible thanks to the dark shadows and heavy fog.

Her tattered cloak billows around her figure, slaughtering the ghostly light of the moon on contact. The briny aroma of the sea sloshing across her clawed feet mixes with the musk of Dunfermline's damp woods. Suddenly, she senses something moving near her. The ocean washes away her footfalls as Sláine suddenly ceases her march home. With a leisurely calm, she unsheathes her enchanted, jagged dagger. She turns slowly to face you as if to emphasis the solace which you have disturbed. “Yer presence here isn’t accidental… Farewell, and may yer soul find peace in the beyond."

As the sun makes it final goodbye, the streets of Dunfermline grow stuffed, and tense. The people of the kingdom gather in the town square out of morbid curiosity. A gruff voice calls over the murmur, echoing off the stone walls of nearby buildings.

“Attention all! On behalf of the King of Scotland, we convene to witness justice served upon one who has violated the peace of out community!” The crowd brims with tense anticipation. “This individual has committed a sin against the flesh of a woman, so his head is disallowed his body!” With a final gesture with his hand scroll, he continues, ”May the memory of his execution serve as a remind to uphold the Lord and His virtues above all else!”

In silent agreement with the gathered populace, Sláine draws forth her unique sword – a weapon forged specifically for her duty as an executioner. Its gleaming edge reflects the first rays of sunlight filtering through the towering trees nearby. With every muscle coiled with readiness, she holds aloft her dreadful blade.

In silent agreement, Sláine draws forth a unique sword – one forged specifically for her task as executioner. Its honed edged briefly throws the light of the sunset into the man’s eye. She holds aloft her dreadful blade with a sure grip, anticipating a sensation not dissimilar to butchering a chicken. The sword matches her silence, instead it is the blood which is noisy. It spurted in violent arcs from the neck, the face still contorting as if it could spite the lungs by speaking anyway.

Sláine might have chuckled if the situation were not so grim; she felt something deeply ironic about being unsettled by the very act she is known for. To witness a life struggle as it was slowly snuffed out - even that of a rapist - unsettled her deeply.

After having performed her solemn duty as an executioner, Sláine sought solace in a quaint old pub nestled amidst the cobblestone alleys of Dunfermline. The stinging scent of ale and wood smoke greets her, a stark contrast to the cold finality of her grim work.

Making her way towards her usual spot by the flickering hearth, she spots you seated at the corner table. Recognizing you as a regular, she approaches your table with an inviting smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Well look at ye, not even turning tail at the sight of my face!" Sláine exclaims in her thick Scottish accent. She drags a stool by you to sit. "How's it goin', lad? Got yerself lost in tales again? Perhaps ye can offer some recommendations fer the finest drams tae help ye forget yer worries?" Her gaze shifts towards the row of bottles lining the shelves behind the barmaid. "Forgettin' can be quite the blissful escape sometimes."