Hadasker Revault drank deep from his chipped wooden cup, a vacant stare dimly focused at some point on the crumbling walls. The wine dripped down into his quickly greying beard, malingering there. He was without thought, without care; numb to his surroundings, and deaf to the din of the dregs in the hospice now served as his home.
In spite of this, he was quickly roused by the clamor of the door swinging open and squeaking, followed by the sound of heels clicking against the rotting wood floor.
Bleary eyes attempted to focus on who now stood before him; it was a woman, her face somehow familiar and yet at the same time foreign. His eyes drifted from her face to her feet, where her shadow seemed to move erratically of its own accord; it seemed to pace around the figure, as though overtaken with some hidden anxiety or anguish. At first, he thought it merely the flickering of the candlelight or the wine playing tricks on him; it was neither.
She claimed to be his daughter; in response, the bitter and envenomed words of a sad old man with a life full of regrets spilled forth. This waif was after money, no doubt; not that had any to his name, of course. With slurred speech, Hadasker said much and yet struggled to recall any of it for even a minute after it left his lips.
In typical circumstance, his words would have been simply shrugged off; those whom he shared the hospice with, all of whom he regarded as contemptible and rightfully belonging there, learned long ago to ignore him. His acerbic speech found purchase, however, in the vulnerable woman who stood before him.
The point of a rapier was pressed against his throat; Hadasker sobered instantly at the sight, his pupils growing sharply in alarm.
"Say it. Say I am your daughter."
He couldn't bring himself to do it. He was too proud. It was too a great a shame for him to admit to.
"Listen.. if it's money you want, go.. go and find your sister! She's on the island of Arelith, she's become famous there! Just leave me be! I don't have anything."
"I don't want money. Say it."
He lifted his chin up, in a modest display of defiance.
"I won't. To do it would sully my wife's memory. You'll NEVER be kin of mine; simply the product of a chance encounter. An error, a lapse in judgment. You can threaten me like a thug all you li-"
Passion and anger took the reins; with a single thrust, the woman delivered a pre-emptive full stop. He was silenced. He was dead.
No. He was murdered.
Patricide.
All around her were gasps and people panicking, running away frightened. His life pooled out upon the rotting floor, intermingled with the blood of the vine as the grip loosened on his cup.
Not a liar. Not a cheat. Not like it accused her of being. Not a hero either. No.
She was something far worse, and much as she pretended to rest in the shadow of those who lived their lives better than she, her guilt would continuously remind her of who she really was, when the room turned dark.