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| Topic Started: Jul 30 2017, 07:35 PM (415 Views) | |
| Shell | Jul 30 2017, 07:35 PM Post #1 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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After the beginning of Soto's Reconstruction ((CW: human trafficking, gore, organ harvesting)) When the fighting started, the staff of the tavern -- a lofty establishment with two floors and a den -- had ushered everyone out, giving them plenty of room. Now, tables, stools, chairs and dishes lay strewn and scattered, and more were being destroyed by the minute while Shell and one Duane Gwysh hammered it out, she with her fists, he with his knives. He was good with them too, able to pin a fly to the wall from across the room, but this was one fly he simply could not keep pinned: three of his weapons buried in her flesh to the hilt, one in the back of her right shoulder, one in her upper left thigh, and one just below her ribs on the side. Others stuck out of the woodwork in odd places around the two upper floors, not having struck, or having simply grazed, and Duane was both vexed and a little troubled by this. He had turned to full alarm when her nose, ears, and eyes started bleeding, another thing she did not seem to notice. He backed up and threw another with the grace and skill of a cat, ducking and weaving behind a heavy oak table -- she swatted the knife away with the back of her arm with an audible snarl and kicked the table out of the way, sending it flying top-first into the wall. The tankard and glasses of the bar nearby rattled in their places with the impact and he wondered idly if all Daroans were this insane. She had heard his name dropped in a few unsavory circles while skulking around the city, and the rumors attached to him: he was involved in human trafficking, a hitman and kidnapper for people who harvested the organs of the homeless, the destitute, even orphan children -- anyone who would not have a family to miss them -- likely for some insane quack doctor-sorcerer or something, Shell wasn't sure. She didn't care. She didn't care, because she had followed him that night as he made a stop-off, snuck inside, and saw the room in which the people were harvested, the filthy tables on which they were operated. She crept around the hole-in-the-ground base and saw the cages in which the victims were kept until they died from bodily failure or waited until something more essential was taken from them. She saw the collars the new, untouched ones wore to keep them in line. It was always cages. It was always collars. And you could barely breathe in them, they cinch them so tight that you feel it when you swallow, when you speak, or turn your head... She had killed all of them: the people who worked on the victims, the guards, the ones for whom it was already too late, popped the collars off of the untouched ones and pushed them out, burnt out the entire operation. But the sounds, she hadn't been able to unhear the sounds, they had been so loud in her head that she had not stopped to pick up and don her mask, had stopped only to ask the people in the streets where they had seen him go, followed him to the tavern where he had gone to drink after dropping off his latest charge in the seventh circle of Hell. She had thrown the doors open, shoved the poor barmaids aside and threw off the patrons who tried to apprehend her. She had gone straight up the stairs to where Duane Gwysh sat, threw his table to the side, and challenged him in the bright open for everyone to see but that last girl, the fresh one, who had awoken with her head shorn and her kidneys gone, crudely-stitched gashes in her sides, screaming and sobbing and he had accepted, the poor fool sobbing why were the lights so bright, so bright He had paid the keep a good portion of his take for that night to clear the building. He rarely missed, he said and the smells -- gods, but the smells... Another knife flew at her head and she twitched it to the side. The blade sliced her ear, and stuck in the wall far behind her. sobbing She flew at him, tackling him around the waist and sending them both toppling over the top floor railing, landing with a crash onto a table below. She did not waste time worryig about defense but defaulted to punching him in the face over and over and over. Every time he tried to focus, her fist came at him again -- after the third or fourth one he gave up on focus and whipped one of his last remaining weapons from its sheathe, plunging it into whatever flesh of hers he could get to. Finally, he managed to lean his head to the side long enough for her fist to slam into the hard wood of the table beneath them, providing an opening for him to deliver a shot of his own to her jaw. Her head rocketed backwards and he heard her neck crack, and she was right back at it again, but it was enough of a break for him to buck his hips and legs, throwing her bodily off of him and onto the floor. He rolled off the table and she whiplashed her body back into a standing position, those crazy bleeding eyes locked onto his visage again. This was ridiculous. Duane was proud, but he knew when to cut his losses. Without giving her too much time to recover he turned with full intent to bolt out of the building, but she was already hot on his tail. He vaulted tables and chairs and threw them into her path as he went, but she broke through them like a bull with single-minded intent, and despite the chaotic, broken jigsaw of the tavern floor she reached him in a few moments, seizing his collar from behind and throwing him away from the door back towards the bar. The hitman landed, back-first, against the edge of the bar: his legs and lower body spasmed painfully and froze in temporary paralysis as he fell to the floor, only to be picked back up again by the insane Shell. He found himself half-dragged around the bar while the woman huffed, half-growling as she went, hauling him to his feet and seizing his shirt with both hands. He was pulled back, and saw the group of glass wine bottles coming at him in slow motion before he was slammed into them headfirst. They broke with a mighty crash, the shelf buckling beneath the impact. She dragged him again, pulled him back again, and slammed his head into another group of bottles. The floor was a carpet of shattered glass. He was already faded out when she hauled him around again, and this time his head smashed into and shattered the mirror on the wall behind the shelves. Finally, she released his shirt, when the world had become a red-streaked blur through his cut, swollen face. Only vaguely aware that he was still trying to survive, Duane Gwysh stumbled in an about-face, collapsing with his back to the wall beside the shelves. The tavern swam in and out of focus, and so did she. All sound was muffled: she stepped in front of him, silent as a spectre. The blurred shape of her arm being pulled back, then brought forward -- then, nothing. Her fist plunged through his sternum, forcing blood up through his throat and out his mouth and nose even as his heart was pulverized, his shoulder blades cracking out from the skin of his back. After a moment of feeling his still-warm flesh wriggling out its last pulse, Shell wrenched her fist out of his chest with a sickly wet slurp, and his body fell to the floor. Then, everything was quiet. She stood there, swaying slightly on the layer of broken glass, eyes still bulging and bloody, nose still streaming, ears still dribbling, her pretty face blotched with the hemmorhaging of her fury. The last remaining object of her rage was dead, and there was nothing left to destroy, but Shell was still angry. A hand clamped down her shoulder and she whirled, face twisted and contorted, shrieking bloody rage into the face of a guard, the cords in her neck straining. The lamp nearest to her exploded; the guard backed up, hands raised in submission. "Go," He said, not wishing to challenge what looked like a very real monster and not particularly caring about the fate of the asshole it was fighting. "Just go, and leave us alone." In her state, she only understood the word of command: "go". Without realizing what she was doing, walking on legs still powered by her raw emotions, Shell left the tavern, moving through the throng of observers that parted like a curtain to get out of her way and whispered behind their hands or talked boldly out loud, but she still heard the screaming and the sobbing and her neck itched, and she was vaguely aware of things sticking out of her body but like an animal it only irritated her further. With no conscious thought, she wandered around the town until the sounds stopped -- by the time they did her eyes had returned to normal, and the bleeding from her face had stopped. But her head hurt. It hurt so bad, and she was suddenly so tired, and all she remembered clearly were the highlights: the laboratory, the broken furniture at the tavern, the feel of Gwysh's bones crunching beneath her fist, and the sounds.... Her breath started to hitch in quiet little sobs, though no tears cut through the blood on her face and she stared around aimlessly in a daze. Her foot came into contact with a wall, and she rubbed the side of her body against it, feeling the pressure of the knife in her thigh and the movement of the blade, but no pain. After a moment, it fell out. She only barely had the presence of mind to use her hands to get rid of the other ones, and she did so in a series of sluggish, almost-lazy motions. There were several more stab wounds in her left thigh than she'd had originally, but she did not remember the part where he had stabbed at her blindly in an effort to get her off of him. When the things sticking out of her body were gone she lay down in the alley, her head pounding, still hitching in tiny sobs, blank of gaze until enough time had passed and she returned to herself. The sobbing stopped, and she felt only empty, like the events had been a hand that reached into her being and scooped out everything important. It was one less bastard in the city. She had shown her face and now she doubted anyone would give her the time of day, but she had saved just a few more people. Just a few more... Even when she heard footsteps Shell did not move a muscle, as the discomfort of injury began to settle into place with the extertion from the night's events: instead, she merely looked up vaguely, though the opening of her eyes caused her head to throb anew, and waited for them to either pass by, or stop and gawk. It was all the same to her right now. Edited by Shell, Aug 6 2017, 04:38 PM.
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| Shell | Aug 2 2017, 02:25 PM Post #2 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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The footsteps passed her by, and faintly she could hear the rest of the city existing as though she hadn't been in it, as though she hadn't just punched a hole in someone's chest and left a building in disarray. There was soome running, some shouting -- but wasn't it like that every night in Orl'kabbar...? After what must have been an hour, Shell slowly rose to her feet, her head throbbing anew when she raised it. For a few moments she waited, leaning with her back against the wall of the alley, gingerly wiping the blood on her face on her sleeve, and when the throbbing subsided a little she began to make the long walk back to the inn where she'd been making her home. But news traveled fast in this city. People she had never even seen before stared at her as she passed them by, some of them whispering to each other behind their hands or stopping their conversation altogether until they thought she was out of earshot, as though she would reach in and steal their souls if they opened their mouths in her presence. Private students, servants, guards, their eyes locked on her as she left the school, they saw the blood on her sleeve. Even the lion statues seemed not to be rearing in noble protectiveness but snarling with distaste The streets became more familiar, but that just meant more people were staring at her. Some stopped right in their tracks. There was something hot and heavy in her chest and she started remembering more bits and pieces, but she could feel their eyes boring into her, and hers began to dart around in a panic. She forced them to stay on track, to watch out for the familiar sign and brickwork. The eyes of the lions, the eyes of the gods, they were frowning on her, marking her, making a tally of endless bad deeds that could never be repaid through death, only resented through suffering Her breaths, habitual with her emotions, became shorter, more distressed. She had been careless, and now they all knew. The world swam in and out of focus. Far away. She should go somewhere far away, now they all knew, they'd hate her even more than they already did, they'd hunt her down and get her. 'When I die... please bury me somewhere far away...' There was the sign. The sobbing threatened to return, kept only at bay by frantic swallowing. She saw her hands reach out as though they were a hundred miles outside of herself, watched them push the door open, saw the innkeep look up and watch her as she went up the stairs. He'd always seemed friendly, seemed to like her, but she couldn't see his face through the looming tears and he looked just as frightening as everyone else. '...no one must ever find me...' There weren't many belongings to gather: Shell hurried up the stairs to her room, and all precision and coordination she had learned from practicing wushu was gone with the shaking of her hands, the indecision of her steps. Not knowing what to pack first, she took up everything and shoved it into her one lone bag, only taking the time to wrap up the mask, its face now terrifying to her. There may have been odds and ends that she left behind, but she took everything important. More afraid with each passing moment that someone would apprehend her or block her way, that perhaps an arrow would strike her in just the right place as she made her escape and she would die and wake up sometime later somewhere dark and damp and unfamiliar, she hurried down the stairs as fast as she could without running, not bothering to even close the room door when she left it. The innkeep tried calling her as she passed by, simply to ask her if everything was all right, but every voice was a frightening loud noise. She glanced up and reached out to open the front door, and saw a flash of golden robes in the corner of the common room, saw the red and brown shoes, and knew it was him, watching her and mocking her, beaming with pride the more she cowered. She sobbed quietly and threw the door open wide. 'Please, bury me far away and don't tell anyone... I must never be found... do you understand..?' She froze. There they all were, standing right outside the inn, waiting to stare at her as she left: they stood stock-still, not moving or speaking, facing her directly, their faces twisted in absolute hatred, and every pair of eyes was on her. She did not know that there was no one staring at her. People were moving on, walking by casually as they had been every night. Some glanced her way and whispered as they passed, but to them it was simply one more in a long stream of violent occurences in the irredeemable armpit of Morrim and she was simply another in a long line of people who had beaten and killed other people for one reason or another. Their lives had not been affected -- it didn't matter to them. But her head still pounded, and she could still hear the crying and screaming and she could still smell the chemicals, and Cheng Wei was still chanting over her corpse, and dozens and dozens of people stood outside the inn staring at her, wanting to hurt her for hurting them. She hugged her bag to her chest and slowly made her way down the front stairs, taking shaky steps away from the crowd, but it went on down the street as far as she could see. They didn't move, but they seemed to always face her, turning on their flat, planted feet soundlessly, keeping their hateful eyes trained on her every move. 'But why..? Why don't you want to be found...?' After a few dozen steps she started hearing them. Her eyes darted between them, panicked, sure that any moment now one of them was going to move and grab her and they'd all jump on her and tear her apart, first her arms, then her legs, then they'd take her head off and throw the pieces of her in the cistern -- and then she started hearing them, though their mouths didn't move, could hear them hissing with loathing. "--out of our city--" "--we don't want you--" "--vicious little bitch--" Her breath shortened to huffs, then stopped altogether. She wanted to stop, to cover her eyes, to curl up into a ball on the ground until they all went away, until they stopped being angry, until they stopped wanting to hate her and hurt her "--no wonder Daro didn't want you--" "--go back to where you came from--" "--freak--" "--get out of here before we kill you--" Their eyes started bleeding, just like hers, and some of them started looking like her, but they still stared at her and they still hated her. "--we said get out--" "--you're a menace, a demon--" "--what the hell is wrong with you--" "--we don't want you--" "GET OUT!" Shell broke into a run, flying through the illusions and bowling over actual people, taking turns she had never taken before and never breaking pace. Orl'kabbar sailed by in a blur, but she could still hear them. The screaming had turned from fearful to angry, and it was her they were afraid of and angry with, it was her who had done all the terrible things that had ever been done to them, 'Because... I'm horrible...' and she had saved no one, had protected no one. She had come to Orl'kabbar with intent to save, to change things for the better. But nothing had changed. The crowding of buildings thinned out and the streetlamps vanished, eventually til there were only scattered homesteads and copses of underbrush and trees, and only then did she slow. The hallucinations were gone, and she was alone again with the hitching of her breath. 'What do you mean? You just seem like a girl to me. Come on, please let me help you, you'll die soon if--' 'No... please don't... it's best this way... let me go, then hide me. If someone asks you if you saw me.... tell them nothing: they must not find me...' She picked a copse and crawled inside, hiding herself beneath the underbrush against the roots of a tree. She lay down, pressing her cheek to the cool dirt, drawing her knees up to her chest with her bag hugged between them. Her mind went over it and over it again -- where had she gone wrong...? They all knew. Everyone knew and now they would be looking for her and she hadn't changed anything. One slipup and she fell apart -- one slipup and she'd ruined everything and now no one would save the downtrodden, no one would pick the collars apart or open the cages, one slipup and Cheng Wei made his funerary chants all over again. One slipup, and she was still Shell, the hollow creature that did the dirty work and got rid of the evidence and lay placidly on a table while people poked at it with instruments, measuring its features and abilities and seeing how long it took to break. Sometimes when she was very tired and thought hard enough, she could remember bits of her body's life before Wei had found it: vague shadows of a face above a cradle, of an unstable woman and a distant man. Watching other children from afar. They had gone to festivals, on walks, they grew and found best friends and played until their parents made them come home because they were worried something bad might happen to them after dark. Until their parents made them come home, because they loved them. She would follow them sometimes -- whoever the girl before Juran had been. When they returned from their outings or gathered around for dinner she would sit in the snow behind their houses and watch them through the windows while their parents read them stories and fed them and played games with them. She even remembered making little doll families out of sticks as she watched them, setting them up around her to feel a little less alone for a while, pretending that one of them was the child she was watching, and that that child was their sibling. Why couldn't she have had a life like theirs? What was it like to be innocent, to be young, to be loved and cared after? What was it like to go to festivals with a mother and father, to have little tantrums that could be easily soothed by a hug or a present, to come home from them and eat dinner around a little table by a fireplace, to be read to, to be tucked in, to grow up and find best friends and learn at a school, to get married and have children and give them the same wonderful life? What was it like to not see hatred in every face, to not fear the shadows that came out of the closet at night? To walk down a street in any city and know none of the people walking by were out to get her? To do something good, and know that you saved just one more person? Her face crumbled into an unflattering mask of wretched sadness. There, alone, unseen and unheard, she cried hard and loud and bitterly, not knowing what else to do, hugging herself in a poor substitute for comfort. 'I'm a monster.' |
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| Shell | Aug 3 2017, 10:36 AM Post #3 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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She had been on the outskirts of the city and had risen with the morning sun, having not slept again, weeping over the dew that had gathered around her during the night. The visions had started to taper off when the sky started lightening and she tried to remember the Pearl, but she had been so wound up that she'd been unable to tap into it, pretending instead that the sun was her sister coming to take her away to the Spirit World. It had worked for a little while, but she couldn't just stay here anyway. She sat up, half-heartedly brushing away the dirt that had become plastered to her skin and clothes. She had finally burned her bridges. It was something she'd been expecting and was vaguely surprised that it had taken her this long to slip up. People had been suspecting it for a while, she was sure, despite all of her parlour tricks and elaborate narratives -- things she had no occasion or opportunity to show the enemy -- and now her face was connected with Death's Hand's actions. They're going to find me, She thought with a sudden, painful jolt of fresh panic. She wasn't far enough out, and though she couldn't hear any hounds or shouting or anything like that there was no guarantee that they hadn't sent sneaky bastards like Gwysh after her. After a good look around between the leaves and twigs, Shell picked her way out of the underbrush and headed in the direction of the mountains. ******************************* One of the benefits of being dead was that you just didn't get hungry or tired or cold the same way the living did. She didn't stop until she reached the foot of the Mulciber, where she settled down onto the grass and cried a little more, still hugging her bag. No one had followed her, she was certain, and at least out here she could hide if they did. Besides herself, the only sounds here were the rustling of the breeze and the chatter of birds off in the trees where the ground began to slope. After only a couple of minutes her breathy sobs and sniffles tapered off and she simply sat and listened to the world around her. The sun warmed her skin and her sluggish blood, and the air smelled like pine needles and flowers and grass -- if she concentrated, she could pick out a dozen different bird sounds and the musical sound of a creek. For the first time since she had stepped into the filthy operating room in the city, the other sounds had stopped. After a while longer she stood again and wandered into the trees, looking for the brook and stopping to examine trees as she passed them. It wasn't as though she had never seen trees before, but she hadn't gotten in close with them for quite some time, reaching out to touch their bark and smell their sap, or to gently ruffle their needles between her fingers. The feeling was... nice. She wandered a little while, smelling wildflowers and feeling springy moss under her palms, using every tactile sense she could to further tune into this world and get away from the one she had left behind. When she found the creek, a sparkling, clear thing frigid with mountain runoff, she knelt next to it, removing her shoes and dipping in her feet up to the ankles, looking around to try and view the vague shapes of spirits that might have lived there. Eventually she would feel driven to go back, and she would figure something out, doubtless -- but not now, she couldn't even think of it. For now, she would stay out here, settle down, and wait until she finally felt safe again. At some point she started gathering sticks, making a little pile of them and breaking them to appropriate sizes before arranging them. Her hands went to the lower part of her shirt and pulled at one of the tears in it, ripping a chunk off and cutting that piece into smaller strips. As she worked, her face began to crumble again, and by the time she had tied it all together and had it in her hands she was sniffling again, silent tears coursing down her cold cheeks. It could almost pass for a person, though it was so small. She wondered idly what to call it, and the chorus of birds was joined by a mellow undertone of quiet sobs. |
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| Mordecai | Aug 3 2017, 10:54 PM Post #4 |
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What is to give light must endure burning.
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Hermaeus nickered. Mordecai’s hand passed over his glossy mane, stopping at his cheek. “There,” she hummed quietly, spurring him gently on. The black horse snorted and clipped onward at a steady gait, picking his way down the mountain path. The Mulciber country had always been her favorite, even as a little girl. Her father would entertain her with wild stories about dragons living at the top of the mountains and spewing fire; it always frightened her brother, but it only kindled her curiosity further, to the exasperation of her mother. It had been here that she formed her first Servant, spoke to the earth and had it respond; here where she made a fiery bird from the ashes, crying with delight before it returned to the sky in grey motes. Here where there had been a great cataclysm, long ago. Where — if the fantastic manuscripts were to be believed — great dragons flew from the top of the mountain and set fire to the trees below, and great demons crawled out of hell to hurl sulfur and rock upon the people of the badlands. All hogwash. But even so, the stories remained intoxicating. And scholars all agreed that — at some point — death had poured over the earth, left the north of Morrim smoking, grey and barren all the way to Orl'Kabbar; that at some point, the air itself had been poisonous, and any man foolish enough to explore fell dead. Her tutor always shook his head at some of the accounts, claiming embellishment here and poor authorship there. But she never lost her fascination with the Mulciber. And how could she, when she felt so attuned to its ash and fire, felt it deep in her veins? She loved it all — the tall, proud pines, the rich, deep greens and slashes of rocky earth — and as one got further up the mountain, the great rivers of petrified stone pocked with lichens. Enormous boulders dotted the landscape, as though a giant had flung them from the top of the peak and rolled them down the mountain — one could very well believe the tales... It was wild country. Nothing like the manicured gardens of Kinaldi or the gently rolling hills of southern Morrim, fat with water and grain. Here one was confronted with the Great Powers — the primal rumbles of the earth and the scars of a landscape that had been decimated in an instant. Court felt very far away; politics a senseless chatter of mice; even the most powerful army crumbled to nothing in the face of the Mulciber. Yes. It was a seat of the One. Here she felt closest to Him, his presence humming in her blood. She felt free here, awed and yet afraid — empowered and yet nothing — at peace, perhaps, as if she had come home. Behind her, four homunculi clattered in their armor, their eerie eyes glowing through the slits of their helm. Heavy pouches slung over their backs and hips, full of research materials, but their gauntlets never drifted far from their swords. No matter her love of the mountains, they were dangerous — rife with clansmen, wolves and bears… the chirrup of birds and rich sky were deceitful. And so the woman kept her hand at the pommel of her sword, eyes scanning the trees for movement. Here the trail narrowed, sending them marching single-file down its throat, and the bottleneck made her nervous. A fine place to be ambushed, indeed… Gravel skittered under Hermaeus’ hooves as they made their descent. It wouldn’t be long now. She knew the land like her own quarters; at the end of this path the trees would fan out to a copse cut by a freshwater creek. A good place to let Hermaeus rest and refill her waterskin. The summer sun shone high in the sky, breaking through the pines in dapples and warming her back; even with the perennial cool of the mountains, sweat still broke out on her neck and underarms, particularly after a long morning of collecting volcanic ash and unusual specimens. Unnatural flowers had sprouted around the black slopes of the Mulciber, along with black mirrors of obsidian and new folds of chilled rock. Almost as if there had been a recent disturbance. She’d made field notes, stashed the journal in a leather pouch bouncing at her stallion’s side. But that was a puzzle to be solved later. For now she tugged her mind back to the goal of reaching the stream, eyes half-lidded as she stared ahead. Eventually the footing grew more certain — Hermaeus less nervous — and they made it to the bottom of the hill without incident, the One bless them. “See? I told you,” she snorted at her horse, a smile sprouting across her face in the privacy of that moment. How fine it would be to take her boots off and relax in the stream awhile, take lunch before picking her way back to the estate... As the path broadened, her servants flanked her, marching in a mechanical gait beside her. Twigs cracked underfoot; for a moment her senses were dulled by the clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp of their armored limbs, the lulling chirrup of birds… Crack. She stopped, holding out a hand — with a crunch and clatter, the homunculi came to a stop; the woman paused a moment, straining to hear over the sounds of nature, but — — yes, there — — something unnatural — She urged Hermaeus further ever so slightly, pausing to listen. Between the chirrup of birds came hitching, loud cries — hiccuping sobs — certainly something… With a motion of her fingers, the homunculi followed abreast again, drawing their swords, and she urged Hermaeus quietly forward, at last breaking through the tree line and into the copse. The source of the sobs became immediate. A girl hunched by the river, her pale feet dangling in the waters; she cradled something in her hands, but the woman did not mark it immediately. Instead her eyes shot to Shell’s clothes, widening. It looked like she had bathed in blood. Her hair was matted, frayed with travel — dirt smeared her arms — she had nothing but a meager sack by her side, unarmed and alone. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen seasons, surely… Concern disarmed her. For a moment her face melted into something sisterly — her dark eyes widened, lips somewhat open. Had there been an attack? Clansmen, perhaps? She look like she fled from something— “Do not be afraid,” Mordecai cut as she approached, raising a hand in conciliation. The poor girl must be terrified. She pulled on Hermaeus’ reigns, and the horse snorted to a stop some paces from the stranger. “I am Mordecai of Asenath, warden of these lands,” she announced, one hand resting on the pommel of her sword. Her dark eyes scanned the girl, marking her pale skin and traces of blood down her face. The more she looked, the more of a puzzle the stranger became. She did not look Morrimian. Rather like the Daroan traders she had seen in Etruria— “I shan’t harm you. Are you in danger?" |
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| Shell | Aug 4 2017, 01:46 AM Post #5 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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After it was finished she made a few tweaks, adjusting the twigs and knots. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, careless now that she was all alone -- just her and... Volmae, she wanted to call it, but the pain in her heart was too great, too profound. She wanted to call it that, but she couldn't, couldn't even call it the other name. Her fingertips traced over what passed as the doll's head, as though smoothing back hair that wasn't there, and she hiccuped another sob. Soo-jin? Soo-jin... that was a bit better. She would still be a sister, an older one, a confident outspoken one that chased all the Bad people away and coddled her when she had bad dreams. They would share a room with matching beds -- and they would share clothes, sit on the pier together and swish their feet in the water, dress each other up in their mother's things, go to festivals and eat shaved ice-- “Do not be afraid.” She had been so intent on creating a pleasant narrative that she had not heard the approach, neither the quiet footsteps nor the clanking of the homunculi. Shell yanked her feet from the cold water with a splash and stumbled into a standing position, whirling to face the owner of the voice, clutching her little stick-doll protectively against her chest. After a moment's hesitation her hand darted out and snatched up her bag and held it close as well, and she stepped back from the entourage fearfully despite the woman's reassurances. They found me, Was her first thought, seeing the horse and the bizarre-looking attendants. Her panicked eyes flitted between them and their apparent leader, an intimidating, handsome woman of a dark countenance and subtle charisma. It took a few moments for Shell to sift through the idea that this was a warden, whatever that meant, that she didn't seem to mean any harm -- but people lied about their positions and intentions all the time, and she took another step back. Yes, I'm in trouble, Bad people are after me, they're going to catch me and scare me and make me hurt people, please take me somewhere far away, please help me-- "N-no." She choked, her fingers worrying nervously about the doll and the fabric of her satchel. She took one more step back, then stopped, her body and head twitching as she tried not to let them see her trembling, in no state to register the fact that it was already pointless. "I can.... I can go, if I'm t-trespassing... I-I'll go...." She eyed the homunculi warily. They were the ones who would surround her, grab her and carry her away: they were even armored against her fists or her blades, if she'd had them directly on her person. Any comfort she may have ordinarily found in Mordecai's words or tone did not reach her; even the ache of her wounds from the night before hardly registered. She whimpered and clutched the doll closer. "Please.... don't hurt me..." |
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| Mordecai | Aug 5 2017, 09:38 AM Post #6 |
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Water splashed. The girl shot up in terror, her eyes wide and fixed like a deer's. She still clutched the bundle of twigs -- fire kindling, perhaps? -- holding it more protectively to her chest than the meager pack by her side. She looked ready to bolt, and of a sudden the woman felt aware of her strangeness, the burning eyes of the homunculi and Hermaeus’ towering black bulk. The poor girl twitched, jerking like a painted doll at a mummer’s show. I can.... I can go, if I'm t-trespassing... I-I'll go... "You are not trespassing," Mordecai assured Shell, her voice low and calm. "You may stay, or you may go.” She relaxed the hand on her sword, let it hang loosely by her side. The woman blinked at the strange girl, tipping her head. “...But if you stay here, then you shall have my protection. The Do'Suul can be dangerous.” Her eyes searched Shell, freshly heartbroken by the condition of her clothes and the cruel wounds along her body. For a moment she saw the refugees of the Dark Conquest again — dirty-footed children with blank, dead eyes — remembered swallowing back tears as she took the road back to her estate, through the skeleton of lands and villages that once relied on the Asenaths to protect them. And she, not much older than the girls fisting their hands in their skirts, looking up at her and her threadbare retinue in fear. Yes. She remembered what it was like to be afraid. And alone. What was an unarmed young girl doing this far in the wilderness? Not only that, a Daroan girl? How long had she been out here? The woman's mind worked, came to a heinous conclusion. Orl'Kabbar… A swallow caught in her throat. With a motion of her hand, the homunculi sheathed their swords in unison. They stood rigidly at attention, unmoving like sentries. After a moment Mordecai tugged her boots out of Hermaeus' saddle and dismounted. The chainmail under her armor rustled as she did so, twigs cracking underfoot. It seemed unlikely that she was some kind of decoy or bait. After all, she hadn't even noticed her approach. No, she was precisely as she appeared: a terrified young girl. Very carefully, as if approaching a deer, she took a few steps forward, stopping some paces away from the terrified girl. As she drew closer she could see what the twigs were -- some kind of rudimentary doll? -- and the raw fear in her dark, tear-rimmed eyes. The way she clutched it to her chest shot a bolt of sympathy through her heart. Like her brother. He had always been quick to frighten, never far from tears. Handmaids would stay in his room till he fell asleep, but they did little for his nightmares and terrors, which were often and terrible. Her mother despaired at her wasting child, wringing her hands at his sleepless eyes, but her father remained stony, embarrassed even — uncomfortable at the weakness of a son that he had expected to mind the estate when he came of age. After a time she sat down and fashioned a special doll for him, stuffing it with straw and weighing it down with stones and clay. He liked dogs, so she’d made it in the fashion of one. She remembered animating it, smiling softly as his eyes widened in delight. He is the fiercest wolf, she promised him, smoothing back his honey curls. That eats bad dreams. And he shall protect you. I made him special for you, Hermaeus. He had been buried with it when he died. For a moment she was not Mordecai-as-Lady or Mordecai-as-soldier, but Mordecai-as-sister. "I am not here to hurt you," she soothed, offering what she hoped was a kind smile. But how could she expect one who had been hurt so terribly to believe that? Her words came slow and calm, in gentle explanation. “I traveled here to survey the Mulciber and gather materials." Mordecai patted the bandolier across her chest, gesturing to the bags saddling Hermaeus and her servants. “This stream is normally where I take my horse to water. I know my servants appear frightful, but this wilderness holds many dangers. Thus I travel with caution." She didn't elaborate on what sort of criminals lurked between the trees. As if the girl needed more monsters for her imagination. Nor did she need to ask where she had come from. It would be cruel. The stranger was riddled with bruises, blood, what looked like violent gashes --everywhere she was ripped, beaten -- and her blood boiled to think on who could do this to such a young girl. Rapers? Slavers? Were they still out there? “Guard the grove,” she commanded her servants with a jerk of her chin, a hard edge cutting her words. The homunculi sprang into motion and fanned around them, swords and shields pointed at the trees. “As I said, none shall harm you,” Mordecai turned back to Shell, assuring her once more. She bent to be eye-level with the girl, extending a gloved hand. “As Lady, it is my duty to protect my lands and those within them. On my word, you are safe here.” Her eyes softened, and she gave a faint, close-lipped smile. "What is your name?" |
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| Shell | Aug 5 2017, 02:12 PM Post #7 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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Though she could have seen those angry faces again, multitudes staring at her and shouting at her without their mouths, she saw the impassive faces and shelds of the homunculi, and a notably kind-faced woman -- a minute passed, and there they still were, as normal as could be, and still the only sounds were the sounds their bodies made and the sound of the mountainside around them. No one made sudden moves to grab her, no one worded anything strangely. She tore her eyes from them for a moment to glance around at the trees and stones, and saw no suspicious movement or shapes. There was a series of metallic rustlings and Shell diverted her attention back to what was before her, her breath slowing as she began to calm down, moreso when she saw the sheathing of the swords and the dismounting of the leader. The woman -- Mordecai, she somehow remembered -- had mentioned wardens, protection. Shell began to put together in her head the pieces of the situation as it had unfolded, and with her fading panic things began to make a bit more sense, words of comfort began to feel a little more like their intended purposes. The woman approached her cautiously, and the way she moved, the tallness, the unignorable Morrimianness of her energy permeated the fresh mountain air, bringing a feeling of odd security with it. She reminded her of Nakara, sort of -- except notably more mild of manner, composed and... not as loud. She only took a very small, habitual shuffle back when the woman made to approach her. Her feet were well out of the water, but the earth was damp and so was her skin, and she tried to feel out this Mordecai, recieving only a very vague assortment of labradorite tones, swirls, blacks, deep greens and golds -- even the way she spoke was labradorite, and though it was dark, it was the kind of darkness she'd once associated with the Void, the rivers of death. It was the dark of the earth, that held and protected the dead beneath the dirt and moss and fires of the living, an unbiased thing that did not compromise or change no matter how many booted feet stamped over it. Beneath it all, there was fire, but it was a fire that created more than it destroyed. It was.... balanced. "I am not here to hurt you," The woman explained evenly, "I traveled here to survey the Mulciber and gather materials." "...materials...?" Shell peered at the woman and around her at the bags upon her horse and attendants. Through her indecision she remembered how she used to bring a little book with her when she went to new places so she could draw the flowers and plants and try to figure out what their parts did and how they worked -- she would collect interesting-looking stones as well, and when she found she missed an area too much she would take out the book and stones and look at them, remembering how they'd looked in their natural setting. This was different, of course -- most people collected things for research, but coming from Orl'kabbar so soon and still remembering the things people there collected for much more heinous reasons, the idea of this woman collecting natural materials was almost shocking in its relief. She jumped a little, again, when the homunculi all turned on a dime in a protective semi-circle, but her twitching had devolved into simple tremors, and her grip around the doll was no longer crushing. They moved so.... specifically, like... like constructs. Oh... She thought, though the thought was vague and cloudy and thin in its pool of anxiety, Like Daenis, a little... The thought of Daenis reminded her of Mairead, and the woman reminded her a little of Nakara, and it felt a bit in that moment like she was back at the fountain in Madrid, surrounded by friends who wanted nothing more than to keep her happy and safe, but the memory was feeble, almost mocking in its distance and pastness. Her throat worked against more tears. A hand was extended; there was a smile, another set of warm words, and in that moment Mordecai of Asenath looked like the most beautiful angel who ever walked the earth. "...Shell..." She croaked, following it up with another sniff and accepting the offered hand: the feel of someone else's fingers around hers was almost shockingly grounding, and the presence of the glove took away some of the vulnerable feelings that might have accompanied skin-to-skin contact. The tremors came and went as her conscious mind wrestled with the instinctive one, but she was settled by her own desperate desire for approval and acceptance, even by this total stranger -- something that could have easily led to yet another mistake, but fortunately for Shell, this time, she was actually in good hands. "I-I don't want to get you in trouble... I.... I've done bad things, i-in Orl'kabbar, and they'll be mad..." She tried not to look around for signs of pursuit again, wanted to get it all out and tell someone everything that had happened, anyone who would listen, but she didn't want to lose that reassurance, that guarantee of safety, "..they're g-going to be looking for me... is there somewhere I can, can hide, or... or..." Get away? Was there some other dimension, some other world where no Bad people ever walked, where no Bad things ever happened or had to happen? She would have taken anything -- she would have even jumped into the mouth of the volcano if she thought that would bring security. In those moments, confused with emotion, it was as though the people who had stolen organs from the downtrodden, who had crafted collars and cages to make people obedient, as though they and her were one and the same. In those moments, it was as though by removing herself from this world of Elenlond, she could make every bad thing that happened within it stop, could make the cruelty and suffering vanish, and people would be happy. In those moments, sometimes, Right and Wrong become confused in the most internal, personal ways. |
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| Mordecai | Aug 6 2017, 07:39 AM Post #8 |
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Materials? “Yes.” The woman nodded, hoping that perhaps simple conversation would distract the girl from her thoughts, perhaps soften her terror at the sight of her servants and bearing. “Flowers, ash, igneous rocks and the like. It does well to understand the land that one lives in.” And respect it. It too was a living, breathing thing, one that demanded respect and tribute. For how quickly it could turn, with sudden floods of earth and vicious downpours, snowstorms that fallowed entire fields. The southrons did not live with the wrath of the Do’Suul. She seemed to relax, at the very least. Her twitching stilled to a tremor. Her pale hand unfurled from a claw, relaxing somewhat on the rudiment of a doll. As she took her hand, the woman smiled, placing another warmly atop hers. Through her gloves she could not feel Shell’s coldness or sluggish pulse; only one of them felt hot and itchy under the leather, a fact that throbbed like an abscess. After a moment she withdrew her hands, sliding them gently off the girl’s. Shell? She blinked. Not a normal name, by any account. Not a name given to one by a father or a mother. Or were the traditions different in Daro? She was not fool enough to think so. It was a slave name, a nothing-name, a name given by someone who was neither a mother nor a father… “Well-met, Shell,” she recovered formally, remembering her manners. However, her eyes scanned the Daroan inquisitively; this close she could mark the snow-whiteness of her skin and the frail skin around her eyes, as though she had wept her whole life and never stopped. “Trouble?” You cannot get me in trouble. A husky laugh rolled in her throat but she stifled it, folding her hands by the skirt of her chainmail. As she confessed the woman stood to full height again, a faint furrow wrinkling her brow. They're g-going to be looking for me... is there somewhere I can, can hide, or... or… Mordecai raised a hand to cut her off. By the One, was she a convict? Was that blood hers? Hard to believe, given her appearance, but… “I have no jurisdiction in Orl’Kabbar,” the woman went on calmly, though her eyebrow raised a fraction, and her tone suggested that Shell oughtn’t go on. “That is the domain of the Hierophant of Morrim, Ser Hiram Jollenbeck. Unless he or the Emperor issues a warrant of arrest, I can do little.” Her dark eyes held a hint of warning. “However… if someone were to cause you harm, then they have committed a crime on my lands.” Mordecai lowered her hand, lofting her chin. “And should they attack me, it is treason. The punishment for which is beheading,” she added dryly. Mordecai clasped her hands together and allowed the legal advice to sink in, pausing. After a heavy moment of silence, she crunched back to Hermaeus, leading him to the stream with a tug of his reins. As the horse dipped his head towards the water, the woman turned. “Not far from the foot of the Mulciber is the town of Blackstone. The inns are good and the people are kind. It is on my path,” she shrugged, peeling off a glove and kneeling by the stream. The woman dangled a pale hand in the cool water, scooping up a handful and splashing it on the hot, itching flesh of her face and neck. She raked it back over her hair and then refilled her waterskin, standing. The Arcana sparked on her hand, runes running down her knuckles like rivulets of water. It almost appeared like a trick of the light -- the reflections of waves on a cave ceiling. “You may ride with me,” the noblewoman offered. “And whether you choose to stop at Blackstone or continue to my estate is up to you. I shall provide lodgings and food. But…” and she neared again, hesitantly placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You are injured. And you must be thirsty and hungry. Your wounds have to be cleaned and bandaged,” Mordecai clipped on, deciding it for the girl rather than giving her the option. She was covered in blood and in shock. Sometimes it was best to simply direct in these situations — choice was too paralyzing for those in such a state, priorities lost to the wind. She recalled a man whose house had collapsed and village had been slaughtered, and yet he went on nonsensically about having to cage up the chickens. The mind clung to odd things to protect itself. Mordecai nodded at her, removing her hand and striding to Hermaeus. She rustled in a rucksack for a moment before drawing out a cloth-tied bundle of food and a small medicinal kit. The food she handed to Shell, along with her waterskin; kneeling, the woman opened the kit and pulled out a fresh rag, anointing it with a cleansing oil. Before the girl could protest, she began to dab carefully at the wounds and scratches she could see, lifting out the blood and filth. Edited by Mordecai, Aug 6 2017, 09:03 AM.
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| Shell | Aug 6 2017, 03:08 PM Post #9 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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((CW: Organ harvesting)) Her neck still itched, and she scratched it absently. Many of the technicalities of the woman's words were lost on her -- the idea of jurisdiction, the Emperor, of heirophants -- somewhere, these words meant important things. Had she ever known what they truly meant, though..? She didn't recall ever having been especially dutiful to laws and the working order of things, especially not in Soare, a land whose operations were still somewhat strange to her, and now, they meant nothing. The only things that really mattered were safety, and... ...love, really? Did love really matter all that much in this situation? A stupid, sentimental thing, Someone's voice said, some memory somewhere -- but she couldn't place it. A fickle object that few possess and no one likes to give away. What she did gather from what she was being told was that she ought to be quiet, careful: words were lost, but Mordecai's calm expression was painted by a second meaning that Shell most certainly did not miss. She swallowed, and nodded, and watched her move about, kneeling to the stream to share in some of its unquestioning generosity. Shell's head tipped slightly when one of her hands appeared to... glitter, somehow, in the sun -- perhaps it was the way the water was running down the back of her hand. Pretty... She glanced around at the homunculi again, noting that they simply refused to move from their sentry positions, and likely wouldn't until their mistress asked them. She took a closer look at their armor, their weapons; they were eerie for certain, and even more intimidating, but they were no longer really frightening. Mordecai was correct about many things, but especially in making the decisions: at that point in time Shell could simply not nail down what her needs were, couldn't decide even if she wanted to put down her satchel or keep holding it, if she wanted to go to Blackstone or simply go with this Lady to her estate -- though of course, in the end, she had more of a mind to simply hole up where there were as few people as possible. She even could not decide on whether or not she should continue standing or sit so the woman could attend to her, but that decision was also made for her. Food and water were given to her and she stared at it; she could hardly think of eating while she was scared, but she was also frightened that by slipping up she would end up alerting Mordecai to her true nature, and then all of these good things, the kindness, the friendly warnings, the protection, would all be taken away. She fumbled slowly with the bundle of cloth, pulling the knot out one corner at a time; the only way untying something made sense right now. How had it gotten to this..? She'd once spent time -- a human concept, back then, merely imposed so that everything in life didn't happen at once -- she'd spent time drifting back and forth between the subtler realms and this one, a magnificent creature with a magic heart and the rivers of life and death in her veins, who people prayed to, praised, attended... if she'd wanted to help someone all she'd had to do was will it, perhaps drift to the inner sanctum of her temple (her temple..! gone, crumbled and in ruins, just like her body) and have her attendants assist in carrying out her will. They had been so gentle, her attendants... they'd been as full of love as she, the Mistress of the Waters, the Star of the Sea, She Who Hears the Cries of the World -- they'd helped her ferry the souls of the dead across the rivers of death and the Between, enbalmed the bodies and placed them in sacred tombs. Nobles, women and children and commoners -- there had been none who were denied the luxury of divinity at Juran's Temple, and none were denied the dignity of funeral service. She could remember the littlest ones, child monks and nuns in training who were told not to disturb their Mistress, who snuck into her sanctum after lights-out with their shaved heads and robes and scarves filled with cakes and sweets and they would go to her portal and whisper for her to come out, and she would peek her serpentine head in. They shared their cakes, talked to her as children often talk to receptive adults, read stories to her, listened with rapt attention to the ones she told them, told her jokes, showed off new skills they had learned, played before her... Her eyes squeezed shut. They were gone now, all of them: the sweet little children, the monks and nuns and funerals and rivers, the temple... all of it, all that goodness and comfort and hope, all ripped out of the world by one greedy, cruel man who didn't know when enough was enough. For her, the root of all evil had begun with Cheng Wei. The jails she saw these days, the laboratories and defiled mausoleums, people with metal around their necks so others could keep more in their pockets, were simply extensions of a horrible thing that had started the day Wei decided that his pride was worth more than the Balance. She pulled a chunk of bread apart, breathing with slow deliberation while Mordecai dabbed at her wounds, careful and full of sympathy, yet efficient and reasonable. She'd thought that by seeing food she would want it, but she only felt sick. How had it come to this? How had it come to this from a temple in the clouds? How had it come to this, all this filth and blood and frayed nerves, a battered, stolen human body? How had it gone from universal compassion and gentility to creeping through the underbrush, covered in tears and mucus and dirt and twitching like a puppet? How had it gone from all that, to being so desperate for any sliver, any veneer of affection, that she would seek it from a complete stranger? How had she gone from a goddess to being terrified of the whole world? She knew, of course. But she wanted to feel justified in her confusion, her outrage, her anxiety -- she wanted to feel justified when she crushed a hole in a man's chest because he was helping hurt people, a thing of which the dragon Juran would not have been able to concieve, would have been horrified at the thought of. And she was. She was horrified at herself every time she finished a job, but reasoned through it by feeling angry, by remembering what they had done. But did that actually justify anything...? Did one man's cruelty give another the right to hand it back to them, even if they weren't at all directly involved in the situation? Was this the feeble way in which she continued to hear the cries of the world, to help the ones she could..? Was this her feeble attempt at keeping that former, loving, peaceful life going..? Oh, but it was hardly peaceful, was it? The pain of the wound-cleaning did not reach her, not yet. For a time she simply sat there, deliberating on the bread pinched carefully between her fingers, but there was too much confusion, too much anger and sadness, all stuck in her throat, making it impossible to swallow. "....twelve," She finally said, growing a little distant in her reflections. She had just left the scene -- she didn't want to fully go back, but the idea of justification was being wrapped up in memories and emotions and had nowhere else to go. Her voice sounded small to her own ears, like it was coming from somewhere far away. "...seven were already almost gone... one went just before I got there... three were waiting their turns and the... the one girl was still on the table..." For a few moments the forest disappeared, replaced by a rusted-out hole-in-the-ground place with grimy damp walls, stained sheets hung up in crude cubicles, instruments that had been cleaned half-heartedly and used a hundred times. The smells returned, the sobbing returned, the groaning and horrified sounds of people discovering and trying to cope with the things missing from their bodies... "...she just woke up," Shell continued. Exhausted from weeping and being afraid and inadequate rest, she stared down at the ground with a look of almost-distant disgust, profound disappointment for a dirty thing which could never be wiped clean. "...she noticed her hair was gone, first... she cried..." The scene played over in her head, contained forever in a tunnelvision memory, "...then she noticed she was wearing one of the... gowns.... and all the tables, and things... she found the stitches, and...." The sounds that the girl had made that followed the discovery of her missing organs was not something she could describe, not something that could have been put into words. Shell hitched in a trembling gasp, held it in for a moment, then let it out. "....i tried to... tell her to just run, it wasn't a good idea... but she took up one of the knives and went for them herself. I went after her, but they got her first. "They were so dirty, the men in the coats... they only wash their hands and faces after they work, so their coats and aprons are all.... gross.... and they were smoking," She said as though it was even dirtier than the blood on their clothes, "By the time I caught up and got to them they'd already put her on another table and her throat was open, and they were laughing, and... putting out their cigarettes on her legs while she.... died.... "I.... I got mad..." When the story came to herself and her own actions it was less as though she was telling a story and more like she was making a shameful confession: she had done it for all the right reasons, but did that justify the thing at all..? The thumb of her free hand caressed the twigs of the doll nervously, and she daintily fiddled with the bread in her hands, which she still had not bitten into. "I got so mad... twelve people, four... four mouth-breathing motherfuckers, they could have made a whole new person out of everything they took," Her voice shook, "But I got them, I got all four, but I..... "....I didn't kill them, I... I hurt them, and I strapped them to the tables, and then I went and I killed the ones who were waiting to die, and I set free the ones who hadn't been touched yet...." Her heart, unbeating, still constricted in agony with the memory. Her face worked against a flood of confused emotions -- right now, the chief of them was shame. "After the victims left, I went back to the bad men, and.... i beat them, I-I broke their bones with the hammer they used to chisel teeth out, and I poured their chemicals on their bodies and set them on fire. I burned the rest of the place out and went after the man who'd taken the victims, and I put a hole in his chest and I ran... "They were all wearing collars... the people in the cages... sometimes cages aren't enough, if someone gets really angry... and the Bad men, they have a lot riding on their cattle..." She hung her head, choking against more tears, and the ghost of anger was added to the hodgepodge of other confused emotions. At this point, she didn't even really know what she was saying anymore. Her voice became small and retreating again, laced with bitterness. She rubbed absently at her neck again. "...still want to help me..?" |
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| Mordecai | Aug 19 2017, 06:39 PM Post #10 |
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The girl did not speak. And she did not push her — for often, silence was better than words. Silence was the parlor for thoughts. If Shell wished to go on, she would; if she did not, then so it was, and she would let it be. As the girl fiddled with the bread, she busied herself with continuing to clean the wounds. The more she dabbed at the wound on her leg, the more disturbed she grew. By the one, how deep were—? Blood and filth had obscured it — but now as she gently swept it away, it gaped open like a red mouth. And there were more. So many more. As she unearthed them, an uneasy feeling started in her guts — crept up her back, whispered its intuition into her ear. Another drop of the foul-smelling yellow antiseptic dribbled onto the cloth; she folded it over to its clean side and resumed her work, steadying her hand. One, two, three, four— Above, the girl trembled as she picked at the bread. A few crumbs of it fell onto her sweaty hair and shoulders, and the woman blinked overmuch, swallowing. Five… six, seven— eight— nine — Some were long, brutal scratches — scabbed over already, and she was careful with those, skirted them in a smoothing dance. Scrapes here and there, bruises that bloomed like an unearthed flower bed… Ten, eleven… By now a bad taste crept into her mouth, nerves boarding up her throat. The more she worked, smoothing away the grime, the more she noticed the deathly paleness of the girl’s skin; at first she thought it was blood loss, or perhaps a pallor of the face, but— It sprung up under her fingers, strangely buoyant — when it should have been desiccated, thin, flimsy like the skin of bleeding soldiers — Untreated, unsutured. By all rights she should be — Something was very, very wrong. Twelve. The woman looked up, dark eyes flashing at Shell’s own. For a moment her hand tightened on the rag; wordlessly—without giving hint of her fearful suspicions—the woman put it down into the medical box and pulled out long strips of linen. The girl’s story unspooled in the silence. Mordecai willed her fingers to work — numb, fumbling things — happy for something to busy her hands with. Seven were almost already gone— It was not immediately apparent what she was talking about. The woman spared Shell a few more glances, eyes darting from her dressed wounds to the girl’s slack face. One girl was still on the table— Mordecai’s fingers curled around the linen. Somehow she could not finish wrapping one of the wounds on Shell's legs — moved with painful slowness, cloth fluttering in her fingers. But on, on—! The girl’s story went, dredging up new horrors with each word— like an anchor pulled up from a muddy lake bottom full of corpses — The vivisectionists. She swallowed. She had been to Orl’Kabbar many, many times — she had thrown a cloak over her features and pretended to be a man, shuffled into apothecaries. Bought things. Human skulls, teeth, femurs, the odd lot here and there. The One knew Orl’Kabbar had the bodies to spare, with murder in every alley. Sometimes she sold her own when she had extra, pocketed rare minerals and tutia, alchemist’s kits and quicksilver. She preferred to find her own corpses, if only to settle her conscience. In the dead of night, she looted them from broken sepulchers, ground up the remains of Andromalius’ servants and victims into dust. Sometimes animal bones sufficed. But nothing built homunculi as well as human bones and their meal. And there was no other source so reliable than the black trades and occult-shops of Orl’Kabbar. Of a sudden her mouth felt parched. Her dry tongue batted around in her mouth, fingers moving to tie the bandage just a smidgen too tight. I do not ask, and they do not tell, she had thought many a time, when she slid over coin and the occultist slid a box of human remains back at her with a leer. Bastard won’t miss those, that’s f’sure, he cackled, and she remembered his liver-spotted hand swallowing the glint of coppers and disappearing into his robes like a snake. She had remembered the queer, dim-red things pickled in jars amongst the shelves, but said nothing; she had remembered cowled figures sweeping in, eyeing her sidelong before they gestured to those jars, and she left remembering the furious argument and haggling that ensued, remembered the shock that stopped her feet when she heard the staggering price of those dim-red creatures— And, to the striking horror of her heart, when she was desperately poor and desperately young and desperately afraid in the years following Father’s death, she remembered the thought— —where would I acquire such things, and how would I sell them— Had inquired once about the horrifying, filamentous things in the jars, the next time she went to the occultist’s shop —remembered his wet, clacking chuckle — Oh, they miss those, boyo, I’ll tell yeh. Well, blimey, I dinnae, actually. I jus' sells them, I dinnae harvest them. Where? Where do you ‘harvest’ them? She had asked, forcing her voice into the gruff husk of male adolescence. Oh, aye, sources plenty. Some come out o’ the dead ‘uns — those are easy. Gottae get ‘em fresh though, ‘fore they get too ripe. Vultures, call ‘em — man can’t have a second o’ rest. Soon as one— and he had made a grotesque krrrrk sound, drawing his finger across his throat and bulging his wild green eyes, —kicks it, they’re ‘pon ‘em. Get wha’ he’s got, sell ‘em. People breakin’ intae priest’s-houses ’n rickety shite hospitals, next mornin’ they’re all empty. Some just kill a horse ’n try tae pass it off fer the real thing. Others… well, they’re the real sick focks, they take ‘em alive. Why? Shite if I know, we all look the same— he squinted, gesturing to the jars with a long stick. —up there, eh? All the sames inside. Don’ matter if yeh get ‘em kickin’ or not. I don’ ask, I just sell. And best yeh don’ ask too much neither, boyo, else they’ll come after you. He took one look at her pale, terrified face and barked out a laugh, slapping his knee. She remembered swallowing — no, trying to swallow, choking on the cotton of her throat — full of a sort of crawling, existential dread as she stared at the things in the jars — tried to imagine them in her — felt her organic, squelching humanity and blood-and-bone with too much starkness, clutching her box of materials and scrambling out as fast as she could. Of a sudden everyone she bumped into was a vivisectionist — a vulture — a beast of prey that wanted to swoop into her midsection and pry everything out — and she mounted her horse without paying the inn, galloped out of Orl’Kabbar fast as she could. It was a sin to open up the dead, this she knew. That was why — the One willing — she only found the ones that the maggots had already eaten away; else she did not dirty her hands at all, and paid coin for the others to commit the sins against the One in her stead. Did that make her a sinner, too? Had the Emperor, His Grace, not given her the gift of steady gold, where would her hand have ended? She could not work any longer. Instead her eyes fixed on the girl, wide and dark and hollow. Oh, she could picture it. All the grimness and filth of Orl’Kabbar, sucked into rotting rafters and yellow beds, pouring out from red wounds… The face of humanity she put to the jars made her flinch. Girls, little girls— She lowered her hand from the stranger’s knee, rubbing the bottom of her face. The sharp smell of astringent hit her, curling in her nostrils. “By the One,” Mordecai croaked. I… I got mad… There was a deadness in her voice that sent a chill down her spine, and of a sudden the girl looked like a blank specter, her hair too-dark, her eyes too-red, as if she had been one of the corpses upon the cots that now rose, beaten and bloody. She recounted the horror of her deeds with the innocence of a child’s, as if she confessed to spilling milk upon her brother’s head or stealing her sister’s toy — not — not — The juxtaposition struck her to her core, sent her guts writhing. I beat them — — broke their bones with the hammer — — poured chemicals on their bodies — —set them on fire— The woman stood, rising to her full height over the girl. She could not — could not! — imagine such violence coming from her reed-thin limbs, her trembling child’s voice — it was horrifying, akin to the wrath of the barbarian clan’s devil-gods — violence far beyond anything she was capable of, no matter how much her heart lit with flames and her soul screamed for vengeance. Her guts turned. She was a monster. And she had just confessed to the murder of four men. Heinous men or not, it was not done with the blessing of the law or trial, was not done by the blade of an executioner... The bandages dangled uselessly from the claw of her hand. For a moment she was stricken dumb, her lips pressing, frozen with indecision. Her heart galloped like a caged stallion, flinging itself against her ribs. Somewhere, Hermaeus nickered — a branch cracked, but her mind was elsewhere, buzzing, full of nothing but the girl’s eyes and her sordid story. Was this a test from the One? But there was no answer in her soul — only a resounding emptiness, her god silent. Is this a manifestation of the sins I have committed? A lesson? O, One—! Mordecai's mouth opened, issued nothing but a ghostly croak. Still want me to help you? Her mind barked in bitter rejoinder. Absently, she drew her other hand close, drawing up the linens in her fingers and spooling them back up again. “I think,” she managed, finding her voice again. It came low, carefully measured. “It is best if you come with—“ An arrow sang. Mordecai recoiled, felt the whizz of air as a bolt narrowly missed the girl’s head, biting into a tree behind her. Hermaeus whinnied in fear, hooves kicking. “Get down,” the woman bellowed at Shell, dropping the bandages. She lunged towards the horse, picking up her abandoned shield in the same movement, and hoisted it above her head. It jarred with the impact of a bolt; seconds later, another flew towards the girl. “Defend,” she yelled at the constructs, and they clattered together to form a wall of bristling swords and shields before them. “Shit,” a voice hissed from the trees. A pair of eyes gleamed behind a crossbow, wide and fearful. Two other men crouched behind him, armed with hunter’s wooden bows. “Gae out o’ the way, bitch,” one of them shouted. “Tha’ girl’s a monst—” There was a sickening crunch as one of the homunculi bulled forward in blinding speed, flinging its shield into his chest with inhuman strength. His ribs cracked, turning like knives into his heart — a red bubble of blood popped from his mouth, and then he was still. The men screamed. Arrows flew overhead like scattering birds, biting into the ground; her homunculus continued its brutal, mindless assault, cracking brush under its armored feet. Six other men poured from the trees, flanking their blind spots; Hermaeus bolted across the stream, and Mordecai ripped her sword from its scabbard, surging forward with a roar. Steel met steel; she bulled her shield forward, hitting the man in the belly and robbing him of breath. She saw wild blue eyes behind a sheaf of straw-blonde hair, a dusting of pimples on his chin; the young man lifted his sword and clanged it weakly against her shield, stumbling. The hilt of her blade shot down onto his temple and mouth, and he crumpled to his knees, spewing teeth and falling over. The woman pointed the tip of the sword at his throat, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast. Her heart galloped wildly, blood pulsing in her head from the adrenaline of the sudden attack. Beside her, another guardian clomped forward, skewering a man through the belly — the construct lofted the pierced man on its greatsword, raising it to the grove as he writhed and screamed. With a slick, sickening squelch, he slid off the blade, crumpling into a heap by its feet. It stepped over the corpse, crushing his head like a grapefruit; the screams cut off with a sudden crunch. “Arrest them,” she barked without mercy, fixing the man at her feet with flinty dark eyes. She was a fool. Should have paid better attention, heard them coming… The girl stood at her back, and it made her uneasy, shoulders prickling. The construct in the trees shot out a bulky hand, seizing a man by the forearm. He gave a bloodcurdling scream as it accidentally broke bone; Mordecai lofted her shield again, protecting her neck against any other stray arrows that might fly her way. Bloody archers. She hated them. She spared a darting glance at the girl, her jaw set. Well, she looked to be unharmed… The others had fled into the underbrush, or currently bled out by her feet. But they had captured four of them, including the one moaning and bubbling blood at the tip of her sword. The rest were currently wild-eyed with fear and writhing in her creations’ grips. One of them, a swarthy man in mismatched, stinking leathers, spat on the ground. “Devil-bitch,” he shrieked, sinews standing on his thick neck. His black eyes roved wildly to Shell—then to her homunculus’ glowing eyes and back to the little girl, unsure of which to be more afraid of. “You’ll kill us all.” Uncertainty wormed in her guts. What, indeed, if he was right? But she daren’t let her misgivings show. She’d made her decision. Her lips flattened, cold stare fixed on the vagrant. “She’s a murderer,” another man managed through the pain of his broken bone, his voice high and sniveling. He winced, sunflecked-red face twisting in agony. His tongue batted at his thin lips. “Killed— a room of men — and more — more, swear on Vespasian, she’s a monster—“ “Silence,” Mordecai commanded, her voice not brooking argument. “You are under arrest for the attempted murder of nobility. I hereby sentence you to die.” “What?” One of the men exploded, twisting and writhing like an animal. “Are you fockin’ crazy—" “Restrain him,” she said flatly to the remaining homunculus. It clomped over noisily, seizing the man at her feet and hoisting him up like a rag doll. He stared at her with dazed eyes, his mouth a ruin of red and broken teeth, before giving a gurgling moan at his captor. Mordecai took a few steps back, turning to look at the girl. The rapid pace of her heart slowed some; she tightened her grip on her sword hilt, thick brows raising a fraction as if to say see? What did I tell you. Edited by Mordecai, Aug 19 2017, 06:47 PM.
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| Shell | Aug 20 2017, 03:22 PM Post #11 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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If her tale had sparked any kind of unfavorable reaction from Mordecai of Asenath, she hid it well, continuing to tend Shell's wounds -- though near the end she seemed to falter. Even this was composed, however, and her voice as she stood was even and fair, but Shell could not look her in the face, torn somewhere between relief at having gotten some of the poison of the experience out, and shame for having spilled so dirty, so foul a story -- for having created it in the first place. But was it really her fault...? Something flew through the air and hit the tree behind her, and her tired, sluggish mind, steeped in fresh memories, had barely registered it for an attack before the command was given: "Get down!" She slid quickly off of her perch and crouched low to the ground, her mind confused. Another small blurred shape streaked before her vision and she scuttled backwards. A bolt struck the ground beneath where her head had been just a second before. Mordecai gave another command, and her body twitched in anticipation but she quickly realized it had not been for her, and she watched in fearful awe as the constructs responded to their mistress's order as if one body, taking no unnecessary motions or steps. They formed a protective wall about them, and there were voices in the trees. Monster. The faces outside the inn returned -- but they had no homes. Her breath coming in more habitual, short huffs, Shell cowered within herself and looked around wildly for them, but found none. Were they beneath the helms of the homunculi..? No -- they were in the trees, and it was their arrows that now rained upon them. She skirted around and dodged as much as she could, and though her instincts tried to narrow down the threat and dispose of it, it was being disposed of already: several men appeared, then dropped like flies beneath the brutally efficient hand of Mordecai and her retinue. By the time it was all done and the arrows stopped flying, there were... Four. Suddenly, she felt sick. Shell straightened into a reluctant standing position, gazing around as though in a dream. The threat had been taken care of, and she hadn't had to do a thing, but someone and their party had been attacked, someone had been drawn into her ugly little personal war, and there were four more mouthbreathing motherfuckers lined up before her. "I'm sorry..." She whispered, barely audible, and a couple of them spoke. You'll kill us all. "No..." Another whisper. "...no, I'm sorry..." What do you have to be sorry for?! Shell hissed inwardly. I did it again, Thought Juran, her hands wringing, eyes stinging. I didn't mean to. I got mad, I didn't mean to-- Yes you did, Shell snapped back. You did mean to and I'm not sorry, look at them! Yes.... Juran swept her gaze over the blood, the broken bones, people restrained by walking nightmares, hearing voices high and quailing, pitiful, with pain. ...look at them... They would have kept doing it. There's only four of them, but I bet they laid hands on hundreds. Did they have wives and kids, too..? They don't deserve it. Then do we? Both versions of herself fell silent, unable to answer this question, as Mordecai announced her sentence and protests were made. Her lower lip and chin quivered, and the faces of the now-doomed men were just as hateful as the ones she had seen outside the inn. But wasn't it earned, in some way? Herself, the men -- they were all unforgivable, weren't they? Her face, crumbling into sadness again, twitched a few times in a feeble attempt to match their hatred, focusing in on the loudest one, though she knew she would not be heard. "You're no better than me." She whispered. She watched bitterly as the homunculi restrained the men and the confused storm of emotions -- of justification, fear, guilt, sadness, anger -- came to a head. The rest of her face quivered and her eyes became wet again. Mordecai turned to face her, and though she had been able to look the attackers in the eye she could not do the same with this woman who had looked past the horrible story she'd been told, who had refused to hand her over or even reprimand her. Shell ducked her head and focused her blurring eyes on the ground, overwhelmed with shame. "I'm so sorry..." She managed, her voice breaking. More tears pattered the ground around her feet. "I'll go with you.... it's best that..." 'Bury me somwehre far away. No one must ever find me...' "....it's best that I just.... hide..." |
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| Mordecai | Sep 4 2017, 07:56 PM Post #12 |
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I’m so sorry. The girl’s voice came feeble, little more than a reed. It’s best that I just hide. Mordecai’s heart still pounded with adrenaline— the sudden encounter and confession sent her blood hammering in her skull. At length she swallowed, sheathing her sword with reluctance. “Come,” she ordered. Hermaeus nickered on the other side of the stream, snorting and pawing the ground with a hoof. She whistled through her fingers and the stallion clomped forward, eyes still rolling in fear. Behind her, the men cursed, spluttered, entreated her, but nothing moved her heart; in her mind all she saw were those horrible, jarred things, purple and red and brown with embalmer’s fluid— *** The trial was a drumhead. Still she stood, one hand on an executioner’s sword, and allowed each of them a final word. All men deserved as much, no matter how criminal. “Savage bitch,” the last of them cried, fighting against the bonds of his wrists. “I have a family — a family — listen, you think I wanted to go into this business? Think I wanted to sell? But it pays — it pays — you kill me and my wife —“ His face twisted horribly, eyes shining with tears. “—she’s pregnant — she’s not going to survive there, not in Orl’Kabbar —“ “So you confess to selling parts of the dead,” Mordecai answered blandly. “Dead, alive — what does it matter? I wasn’t the one doing it — I just sold — and that bitch killed my suppliers — fuck if I know what they did, but all I know is — all I know is — fuck.” The tears burst forth, his sobs angry and strangled. “You’re telling me you’re not going to execute her? You know how many people she’s killed? Do you—" Behind him, the homunculus urged him forward, shoving his head into the chopping block. The man squealed and writhed like a pig, shouting, gibbering. “I did it for love,” he screamed. “I did it for love. I did it because there was nothing else.” Mordecai lifted the sword, keeping her face impassive. “You know your crimes,” she intoned. "The law is the law. May Vespasian have mercy on your soul.” Steel flashed. Blood splattered the ground. His head rolled, caught in a grotesque twist of the lips, the eyes bulging, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Mordecai stared down at him, pointing the blade at the ground and grasping the hilt till her knuckles rose like jagged hills. Men always lie on their deathbeds. They scream, they curse, they bargain; they make appeals to the heart and the mind, they threaten. Not the first, not the last. She drew out a ragged cloth and wiped the blade of blood, nodding to a servant. “Bury them.” *** In the castle, her servants had finished attending to the girl’s wounds. They drew up a steaming bath heated by the pipes and underground furnaces of the castle, drifting carelessly around her nudity and preparing other hospitalities. They had brought her food and water, placed a crisp dress and sturdy shoes for her at the foot of the crackling fireplace. Outside, Mordecai sat grinding her teeth, one hand gnarled unconsciously on her armchair. The other curled around a goblet of mulled wine, half-abandoned and barely touched, poured more for company than drink. She had shed her armor for a sleek black robe, cinched at the waist with the starred crest of the Asenaths. It hid the grotesquerie of her artificial arm; her hands slunk out of the ballooning sleeves like bony ghosts, rough and calloused at the palms, but no less delicate in their touch. It never got easier. It was one thing to take a life in battle — but quite another to give men the dignity of a final word, even as they knew their deaths were inevitable. To hear them plead and beg and sob for their lives till the moment she swung the sword. That was the weight of her station, the voice of authority. When it became easy, that meant she had become a tyrant. No more than Orion de Lacey, no more than the Dread Andromalius. She had heard pleas from all stations — honest men — cruel men — sadistic women — but justice was blind, and treated them all equally. The woman abandoned the wine, clasping her hands together instead. The feeling of false, numb flesh jarred her once again — its blankness against her living fingers, warm and bony against a mannequin. She felt like she touched a stranger, startled. Without thinking, she shuffled it beneath her sleeves, staring into the fire. Another conundrum awaited. The dilemma of the girl — indeed, what was she to do with her? The previous day had been exhausting — felt like a fever-dream, a week rather than a single turn from sun to moon — the stares of the villagers of Blackstone — preparing the chopper’s block in her courtyard, imprisoning the men — letting the girl rest — and now this morning had been stained with blood, but more awaited yet. She had given the girl the distance to recuperate; there was no use questioning her when the wounds were so fresh and painful in her mind. But she could not hide forever. She had nodded to a homunculi to knock upon the door and silently hand her a letter in her looping, compact script. Let us speak. And now she waited. Edited by Mordecai, Sep 4 2017, 08:01 PM.
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| Shell | Sep 5 2017, 09:34 PM Post #13 |
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She scarcely noticed the skilled hands of the servants, was numb all the while, but seemed to come back to herself a little with the bath and some rest. Embarassment at her puling behaviour and shame of her deeds in the face of someone who still gave her the benefit of the doubt grounded her, and so did the porcelain mask in her hands. But she had expected to be apprehended at some point. Thankfully it was apprehension on her own terms -- she was given the dignity of a note, and she honored this by going to Mordecai of her own accord, shaking, stiff with bandages and pain that had found her during the bath, and unable still to look into the woman's eyes; but her back was straight, her arms tightly cradling the mask as she sat down in the chair presented to her. The woman's eyes settled on her, dark and heavy, and Shell trembled beneath them. She felt naked, exposed in this unfamiliar dress and vulnerable with her hair down. Her hands tightened around their purchase: after a few moments to tryand compose herself, she slowly turned the mask over to expose its face to her judge, holding it with both hands like an offering for her to take. When it was gone, she folded her hands in her lap, knitting the fingers nervously. By some miracle she managed to keep her voice even... mostly. "If you've heard of Death's Hand..... she's me." It was quiet, retiring, but a confession nonetheless. "I used to be a slave. I've worn a collar half my life, I've been a beaten dog and a footstool and a mistress and a murderer and a torturer. I finally got my freedom back almost a year ago -- I made the mask shortly after, when I woke up in Soare, went to Orl'kabbar, and saw the th.. the things that happened there." She swallowed, toes curling inside the shoes she was given. "I couldn't ignore it. Every unhappy face I saw there was mine... every horrible one was the face of my masters. What more needs to be said?" Her voice broke, wavered here, and she tried to look up at Mordecai imploringly, but found she still didn't have the strength. She stared back down at her hands. "I made the mask, and I started killing them: the human traffickers, the abusers and users and gangsters... the organ harvesters.... I killed them all. And if I could go back.... I would do it again." For a moment, she was silent. Then, bitterly: "I'm no better than them." |
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| Mordecai | Sep 11 2017, 07:40 AM Post #14 |
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A sound snapped her out of her reverie. Mordecai lifted her head to see the girl emerge at last, shuffling and cowed. Something white flashed in her hands, limned by firelight; she watched as Shell lowered herself into the chair, the flames giving her hair a red halo. The woman said nothing. She waited deliberately as the girl got comfortable, her face fixed in a studious mask. At last she broke the silence. If you've heard of Death's Hand..... she's me. The confession came halting, croaking. The fire crackled in the heavy pause afterward, and at last the girl turned over the thing in her lap, offering it in her delicate, bone-pale hands. A mask. Mordecai took it, jarred by the sight. It felt as though she held a flayed face, petrified in its final moments. Its eyes were closed eternally like a corpse's, expression mockingly serene. She wondered what it was like for this to be the last thing one saw before they died, hanging above like an impassive moon. Death's Hand. "I do not know that name," the sorceress murmured. She'd not been to Orl'Kabbar in any recent memory. She had no need to; her business had been tied up with matters of the north. But she could picture it whispered in those dim streets, parting from the brown teeth of buildings in the filthy lips of the alleys. Many names came and went in Orl'Kabbar. Once such had been the Ripper, a murderer of unusual cruelty and method; she remembered often looking over her shoulder when she walked the streets, expecting a scythe to her middle at any moment. But eventually that name eroded, replaced by yet another dread that prowled the streets. The Hill Cannibal. Uncreatively, the Torturer. Harvester. The Masked Blade. And undoubtedly Death's Hand would sink beneath the murk too, subsumed by the sea of murderers and rapers and vigilantes alike. The woman turned the mask over in her hands, thumb trailing over its porcelain-smooth surface. Sweat stained some of its inner edges, muddied by the faint brown crust of blood that hadn't washed out of its padding. A bump stood out here and there; the scar of a scratch hid under the white paint. None of its visual history escaped her. With a bolt, she remembered Glede. His--its? Indeed, could such a thing still be called a man?--mask was not unlike this one; it held the same serenity, though his hid a terrifying, soul-quailing darkness. Just recalling it threaded ice through her veins; his entire form and make blasphemed the One. Unholy. A perversion of life. He had saved hers, but it did not remove the fear in her heart and the disgust that coiled in her flesh at her proximity to him. The wrongness that raised her hackles. The doubtless suffering of his soul. The evil of his make, the cruelty in every joint and pulley. A soul in a machine. Forbidden in all her books, condemned by Asena. A walking sin. Was she the same? And the girl's confession came out, slow and limping; her dour story filled the room, barely more than a whisper. Still, it shocked her: the jarring words coming out of a face so young and sweet, the brutality and rage unimaginable from one so small. She looked so fragile in her dress, so meek; it was impossible to imagine that those trembling, slender hands could be capable of such violence. Slavery? On that she could not fathom. It was a world so alien to her -- so faraway -- surely it was harrowing, but it was a thing so removed from her experience that she could only feel a distant pity. War she knew; imprisonment she had seen; execution she had done; but slavery? Mordecai swallowed. The trade was a blight in Morrim; an indignity banned in the south and the islands of Angkar, swept under the rug in the north... but when Andromalius parched the lands and ruined every crop and trade, Morrim had little in the way of export. Except the poor, the forgotten, prisoners and sons of sons of sons born in shackles... It was all too easy to turn a blind eye. The Emperor said nothing of it. The court of Kinaldi shrugged so long as their fields were tilled and the good ladies had handmaidens. Often the lines between slave and servant blurred; so few had prospects outside of their master's houses, bereft of coin and a roof. And so many stayed, even as freed men. The priests nodded and glazed over it, some preaching such-and-such about being a neighbor's keeper, and the goodliness and security of a profession. Others condemned it and then suffered to be branded as radicals or heretics, else silenced by the hands that benefited most from the labors of the enslaved. Very rare was it to speak face-to-face with one, hear their torments spilled so candidly. Of a sudden the woman found she could not swallow, fighting the urge to avert her eyes. For a moment her gaze flickered off Shell, fixed on the dour frown of a portrait behind her. Look her in the eye, her great-great grandmother said. Face your sins. Mordecai's finger traced the foot of the goblet and she lifted it to her lips, taking a steeling sip of wine. It was a conundrum: those were bad men, yes, thoroughly evil, capable of inhumane acts. And if they had been apprehended on her lands and tried for their crimes, they would be summarily executed. Still, she had killed. But Orl'Kabbar was a city without justice. The jails overflowed -- the guards were fed on large sums to release favored mob bosses -- the good-hearted few were outnumbered by the cruel ones, and further overwhelmed by the sheer scale of crimes. All cities had their slums, but one would be hard-pressed to find otherwise in that city. So what remained but to make ones own justice? At last the girl fell silent, her tale unwound, left to be picked at and sorted through. It was hard to think; her mind felt like a stopped machine, her tongue heavy and slow. The fire filled the quiet, crackling and burbling mindlessly as the sorceress dipped her chin, brow furrowed a fraction. After a long pause, Mordecai broke the silence. The goblet clinked back onto the table. "I have been to Orl'Kabbar many times," the woman started, levelly. "I have seen its conditions. I am not one to live in an ivory tower and never brush with the people." A faint, wry smile hooked her lips. Then, leaving on a slow exhale-- "The North has been slow to recover from the Dark Conquest. Indeed: I still feel its mark on my lands. It is fortunate that the mountains do not have many people -- fewer mouths to feed, and therefore less desparation. But Orl'Kabbar..." Mordecai lapsed into thought, turning the mask over in her hands and looking back down at those painted wine lips and eerily red eyes. It offered no answer. "It is a problem that cannot be solved in a lifetime. Perhaps several lifetimes. I understand your pain; I see why you acted the way you did." A pause. She lowered the mask to her lap, raising her eyes to the girl it belonged to. "But, you understand. The law does not care for morality or intent. It only sees that you have killed, nothing more. You understand," and this she enunicated slowly, "Morrim is not a safe place for you. Ironically, Orl'Kabbar offers the best shelter, by virtue of the fact the guards cannot keep up with every crime." Mordecai leaned forward with a creak of the chair. "But in Orl'Kabbar you are known. Your name may spread. Perhaps people shall come after you with the intent of executing you. Perhaps not. My advice is this: flee." She said it bluntly, eyes fixed on the girl. "To Soto, Ashoka, Angkar; it matters not. Flee. Let us say this, should it come to it." Her voice became grave, each word carefully laid out like chess pieces. "You were apprehended; you escaped me and fled to a place unknown. I have no knowledge of your whereabouts. I can offer nothing to an investigation." Her thumb brushed the mask absently. Mordecai looked down at the discarded face again, shed like a carapace to reveal the trembling, soft girl beneath. Tears threatened to bubble out of rhe foreigner again -- she heard it in Shell's wavering voice, saw it in her crumpled expression. I'm no better than them. "Vespasian," she began heavily, "mourns the loss of all life. Good, evil. The forgiveness of the One knows no bounds." But the girl was Daroan; doubtless she did not share the same lord. Doubtless those words were lost on her, perhaps came off as the ramblings of a zealot. It mattered not. She pressed on, her voice a murmur. "I do not know what gods you follow, if any at all. But some things cannot be forgiven by the human heart. Some things must be left to divinity, in all their magnaminity, in all their wisdom and foresight." Mordecai clasped her hands together, fingers tightening. "Better, the same, less. Those are the judgements we give ourselves. The judgements we must to keep order upon this earth. But let the higher One decide the truth." She blinked ponderously, sucking in her lips a moment. "Those men were cruel. They have done the unconsciable, the work of demons. Your anger is real. It is true." Indeed, if ever she came into contact with the Dread, she would have slain him without a second breath. To erase the one who caused so much suffering, famine, evil... who took away Father, poisoned her estate, robbed her of all her joys... her lips parted, words coming softly. "But at points violence is not the best solution. It is immediate and effective, yes. But the passions of an instant turn into the years of the future. Vespasian smiles upon your cause and the meaning in your heart. Do not think I condemn it. But a woman can spear fish one by one, or build the nets and boats to catch them." If you take my meaning. Mordecai tapped the arm of her chair with a short, squared fingernail, stopping to take a deep breath. "I pray," the chair creaked as she leaned forward and offered the mask, eyes fixed on Shell's. "That you find peace." It left her hands, but still she felt the blood of it on her palms. The weight of the lives it had taken left behind a dark smear, made her feel dirty; the woman curled her fingers, clasping them back at her middle. Woke up in Soare. She searched Shell's face for some answer, some explanation -- recalled with fresh horror how many wounds tunneled through her body, deep and bloody like hungry mouths... the account of inhuman strength... the cold, even pallor of her skin-- "Answer me honestly," the woman cut, leaning forward once more. Could she be a construct? A homunculus? Surely she was not Dead, for the Dead rotted and stank and did not heal-- -- most importantly, was she dangerous to the rest of Morrim? Was she wise to let her go, to urge her to flee? If indeed she was a homunculus, or some other sophisticated creature... then much could be learned from her construction and mind. She was intelligent, articulate... if she was a construct, did she have a soul? The woman chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes scanning Shell's face, now bright and shining with tears. Surely a construct cannot cry? Surely... "Clearly, you are more than what you appear. Where did you come from?" A heavy pause. She did not know how to ask the obvious in delicate terms. What are you? "And how did you come to be?" |
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| Shell | Sep 15 2017, 03:48 PM Post #15 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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The scene had been terrifying: a chair in front of another chair, like an interrogation, where if she sat down she was effectively prisoner until she was dismissed. Shell wrung her hands slowly in her lap, feeling the weight of Mordecai's deliberation, her gaze. The crackling of the fire was a surreal echo of a more normal world, a world of warmth, where violence was the thing you read about in newsprint, the thing that happened in stories before the heroes vanquished all evil and saved the day. A world where these stories were told around the very same fire, to small children, to give them hope. It weighed on the back of her neck, an uncomfortable desire for normalcy that she didn't dare touch. At last, Mordecai spoke, and the words that she gave were not the kind Shell had been expecting. Clearly, she had mixed thoughts about Orl'kabbar as well, though perhaps with a greater understanding of the mechanisms that had made it what it was today -- but she did not expect the woman to sympathize with her or what she had done. In a feeble, hopeful kind of disbelief, Shell met her eyes for the first time, was held there for a moment before she lowered her gaze again. "But, you understand. The law does not care for morality or intent. It only sees that you have killed, nothing more." She nodded slowly, understanding it very well and making no argument against it. She had done the deed, and understood well the consequences. If it did not mean a return to a subservient life, she was willing to accept them. But, it would turn out that not even these were things her hostess was considering. "My advice is this: flee. To Soto, Ashoka, Angkar; it matters not. Flee. Let us say this, should it come to it: you were apprehended; you escaped me and fled to a place unknown. I have no knowledge of your whereabouts. I can offer nothing to an investigation." Shell's lower lip trembled and her eyes welled up again, flooded by a confused storm of thoughts and emotions that she could not place in sequence: to her, now, Mordecai appeared queenly, a stern but fair figure who was willing to compromise, who had seen her unhappiness and taken it into account when making her judgement. It was pure mercy. The gods were not something she thought of often, having once been one herself. When she Fell, she had been completely disconnected from all divine source, and she had never heard the whispering of the gods, never heard anything more than the faint hum of earthbound spirits. Her god-sense had been shattered to the point where she, like many others, struggled between wanting to believe in them and feeling like they cared not for her, had forsaken her and left her at the mercy of the world that had destroyed her life. She liked to think that they were merciful -- if the God of this woman, this Mordecai of Asenath, was as forgiving as His representative, perhaps she had not been forsaken entirely. There was a couple of pats as tears dropped from her eyelids onto the skirt of her unfamiliar dress, but she was silent. "But at points violence is not the best solution. It is immediate and effective, yes. But the passions of an instant turn into the years of the future." It was true, though -- this violence had become her only go-to, her only solution to the problems she saw. "Vespasian smiles upon your cause and the meaning in your heart. Do not think I condemn it. But a woman can spear fish one by one, or build the nets and boats to catch them." This caused her to freeze for a moment, glancing up to see if the woman's face betrayed some kind of joke, but there was nothing there. For a moment, her brow furrowed, and she glanced down at her knees thoughtfully. Her mind was too scattered to put the pieces together completely, but she certainly took the meaning, and would end up pondering this for the days and weeks following. There was a long silence wherein she thought about this, where she wanted to say something -- even a thank you -- but she felt Mordecai's eyes upon her still, and knew that she wasn't quite done being questioned yet. "Answer me honestly..." Her shoulders shrank in instinctively. "Clearly, you are more than what you appear." Shell's hands tightened in her lap, crumpling small fistfuls of her skirt. "Where did you come from, and how did you come to be?" The silence that followed was heavy, weighted by the question that had been asked many, that she never truly wanted to answer. Without Mordecai having to say it in so many words, she knew what she had meant by the questions, and let out a small, but heavy sigh. She held the silence a little longer, then -- emotionally exhausted and simply seeing no other choice, she told the story as though defeated. "It happened a very, very long time ago. I wasn't a human, then -- this body isn't even mine..." She held her bandage-stiff arms out slightly to indicate herself. "I was.... a dragon, the Water Dragon, in Daro... I lived for a very long time -- I had my own temple, my own attendants, my own dominion, and I was just and fair and kind. "But... men are greedy... a sorcerer ransacked my temple and killed my attendants, then he stole my Pearl of Wisdom and took it for himself. It killed me." Even as she tried to remain detached, she felt sick. "A tiny fragment of my soul was left, and he held onto it. Then, he took this poor girl..." Again, she gestured at her own body, "And killed her too. I don't know how the process worked, but... he bound me to her corpse, and he became my Master for a length of time I can no longer measure. Eventually, I escaped, but there have been others...." Her voice trailed off, and she leaned forward as though the short tale had sapped the strength from her. "I cannot die, so I spend my life trying to make sure people like him don't survive.... I used to be pure, but this is all I have left.... and you may not believe me, but.... there it is." |
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| Mordecai | Oct 30 2017, 01:20 PM Post #16 |
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A few tears escaped the girl and pattered onto her dress. Mordecai watched without judgment, spidery hands coming to rest on her lap and smoothing the dark, thick fabric. She waited as the girl composed herself, beginning her sordid tale with a small, weighty sigh. It was a bizarre one. This body isn’t even mine— she said, and the words caused her heavy brows to creep upwards. A… water dragon. She prayed her face did not betray her incredulity; Mordecai crinkled her brow, eyes never leaving Shell’s. She gave the girl her full attention, broken only by a few laborious blinks. The way she spoke on it — why, it was almost like a children’s story, delivered with the same cadence as a nanny: the princess, fair and beautiful and kind, smote by a king dark and cruel! But this she did not say, leaning forward in her chair with the faint creak of leather beneath her robes. Is she mad? In times of great abuse and cruelty, men’s minds broke; in the wake of the Dread, orphaned and traumatized, some children spun tall tales, else took on different aspects, their minds split from within. Yes, it all seemed very clear to her: A young Daroan girl, likely brought over as a slave to Orl’Kabbar — one of supernatural talents, doubtless — afraid, lost, fabricating a great tale to make sense of herself… Mordecai blinked, feeling uneasy— a sort of tension started up in her back, wound up the muscles there. And then— Fragment-of-soul— —bound me to her corpse— For a moment she betrayed her surprise — her eyes widened a fraction, muscle spasming in her jaw; on instinct her fingers twitched for a sword that was not there. Thankfully the girl did not see, still lost in her morbid tale. Mordecai’s heart pounded, blood surging in her ears. It grew difficult to swallow; the girl’s lips were moving but she could not hear the rest of her story. She is Dead. Disgust overwhelmed her. It surged over her heart, made it hard to listen, to think; again she felt the vicious bite of the Dead thing that had taken her arm — again she saw the shambling, rotting hoards of Andromalius’ army — felt her blade sinking deep into putrid flesh, eyes burning, a scream issuing from behind her helm — she saw her father’s bones lowering into the soil, the terror that flipped her heart. No, mother, we must burn him, she’d cried, to her mother’s crumpling wail. We cannot. We must burn him… Trying to be strong, though she herself was mad with grief, trying, trying, trying so very hard — The sorceress shot up of a sudden, rising in a flutter of black. Without a word she strode across the room, seizing a fire poker with the pretense of tending the flames. Fire burns them, the master-of-arms had told her, pressing a torch into her hands. This might help yeh more’n that sword, m’lady. Mordecai's gloved hand trembled where she held the iron. A gust of heat washed her arm as she prodded a log in the fireplace. It vomited little eddies of ash, made her reach for her bandolier, fingers grazing a leather pouch. Her throat bobbed. Burning— for a heartbeat she saw herself striking like a viper, loosing a spell and setting the girl aflame — she heard her shrieking on the chair — Mordecai turned to look at Shell once again, her profile limned red by the fire. Her fingers tightened on the poker. She did not look like a Dead thing. Not as she knew them, ripe with maggots and reeking of the grave, slavering for blood. She was tiny. Afraid. She was... hunched there in a ruffle of skirts, like a child. Tears shone on her cheeks, turning her eyes into great watery pools. The fire danced in them like a trapped spirit. Somehow it only frightened her more, the contradiction flipping her guts. Was it a ruse? Now her mind floundered with paranoia, fingers clenching the fire poker. She killed half a dozen men. At any moment she could rise and tear out her throat— ...But she had not. She had—slept. She bled. She ate, albeit not much, based on the plates her servants cleared from the room. She… wept. Dead things do not weep, do they? Her mind could not reconcile those two images. The truth that she knew, and the new truth before her. The animal violence and strength of the Dread’s soldiers, their swollen flesh hanging rank off their bodies, mouths black with flies, and — this. Her. I used to be pure, but this is all I have left, Shell had said, voice quiet and spent. She, like Glede, had an awareness of her condition. She felt the filth of it acutely, knew she was unholy. That gave her pause. She found a breath again— her thumb, fiddling incessantly with the hilt of the poker, stilled. I used to be pure… “It is a difficult tale to believe,” the woman answered flatly, fighting to keep her voice low and measured. For a moment she felt a lash of anger at herself, pride wounded — to be so dumbstruck and unmoored in her own home! What would Father say? — but it passed as she tried to compose herself, don the armor of Lady again. Mordecai took a deep breath in through her nose, lips pressed; still she clenched the fire poker, twirling it like a baton in her palm. Her heart calmed some. Its gallop had slowed to a canter, but adrenaline still surged in her veins. “Vespasian help those who find it easy,” the sorceress muttered half to herself, clasping both of her hands upon the hilt of the poker and pointing its tip to the stone floor. Her legs moved astride it, as though it were a longsword she was plunging into the ground. Her lips ironed in a long pause as she regarded Shell, her eyes never leaving the girl's. “I have met another like you,” Mordecai broke, voice loud and intrusive after the Daroan’s hushed, tearful story. “His name was... Glede.” Swallowing, the woman paused, recalling the metal giant — armor creaking as she jostled in his arms — waking from fever to the sight of a bronze helm and towering horns, a shriek leaving her in her confusion — his grumbling whetstone explanation — and then after some length of conversation, the hole in his helm— It had shaken her. She had dreamt of his face some time after that — it hung sordid in those nightmares, regarding her like a bronze moon. I come from a place past the Ikoi, he had said, voice trembling with the horror of it, and foolishly, despite his tales, she had gone north in a caravan, seen the red star — nearly killed by what rose beneath it — Her throat was dry. "He, too, suffered the same fate. His soul was divorced from the body the One intended for him; a necromancer bound his spirit inside a suit of armor.” Now distaste dripped from those words. A shadow of anger passed over her face, settling in her eyes. I used to be pure… “It is blasphemy.” The rage burned low in her voice, tightened her throat. Animated, she pushed off the poker, the militant click-click, click-click of her boots echoing off the lofty ceilings. I used to be pure… “An act against the One.” Her voice did not rise, but it glowered with a magmatic anger, a promise of fire beneath cool stone. “Souls are the realms of the divine, not men — and those who defy the gods are damned.” I used to be pure… Phantom pain throbbed in her false arm. Blood rushed in her head, pounded — she found herself short of breath again, recalling the creak of a caravan and the black sands, settled like coal… The flames leapt and lashed like red vipers. She prodded them back, shifting a log about. It was then something snapped in her; she could not abide sitting still in a room for another moment, longed to burn off all the tension building in her limbs. The sorceress hooked the poker back with a fierce snck, turning to face Shell in a sweep of robes. Her face was a stony mask. “Come. Walk with me, child.” It wasn’t a request. |
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| Shell | May 16 2018, 01:55 PM Post #17 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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Immediately after telling her tale, she became tense, and began to slowly rock back and forth to dispel her anxiety. It was always difficult to tell how her story would be recieved by the few she told it to, but especially to people like this stone-faced noblewoman. Shell jumped when she suddenly shot up from her seat, and regarded her snatching up of the poker with nervousness. “It is a difficult tale to believe,” The Lady said, and Shell nodded, not hearing the muffled comment. "It's difficult to tell," She replied, thinking about elucidating further on the point, but deciding not to: she was the Guest and, would it were not so, at the conversational mercy of her Hostess. Therefore she listened as Mordecai recounted the story of Glede, and sadness washed her soul -- there were so many, it seemed, those whose story went untold, their hearts shriveled and untouched, whose lives had been divorced from them before it was their time. The world was afraid of them, and why not? It was as Mordecai said: “It is blasphemy.” Trust fell into place with such an honest, open bitterness towards the very things Shell herself feared. Though she certainly felt unclean, it was a strange sort of liberty that came from hearing the lady's scathing disdain towards people like herself, and those that created them. “Souls are the realms of the divine, not men — and those who defy the gods are damned.” Shell's eyes drifted slowly, trepidly, from the grounding sight of Mordecai's back to one far corner of the room where no one stood -- but her eyes locked upon it, feeling him there, knowing she would surely have seen him standing there if there was water upon her skin or if she was half-asleep. Her shoulders hunched and she fidgeted with the skirts of her dress, the ghost of nervous sweat slicking on her palms. But the stoic lady of the house was right, in a more literal way than she perhaps knew: Wei had doomed himself and now followed Shell everywhere, getting small pleasure out of scaring her, and nothing else. He had reached too high and had toppled off of his own pedastal. In this way, and with Mordecai's words, Shell felt suddenly a bitter sort of gratification, realizing that at least one defiler had earned himself a punishment worse than death. Mordecai suddenly whirled to face her and like a child caught daydreaming in class, Shell snapped back to attention, back and shoulders straight. She felt much more comfortable with the woman now, but as was understandable, she was still rather intimidated by her stature and composure. “Come. Walk with me, child.” Without asking questions she rose obediently to her feet, still fiddling with her skirt, and fell into step with her hostess. For a few moments she chewed on it, then -- feeling safe and therefore bolder -- ventured forth to ask a question: "Have you been hurt by... the damned, too?" |
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| Mordecai | May 19 2018, 01:24 PM Post #18 |
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What is to give light must endure burning.
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Have you been hurt by the damned too? A bitter laugh strangled her throat. A spasmic twitch of her lips. For a moment her eyes flashed with a dark fire. “The damned took everything from me," she muttered. Father. Mother. Her estate, her servants, her hand... The woman rubbed at the stump hidden by her false hand and glove, lips pressed. “...Do you know of the Dread King, Andromalius?" Their footsteps echoed off the stone as they walked; whenever the passage ahead grew dark, Mordecai tapped her hand against the wall, and veins of runes threaded through the mortar. Blue fire leapt to life in the torches, lending an eerie glow to the gullet of the hallway. The shadows of old statues and suits of armor jumped up as well, looming like black sentries as they passed. "He ravaged these lands. His armies of Dead slaughtered without distinction--the old, children, women, rich and poor...” they reached the end of the hall and began to ascend on a tightly wound stair; the air grew chillier, and the fires did nothing to dispel the cold. "They were horrible days... my Father sent me into hiding. Shortly after our Estate was taken, overrun by dead." A rasp. Her eyes fixed on Shell, hard and inscrutable; the light brought out the pallor of her sallow skin, doing nothing to warm her face. "During the fight at the Black Tower... my father was killed." She swallowed the lump in her throat, a familiar burn even after all those years. But her face remained composed, a slight hoarseness creeping into her voice. "My mother went mad... as the only heir, it was my duty to take back our estate. I did... and then the Dread mysteriously abdicated. His armies fell apart, but that did not mean the land was healed." A muscle twitched in her jaw. The noblewoman paused a moment there to catch her breath, for the ascent became harder, the hewn stone of the steps taller and wound like a tightening serpent. "...for Andromalius put a curse on all of Morrim. Crops withered. Livestock grew weak and sick. People starved in the streets. Some turned to the unspeakable." She drew a deep breath, at last coming to a bolted door. The woman seized it and threw the lock aside, shouldering it open. Wind whipped their faces. They stood atop the estate. The old battlements looked like decaying teeth--some of the parapets had crumbled into disarray, moss-eaten and covered in bird droppings. One tower had crumpled in on itself as if crushed by a giant; ravens cawed from its carcass, taking flight in a black thunder of wings. As though to match their mood, an iron curtain of grey had descended over the horizon, threatening a misty rain. But for now the sun shone through the clouds, turning them a gossamer silver. "Look," the woman pointed, squinting against the watery light. Beyond, the Do'Suul Mountains towered like proud kings, crowned in snow and robed in spruce. The Mulciber was visible too: a cragged top capped in black instead of white, squatting between the peaks. But below, Andomalius' devastation was clear: the husks of old villages littered the landscape, abandoned in fields of gnarled trees and decayed soil. It stretched for what seemed like leagues; only a few squares of green peppered the landscape, and beyond that it rolled into the hilly domain of goat farmers. What a kingdom, Mordecai thought bitterly, popping a knuckle. "...the land still bears the scars. We have all been touched by the damned.” Edited by Mordecai, May 19 2018, 01:25 PM.
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