[Aminatu]

HP 100% | MP 100%

Paladin - Cavalier - Blacksmith

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Aminatu explores the Cimmian forest with caution and pickaxe in hand as she makes way to the hidden troves of ore veins in the woods. By now her and her tribe were rather familiar with some of the areas of the forest which were most rich with resources. It had been part of her routine scheduled labor to keep herself and her tribe with enough to supply the troops and the caravan. Her tenacity at mining also helped explain why her muscle definition was such a highlighted feature of her physic as the winged giantess tore ore veins asunder. While she toiled in the sun, she thought of her operatives within the tribe and how they were faring. Many were separated and even out in different kingdoms. Her mind wandered as she began to cart back the precious ores with her steed, Anhur. The day was long and filled with seemingoly endless hours of labor and she began to tire and grow weary as she trekked back to camp. Once in her tent, she would fashion a letter more on of her trusted Heliopolite warriors and have one of her mercenaries deliver it.



The letter would arrive in the room Ithmea was staying at. The parchment was of a very fine material, and the edges would appear to be completely straight and smooth. The letter was tied with a small red string and set upon a small desk.





The door to Ithmea's room opens, and the young Heliopolite woman steps in, quietly closing the door behind her. She turned toward the center of the room, noticing the desk and rolled parchment. Her eyes fixated on the red string, though her right hand moved to the dagger at her thigh.



Her breathing became shallow, soundless, looking up from the out of place items and Ithmea scanned the room slowly taking inventory of the placement of the contents within. Was someone else still within her room? Had any of her books found themselves out of place? Had any of the traps been tripped inside of her room?



The dagger now firmly gripped in her right hand, the blade resting across the flat underside of her wrist, Ithmea made no move until the mental inventory of her room had been taken.





There didn't appear to be anything missing. The only thing off seemed to be a chair, placed slightly angled from the central table, and the letter of course.



Ithmea's bare feet make no noise as she closes the gap between the doorway and the table. Her head tilts slightly to the left, taking in the placement of the chair. Rather than moving it back to the normal position, her dark green eyes narrow and she slips the dagger back into its sheath. Her left hand moves easily over the right chess board, crafted primarily from white marble and arranges the pieces that they are in their starting positions.







Once she is finished she moves her right hand to the left chess board and repeats the process on the much darker board. Only this time she moves one of the center pawns (Pd3) forward one position. Her usual method of keeping track of time, the darker board representing night.





Finally, Ithmea pulls the chair out two inches as if to insinuate some sort of invitation should the intruder decide to return. Then moves the center, circular board closer to the edge near the chair. This board, aside from just the shape, is unique in that the pieces are darker in design with various shapes of skulls and other insignias of death and doom.







The dark green eyes narrowing once more as Ithmea arranges the pieces on the board, in what is traditionally known to avid chess players as putting the 'question' to the Bishop. In a hushed tone she poses a question presumably to the intruder should they return, "The Librarian requires definition of the specimen who dares intrude its personal space."







The golden haired Heliopolite smirks, amused by her own subtle inquery. Whomever had the audacity to enter her room clearly should be intelligent enough to be inclined to play her little mind game. With that, she takes up the scroll, padding toward the wall with the map. She sets the scroll on the small table and begins removing everything from the wall, save the map. Once she has put away the items that formerly resided on the wall she untied the scroll and proceeded to opening it.



No one responded. If anyone was there, they were maintaining a perfect silence. However; it could easily be assumed no one was there anymore.

Ithmea found a strange story on the parchment:



The two cubs looked at the poacher before Gulping.

"But we cannot pay yOu for you have taken all our things. Is there another way we can?" They asked.

The scheming poacher had an evil idea and knew just The way to act it out.

"Why yes indeed tHere is. Come with me to a place nearby and with your fur, makE me a coat because it's cold."

The naive bears looked at each other beFore the darker one replied,

"That is all you want? We will do it!"

The poacher snickered to himself while he leAd them to a little camp.

"I can get rich off of these two!"

He lead them into a small tent and gave them each a pair of scissoRs. The two sisters began trimMing their fur for many hours until it looked short and well-groomed. They didn'T have enough fur to finish the coat!

"Oh nO what shall we do!" the youNger one exclaimed,

"We will just have to cut It all off." The other replied. But before they could Go and do anything else, the poacher entered the tent with a couple well-dressed men.

"Here tHey are, boTh all nice and groomed for you. " On-



Ithmea shook her head as her dark green eyes scanned the words on the parchment. She easily recognized that it was a code, after all cryptography was more than just a hobby for her. She read and re-read the partial story. She stood for several minutes entranced by it while mentally taking apart each sentence. “Female Specimen Two accepts the request.” The whispered words were filled with an unusual excitement. Anticipation of the hunt to come pumped the growing adrenaline rush through her veins.



Memories of her time at The Institution flooded back to her as she moved to the bed, placing the parchment on it, and shimmied out of the sheer green gown. The mind games The Doctor would play with her, encouraging her to read between the lines. She paused, recalling what happened when she failed, her naked body went rigid and her left hand moved to the tattooed markings on the back of her neck. “Heed the warning. Failure is not an option,” she murmured.



Ithmea’s head tilted to the left, her dark green eyes looking upward at the ceiling began to move left to right quickly as she recalled the words of the parchment laying on her bed. “Two young female specimens, two well-dressed male specimens and one experienced male specimen.” Her eyes continued their movement, “Camp at a nearby farm, small tent, female specimens armed, cold night.” She paused, “One female specimen darker skinned, potential innocents involved. Irrelevant, cut them all.”



The golden haired Heliopolite licked her bottom lip, an actual smile graced her features for a brief moment and she inhaled deeply. Exhaling as she picked up the parchment, her bare feet padded along the wood floor of her room. She stopped in front of one of the bookcases, tugging on the spines of a few and a clicking was heard. Ithmea pulled open the now jutting bookcase and a metal surface was revealed.







She placed her left hand, palm flat, against the metal surface and as her lips began to move the silvered tri-serpent ring on her middle finger began to pulse an odd pinkish hue. Light whispers of what could only be described as the sounds of snakes hissing softly echoed through the room as she spoke the incantation, “Pahntar, Usstan telanth pahntar yallt ori'gato uns'aa wun nindel vel'bolen zhah usst whol Usstan inbal lotha draeval.” The hissing subsided after about five mintues and the ring returned to its normal dull black as the hidden door creaked open.



As the door opened a small closet was revealed. On the left side was a series of shelves that had dark leathers folded neatly on them. The center wall, much like the wall on the other side of the room, had various sketches of people and floorplans tacked on it. The right wall had a variety of knives, daggers, and short swords on it. She tacked the letter to the wall then quickly dressed in a dark leather outfit that was neither too tight nor too loose, allowing her flexibility. She left the dagger strapped to her thigh on beneath the leather outfit, but added a few more weapons to her attire, choosing the smaller daggers and throwing knives over a sword. Ithmea stepped out of the hidden closet, pulling the metal door toward her until she heard the lock slip into place, the young Heliopolite then closed the bookcase door that hid it.











According to the note, she needed to be at the location tonight. Her leather wrapped footsteps were unheard as she crossed the room to the map, nodding as she saw the markings of the indicated farm. Pulling the mask up over her face, she started to leave the room, pausing only to move a Knight on the black chess board one move. To signify she was leaving at night on a mount. She slipped out of the Inn when Ruda's back was turned, heading to the stables to retrieve her wolf. After a few moments of bartering with the stablemaster, she slipped him an amethyst that she had received from the job the other day in exchange for his fur lined coat. It wasn't long before she was on the road out of town and coming up over the dune on the north western side of the farm.



Other than the galloping of the horse and the wind hitting her ears, Ithmea heard nothing. At this time most honest folk were sleeping or at least preparing to sleep. As she approached the farm, she would notice a light coming from the second-story, contrasting with the darkness all around; but as she grew closer she began to be able to make out the different structures; A small stable on the Western side, a well on the Eastern side, and a small brick pathway leading up to a petite, two story house. Surrounding the well were rows upon rows of different plants, some withered, some growing strong; but altogether I appeared that it had been vacant for at least a couple weeks.



Slowing the steed to a stop, Ithmea slipped down from the saddle and scanned the area taking into account the buildings she could see. No camp, just yet, however so she lead her horse down the dune a bit and mounted it when she was certain prying eyes from the farm could not see. She kept the horse at a slow pace, and began to circle around the farm with just enough distance for her to take in the propery and surrounding land but not close enough to be seen or heard.



There seemed to be no one around except for the obvious light in the window. As she circled around the house, it became harder and harder to make out details.





The Heliopolite furrowed her brow as the search did not reveal a camp. Did she read too much into it? She continued her circling until she was in range of the stables and dismounted. She took the fur lined coat from her saddlebags, slipping it on over her leathers as the desert night was growing increasingly colder. At least she had that right.



Something felt off to her, so Ithmea decided to leave her horse where he stood and went to scout out the stables and the well, also checking to see if there was a way into the house aside from using the door, perhaps a way up the side and in through a window.







As Ithmea approached the side of the house, she saw a figure jump up and notch an arrow at their bow. She wasn't close enough to make out who it was, but they seemed ready to kill the intruder.



Ithmea froze upon seeing the figure, her hand inches from her belt of throwing knives, in a matter of seconds she calculated the distance between the figure, her reaction time and her chances for a hit. Instinct kicked in and Ithmea's mask barely moved as she threw her voice, her dialect and tone changed from its usual monotonous tone that was similar to the mage's she had encountered not long ago, "Help! Help!" Came the distant plea of a male voice from somewhere just beyond where the figure stood with the nocked arrow. It was her one chance at distraction before she made a move for her throwing knives.



The figure moves slightly, hearing the voice from behind, but both are caught off guard by another voice coming from above. "Enough, ya two. I called ya both 'ere for a reas'n."



Ithmea's mind raced, questions flooded her mind, but she didn't budge at first. Who was the mysterious person in the house? She didn't recognize the voice. Did The Doctor find her? Was the figure with the nocked arrow here to kill her? Did she fall out of favor with... "Is Female Specimen Two weak?" The voice echoed in her mind.



The Heliopolite cleared her throat three times and regained control of her thoughts. She took a hesitant few steps toward the door. Might as well find out who the fuck had the audacity to enter her room without permission, what's life without a little risk. She removed the fur lined jacket and slung it over her shoulder before reaching the door. Her dark leathers are now the only thing covering her from head to toe, save her dark green eyes and about two inches above and below them. Who knows, maybe she'll be able to wet her blades tonight, it had been far too long.



The archer, it just so happened to be, was Corbin. They met as they approached the door.



Ithmea studies the man and then looks to the door, curious of any traps or locks that are in need of picking.



If she were to try it, she would notice that it opens right up with a simple push.



Places her gloved palm flat on the door, without having applied much pressure, the door easily opens. She glanced over her shoulder at the archer, then back to the interior of the house, to which the Heliopolite enters. She glances around to see what she could see, hoping to find the owner of the voice from the window above.



The wooden door squealed open. The interior was really empty and it seemed older than the outside made it to be. A broken dusty cabinet sat, hunched over to the left. Debris covered the old stone floor and cobwebs adorn the stairwell in front of her.



The dark green eyes narrow, she flinched at the sound of the creaking door. The soundless footsteps were calculated and slow. She recalled a house similar in design, it almost seemed a lifetime ago, the Heliopolite appeared to be stepping along the subfloor's foundation beams. Her eyes remained narrowed as she focused on her foot placement, moving toward the dusty cabinet. Curious, was she, to search it for a hidden treasure before ascending the stairs.



What a surprise. The cabinet was empty. Unless you wanna count the critters that ran to both sides as the light revealed their dust-covered abode. As she placed weight on he first step, it snapped, causing her foot to land right back on the ground.



Finally reaching the cabinet, Ithmea was disappointed when the search revealed nothing more than a few mice that scurried to the sides. She didn't seem bothered by them, and they didn't appear hostile so she closed the cabinet and searched the drawers, it would appear the only reward within was a few balls of dust.



The Heliopolite stood, wiping her gloved hands over her backside, leaving smeared but firm dusty handprints on each side of her bum. She followed the same cautious mannerism, utilizing her memory of that previous floorplan and keeping to the path of the subfloor's suport beams. She studied the stairs, briefly, the wood appeared solid but she wouldn't know for sure until she tried one.



She placed her left foot on the stair, bouncing a little on it, it creaked slightly but seemed fine... until she put the full weight of her one hundred fourty-two pounds on it. The stair gave way, causing her foot to go right through to the floor beneath it. She stood there for a moment, dark green eyes narrowing, the stair at now at her calf before pulling it out. Ithmea followed the subfloor beams back to the door where the archer still stood.



The Heliopolite brushed passed him, attempting to shoulder check his chest, the murmur of her monotonous tone was just loud enough for him to hear, "The Librarian is not amused."



Ithmea then walks out far enough to see the window, looking to see if there is a more stable way up the side of the house. She had no intention of falling through another stair.



Corbin walked right past her and into the house without uttering a word. During her search, Ithmea would've noticed a ladder resting against the back of the building. Maybe she could try that.



The Heliopolite woman moved over to the ladder, still pissed about the stairs, she opted not to put her feet on the rungs. Instead she gripped the ladder on either side and slowly began to pull her weight upward. Left hand, then right she would attempt to heft herself up with barely a grunt.



She'd be quite disappointed to find that at the top of the ladder, was nothing. Just the wall.



The Heliopolite woman, having looked up long enough, finally noticed the ladder needed to be moved. So, down she went with a SWOOSH! as the leather gloves protected her hands from slivers. It was only a few feet anyway. She started to pick up the ladder and then tilted her head. "If the ladder is here, and above is naught but a wall, there must be another way up." She thought to herself. In her search Ithmea wandered past the door....



If she would search, she would discover that a thorough inspection of the exterior was fruitless. There didn't appear to be any secrets there. When she passed the front door, she would see Corbin's foot had broken the second step.



Ithmea shook her head then went to stand near the window from where the voice called down. She looked up and said, "Access?"



A voice replies. "Access? There are many ways up here."



The Heliopolite had already done multiple thorough searches of the property, stables, the well, and the interior and exterior of the house, as well as asked directly, all of which were fruitless wastes of her time.



She offers the unknown person one more opportunity to either explain her purpose there or provide a direct way to their location that doesn't involve being attacked by the archer or her falling through some other portion of the obviously decrepit house, she surely wasn't about to stand around in the constantly dropping cold temperature of the desert night like a jackass. Especially since both the people here are unknown to her.



"Is it the intent to waste time and cover of night? It is obvious it is. State the purpose, define and be forthcoming or else..." She says, clearly annoyed, while removing a tinderbox and her usual celebratory cigar from her leather vest. She lights the tinderbox and preheats the foot slowly rolling the cigar above the flame at an angle allowing tiny black rings to form all the way around the wrapper. She looks up to the window, though doesn't allow the flame to touch the cigar.



If she can't get a direct answer that is pleasing to her, she can ensure the unknowns have a reason to come to her and stay warm tonight.







A head pops out of the window. It's too dark to make out the features, but it's obvious the figure is wearing a mask. "Ithmea, I'm sorry!" She exclaims in a half laughter after dropping the accent, "It's me, Dagger. I was just trying to have a little fun. Grab the ladder and come up through the window."



The Heliopolite narrows her eyes at the figure in the window. She clears her throat three times, adjusting her tone and dialect in an attempt to match Ariel's, "Ithmea, I'm sorry! It's me, Dagger. I was just trying to have a little fun. Grab the ladder and come up through the window." She tilts her head and looks up to the left, registering the statement and recalling Dagger's voice from their first meeting.



A few seconds pass and she decides the voice checks out. Ithmea pulls down her mask to her chin leaving the hood up over her hair and places the cigar in the left side of her mouth and lights it. She takes a long pull before tucking away the tinderbox and going to the ladder. The decrepit house and it's occupants safe from arson, for the moment. Carefully placing it directly below the window she ascends it and slips inside.



She takes another long pull of the cigar, blowing a smoke ring as she exhales, sticking it back into the corner of her mouth and says, "The Librarian is not amused female specimen. It has violated its personal sanctuary without permission. It will require a unique journal from the female specimen as compensation." She regards the shrouded figure with curious dissatisfaction.



The small, dank room was illuminated by only a single candle. It was bright enough to make out shapes, but not much detail. The Dagger sat in a wooden chair, her elbow on her leg and her head resting on it, to the right of the window, next to a table. Various bits of wood and cloth covered the floor. "Your personal sanctuary? Do you mean your room?" The Alv asks curiously.



The woman remained where she stood, puffing her cigar and blowing a smoke ring every now and then. She didn't immediately respond as she took in the details she could see in the dim candle light. She noted the various combustables, as she still considered making a bon fire out of the decrepit house.



"Do you mean your room?" The Alv's question, while seemingly innocent, caused the Heliopolite to pause the movement of the cigar toward her lips. A memory seeped into her thoughts as the woman waited Ithmea's response.



She was younger then, nearly two decades had passed since she had first arrived at the Institution. So naive, and wrought with confused despair. She had pleaded to return home, and the man only responded with, "Does it mean its room?" The Doctor had forcefully dragged her from the wagon, through the entry of the building and up a flight of stairs, by her hair, and lead her to a heavy wooden door laiden with locks all around it. The sheer amount of locks on the outside was enough to stifle her tears to nothing more than soft whimpers and a trembling lip.



The Doctor had hefted her from the floor and shoved her inside. Before he closed the door, she remembered his ominous words, "This is Female Specimen Two's personal sanctuary. Its respite between objectives. None will enter it, not even The Doctor, without permission." With that he slammed the door and started to lock each and every one of the bolt locks on the outside. She recalled how each echoed through her room, counting them one by one as the so called "Doctor" thrust them into place. Seventy-five in total, she had counted them all, seventy-five harsh swoosh! and thunks! had sealed her within her personal sanctuary, home had been lost to her; forever.



True to his word, however, in the whole of her time at the Institution none ever did enter without her permission; not even he.



The young woman lifts the cigar to her lips, taking another long pull. Shaking herself from the memory, it has passed in a matter of seconds. She regarded the shrouded woman a moment longer then said, "The Librarian does not approve of violations of its personal sanctuary. It is personal. It is sanctuary. Trust is earned not stolen through unwelcome violations and demands."



Without moving, she hummed a simple understand, "Mhm." The darkly clothed woman stared at Ithmea for a bit, examining her posture and body language before finally responding, "My apologies, I was unaware of your attachment to your room. I shall not do it again unless it is needed. But sadly, I have only one journal that I used prior to becoming a Widow." She sat up in the chair, resting her back upon the wooden poles extending out of the chair, "I will need a place to deliver private messages to you, however. I knew that your room would be the most secure place to do it." Her hands wave, dismissing the current conversation. "But I called you here for a reason, not just to test your willingness to follow an order, and your ability to spot patterns. I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it."



The Heliopolite arched a brow at the apology. "The Librarian respects the words of the female specimen and offers verbiage of gratitude. It may enter the personal sanctuary of The Librarian, but it must move a piece on the center chess board. Otherwise it will not know the intruder and it will consider the violation an action of impending threat."







How she missed the thrill of the hunt, to share the most intimate moment of their life, to bring her art to the canvass of flesh. Her dark green eyes lit up, and she straightened upon realization that an objective was to be had. "The Librarian accepts the objective, female specimen. A request for pertinent details, if acceptable?"



She smiles underneath her metallic mask, "Debt collection. Hemiskar the Investor borrowed a large sum of money from us. The past few months, he has been extending the loan out, but we cannot accept that again. Find him and kill him, if necessary, but collect as much of the loan as you can. I don't care how. He currently resides in the great city of Wayrest, and is known for his wild investments. I doubt he'll be hard to find."



Ithmea smirked. "Does the female specimen know with certainty typical types of investments the male specimen Hemiskar is likely to find intriguing? The race and sexual preference of said specimen, or is there any information regarding its relations either familial or otherwise?"



Ithmea studies the shrouded woman as she continues, "Perhaps a business partner or personal guard The Librarian should be aware of? It would appreciate a description and a more specific location in L’Aquina where the male specimen is known to socialize or reside in."



She takes a long pull of the cigar, then adds, "Exact amount of drakes owed, including interest is also pertinent. The Librarian doubts such requested information was not collected prior to the loaning of drakes. That would be illogical."



Nods in response to Ithmea's query. "Hemiskar has been known to make investments on weird inventions or discoveries, although he has been known to invest in banks and military ventures as well."



Ariel eyes Ithmea, carefully examining her before continuing. "As suggested by his name, Hemiskar is of Human decent. He's a heavy sat man standing roughly two meters and sports a grayish-white full beard. I can assume he dresses well given his fame. He is currently married to a younger woman, Helga, and they have a daughter, Anya. I am unaware of any friends or drinking partners of his, but I am sure he has some. He seems to mostly keep to himself, except when working."



She pulls out a folded map and hands it to her while grabbing the candle and holding it near. "I have circled the spot where he supposedly lives. There are multiple buildings in this area, so use what you can to find out where he lives. L’Aquina is home to numerous beggars and miscreants. I'm sure one of them could inform you."





"The amount owed," she begins taking a second to calculate it, "would be eight-hundred and seventy-three drakes total. He originally borrowed five-hundred and forty-two, promising to pay it the following month. After extending it multiple times, it has added up to eight-hundred and seventy-three. We can not accept any more extensions."



Ithmea flicks the ashes of her cigar out the window, she's not yet ready to start a bon fire. Turning back to Dagger and moving closer to inspect the map, giving a nod. "The Librarian is familiar with the floor plans and style of buildings in that area. It has an associate that is a vagrant, but it is in the Shornhelm cells. The Librarian will attempt to question the local vagrants in L’aquina ." She takes a long pull of the cigar.



"The Librarian is of the opinion, the obese specimen violated an oath of repayment. It betrayed the House. Betrayal is failure. Failure is not an option. Cessation of life is eminent. Resistance is futile. Does the female specimen have special requests of The Librarian that have not already been provided, or further information? The Librarian would also like to know the archer's definition and if it will be accompanying it to Wayrest, if acceptable."



She scans the room as if waiting for the archer to make his appearance.





"I am glad we are in agreement. He has indeed betrayed us" She takes a deep breath, "No, the archer will have his own separate task. You shall be going on your own."



The Heliopolite nods, turning to leave the same way she entered. She pauses, one leg out of the window and looks to Dagger. "For final clarification of the previous question, just to be certain: Does the female specimen have special requests of The Librarian that have not already been provided, or further information? Also, does the female specimen require a ritualistic branding or visual message to be presented to others that may consider betrayal of their oaths? Perhaps cessation of life to the obese specimen's entire family?"



She shakes her head. "I will leave the punishment to you. I believe that even if he doesn't know you're of House Rousseau, he will give you the money. I can see in you a talent for this type of work." She stood up. "Oh, one thing. Do not reveal your name. But I believe you already know that."



The Heliopolite's lips curl in a half smirk as the nearly forgotten cigar stub sits nestled in the corner of her mouth. Something in her face changes, the look in her eyes is like that of a predator that was preparing for a hunt. Her tone is cold, empty, "It only has one name to offer, and that is "Death."



With that she disappeared through the window and down the ladder, chucking the stub of the cigar into the well. It wasn't long before the young woman was mounted and headed back to the badlands to prepare for her journey.



Ariel smiled as Ithmea left before she herself got up, heading for the door.







**********************

The Librarian entered her room, closing the door behind her and locking each of the fifteen locks, then unlocking them and repeating the process four times. Completing the task she turns to see the missive on her table and picks it up. She arches a curious brow and quickly departs from her room to seek out Ruda.



Ithmea lay naked on her cot, her thoughts were a vibrant conglomeration of the events of the last week, unable to find sleep. She sighed heavily and rose from her bed. The Heliopolite needed release from what plagued her, a moment of reprieve, and then the soft whisper of a name creeped through her thoughts; “Hemiskar.” The objective still needed to be complete. Hemiskar was an investor that owed the House a debt, and it was time he paid up. Ithmea quickly dressed, gathering what she would need to complete the objective along with a cigar and three blank journals. One for each of them: Hemiskar, his wife Helga, and his daughter Anya; she was not certain just yet if she would be required to use them all, but one can never be too prepared.



Ithmea had made many contacts over the years, as well as earned quite the reputation for her skills among a certain ilk, so finding out where the Human man lived was not that difficult. However, interestingly enough, she did find out that despite his fame it was obvious that House Rousseau was not the only organization in which he’d stacked a debt. When she approached Hemiskar’s residence Ithmea found that his was the smallest home on in the area, clearly nothing more than a two room house. This could either work against her or in her favor.



Using the cover of night, the Heliopolite stuck to the shadows, peering into the side window she was able to see the main living area. A small table with only two settings from a recent meal, and a bowl on the floor. She arched a brow, there had been no mention of a pet. Though as soon as the thought had entered her mind she saw something that turned her stomach. A young girl, no more than the age of ten, crouched in the corner in ragged clothes and mussed hair as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks. Anger began to boil within her, but she quickly put it in check, focusing on her objective. She continued to scan the room but it appeared there was nothing more to see. Muffled voices caught her attention and she moved along the outside of the house finding another window at the back and storm cellar door with a lock on the outside.



Ithmea flattened her back against the house barely edging herself forward enough to look through the thin glass. Within she sees the heavy set man with a full greyish white beard, obviously Hemiskar, with a younger red headed woman. It is clear they are quickly packing and the somewhat muffled discussion seems to be revolving around a trip. “Take only what you need, Helga, nothing more. I’ve got three thousand drakes to last us until we can make it back home.” Hemiskar says. The woman looks to him as she places a few neatly folded gowns into the trunk and begins gathering her jewels, “The carriage should be here in an hour, think we will make it to Venezia before dawn?” she asks. “I doubt it, but all that is important is that we get out of here as fast as possible. We may have to sell some of your jewels to pay for passage on the ship, though.” Helga gasped, clutching her jewels to her chest and stomps her foot. “I’d rather sell the brat than my gems! We could fetch a fine lot for her.” Hemiskar nodded with a malicious grin, “You read my mind, Helga.” Hemiskar motioned to one of the trunks, “Get her in there, and we’ll talk about it on the road.” It would seem she arrived just in time, there was absolutely no way Ithmea was going to let them get away with selling a child into slavery, nor allow them to live through the night.



Time was running short, she had to get them into a carriage and out of town before the actual carriage showed up or find out who the driver was and catch a ride. Good thing the stables were nearby, and she quickly made her way there. As she approached the stables she heard a wolf whistle from behind her and a man’s voice called out, “I’d know that apple bottom anywhere,” the man chuckled, “What brings you to town, Ginger?” Ithmea’s eyes narrowed briefly, but as she turned a wide grin was plastered on her face. “Vic, baby, wondered if I would ever see you again.” The two embraced in a hearty hug, the man gripped her bottom and gave it a squeeze as well. She pulled back and winked, “Still hands on, I see.” Vic held his hands up in surrender, “Can you blame me, really?” They both laughed. He then gave her a serious come hither look, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she around his waist. It was obvious the couple had a history of some sort.



“If I had known you’d be in town, Librarian, I wouldn’t have come, honest. I just got this one quick gig and I won’t get in your way.” He whispered before leaning back and laughing as if a joke had been said. She gave him a wry smile and pulled his head down as if to kiss his cheek, whispering, “Objective?” He quickly scooped her up in his arms and leaned his head against the side of her neck, appearing as if to nuzzle it, “Helga, Nord lady right around the corner. Owes a debt, time to pay up, we could do it together for old time sake.” She cupped his cheek and they kissed deeply, and any onlookers would only have seen them as reunited lovers, though the truth was they were anything but.



Just a brief interaction was all that was necessary to seal the fate of both Helga and Hemiskar, but instead of using the third journal for the child, The Librarian would have to decide if “Vic” would fill those pages. He carried her over toward the stables, nodding to the stable master whom had been preparing the carriage he was about to take to her mark’s home, and slapped the carriage’s side after setting her down. “Want to go for a ride,” he pointed up to the sky, “Stars are out, and I do love how they sparkle in your eyes.” It wouldn’t be long before the two were parked in front of the Investor’s home and Vic was ushering the pair inside the carriage. Ithmea remained seated at the front of the carriage, Vic’s cloak covering her with the hood pulled up.



No one seemed to notice her, Helga was too busy shoving her bags at Vic before climbing inside the carriage as Hemiskar carried out a single trunk, securing it to the back before squeezing his large body inside the carriage. Ithmea nearly slipped off the side, as the heavy set man plopped down on the bench within, for his weight caused the carriage to dip and the horse took a few steps to the side. As soon as the door was closed behind him, the curtains coving the windows were closed, Vic hopped up on the trunk tied to the back, slapping the wood of the carriage, Ithmea clicked her tongue and urged the horse onward.



Exiting the northwestern gate was simple enough, however as they passed over the bridge south ease of Pariah Abbey the sky opened up and the rain started. When the first few drops stung Ithmea’s cheek she was reminded of when she first met Vic, it had been shortly after she’d been released from the Institution. The affair had been brief, and he’d had a taste for murder, but he was sloppy. They hadn’t parted on good terms, her exact words had been, “If I ever see you again, I will kill you.” Had it not been a direct order to let him live, he wouldn’t have. However, she knew he couldn’t be left alive this night. No one could know she was involved, it could not lead back to the House. As they neared Blackrock Keep, the turnoff toward Glendale through Wayfarer’s Village was not far off, lightening cracked and a tree fell across the road to the bridge. She saw her opportunity now, Ithmea instantly knew how to finish the objective and she pulled the carriage to a halt.



She turned, clearing her throat three times, and spoke in “Ginger’s” voice, “Hey Vic, tree’s down blocking the bridge.” Both Helga and Hemiskar peered out the window to see the felled tree. Vic hopped off the back of the carriage and went to inspect the road blockage and called back, “Won’t be able to move this tonight and risk getting struck.” He pointed upward and Ithmea nodded pointing toward an abandoned building not far off. “The old warehouse isn’t that far. We’ll stay there for the night until the road is cleared.” Hemiskar called out from within the carriage, “As long as it is warm.” Muffled voices between the two inside the carriage were heard as the curtains were drawn again. Vic and the Heliopolite nodded to one another in silent understanding and he hopped back onto the back of the carriage. A few minutes later they were parked outside of the old Windridge Warehouse south east of Dunemeire castle. Helga and Hemiskar were ushered inside to the second floor where there were some old cots by Vic. Ithmea set to bringing in their baggage, “Leave the trunk.” Hemiskar called down through the upper window, and she nodded. Hemiskar and Helga thought they were the only ones who knew what was inside the trunk, and Ithmea was happy to leave the child out of this for now.







Helga came down to where the bags were left, while Vic and Hemiskar remained upstairs engaged in a conversation about the next phase of the expected journey. She asked if Ithmea would go with her outside to empty her bladder, “We’ll be back, lady needs to powder her nose.” Ithmea called out and the men watched them disappear around the side of the building from the window. No sooner had they rounded the corner Ithmea drew a blade, the woman pulled up her skirt and pulled down her underpants. As she crouched with one hand on the building for support, the first sounds of urine hitting the ground, Ithmea’s blade was across her throat. The blood spilled and the woman reached to grab her throat. Ithmea leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Failure to pay a debt is not an option.” Helga’s eyes widened in realization of the situation, it was too late however, and she crumpled face first to the ground.



Ithmea skirted around the side of the building after ensuring that the men weren’t watching. She slipped into the warehouse quietly, moving into the shadows beneath the stairs. She lifted her chin and called out mimicking Helga’s voice, “Carriage boy! Could you help me with my bags?” Vic shrugged at Hemiskar who shooed him away to help his wife. As Vic bounded down the stairs, he made it two steps into the main room when Ithmea came out of the shadows. His left knee buckled, dropping him down, as she forcefully kicked the back of his knee. Before he could react she already had her left hand over his mouth, cupping his chin, and her right arm behind his neck. Just before the loud crack would echo through the room she whispered in his ear, “I told you I would kill you the next time I saw you.” She struggled with his dead weight briefly, but managed to ease his body to the floor, to avoid alarming the investor. That is when she heard the low growl from upstairs.



She came up the stairs slowly, holding the hilts of her daggers in the palm of each hand, blades pressed against her inner wrists and forearms. The obese Nord, Hemiskar, was standing in fear at the sight of a rather large grey bulldog before him. The bulldog was on all fours, the low growl still rumbling from its throat, the saliva hanging from its jowls only made the huge wrinkled hound all the more menacing. Ithmea could not help but chuckle at the irony, at which both Hemiskar and the bulldog briefly looked to her. Hemiskar mouthed, “Help me,” and motioned to the bulldog. The bulldog and Ithmea locked eyes for what seemed a long moment, there was a connection there like a spark of recognition between the predators, the bulldog tilted its head to the side then turned back to the obese Human and snarled.







Ithmea shrugged at Hemiskar, “It would appear that the bulldog and I share a similar distaste for you Hemiskar.” The obese Human swallowed hard, looking between the large wrinkled hound and the Heliopolite woman, shrugging, “I..I don’t know who you are or what you want. I have drakes.. I can pay you whatever you want..” Ithmea smirked and said as she crossed the room to stand next to the hound, “You’ve had plenty of opportunity to pay your debts, but now it’s too late.” Hemiskar was cornered. To his left was a wall and to his right were heavy crates that blocked his escape. His only choice was to try to get passed the enormous vicious hound and the woman before him.



He made a run for it, but he only made it a few steps before the hound was latched onto his flabby right thigh, sinking his teeth in deeply and snarling. As Hemiskar opened his mouth to scream, Ithmea had him by the beard and yanked his head around. “You should have kept your word. Failure was not an option.” With her knee to his back, and the hound ripping into the lower half of the man’s flesh, Ithmea leaned her head back, closing her eyes and exhaled slowly as she slit his throat. She continued to tug at his head as the blood spilled and seeped into the wooden floor until his final breath had escaped his lips. She tossed his head forward and rose as the hound feasted upon the obese man’s innards.



Ithmea pat the dog’s head, clicking her tongue, and it ceased its meal to follow her downstairs. She gathered the bag that contained not only the drakes, but Helga’s jewels and tossed it over her shoulder. The pair exited the warehouse, the wrinkled hound never more than a foot from her heels, and she went to the back of the carriage. After sheathing her daggers, she unlatched the trunk where the young girl was hidden, holding out her arms. “Come now little one, you’re safe now and I will protect you.” The young girl, Anya, stood up and wrapped her arms around Ithmea’s neck sobbing against her shoulder. The Heliopolite shushed her and pulled her from the trunk, and the girl wrapped her legs around Ithmea’s waist. Anya, just like Ithmea before her, had been set free by House Rousseau, and she would look after her and her new four-legged companion from now on….



_____________



The camp was a place of suffering. They had been thrown out of the Genovan army, for doing what everyone did, but never acknowledged. The army said they were 'too brutal'. They said they were 'unclean'. 'Insane'. They didn't have words for it. Just purpose. The Genovan nobles had wound them up like Human contraptions, and when they let them loose suddenly they were the bad ones. The entire army butchered civilians, some captains holding hostages, some worse, but suddenly, when a few of them carve up a dunmer housewife, they were the bad ones? They wouldn't accept it. So they moved out to the desert like Zahnr suggested. What did it matter if a few caravan's went missing?



He thought these things as he stood outside, looking out at the sands. He turned around, to see the few tends that there was. He knew the Nozgor was butchering the last of the last batch in the one farthest to the left....wait, what was that? He turned around, and...Pain. Blinding pain. In the left temple, so acute he had to shut his eyes. He felt the skin of his head breaking, and then-



The Zarian was playing cards with himself, in his tent, thinking about how much he hated the fucking desert. It was hot. There was sand. The sand was everywhere. And he hated it, and the people who lived here, and he hated the idiots he had got court-martialed with. He finished his game, then stood up to walk outside, pushing aside the tent curtains to reveal...



"...Osiris’s shiny black fist...What...in..." The thing that had once been a man, specifically, one of the idiots he had been tried with, was now....what looked like it had been turned inside out. The limbs appeared...gone...the points where they had been, sealed to smooth flesh. The torso, had been torn inside out, exposing muscle, with the ribcage opened to...what almost looked like a mouth. He looked, and felt the urge to vomit, but inched closer when he saw the gleam of something in the putrid gash that had become the cavern of what he was pretty sure was the stomache. He reached in, and....the trap, closed. The bone, the ribcage, snapped shut, bones morphing and shifting into narrow, sharp, teeth, that closed, encasing the arm in a bear-trap like vice.



The sound of screams, interrupted the Nozgor from his work. He had just finished killing his 'piece', removing her eyes, and had just started on the face-sculpting, when the screaming started. He was used to it, but not outside his workshop. His place of creation. He stood up from his work, and pushed back the flap of the tent, only to be pushed onto his back. He grunted, eyes forcibly closing from the impact. And when he opened them, all he could describe was....beauty. Scraps of white and yellow flesh, pulsating, gyrating, oozing, around what could only be described as a bone-engine. The thing, a sort of blob, moving on extended, spider-like legs that shot up from the center engine, presumably having carried the thing here, for him to behold. He reached out to touch it, even as some sort of flesh-like tendril shot out to drag his work, his inferior sculpture, into the maw of the engine, to be repurposed. It was beautiful. Here he had been, trying to make artistry, trying to create beauty for the world to behold....and here, compared to this thing of beauty, he had been making cave drawings with chalk. He opened his arms, wide, to embrace this avatar of creation....



Zahnr awoke to the sound of grinding. He assumed it was the Nozgor, sinking to some, new depth of depravity. He tried to go back to sleep, and succeeded, for a while, drifting, back, to sleep. Until someone spoke. "Yooohooooo..." He lifted his head to peer at the tent entrance. Something, had been there, because the tent flaps flapped back to their original position. He grabbed his knife, a jagged thing no bigger than a hunting knife, and walked outside. He saw, a Faunri. In gold and red armor, slowly back-walking out of the camp. Considering the situation, and wondering what the game was, he walked after her. "Wrooooong place to do a spot of camping, kitty."



"Or, the entirely right one, for people like me." He sneered. "And just what kind of person are you, kitty?" It was then that the world jerked, and his face hit the ground. Sand in his eyes, mouth, and then into his nose as he was dragged backward. He felt himself being suspended, opening his eyes both to clear them of the sand and to get a grip on what the fuck was going on. And his eyes opened onto a view of gnashing teeth, spine-like tendrils of intersecting bone of what had once looked to have been spinal columns. Rib-bones forming serrated teeth, spinning in circles like shredding blades, skulls with skin still attached at the bottom, staring at him with empty sockets. The Zarian. The Nozgor. And the other Heliopolite. .



"Recognize them?" The Faunri had been circling, hands behind back, a sort of eerie straight-backedness, upper torso completely still where others would move in time with the legs, which were working almost mechanically. He didn't respond. His mouth wouldn't move. "The Nozgor, in particular, was a strange one. From what I saw in his tent, he fancied himself some sort of artist. What a grotesque little bunch you are, maggots, writhing in the dirt. Know why it's me, out here, not the Covenant?" Again, he couldn't answer. His mouth felt dry with every rotation of those tiny, gnashing, grinding, teeth.



"It's because the army, isn't equipped to deal, with you people. Because in certain, extreme cases, the law is inadequate. It must be shamed, for it's inadequacy. The laws of men and elves...and the law of gods. It should be more like flesh, you know. Flesh, can be repurposed. Remade. Re...shaped."



Zahnr screamed, until his throat was hoarse. "...Look at the bright side. At least you'll do something productive with your un-life." The Heliopolite, dropped. Into the grinding, waking, maw.



Brogden, looked over at what was left. A mass of broken tents and the remains of what had been, the deserter party. The magic that had created what was reshaped, gone, it only stood a mass of bones, and sealed over, scarred, flesh. She had just got done with the proper rites, having left out no loopholes. She had done funeral rites of the Nozgor, Heliopolites , and Zarians, because she wasn't really sure what would stick given what it had once been. Who, it had once been.



She looked up at the rising sun, then down at her grim work. A mark of suffering, of many, finally ended. Like a scab, rising out of the sand. Scar tissue, for what had once been a gaping wound. A far cry from what the black stain, of a clan, had taught and practiced. She looked down, at a small, silver inlaid, mirror. Which no one would see, if she could ever help it. She looked into it, and saw the reflection of what had been. The smooth, alabaster, bone-white fur, indistinguishable from skin. The red eyes, back when she had the two. The teeth, so jagged and broken they had split her jaw wide in a permanent grin, when she had not performed the proper illusionary rites.



She gazed upon what had once been. And hated. With a fire hotter-burning than with which she had created the scab. Then, she quietly stowed the mirror. Resolved, to lock the cage, tighter, next time. And redouble efforts toward mental shielding, and spiritual therapy. "Well, look on the bright-side." She said to herself, and the giant, sculpted scab, jutting out of the Badland sand. "...At least you did something productive with your lives."



______





A man donning a jet black hooded robe sat in tranquility with a book by a freshly started fireplace, the smell of roast and burning wood filled the atmosphere. He hummed in sync to the cracking embers to the book of yellow pages and gentle but precise blue penmanship.

----



"And the winner is... The Iron Wall!" The crowd roared as money flung and flew all over the place, men and women rejoiced and children were chanting "EX-E-CUTE! EX-E-CUTE! EX-E-CUTE!"



The Iron Wall stood bloodied, dripping from his eyes, nose, abs, mouth, toes, fingers, knuckles... but yet he stood straight, all but trousers gone. Blood creaked down his body to outline his physique, his massive bubble-chest expanding to nearly twice their size from how hard he was panting. Yet he stood; over a singular Zarian that lay nearly slain. The Iron Wall brought up his greatsword and with a single vertical swing, he cracked and sliced the man from the top of his head to nearly down his chest, blood splattering and erupting up into the sky.



The cheers nearly doubled in volume themselves and the sky was painted gold with coins... but...

----

Every day I wondered what I was missing.

My life seemed so perfect, right? I was strong. I looked great. Everyone wanted me.

For whatever reason, that fight in particular on that one day really resonated with me.

It was the first time I've thought about...



Emptiness.

----

It was one brutality after another. The bronzed skin giant swung, beheaded; swung, ripped out a gut; swung, and entrails went flying. His name was called so many times that one night that one could swear he was some sort of worshiped god!



The last fight encroached, and this time they wanted a little 'theme' going on with Roarhk. The man was decked in chains and locks, head completely hidden by a rusted helmet. He was barefoot, slashed up, bleeding from the last fights. He was just some dog waiting for dinner to be served before him. The finals weren't even interesting, his poor Zarian foe completely stunned into shock. Needless to say, he was cut to ribbons -- probably quite literally.



"Look at him! He's a monster!" Shouted one. "He's disgusting! No one could love that!" Shouted another. "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! BLEED! SPILL!" And just like that, the audience roared and chanted as The Iron Wall cracked his neck and took his leave.

----

A... a monster. That's what they said to me that day... just... just a big old... monster.



It wasn't often that I had wished a quick death delivered to me once these times. Now? I was essentially craving it.



I knew what I was missing. It wasn't my sense of masculinity. It wasn't glory, nor fame. I had all too much of that. It wasn't what I wasn't doing, but what I wasn't getting. I do not remember the details clearly, but that same day, I met the mother of that man. Beautiful woman she was, could have sworn I'd seen her working at a tavern in the area. She was with her two daughters who were as bright as the sun.



When they got word of their poor loved one slain by a 'monster'... I... I never felt my heart sunk so deeply. They walked back, defeated, a pair of hands shorter than before. One less man bringing food to the table. And I took that away from them. But why did I feel so weak? Why does that haunt me so bad that I can't even bring myself to envision it without crying? I told myself because it wasn't manly. But... it was because I was unloved. That man had a family, he had children. He needed the money. I, on the other hand, had nothing. Back then, I could have died and no one would have cared. Not a soul would miss me.



The sea breeze kissed their face as the previous Iron Wall stood with a faunri that toppled even him in size. There were bruises and marks on both, to be expected of a fresh tavern wall. Iron Wall expected this chat to be just a small thank you. Maybe he was a fan? Otherwise, it'd be a one and done deal.



Little did he know he was going to take a choice that would give him exactly what he was missing. Aminatu turned to him and with a locked gaze, asked Iron Wall a simple question -- did he know Lady Taliset? Well yeah, of course, everyone who didn't live in the deepest of the woods knew who Taliset al-Asadis.



"We could use you."



What?



Sometimes I still screw up and I'm not around as much as I'd like to be. I'm not as strong as I can prove I can be and I can't save everyone. But it's refreshing; I don't have to be the hero. I can be just me. I told Aminatu my real name -- something I haven't told anyone in what felt like a decade. And now I find myself an honorary (at least, I pretend to think I am *a winky face is drawn here*) guard of Lady al-Asad?



It was unbelievable. It's like... everything I was missing just came to my lap. I still have a long way to go before I can reclaim my humanity but...



... at least I know I'm somewhere where people look to me for help. Where I can use my power to create smiles and defend others rather than just kill kill kill. I'm in a place where... I can love myself.



__________





The darkness behind the curtains contained her visage from the murmuring audience in front, her emerald eyes flickered with fiendish ferocity as her heart pounded within the depth of her heaving breast. She could hear the silence that befell the ground, her fingers reaching up to adjust the ornate golden mask that masked part of porcelain features and allowed an air of discretion to her identity. The masked woman reached outward, sliding her fingers across the crease of the velveteen curtains. Oh, how the excitement burned within her, cascading like a molten field of fire unto her.



In a moment's breath the unseen crowd fell silent and the sound of a male's voice resonated through the stage and the auditorium ahead. "Good evening, lovely ladies and gracious gentlemen. I give unto you, the Lady of Depravity, the Mistress of Sin. Madame LaPlante." The crowd resounded in a dignified clap, the sound of the curtains drawn cast a breeze against the hidden woman. A deep breath was taken, and she emerged, bathed in the light of a powerfully glowing overhead chandelier.



The woman made her way to the stage, waving her hand in an intricate motion across her face and soon her voice would be amplified to address the masked crowd before her. They gazed upon her in admiration, but it had little to do with the finely crafted red silk she wore nor the fire of her hair. Her position was honoured, her audience captivated.



"Good evening, my darlings. You all look absolutely ravishing..." Her voice called out to them as she moved with a dancer's grace across the stage, her hands clasped together in front of her, "Tonight is a very special night and with you I seek to share it. You have all come here with the intent to keep your identities concealed as tonight is not about who we are in society, but our inner-most twisted desires. Our sin. You do not know me and I do not know you, but in this room we are all equal and from all walks of life we've come. We are outside the law, we are outside persecution, and judgement. Tonight, I am the leader of your hearts, bodies, and minds. Give them to me!" She cried out, throwing her hand forward as the crowd stood to a standing ovation and cheered wildly. They had greatly anticipated this evening.



"You know how the Game works, please remember this is a silent auction and I won't tolerate unnecessary disruption. Tonight...we have plucked a rather delicious treat for our first event." She gestured to a broad man who stood masked by the curtain fold, his ornamentation akin to a savage raven, his own blue eyes shimmered with delight. "My darling, please. Bring in our first treat." A sinister laugh escaped her, wracked with the darkness of the woman's soul and the delight of what was to come. The bowed his head silently, stepping away from the stage and behind the curtain's edge.



"Highest bidder claims the prize, the prizes shall be addressed shortly. Help yourselves to drinks and delightful food offered by our servers." She gestured towards the top of the auditorium, women clad in impossibly tight-fitting corsets and red lingerie emerged from the above doors, descending into the seated crowd to offer trays of food and beverage. Some took more readily to the refreshments, filling their hands and bellies with good food and drink. Their attention was soon taken....as powerful and shrill screams filled the room. The Lady laughed and she laughed and she laughed.





The man so favoured by the Lady returned with a woman. Her dark brown hair locked within his fingers as he dragged her onto the stage, another set of men carrying forth a wooden stretcher. The woman escaped the man's hands and immediately attempted to run behind the curtains, her lithe frame shrouded onto a white shroud that barely covered her ample assets.



"Please! Please! Someone help me! I haven't done anything!" Her tear-streaked cheeks were rosy with shame, her hands held out to the excited audience. Her eyes, bright with innocence, peered at the perverse Madame and wailed louder. "No! Please!" She clawed at the curtains, trying to find her way through the darkness before the masked man surged forward, grabbing her and forcing her onto the stretcher. "Come now, cherished one. You are the star of the show. Tonight is the most important night of your life. Relish in it."



The young woman was tied to the stretcher, hands bound in iron and the stretcher hoisted upwards so that it stood facing the crowd. She screamed louder, the cacophony of noise shattered the peace in the room though the Madame's eyes grew dark with hunger. She approached the woman, sliding her hand lewdly over her quivering bosom. The audience gasped in both horror and amusement as their hostess leaned forward and began screaming in mock horror into the young woman's face. Both cries of the women filled the room like a tortured symphony.



"Her fate is in your hands. Freshly picked off an undisclosed Abbey, virginal, untouched. Let us do her suffering justice. May Cruelty Reign Where Innocence Fails!" The red-haired tormenter called now calmly to her audience who in turn recited the final six words she expressed. The men who had brought in the stretcher left and returned promptly a table covered in various medical devices and iron instruments of suffering. "Let's see what we have here...I let my associates pick tonight's...fashionings." Two large wheels with many pegs were also put on display on either side of the stretcher.



"It seems tonight we have head, shoulders, feet, legs, thighs, back, hair....And..." She paused and peered at the second wheel, grinning wickedly, "Dagger, wax, scalpel, saw, pear, fire poker-- My goodness, I've some rather naughty boys on my staff." She turned an eye to her companions who snickered delighted, their Madame winked at them from behind her mask, "We also have my personal favourite...weights, sword, axe, and prod. My goodness, what a lovely evening this will be! Bidding starts now! Prepare your bids on paper and pass them to my lovely attendants." She gestured to the serving girls, who were now providing parchment and quills to the guests.



"Highest bidder spins the wheel first and acts upon what was decided. Use only your...party names." the guests promptly took the instruments with ready and eager hands, furiously writing before setting their bids on the platters....



_________



The skies were clean and bright, cloudless and welcoming without the harshness that would soon come with the Setite summer. Soft, salty airs rolled in up the cliffs from the sea, adding subtle texture to the city's atmosphere. A day as normal and pleasant as any other, by the looks of it. Citizens clamored through the streets and bazaars, going about their errands as usual. A mild day. A good day. For most.



Among the crowds of moving people, a carriage like many others jostled its inhabitants comfortingly down the stone brick road into Genova’s upper district, home of the royals, elites, and well-to-dos of the coastal jewel. Two Alv’s sat in the back of this unremarkable carriage, one a razor among trowels, the other a giant among men. Looks they rarely exchanged, regardless of even the situation at hand- their moments alone had always been... awkward. The gentle rock and sway of the cart served no noble purpose for them.



It carried them through to one of the grander estates in the district- fortunate enough to have a wall built around it, with broad doors and strong guards the only method of conventional ingress- or egress. They greeted them solemn and silent, despite the tone of day, but then every face on this property was such, the elves included. For murder was done, and all the hearts that knew were dampened, in one way or another. But the Alvs were not here to express condolences.



As they exited the carriage and entered the building, staff greeted them and showed them around with as few words as necessary, voices small and spirits low. Together, the Giant and Razor walked to the scene of the crime- still a mess from the atrocity, the very air tasting of the same shade of rust that covered the floor. The body, at least, was gone, cleaned and taken to another room in preparation for what was to come.



"Isis’s tit..." the Giant remarked, as his white eyes took in the vision. Stepping inside, he took in a few breaths of air, smelling the room for traces of magic. The Razor went into a nearby room, to inspect the body. After a few minutes, he returned to his companion, and went about inspecting the scene.



"A single killer, male... either untrained, or things did not go his way..." he remarked, as his caledon orbs took in every detail.



"No forced entry... nor any exit trail. Hmm." He tracked around the grim mosaic to the brass tub and window.



"Blood patterns suggest... victim was wounded in the center of the room, then carried into the tub, but the killer lost his footing and slipped, before dropping her in. The staff cited two thuds, one solid and the other metallic. She must have been wearing the towel, no trail to the closet... May have tried to defend herself with the brush, possibly wounding the killer. He must have taken the towel to try and stop the bleeding..." For the next few minutes he scanned the room, mind crossing over every eventually and evaluating it for likelihood and plausibility. Eventually, he let out a sigh, and ran a hand through his blond hair, looking to the Giant.



"Smell anything?" he asked of him.



The gruff man replied, "Blood, blood... more blood." He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.



"Any magic?" the Razor clarified.



"Mmm..." the Giant hummed between inhales, "Some... something. It's faint, whatever it is. Faint enough to be my imagination..." He shrugged at the other Alv. "I've got nothing to go off, but, if you ask me, I'd say he portaled in, then portaled out. Dropped in behind her, and that shit ain't quiet, so she saw him and screamed, tried beating him with the brush. He cuts her neck, tries to carry her to the tub by the wrists, slips on his ass, drops her in, then gets the fuck out with a less than clean towel in his hands."



The Razor nodded at his assessment, unable to refute it with what evidence they had. Grim-faced, he motioned towards the door, "I think we are done here. Let us leave."



Together, they left, as silent and reverent as when they arrived, and just as wanting of answers.



_______________









I can remember his face.



The trader from Carthage, clothed in rags and without camel or goods, eyes like yellow lamps in the dark.

Eyes like a patient predator.

It was strange, in hindsight.

In my memory of him, he was clearly not what he claimed to be.



But at the time, I believed him.

And so I shared my camp and my route with him, for a few nights.



I awoke on the first morning to find him already awake, staring at me, and not even pretending otherwise.

Men have looked at me before, but I am Heliopolite , and stronger than their pitiful desires.

But this was not how he looked at me. It was as if he were inspecting me, judging me for some purpose.

For what, I could not tell, and put the thought in the back of my mind. He had already paid me to share the route from Romalia to L’Aquina.



So I let him stay.



The first day's travel was quiet. He hung back on the road, and kept to himself. He did everything in silence. The quietest Faunri anyone ever met.

The entire day was so completely unremarkable, that I can never forget it.

We made camp at sun down. He did not eat, even when I offered him stew.

I know why now, but thought nothing of it then.



The next morning, I woke up with a long gash across my chest, with no explanation.

I found him sleeping like a rock just the same as he was when I closed my eyes, and kicked him awake.

He said he knew nothing, in that raspy, thirsty voice.

I wrapped it up, and then kept going.

It itched all day.



That day was as equally uneventful as the first, but by sunset I felt sick.

I knew it was the wound, what else could it be?

I'd have to see a healer once we got to Romalia.



I could not call what I experienced that night sleep, for I reached no rest.

Nightmares I could not remember come morning plagued me throughout.

I woke to find him watching me again.

Irritated, I packed us up and kept going.

Just two more days to Romalia.



We never made it there.



That third day I was sick as a dog, with the worst cold I've ever had.

Though he was still quiet, I could feel him watching me as we walked.

Feel his yellow eyes on me.

I focused on covering as much ground as possible.



I practically collapsed once night fell. He had to help me set up camp.

He made the food, fed it to me, and gave me his blanket to stop the shivers.

All in silence.

All with that hunter's gaze.

I tried to thank him, despite his oddities, for his help.

But he just thanked me.

And to this day, I'm still not sure why.



My memory of that night is nothing but fog.

The nightmares persisted, but I remember the sun and heated clouds, terror and courage, agony and ecstasy.

But what happened after was nothing but blood and dust.

A rampage that kicked up red and delicious screams, and lasted both forever and not long enough.



I awoke somewhere else, far from camp.

No clue how many hours or days it had been.

No clothes.

No camel.

No Faunri.



Just bloodied corpses of animals and vagabonds around me.



But I was no longer sick.

I was covered in blood.

And I felt full.

I felt fantastic.





And now these dunes are mine.

I walk them as a Heliopolite when I must.

But when I can, when I am free, I walk them as I truly am.

As Queen.

I stalk my lands with power and pride.

None can match me.

My kind do not prowl here.

Only wolves, in their feeble packs.

I let them run and howl together as they do, in my domain.

I grant them this.

For queens do not quarrel with their subjects.

I am the true alpha.

I am the pride leader.

I am the Queen of Dunes.



_____



A monster.



Strange, haven’t heard that one much before.



Beast. Sure. Monster? I like that term.



It’s true, what they say, it’s sweet.



I am a monster, a beast, a deadly killer; titles that I accept though at times they weigh on my shoulders like the weight of the world.



I am a monster.



Why do you feel safe? Safe enough to lay in my arms. Kiss me. Make love to me. I can change and kill you at any second. I’m more unstable than a drug addict looking for their next fix but can’t find anything.



Do you know what it’s like?



The constant nagging feeling to hunt and kill, be it friend or foe. The weight on your consciousness that you just might not be able to control. The Devil and an Angel on your shoulder. One whispering sweet nothings of bliss and release while the other tries to hold you back and calm you. It’s like your mind is being torn apart, split into two sides. You just want to scream but you can’t because that would mean giving in to the monster..



The beast..



It would be so easy.



Oh, so easy.



A simple small cut. Nothing anyone would even think twice about but me.



But me..



The coppery metallic smell. Sweeter than the best Skooma, more potent than imaginable.



A small slip in control and the change takes over.



The sound of joints popping as bones shift and elongate. Grunts and growls of pain turn to screams of agony. Fingernails turn to claws able to shred metal with ease. Teeth grow sharper, longer, able to tear through flesh like it’s the tenderest piece of meat imaginable.



You can run, sure, as the change isn’t instant and takes some time but I’ve already got your scent. The sounds of your footsteps in the distance, the blood pumping through your body as your heart races with fear as you try to run away.



Run, please..



Run..



I don’t want to kill you. You’re a friend.



But I don’t know that. My mind can’t depict friends from prey. It’s the nature of the beast to kill and killing is what it’s designed for.



Before you even realize it, just as you turn back to see if you’ve escaped, black fur blurs in your vision and you're on the ground. Your mouth parted as you try to scream but..



You can’t.



Your throat torn from a simple flick of the wrist, claws severing the larynx, esophagus..



You’re bleeding out rapidly from the wound in your throat, a gaping hole. You’re alive just long enough to hear the crunch of bones breaking between strong jaws as the monster tears into your chest, breaking through your ribcage to tear out your heart. That succulent muscle that beats no more.



I don't even realize what I'm doing as I tear your lifeless body apart, claws and maw working together as one. Before long, I move on to find my next victim, which isn’t hard, the area is full of life.



Men, women, children..



All easy prey and most don’t even know whats hit them. The hunter, ever so silent as it moves.



The unlucky ones, hear it coming and try to fight but it’s to no avail. Weapons, torn from their grasps before they can even mark the beast, slow deaths, torn apart limb from limb just as you were.



It probably won’t remember what it’s doing. No humanity left in the beast. Just kill and kill again, feed and feed again.



If I’m lucky.. I won’t remember what I did but if I’m not lucky.. I will.



It will be too late though. No chance to save anyone, not able to take those steps back and undo what I did. I’m a monster through and through.



It’s true what they say, it’s sweet.



_______



Darkness enveloped the badlands. Sun burrowed beneath sand and the moon clawing her way to the swell of the sky. Footsteps were masked by the sound of both sand and spell, the only trace of the owner, small divots in the darkened earth.



A bridge just up ahead, shadows dancing across it and obscuring its entirety from view. But the masked figure that drew closer with every habitual breath was familiar with the deceiving absences of light. Darkness was their cloak.



The tent pulled into view, beaten by dirt and sand, but enough to keep one at least partially warm when the moon’s breath whisked across the sands.



An abrupt stop, breath held and unneeded. Still as a statue the figure stood, watching, waiting, listening. The tent had moved. Wobbled like some drunkard finding their feet. It was almost a lifetime before another step was taken, and two before the next after that.



Snoring. That partially reassured the figure, despite their breath still trapped within a set of stone lungs. No knife was drawn as the advance was made, no spell murmured in a hushed whisper. The dead of night’s silence was the only sound whispered on the wind. Closer. Closer still. Tent flap peered through. It moved an inch- two now. Still the figure below did not stir. Three. Four.



The masked figure edged within and grew still. So motionless did the creature become that one might have questioned whether they had been carved from stone itself. For a brief moment, fear lurked behind grey eyes, threatening to jeopardise everything.



The tent grew smaller, closing in around the two within it. It wanted to swaddle them. It intent on suffocating them both. Even then the figure did not breathe, did not even dare to blink, for fear it would be heard. Despite what appeared to the figure to be the intent of the man’s home, the figure reached up. Trembling, gloved fingertips tugged at fabric, slowly, agonisingly removing the mask.



What came next was a gurgle. A choking gasp, wet and slick with crimson that stained the tent. Fingers snatched at the assailant, desperate and defiant. But the damage was done, jugular torn. The figure stepped back, mask still hanging as nothing more than a piece of flimsy fabric. They watched as the man lay dying, twitching and grasping at his neck, as if it would somehow stem the torrential bleeding.



It didn't. Again a lifetime seemed to pass as the figure paused, making absolute certain that their target was dead. And then the grisly after task began.



As the sun emerged from its sandy tomb, the figure was long gone, the tent stained with blood and the owner, in pieces. Jackals the guards had said. An unfortunate way to go.



_______________________________________



Galacier laid the final square of sod down inside the cage and settled down into one of the observation chairs to admire his handiwork. Even with all of his tiresome efforts in relocating each book of the library, it seemed he still wasn’t cut out for all of this manual labor. Slightly out of breath, he examined the room, searching for minor details he could have forgotten, or should be cautious of.



While he had originally planned to convert one of the private studies, he’d found one of the dungeon rooms to be much more conducive to the work they were about to do. The area was reasonably spacious, perhaps 16 by 20 feet, with one corner of the room occupied by a fairly large jail cell. The bars were placed far enough apart to where any man or woman could readily escape, but that was alright. After all, they weren’t trying to contain a man. On the floor of the cell, squares of sod had been placed to create the illusion of flora, and the patchwork patterns of grass might almost be convincing if they didn’t look like disjointed green puzzle pieces. Galacier would have liked for the environment to appear more natural, yet the urgency of their project meant that some corners would have to be cut.



At one of the walls outside the cell, a few benches sat loaded with an assortment of items ranging from spare clothes to various foods woodland creatures might enjoy eating. The benches were situated to where they could serve as nearby storage to the cell, or as seating for any individual who wished to be present for their undertaking. A small ways away, another stool sat outside the cell, one of the comfortable padded ones Galacier had brought down from the studies.



Apart from the furniture and sod, the remainder of the room was essentially barren, an impressive feat for a space that had only recently been a dungeon. Galacier had worked hard to remove any unnecessary items, any piece that might serve as an unpredictable variable in their efforts. Everything needed to be precise, the work undisturbed, and so only the essentials remained.



Satisfied with the space, Galacier crossed to the large oaken door that guarded the entrance, poked his head outside and caught the attention of the guard in the hallway.



“Find the Huntsmaster, tell him that my preparations are complete and that we may begin at his leisure.”



Galacier did not wait for a reply, but moved back into the room and shut the weighty door behind him, immediately moving towards his stool and withdrawing his trusty notepad from within his robes. On the top of a blank page he began to write, “Session 1...”



When the word arrived, Aminatu had begun to have second thoughts. Or rather, began again. But always, when he came to ask the question that led him to this plan of action, it led him there again. And so, with mind filed down but the barest of emotion in preparation for the driest of sciences (the dangerous kind) he prepared before heading down to the lower levels where Galacier waited.



He knocked briskly on the heavy door, clad in sackcloth trousers and a simple linen shirt. Once let in by either Galacier or an assistant, he strode with the same rigid, determined pace. Giving the experiment chamber a look over, focusing on the cage, he nodded curtly.



"Good. This looks good. Are we ready to begin?"



He inquired of the head scholar. He was eager to begin, for there was much work to be done. The sooner they started, the better, but the nature of the experiments to come was such that to rush could prove perilous- even deadly.





As Aminatu entered, Galacier took advantage of the time to study her face, her expression. The scientific aspect of Galacier's mind charged him to appraise Aminatu’s emotional state, to judge whether she was up to the task ahead. That same part of her pushed, required her to worry, as it intermingled with the part of Galacier that called Aminatu a friend. Family.



As Aminatu asked his question, straight to business, Galacier realized he may never feel as if the Enoch were ready, as he himself didn't know what to expect. All he could do was take the Huntsmaster’s word for it.



"We are." Galacier said, shutting the door firmly and crossing first to the bench to pick up an hourglass, then to his stool where he sat and withdrew his notebook to begin writing a few things down. "When you're ready, you can step into the cell and prepare however you like for the process." He gestures to the assorted items on the bench nearby, saying "I've brought a few items that I hope can be used to set you at ease at.... various stages of the work. Feel free to interact with them however and whenever you wish."



As he spoke, he wrote:



Simple clothing. Focused, unemotional pre-shift. Cell is adequate pre-shift.





He thinks of something, looks up for a moment and says, "Also, in order to have complete containment I'll be locking the door behind you, but the key will be nearby on the benches if you need it."



Aminatu nodded in approval of the conditions and precautions in place, then moved towards the cage and disrobed to her small clothes, before entering its confines. She stood in the center, back facing Galacier, then lowered himself to her knees and placed her hands in her lap and her eyes to the dirt.



After Galacier locked the door behind her, she turned around to face the Archon, and extended a hand towards one of the leafy sprigs set out on the benches. Once it was her, she shifted to where her legs were crossed under her, her hands resting on her now-dirty knees. One held the sprig, another a small handful of sod. With knit brows, she rolled her shoulders and settled into the position, eyes lingering in the direction of Galacier, before they closed and her head bowed.



As the lids fell, the creases and lines of his face seemed to relax and fade away. Her look of permanent scrutiny dissipated into something calmer, as she began breathing exercises. Slowly in, slowly out. In, and out. In...



It would be a long few minutes as sheblanked his mind, whilst slowly twirling the sprig in her hand, feeling its soft, fibrous nature with her calloused pads. The earth she crumbled in her other hand, to waft its brown scent into her mind. Things she knew were likely to wake the beast, as often she slept while the Alv was awake...

_____________________________________



*Drip. Drip. Drip.*



The sound rebounded across the ragged stone walls, as fetid water leaked from overhead to the sewer floor drop by drop. The constant echo was matched only by the rapid beating of hearts in the ears of a Milaturi squad that found itself lost and without runners in the Imperial Under-city. Three elves and two Faunri crept down through the narrow hallways and dank passages in a fearful silence, with but one torch in the hand of their leader to guide them.



Not three hours ago they had trekked through these same tunnels to the streets above, to vanguard another squad trapped in the Temple District back to Milaturi controlled territory. Captain Ellodan had been killed, leaving Lieutenant Kashri with too many wounded and not enough supplies to pull her men out. But that seemed like days ago, at least to Corporal Olorion, one of the two Alv in the wayward company. His brother, young Rulorn, hadn't said a word since the gargoyle tore the Lieutenant in half, and his face had gone white as milk. Next to him, Do'Aran continuously palmed the haft of his mace, as the sweat grew thick under his gloves. For a warrior cathay, Olorion found him a bit on the squeamish side, but then they all were, after today. Even Ko'Jhira, a suthay, and their medic, was quiet.



The only one who seemed unfazed was their squad leader, Centurion Dar'renthian. The only High Elf in the group, he was another example of the Milaturi general's preference for elven commanders, and the tendency of the higher officers to give "unified" commands to those they disliked. Of late these practices had resulted in horrific outcomes- disgruntled officers given command of multiracial outfits, and taking their frustration out on them. Faunri and Wood Alvs were becoming fodder for the Milaturi, FCA, VCA, and Genovans alike.



But the Centurion was different. He treated his men with honesty and respect, something his superiors often questioned, but those under him admired. Through discipline and communication he had led the squad for the last six weeks through the sewers and the city above, longer than most companies could boast, and always managing to get them out just in time. But not today.



When they'd found Lieutenant Kashri and her men, it seemed like the clouds had parted. Too many squads had been lost that week- to save just one would be a boost to morale. But no sooner had they shouldered the injured and the supplies, than stones above broke away in a grey-blue avalanche. Sergeant Rasa'dar, their cavalier, eternally-smiling squad-mate, took a hit to the back of the head. His helmet was of no use- he was dead before he hit the ground. In the pause of surprise that followed, only the Centurion looked up at the crumbling building above. His shout still rang in their ears:



"GARGOYLE!"



No sooner had the word left his throat, than the monstrous shadow descended upon them. Through the storm of blood, screams and steel, Olorion could not remember how the Centurion got them out of there, and into the unmarked sewer section they found themselves in; only that he'd somehow lost his helm in the chaos. Perhaps the Divines favored them. Perhaps it was simply luck. He prayed it was good luck.



As they rounded the next corner, the loud drips became a distant echo when the hallway opened out into a larger space. Entire corners were black as kindlepitch, and the few natural lights were far between, paling in comparison to the torch in the Centurion's hand. He stopped them just before the threshold, raising a finger to his lips and tilting his winged head as if he heard something. Then, as per his strange, yet effective ritual, he sniffed the air with large, cautious breaths. The rumor was he could smell Antas a mile away, and they were inclined to believe it. It had saved their lives more times than any of them could count.



With a silent gesture, he motioned the squad into the chamber, holding their blazing beacon high to spill warm light into the deep. Quickly yet surely, they crossed the distance to the other side. Three fourths' of the way there, Do'Aran spotted something etched into the cobblestones, illuminated by the dim hole in the ceiling above. "Commander!" he exclaimed, recognizing the mark as one used by their scouts. They weren't lost after all. The squad ahead stopped some fifteen feet from him, turning back to see what he'd found.



Just as the Centurion parted his lips to both hush the cathay and inquire as to the delay, a rumble from above shook the stones beneath their feet. As dust fell from overhead, every squad member's gaze was drawn to the center of the ceiling, from where the small quake seemed to emanate. Another rumble jostled the chamber, and the bisected squad looked across at each other. When Do'Aran's eyes met the Centurion's, the stones above exploded in a terrible sheering of stone, earth, and metal, pelting the floor with a torrent of boulders and dirt. A familiar nightmare-shape and heart-stopping roar hurtled to the ground with the debris, already aware of those within.



As the gargoyle bellowed in savage rage, the Centurion hollered in kind to his charges, "Run!" There was no fighting this monster.



Olorion and Rulorn dashed into the passage ahead of them, with Ko'Jhira not far behind. The Centurion stood at the portcullis, a hand outstretched to the sprinting cathay. He'd already forgone the torch for his blade. With terrible speed, the gargoyle charged the escaping squad, closing fast on Do'Aran. The Faunri ran as fast as he could, his mace long gone, reaching out and calling for his commander between exclamations of disbelief at his approaching doom.



"No, no, no, Commander! N-aaaaaaghhhhhhhhh~!"



The Centurion stood his ground, desperate to grab hold of the cathay's ever closing paw. He was inches, just inches away, before terror itself roared and swept the screaming soldier up in a massive claw. Before his squad's eyes, Do'Aran struggled against the beast for just a moment, before he met the Centurion's gaze and yelled, "Run! R-"



With a sickening crunch, the Faunri had said his last.



In the moments Do'Aran's death bought them, the Centurion darted inside the opening and swung his glass blade at the decrepit chain holding the rusty gate open, cleaving it harshly with the razor edge. Dashing inside as the portcullis screeched closed behind them, he ordered his soldiers forward into the dark, scraping up his fallen torch as the gargoyle uttered another roar in anger. Tunnel after tunnel, the remaining squad sped through the depths as fast as their legs could carry them. Ko'Jhira took point, following the Dominion markings that led to safety, while Olorion and Rulorn tried to keep up and not look back. Behind him, the Centurion could hear the beast making short work of the obstacle. His only hope was that the cramped passages would give them enough time.



By Ko'Jhira's lead they passed deeper and deeper into the sewers, some parts familiar, others less so, with the gargoyle never trailing far behind, despite the ever-shrinking tunnels. After what felt like an age, they seemed to gain some distance on the creature, but the Centurion ordered no rest. The look in his luminous eyes told them they were far from safe.



Turning a corner at the end of a long hallway, they came to yet another room in the maze that was the sewer. Ko'Jhira must have sensed something was amiss, for she stopped just short of the threshold and uttered, "Wait..." But just then, the walls shook with another roar, and the beast appeared behind them at the end of the hall. Young Rulorn looked back in terror, and darted forwards into the chamber ahead of them. Startled, Ko'Jhira turned and reached out a paw to grab him, shouting, "Rulorn, wait!" Before she could reach him, a click echoed against the walls, followed by the shrieking sound of metal grating against stone. In the blink of an eye, five barbed, man-sized spikes protruded from the ground and impaled the young elf where he was.



Rulorn's gurgled scream lasted just a fraction of a second, and incited cries of horror from Olorion and Ko'Jhira. But the gargoyle was still behind them, forcing his shape through the narrow hall with bloodthirsty rage. Unable to mourn the young elf, the Centurion cast down his torch once more and scooped up the wood Alv and suthay by the waist, before barreling into the chamber. There were no other doors, no more turns to take. The booby-trapped room had only one egress, and the seasoned veteran would make that last try. A bellow rose in his lungs as he carried them around the spikes and into the chamber, inciting similar yells from the soldiers in his grasp. Another click sounded, but where they all expected a quick death, the great elf's legs propelled them just inches ahead of the rising spikes. Ko'Jhira was nicked in tail, but whole.



Yet another click echoed in the chamber, as the gargoyle scrambled ever near. The third set of spikes rose defiantly to stop them dead in their tracks, but by some miracle, a slight stumble in the Man’s stride set them just behind the razor steel, missing Olorion's head by a feather. But the final blockade barred their exit, and the beast was just moments from tearing them limb from limb. Not missing a beat, the Centurion hoisted his soldiers up, and heaved them over the trap into the hallway behind. Dropping his priceless blade in the murk at his feet, he gripped two of the barbs in front of him, grimacing as he summoned what considerable strength he had, actually managing to budge the solid steel an inch either way. But it wasn't nearly enough.



Putting aside the foolish notion, he turned and found his weapon, and faced the great beast before him. It roared a savage thunder as it escaped the confines of the hallway, spreading its wings and rearing its horned head high to the ceiling, before looking back down at the defiant victims. Ko'Jhira and Olorion scrambled back from the wall of spikes watching the Centurion in horror, but were unable to turn away. The suthay cried, "Commander!" to which he only replied harshly, "Go! That's an order, Corporal. RUN!" as he stood at the ready and adopted a stance, snarling at death's ghastly visage. This would be a good end.



Reluctantly, Ko'Jhira summoned the strength and will to pick Olorion off his feet and push him forward down the tunnel before starting after him, uttering a silent prayer to Khenarthi for the Centurion, rather than looking back.



Now alone with the beast, the Centurion pulled free his winged helm and cast it to the floor, his shining blade and a wall of spikes the only things between him and the monster. The gargoyle roared at him in challenge, and crashed through the spikes to swipe at the elf. But he darted forwards, spinning around the strike and whipping his blade from left to right to slash at the beast's side. Enraged, it tried to claim him with claws once more, but again, the veteran darted away and found purchase in the stony flesh. With another earth-shaking roar, the gargoyle swept its tail around and struck him in the chest, sending him flying into the wall. Its prey dazed from the blow, the monster closed in...



Further down, Ko'Jhira continued to lead herself and Olorion closer to safety, still sprinting despite their exhaustion. Having found the scouts' markings once again, it seemed they were getting nearer and nearer to Milaturi-controlled networks. But before long, they found themselves faced with yet more danger: two dremora, picking clean the corpse of a bleeding spy. Alerted to their presence, the Antas grew malicious smiles, and approached the soldiers with swords drawn. Now faced with a kill-able enemy, courage had once again found its way to Olorion's veins. Angered by the death of his sibling and comrades, he raised his shield and hatchet in a vicious charge, bellowing his rage to the demons before him.



Ducking the first's horizontal slash, be buried the head of his axe in the creature's side, only to rip it free and cut through the back of the second's knee. With the Alv headlong in the fray, the suthay found herself in her ideal combat position, and acted accordingly. Conjuring a spark of cackling mana in her claws, she launched a gout of lightning at one of the Antas, as Olorion made axe-cut after axe-cut in the others armor...



Shaking his head free of stars, the Centurion looked up in time to see the oncoming blow from the beast. Curling into a ball, he managed to avoid the gouging strike, and the gargoyle's claws met only the stones behind him. Grabbing his blade and rolling to a crouch, he slashed the beast's midsection once more, and rose to stand as he claimed ground. When his boot touched the stone below, another click sounded in the chamber, and a fourth set of spikes, not triggered from before, shot up from the muck and pierced the gargoyle's thick hide through and through. Impaled and enraged, it lost footing and slipped further onto the barbs, but reached out all the same to swipe at the altmer. The strike was met only by a vengeful blow of his own to the creature's arm, and repeated again and again as the beast continued to thrash towards him...



As one of the dremora fell to the ground in a crisping husk, Olorion skillfully felled the other, only to keep driving his hatchet into the demon's chest over and over again as the image of Rulorn's death burned his soul once more. As the sparks dissipated from the other body, Ko'Jhira bent to examine the Antas's remains and pockets. As the bellows from behind them raged back into focus, the suthay called out to her comrade, "Olorion... stop this. We must keep moving, before..." As the Alv reluctantly ceased his savagery, tears found their way down his face as he spit at the demon's hacked body, before turning to Ko'Jhira and the way forward. But as the Faunri trailed off, she noticed movement from the body under her. Apparently still alive, the dremora had pulled free something from his armor and clutched it in its hand, while a bloodcurdling chuckle echoed from the still twitching form. It stared up at Ko'Jhira with an endlessly hateful smile, and whispered in a putrid voice, "Burn, mortal. Buuurn..." before cackling some more. Ko'Jhira's eyes widened, and she reached out to Olorion...



Now wounded and partially trapped, the gargoyle was quickly losing the upper hand. As its strength ebbed with every attempted strike, the so did the Centurion add a blow of his own to the beast's hide, crossing ever-deepening cuts over its body and limbs. Though injured, the monster raged at him with every fiber of its being, clawing and scrambling closer and closer until it forced him against and over the destroyed spike trap and Rulorn's ruined form. Despite his skill, the Centurion could not kill this beast with a broadsword alone, and taking up a rent, rusty barb in his left hand, he regained his stance and stared a burning hatred into the wrathful creature's face. His weapons low and adding dark fluid to the dank sewer floor, he waited until just before the gargoyle to swiped at his torso. When the lethal paw swung, he thrust out the makeshift spear and impaled the creature's hand, sending it reeling away with a horrible shriek. Letting go of the rusty spike, he lunged forward and slashed at the beast's neck, the sharpened glass finding great purchase in the stony flesh...



Ko'Jhira screamed in alarm, "No!" her face and palm turned to Olorion in shock and urgency. As the word left her mouth, she attempted to conjure a ward between herself and her comrade. In the same fraction of a second, the dying dremora crushed the rune in his hand, sparks surging from the cracks and exploding into a thunderous fireball. Olorion had no time to react, and was immediately thrown back by the force of the charm as the fire consumed Ko'Jhira and the Antas alike. Her ward had managed to save him from the flames, but not the shock wave, and he flew back against the chamber wall. Battered and dazed, he only heard the suthay's agonizing screams for a moment, before losing consciousness. Blood dripped down the back of his neck...



As the Centurion landed blow after blow on the creature, it began to retreat, though its legs and right arm were now mostly useless. Ducking a wild swing from the left, the Centurion wasn't fast enough to avoid the sudden lunge that followed, and was caught in the gargoyle's talons. It lifted him with ease, bellowing in his face as it began squeezing the life out of him. Struggling against the creature's endless strength, the Centurion screamed in pain and rage, and brought his weapon down with both hands to hack at its arm with fervor. The blade cut deep, and incited another shriek from the great beast. He lifted and swung again and again, hacking twice more into its flesh. Just as the beast released him in its agony, he brought down a fourth swing and severed the creature's forearm, spraying dark fluid over himself and the sewer walls. It howled in pain, and retreated yet again from the Centurion. He snarled at it with bloodthirsty rage, a terrible craze in his burning eyes as he summoned a roar and charged headlong into the bleeding monster. By now, the creature had no chance. The glass blade came forward and pierced the back of its throat, before coming out the back of the gargoyle's head with a spurt of gore. Its body seized for an instant, before collapsing limp and defeated on the damp, painted stones of the sewer floor.



Victorious, the Centurion continued shouting and stood on the dead monster, his rage echoing off the walls as he pulled up on the blade with enough strength to threaten its integrity. With an explosive crunch, the sword broke through the top of the gargoyle's head, flinging dark bits everywhere. His arms fell as he looked down at the beast's ruin, silent now save for his heavy, panting breath. He remained still for the moment of finality, to remember the people lost to the creature, before stiffly stepping over it towards the exit. The dead monster had damaged most of the remaining spike wall, and the Centurion was able to step past easily now.



Slowly, he padded down the tunnels with his recovered torch and a halting gate, nursing his bruised and broken ribs. After some minutes of this slow shuffling, he became aware of a sound coming from further ahead of him, like a great many things scurrying about underfoot. The sound gave him pause, until he heard someone shout from the dark, "He- help, HELP!" The Centurion broke into a limping gallop, clutching his side with his blade-hand and holding his torch up to light the way. The scurrying sound grew louder and louder with each passing second, as did the calls for help. When he rounded the final corner, he was met with a sprawling mass of necrotic hoarvor in the next chamber, ravenously struggling against each other to feed on something against the wall. The lump reached out a hand and screamed in Olorion's voice, "Commander!"



The giant insect's soft shells glistened with a slick, oily ooze in the torchlight, as the Centurion looked on with horror at his doomed soldier. At a loss for what to do, the terrible voice screeched a final request, "KILL MEEEE!" The reflective shells then caught his eye, and with a grimace, he threw the torch at the nearest bloodsuckers. The flames instantly lept from hoarvor to hoarvor, lighting them all in a screeching, sizzling conflagration. Olorion screamed as he too was set alight, but it was not long before the fire burned all to silence.



When flames died away, the Centurion could only walk through the ruined chamber, boots squishing in the tar-like goo beneath him as insect eyes and organs popped loudly. Amidst two piles of ash, be passed the charred husk of a smallish Faunri. He looked away, and limped on in silence back to the Milaturi.



Alive. But alone.



_____





The chirping of birds. The chatter of the small things. The heavy air, littered with shade-bearing leaves that filtered the light of the distant sun. The light jungle breeze blowing between the graht-oaks under the canopy. And all around, as far as the eye could see- brown and orange and green. So much green.



In the middle, stood a Boy. Young, with pale skin, bright blue eyes, and dirty-blond hair. He turned and smiled at this world. All were bright and happy and warm. And there, behind him- a shining face. It shimmered as light off water, and beamed a caring smile. The Mother, beautiful and graceful in every way, opened her arms for an embrace, and the Boy dashed to meet her, laughing.



But something was off. Wrong.



Run as he did, he got no closer. But despite this snail's pace, he continued with a happy face and footfalls. She urged him on, whispering encouraging words across that made him giggle. He lifted his hands to her outstretched fingers, eager to close the gap. But the shining face paused, her light dimming and smile fading.



In the next moment, the shadows pooled and rose together as dark towers, and glared hateful eyes down at the Mother and Child. They seemed to stand taller than all the world, and grew ever more menacing, spouting talons for hands and bloody cinders for eyes. The Boy halted, as did the mirth in his throat, and he looked up with eyes wide with fear, as did the Mother. With a stuttering flourish of hair, she snapped around and shouted for the Boy to run. But the Boy could not hear. The sun had gone and with it his ears, and his sight was following. He could barely stand and watch as the dark towers brought sharp hands down on her.



One landed on each of her arms, and began pulling her into the dark. She screamed again. This time, the Boy ran- not away, but towards her again. Shared laughter had been replaced by laboured breath, smiles by looks of fear, and the happy jog with a sprint of desperation. But he was hindered still, and moved at a crawl. The Mother shouted for him to run away again, but he still could not hear. Gradually, more claws gripped her, and slowly pulled her ever further into the black.



And the Boy pushed, and pushed, and pushed to reach her. The red eyes turned to him and raised talons to halt him that tore at his clothes and flesh. But where he could not hear or see, nor could he feel. He stepped through the razors like barbed vines in his path, rent from head to toe, but so close now. He reached out to the Mother. And she, in terror, gave up on bidding him away, and stuck out a long hand to his. Their fingers just inches apart. So close. So... close...



Young Aeganir sat up with a start, his thin weapon raised to the darkness. Sweat poured down his face and neck, and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Just a dream. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark cabin, lit only by the pale light of the moons through the portside hatch. Just a dream. He lowered the sword, as no one was there, and looked at the sleeping figure at his side. She looked so peaceful on the rickety bed, despite her wounds. Auridon had to be near now. It had to.



With a soft creak of the floorboards, the young man rose to his feet and walked to the hatch. He looked out at the night sky, and its reflection on the water, and gasped. He could not remember ever seeing so many stars under the canopy. It was a beautiful sight, and it calmed him. Just a dream. After a time, he padded back to his spot next to her cot and sat with his head resting against the post. Hours passed, and the gentle rocking of the quiet ship lulled him to sleep once more. Just a dream...





The same dream would plague him in the centuries to come, among others.



______







In a large, sprawling scrit of someone who clearly once spent a lot of time writing in excellent penmanship, but had since fallen out of practice, within the journal of an elven woman long-dead, in matching blue ink. A few of the entries in her hand contained simplistic dates, but eventually they faded out altogether, as her care to mark the passage of time dried up completely.











It has been a long time, Paper. Too long. Or not long enough, hard to be sure. I find it hard to be sure of anything, these days. I found work and good lodging, as the master smith of a noble house. They treat me well, and do their best to keep me from boredom. Good folk, for the most part, but there are more secrets here than I'll ever care to find out. Just as well... never question the hand that feeds you too much, else you'll be wanting a change. All in all, I'm hard-pressed to think of something to complain about, but then I haven't put much thought to it.



I... miss my friends. I miss having friends. The people in the house are nice enough, but... ever since I left the Alvan Kingdom of Milaturi. I miss that smartass bastard Falcren, and his dumb bitch of a wife. I miss Ari, and Amondis, even though he's a complete tool. I hope they're happy together... I even miss that crusty old son of a bitch, Anyndel. I don't like being the oldest woman in the room...



Speaking of my jackass uncle, the other one showed up. The one they said that crazy Faunri killed, Whatshername. Always thought it sounded too easy, especially after all the horseshit that happened first. After... the City, I just... got sick of hating. Sick of wondering which newly-revealed family member was friend or foe. I only ever wanted a normal one... So I welcomed Alurion. Ran with him and his folk, including Chaeonen's uncle(still an odd old bastard)- back into the City. Didn't like it one bit, but we got in on the Blue side. Chance of capture was low- well, Yellow capture, that is. Anyway, knocked out a cultist and carried him out, Vulcren wanted him for something. Didn't ask. Didn't want to know.



So we talked, the old man and I. He reminds me of mother. Maybe more than I'm comfortable with, but... it was a nice chat. Said I might see more of him in the future. I'm not gonna hope, but I'd like to see it. Maybe then I'll have more to tell ya, eh Paper?



In case you were wondering, I'm still not dead. Thought I'd find a good death in the war, but... the Alvan Kingdom of Milaturi wasn't all I thought it was. Gods save the Queen, but her lackeys have spoiled her dream of equality. A damned shame, that is…



_____





A thin sliver of the moon embraced the rolling sands and winds of the desert, her touch cool and calming.



To most.



Heavy paws dug into the uneven ground beneath, claws that were used to the cold touch of dirt and not the sinking feeling of sand, struggling with each step. Out here, the wolf was slower and unpracticed. The winds carried few enticing scents to a keen nose and whatever game there was to be found, was lost. It all ended in frustration.



Hunger gnawed at the belly, twisting hotly like a knife. A sharp ache. It demanded meat. Flesh. It demanded bone.



The moon was some sickened siren, whispering in rusted red ears, coaxing the creature along. Surely, just a little longer and there would be plenty to eat. The Hunt always ended in blood, after all. It was the price to be paid.



Ears swivelled, head snapping towards the breeze.



Powerful legs pounded against the sand, the wolf almost stumbling several times as she braved the dunes. But it was worth it as she laid panting, muzzle peeking over the tip of a hill, bright green eyes searching.



A lone figure. Backpack slung over one shoulder, sword on one hip and a dagger on the other. Thick travelling boots, but only a light pair of breeches and thin shirt. The adventurer wore a thick cloak, likely to ward off the night’s chill.



The red predator coiled. She was patient as the traveller passed by unawares, each step carrying him further from the wolf. She waited until she was almost certain that she was out of sight before creeping forwards. Her pace was slow and steady. Practiced.



And then she slid down the sand of the dune, paws lodging into the malleable earth and tripping her. She tumbled gracelessly, thrashing and kicking about with a furious growl that sliced jaggedly through the silent air.



The adventurer turned.



It took only seconds for the wolf to regain her footing, all fours planted, teeth bared and ears flat. The metallic shing of sword leaving sheath only put the creature further on edge, circling slowly, green eyes fixated on the weapon.



The two faced off for what felt like a lifetime, their gazes daring one another to be the first to make a move.

Like a viper, she sprung, maw open wide and claws poised for the attack. The sword was dull, almost useless as it barely scratched her soft underside.



The traveller cried out in anguish, teeth rending flesh and scraping bone as the wolf tore into his shoulder. Large paws kept him pinned, piercing the skin and drawing more blood, driving the creature mad with hunger. A barely freed hand went for the dagger this time, hilt almost slipping in a clammy palm before it struck.



She howled.



Silver cut through muscle like a hot knife to butter, enraging the beast further as it sizzled into fur and flesh.



It was his undoing as the moon above heard her cry and whispered sweet nothings into her ears once more. When she was satisfied, naught but a gorey mess was left behind, personal belongings lost amongst blood and sand.



The price had been paid.





Darkness enveloped the desert. Sun burrowed beneath sand and the moon clawing her way to the swell of the sky. Footsteps were masked by the sound of both sand and spell, the only trace of the owner, small divots in the darkened earth.



A bridge just up ahead, shadows dancing across it and obscuring its entirety from view. But the masked figure that drew closer with every habitual breath was familiar with the deceiving absences of light. Darkness was their cloak.



The tent pulled into view, beaten by dirt and sand, but enough to keep one at least partially warm when the moon’s breath whisked across the sands.



An abrupt stop, breath held and unneeded. Still as a statue the figure stood, watching, waiting, listening. The tent had moved. Wobbled like some drunkard finding their feet. It was almost a lifetime before another step was taken, and two before the next after that.



Snoring. That partially reassured the figure, despite their breath still trapped within a set of stone lungs. No knife was drawn as the advance was made, no spell murmured in a hushed whisper. The dead of night’s silence was the only sound whispered on the wind. Closer. Closer still. Tent flap peered through. It moved an inch- two now. Still the figure below did not stir. Three. Four.



The masked figure edged within and grew still. So motionless did the creature become that one might have questioned whether they had been carved from stone itself. For a brief moment, fear lurked behind grey eyes, threatening to jeopardise everything.



The tent grew smaller, closing in around the two within it. It wanted to swaddle them. It intent on suffocating them both. Even then the figure did not breathe, did not even dare to blink, for fear it would be heard. Despite what appeared to the figure to be the intent of the man’s home, the figure reached up. Trembling, gloved fingertips tugged at fabric, slowly, agonisingly removing the mask.



What came next was a gurgle. A choking gasp, wet and slick with crimson that stained the tent. Fingers snatched at the assailant, desperate and defiant. But the damage was done, jugular torn. The figure stepped back, mask still hanging as nothing more than a piece of flimsy fabric. They watched as the man lay dying, twitching and grasping at his neck, as if it would somehow stem the torrential bleeding.



It didn't. Again a lifetime seemed to pass as the figure paused, making absolutely certain that their target was dead. And then the grisly after task began.



As the sun emerged from its sandy tomb, the figure was long gone, the tent stained with blood and the owner, in pieces. Jackals the guards had said. An unfortunate way to go.



________

INVENTORY

EQUIPMENT: Arm of Heliopolis, Starter Heliopolite shield, Heliopoilte Platemail
ABILITIES USED:
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Word Count: 20,504
Gathering results: 
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