Melting Souls (Closed)

[Christoph]

Darkness and rain swirled around the chef like a black plague cloud. He was running, though he knew not from what. His feet pounded with muffled percussive thuds against the drenched, rocky earth. His breath went ragged in his chest and his legs burned from strain as he struggled to run in his soaked chef coat and black pants. Yet, no matter how hard her sprinted, he knew that he was not getting any further away from his pursuer.

But what am I running from?

Christopher’s rout of retreat suddenly ended as a massive wall of dark stone masonry appeared in front of him seemingly out of nowhere. He glanced over his shoulder, gazing behind him through his drenched brown hair; he spotted a dark silhouette approaching. Immediately, the frightened chef tried and failed to climb the wall. With an impassable barrier in front of him and something behind him, he was out of room to run. It was time to fight.

He spun around with a splash of mud and a flash of lightning and came face-to-face with a leering devil. Black horns and spikes accented the creature’s red face and head and a matted mane of white hair hung from its unholy head. Chris reached for his arcane sword; the one weapon that he knew was mighty enough to vanquish such a beast. Yet, as he sought it from his waist, he realized that it wasn’t there.

“Looking for something?” asked the dark being, its demonic voice laughing from behind hellishly glowing red eyes. The creature brandished Chris’s sword, its burning glyphs illuminating its wielder’s hellish visage. As it spoke, bile spewed from its blistered lips. “This, perhaps?”

The chef recoiled. “Get back!” he cried, throwing his hands out in front of him and blasting the beast with a vengeful barrage of glowing blue fire. It cackled maliciously as the cook desperately intensified the offensive. “Stay away!” Flesh sizzled like water thrown into cooking oil as black smoke billowed from the demon. Yet, once it was over, the creature still laughed. Oh, that laugh… it chilled him to his core and inflamed both his rage and fear at once.

“Foolish mortal. You cannot destroy me. You cannot fight me any more than you could run from me.” Darkness consumed him. And still, it laughed.

* * * * *

Shlup, shlup, shlup.

The heavy slapping and thick sucking sounds of Cirothe’s clawed feet trotting through the slush and grainy mud greeted Chris as he drifted into a confused wakefulness. He felt for his sword in his first moment of awareness, breathing a sigh of relief once his hand grasped the familiar, comforting hilt. He’d just fallen asleep; it had all been a dream. That realization didn’t make the whole thing any less disturbing, though, as the rare dreams he had always seemed to be significant in some way.

The weary chef sighed, massaged his temples, and tried to rub some life into his unshaven sandpaper face. He squinted as the late afternoon sun glared off the glistening crystalline trees. The air was surprisingly warm and moist; it filled his lungs like an angel’s breath compared to the unforgiving artic air of Salvar. He sat up straight and patted his Ashkore beast’s scaly flanks. The beast had certainly covered ground quickly. They must have already crossed through the mountain boarder into Alerar, given how warm it was. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the jagged peaks close behind and confirmed his suspicion. That was good; it meant that the gap between he and the band of Salvic Sway agents he sought to find and protect was narrowing. It was odd that he’d slept through the border crossing, though. There should have been guards there. They would have stopped him.

“You didn’t eat the border guards, did you?” Chris asked his draconian mount. He chuckled, even though that would have caused quite a bit of unwanted trouble. The last thing he needed was trouble from the law when he already had the daunting task of finding and protecting fleeing Ethereal Sway agents. His smile didn’t last long, and it wasn’t because of the missing guards. It was the dream.

He couldn’t shake the residual image from his consciousness. What disturbed him most was how calm he’d been while waking. He didn’t jolt up with a start; it was as though the nightmare didn’t happen. What did it all mean? It couldn’t have been a flashback from his past because his arcane Prevalida sword had only been in his possession for a little over a month. It meant that the dream was either a premonition or it was alerting him to something in the present that he wasn’t yet aware of. According to his past research on the subject and his experiences, those two possibilities weren’t very different in nature. They merely varied based on how imminent the threat was. Therefore, the real questions were what was the threat and just how soon would it arise.

Christopher’s thoughts were interrupted when Cirothe let out a low snarl, a sound he only made when he caught the scent of fresh blood. The chef glanced around, instinctively alert. The road was leading into a pine forest. It wasn’t particularly dark, but the misty fog created by the rapidly melting snow made for a gloomy atmosphere. The effect of the creepy mist was nothing compared to the display at the mouth of the woods, though.

The source of the scaly, dagger-toothed lizard’s agitation quickly became apparent. Three soldiers, two Drow and one human, were hanging from overarching branches. Rather, what was left of them was hanging. Their flesh had been crudely slashed and flayed from much of their bodies and their stomachs had been cut open. Blood and core was still dripping from their hanging intestines. They were fresh, not even old enough to have attracted more than a couple flies. He guessed that they were two days old.

“Well, it looks like we found the border guards.”

[Christoph]

Chris traveled atop Cirothe through the forest until sunset without incident. Even so, seeing the grisly remains of the border guards left him very ill at ease. What sort of sinister force would be bold, stupid, or desperate enough to commit such murders? More importantly, what could have driven them to do it? He hoped not to find out.

When the sun vanished and the dark horizon drank the last drop of warm color from the sky like a thirsty sponge, the weary chef decided to stop. The scaly mass of muscle of muscle and teeth that was his mount could go for days on end without rest, but Chris did not possess nearly so potent a constitution. His nightmare-haunted nap had only exhausted him further.

“Halt,” he commanded. The Ashkore grunted obediently, digging its claws into the rocks and mud and shuddering as its massive bulk came to a stop. The chef dismounted, finding a dry spot between a pair of thick pines that was large enough to sleep on. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Has he dropped hi pack and started scrounging for firewood, Cirothe grunted.

“Oh, what do you want you big oaf?” asked Chris, smirking and unable to decide whether he was annoyed or amused. The great beast tilted its head and made a sound that was a cross between a guttural whine and a growl. “Ah, so you’re hungry. Go hunt.” The lizard responded to the commanding tone in its master’s voice and darted deeper into the forest with surprising grace. The cook didn’t know the massive monster was capable of being so agile; he could only be grateful that it was eating something besides him.

Chris spent a few more minutes collecting wood and fiddling with the fire before finally plopping onto the mossy ground. Sighing wearily, he closed his eyes for a moment. His exhausted state did little to make sleep any more appealing. Part of it could be explained by the fact that he was in a strange country, camping out in a cold forest where three Alerarian soldiers were dragged and murdered. The larger reason, however, was the thought of having another nightmare.

Being a man who’d accidentally jumped into the dreams of strangers more than once, often with horrific results, Chris had never been the type easily traumatized by his own nightmares. There was a difference in his last on, though, one that left a lingering oppressive shadow in his mind that he couldn’t explain. It would be something worth researching, if he ever got the chance.

The chef yawned deeply and tried in vain to warm his hands by the meager fire. Without thinking about it, reached for his enchanted sword, knowing that it possessed magic capable of warming him to the core. His hand recoiled reflexively from the hilt. Even once he forced his fingers to follow his commands and close around it, the weapon provided none of the heat or comfort he’d expected. Instead, he felt only nausea and dizziness instead.

“What in the hell is going on?” he asked no one, slouching wearily.

Just then, a faint rustling sound trickled from the trees. At first, Chris assumed the source to be Cirothe returning from his hunt. Then he heard clumsy footfalls that were undoubtedly human. Becoming instantly alert, he reached subtly into his pack for his chef knife and peered into the forest. He caught sight of four figures approaching.

“Hail!” he called, keeping his unease from his voice. “I didn’t expect guests tonight.” Chris heard the faint murmurs of the new arrivals talking amongst themselves as they neared.

“Stay close behind us, priestess,” whispered a male voice. The strangers slowly came into view. “Well met, stranger! May we share your fire?” The man speaking was tall, thin, and bald, and was dressed in a simple green tunic. He was pale and possessed unusually bright green eyes. He was a handsome man, save for the fact that he had the look of a sleazy salesman.

“Oh… by all means,” replied the chef after a moment of hesitation. He removed his hand from his bag. Two shorter men, flanked the tall one, angled slightly behind to form a protective semi-circle around the fourth member of their group. One was sickly pale, gaunt, and frail. He appeared young, but lacked the vigor of youth. Chris mused that a strong wind could probably carry him away. The other was a stout, grizzled old man with a hooked nose, grey hair, and wolfish eyes. The three of them parted to reveal the last member of the group. She was the shortest of the far, not even coming up to the chest of the tall one. Her face and slight frame were all but completely covered by a warm brown cloak and hood that made the shivering cook jealous. “I’m afraid I don’t have any food to offer you, though.”

“That is fine,” said the woman, her voice surreally soft and melodic. “We appreciate your hospitality nonetheless.” She settled cross-legged onto the ground while her companions remained standing.

“I never expected to meet anyone else in a place like this,” stated the chef earnestly. He leaned back slightly and tried to relax.

“What do you mean?” asked the tall one, his sharp eyes burning into the cook. The glare made him uneasy.

“Didn’t you see the dead soldiers hanging at the mouth of the forest?” Chris asked. It was then the stranger’s turn to shift uncomfortably at that point.

“We… stayed off the road,” explained the priestess, cutting into the conversation. Chris nodded, struggling to keep suspicion from his face.

The bald traveler made no such attempt at subtlety. “Why would you enter this forest, then?” he asked. “Certainly such a display would have deterred a lone wanderer.”

The winds of discomfort shifted to the chef once more. “My situation required timeliness,” he explained, his voice carefully neutral and his words intentionally vague.

“Chasing after someone?” giggled the cloaked woman, her large brown eyes sparkling mischievously from the other side of the fire. Her gaze made Chris want to look away, but he forced the eye contact to hold, evening cracking a smile to cover his unease.

“You could say that, I suppose,” he replied. Chris paused for a moment as a curious thought entered his mind. He’d heard the men call the petit woman ‘priestess.’ Could it be that she was the Sway agent he was searching fro? Could she be the final seal-bearer that he needed to protect?

The silence must have lasted longer than he’d realized, because the woman spoke again. “Is there something on your mind?”

He nodded. “I have a question for you, miss, one that I’m hesitant to ask,” he stated slowly. All eyes fell upon him.

“Go on,” she said.

He hesitated for a moment, but decided to take the risk. “I heard one of your companions call you ‘priestess’ when you were coming into the open. Do you serve the Ethereal Sway?” He realized immediately that he had made a grave error when three swords suddenly appeared, pointing at him.

“Who are you?” demanded the tall one, his eyes narrowed angrily.

“Wait, hold up!” shouted Chris, scrambling to his feet with his hands held out in front of him. “I’m not enemy of the Sway, I swear.” The three men glanced at each other and sinister smiles appeared.

“In that case,” began the lead man. He nodded in the chef’s direction. “Kill him.” The two lackeys advanced on him with a bloodthirsty eagerness in their eyes.

“You don’t want to do that,” he warned, failing to keep the quail of fear out of his voice, even as he saw his salvation in the gloom behind his attackers. “I don't think he would like that.”

“Who wouldn't like it, scum?” asked the older of the two lackeys, scowling.

Christopher regained his composure and grinned. “Him.” As if on cue, an ear-splitting roar exploded from the shadows. Cirothe’s massive form lunged into the air before its prey had the chance to realize that they were all doomed.

The lizard attacked, pouncing onto the oldest with a sickening crunch. The beast’s mighty jaws snapped ribs and crushed sculls, cutting short panicked shouts. The youngest of the party swung his sword at the angry Ashkor with amateur desperation. The blade merely bounced off the scaly hide. Chris wasn’t safe yet. The priestess rushed him during the initial chaos, closing the distance rapidly. She carried a twisted dagger in her hand and spewed blasphemies and oaths from her once soft and innocent mouth.

“Defiler!” she screamed, slashing wildly with her wicked blade. The small woman was quick, but the chef more than made up for it with wits and finesse. He sidestepped and grabbed her wrist, expertly twisting it behind her back until she dropped her weapon with a pained cry. She flailed against him furiously, raking her fingernails across his face.

“Gah!” he cried as blood ran down the red streaks on his face. “That’s it! I don’t care if you’re a women or not!” He snarled and slammed the priestess face-first into a tree trunk. By that point, Cirothe had pinned down the tall man and was proceeding to literally eat his screaming face off.

“So you’re the chef who murdered Malachi,” coughed the priestess, her voice muffled by the tree. “Not that he didn’t deserve it, but it’s amazing how your loyalties can change so quickly.”

Christopher’s heart jumped. “What did you say?”

She laughed weekly. “And now you’re attacking a woman,” she continued with sadistic venom seeping into her voice. “You’re certainly moving up in the world. What would your mother say if she were still alive?”

He growled, his eyes widening in horror. “Who are you? How do you know about Malachi and my mother?”

“I know many things about you, Christopher Knighton,” she replied, her voice making his skin crawl.

“Glad to hear that I’m famous.” The chef scowled angrily, smashing her harder into the tree. “Tell me, priestess, what do you serve if not the Sway?”

She chuckled again. “I serve the Saint, the Matron of Despair – a real master with real divine power, unlike the works of fiction that your pathetic people have worshiped for the last thousand years,” she spat.

“Denebriel… I figured that I’d run into some of her servants eventually. You must have been tracking the same Sway followers that I am. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she hissed. “You won’t make it to the bridge. You’re a dead man!”

“At least I’ll outlive you,” he condescended. The priestess’s laughter grew even louder and more maniacal. Chris snapped her neck with a swift motion of his arms, silencing her. He slumped to the ground and exhaled slowly in the abrupt silence. “This is not good.”

A low grumble drew the cook’s attention back to Cirothe. The green beast nudged a half-eaten corpse toward him. The Ashkore looked rather pleased with itself, like a cat presenting a mouse to its master.

“Oh… you’re trying to share?” Chris asked with a cringe. He forced a smile. “Thanks… but you can have it.” He patted his mount’s flank and left the creature to eat, knowing that being too close during the feeding process could leave him missing an arm.

“But hurry up. We’ve got to leave right away.” The priestess’s words still burned in his skull. She obviously had friends close by, friends that knew of him somehow. He scoffed defiantly; he wouldn’t go down easily. Real rest, though, would have to wait.

[Vile Inklings]

They say that the body is a temple. What I looked upon was nothing more than a collection of crumbled walls and stained tapestries. The altars were bare, their dark jewels looking emptily up at the sky. Oh, these faces had nothing in them that was a song to the gods that they once worshiped; instead, I saw nothing but an atheist emptiness. An abyss that matched my own personal peace. I had been taught by my mother and the professors at the Knife's Edge assassin's school that what life really came down to was far from divine. There was only the spark of vitality and the cold breath of black that came after a kiss from Death. Still, despite my own godless inclinations, I rather liked the idea of the body as a place of worship. As in the churches that I passed every day as I moved through the Salvarian capitol, each person was different. I, myself, was a lowly altar by a crossroads, unadorned and slight. The men before me, now laying in crimson halos, had once been larger structures than their ruins gave away now. While I had never seen their halls bedecked in full glory, I recognized a couple of faces from a thin sheet of parchment I had painstakingly perused only days earlier.

Under torchlight far brighter than the faint cast of hastily abandoned campfire I was now before, I had been given my first assignment that had nothing to do with a class exercise, but a great deal to do about my academic future. The scoring of our school, and graduation honors wasn't determined by essays or projects, tests marked down by quill and ink. I was one of the lucky students of the Epperson Boys Institute of Knife's Edge. Before a place of books and questionnaires, Epperson was a facility that was built upon the idea of practical examination. Outside of the exercises and bounties distributed by quiet professors in echoing hallways, there were always randomly assigned targets given by Epperson himself. No one knew the Headmaster's full name, but everyone understood what happened if you failed one of his handpicked requests.

I had been reclining in the dormitories, surrounded by rich cream velvet of the sofas and curtains, listening to the delicate sonata that swirled around the room from the small player piano in the corner. The fire, set deep within the marble hearth, was crackling cheerfully, and my mind was so deep within the book spread upon my bony knees that I almost didn't hear the door open. Yet, as the barest whisper of wood moving over deep verdant carpet caught my ears, I hadn't moved fast enough to catch the intruder before strong fingers were knotted into the hair at the nape of my neck. My head jerked back, my Adam's apple bobbing along the curve of my neck, I was forced to look into the eyes of one of Epperson's few assistants. I had recognized her from where I'd seen her outside of his office once. Eyes as cold as Berevarian Decembers, her lips drawn into a thin line, she threw the parchment into my lap more than handing it over. Before I had even gotten over the shock of having been surprised by her, she was gone, leaving only a few casually nettled words to sting me.

"You'll have to be more attentive than that, if you want to get out of this one."

My confusion still lingered as I stood over three bent and broken bodies. The parchment hadn't given me any cause to think this would be difficult. A simple chef had begun to murder followers of Denebriel. How difficult could this be? I'm sure the man was a dab hand at slicing through meat, sauteeing up some fritters, but what kitchen taught anything about looking in shadows for the next poisoned bolt or sharpened arrow? No, a common man, taken my some anti-religious madness would be a breeze. And yet, here I was, with my confidence once again shaken.

Sometimes, an assignment would be given where there would be reinforcements, or perhaps assistance from outside of the school to go along with a hit. These were very rare cases, yet I'd been told of a small group that would distract this Christopher Knighton so that I could kill him quietly and efficiently from afar. Three of this group were now colder than the half melted snow that they lay in. They were also covered in bite marks that I knew couldn't have been left by a hungry chef. In fact, I couldn't think of any Salvarian beast that would have left marks this large, and yet allowed portions uneaten to remain. Nothing surviving in this wasteland to grow that large would have abandoned meat that could be hoarded for the next meal. Proud, the beasts of my country were not, but we were survivors.

Now, looking across smoldering embers of a fire that had been half heartedly doused with dirt no more than a few hours ago, I could see tracks leading away. I made haste, knowing the road, crowned with the last remnants of snow, wouldn't stay straight for much longer. The night was deepening, and if the road forked before I could catch sight of the rogue chef, I'd never be able to see well enough to track him. Days would be lost, and my consequences would be dire. I hoped that he had been sleeping at night so far on his murder sprees, for then he would tire as the evening turned to true night out here. Then, he would rest, and be as vulnerable to me as many mere man, be he butcher or baker or candlestick maker.