How Did It Ever Come To This?

[Iriah Caitrak]

((Closed to Malagen. This thread contains scenes with explicit sexual content.))

“I can see a frozen point in time
That is easy to retrace
Light and darkness are both intertwined
And the elements are in their place

With one motion of her wanting mind
The real world begins to fade
And all the hateful things I have become
Temporarily go away!”
Celldweller – Frozen

It was getting late.

She had spent more time within the walls of The Citadel than she’d originally thought. Though it was not yet dark the sun was setting on the land of Corone and the sky was being set on fire with an artists paintbrush. Blue was suspended as orange and red took over setting the day awash with a sense of awe over something so naturally beautiful. The Calerian could have stood there for a long time and watched as light slowly faded from the sky and left the city in darkness, she could have. But someone bumped into her from behind, sending her stumbling forward on the city steps. Turning around, she glared at him, promptly receiving a very impolite grunt of an apology as the person moved on. Another wannabe warrior with no manners that didn’t understand how the world operated outside of the walls of The Citadel. She ignored him; he was not worth her time, nor a place among her thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, Ira slung her rucksack over her shoulders and headed out into the city. Even though it was getting late the streets were still filled with activity. People went about their daily business and children were still crowding the streets with their carefree laughter. Windows held warm, comforting light from deep within, setting a yellow glow to reflect upon the cobbled streets of the city. Voices could usually be heard if one paused long enough but she was above eavesdropping on strangers in a strange land. And this certainly was a strange land. Here, it was never truly dark, even in the latest hours of the night. Lamps and lanterns burned deep into the night and guards patrolled the streets giving some semblance of safety to the citizens within. She did not understand what the guards were protecting the citizens from; after all in Astaka crime was nearly unheard of. But here in Radasanth, there were areas unfriendly to anyone, foreigner or familiar alike.

There were roads and alleys not meant to be walked through and she didn’t know it but she looked like the best target out there. She was a female for starters and here in Corone being female did not hold the same respect as it did in Fallien. Here men viewed females as weaklings they could easily overpower. And in the fading light of day she looked like a prime target, dressed in foreign clothes with not a single piece of armament upon her body. That they could see. One need not display their weapons for all the world to see. Not in her mind, but the outside world was much different than the one she grew up in.

Before the Calerian realized it she had been walking for some time. The sun was no longer in the sky and she was merely being guided by the streetlights. And she was lost.

“Katsam…”

Stopping, she turned behind her and looked the way she came but she’d been so lost in her thoughts she couldn’t even recognize the street. There were doorways and darkened windows and little chimneys with puffs of smoke rising from within. Yet ahead of her were also doorways with darkened windows and puffs of smoke.

This was just perfect. She’d managed to get herself lost in a foreign city and with not a stranger in sight to help her. Why is there never anyone around to help a girl when she needed it? Shrugging, Ira turned and continued on ahead. If luck would have her then she may run into someone who could give her directions to the Inn she was staying at. If not, well, good thing she didn’t have any plans for the night. Luck didn’t appear to be rearing its beautiful face any time soon, instead curiosity emerged and Ira found herself walking by what she thought was a park. However, when she got closer to it she realized there was a metallic fence surrounding the entire place and grey stones were sticking up out of the ground. Curious, she opened the gate and walked inside. Reaching the first stone, she knelt down in the grass to try and read what was carved into its surface. It was difficult, she had to use the light of the moon and her body kept shadowing it, not to mention she was better at understanding common in spoken form than written. It soon became apparent to her that it was someone’s name carved into the stone and what looked like their age.

Realization clicked somewhere in the depths of her mind. This was similar to The Valley of the Dead they had back home. Standing up, Ira walked deeper into the cemetery and stood before an extremely elaborate stone that depicted a winged human staring up at the sky. A look of content was upon its face. Looking at the carving, Ira read aloud to herself.

“Here lies Jonathan Davis in the twentieth year of his life.”

Here lies…?

Looking down at the ground below her feet, the Calerian let her eyes wander the row of neatly arranged stones. The meaning didn’t take long to follow her confusion and Ira quickly stepped away from the front of the stone. Why would people bury their deceased in the ground!? Why wouldn’t they burn them? Did it not take up large areas of land in order to bury so many people individually and would they not smell? It made little to no sense within her head and she couldn’t grasp the meaning behind using such valuable space for the dead. Their souls lived on, their bodies need not remain in such a way. Their names should always be remembered, always carved into stone, but why would they keep the body?

Shrugging off the thoughts, Ira looked up to the half full moon above her. In Fallien the night sky would be filled with millions of stars, but here with the lights of the city they were somewhat dimmed to her eyes. She could still see them and they were still a beautiful sight to behold. But the desert truly had the darkest of nights.

[Malagen]

“Well, isn’t she a pretty little thing,” a voice slithered through the sharp shadow that a small mausoleum cast. The moon was hanging in the sky like a bleached coin, spraying its argent light all over the cemetery and adding a haunting note to the locale that evoked dread in the hearts of many. Not the pair of scoundrels that stuck to the shadows, though. Mikael and Quorn were small-time crooks, usually doing small mischief for a small amount of coinage and tonight was no different. Svarth Finnes, one of the most prospective Bazaar merchants, was buried today, together with a lot of his belongings. A lot of rather pricey belongings. Using the simple reasoning that the dead fat blob didn’t need those belongings anyways, Mikael and Quorn decided to liberate them from their earthy prisons. Until they saw her, that is.

“Hey, I saw her first. I get the first turn,” the second voice added, his eyes glued to the curvaceous woman that just strolled into the benighted graveyard, looking all foreign and too sweet to pass on. They both knew that she probably wouldn’t be overly interested in spending the night with a pair of grave robbers, but it wasn’t like they heard the word no before. And it wasn’t like they didn’t know how to change her mind. A bit of slapping, and bit of roping and they would bring out her pliability soon enough.

“Whatever. She looks more then enough of a woman for both of us,” the first voice again, accompanied by two hands rubbing against each other and a tongue passing over his jagged teeth and broken lips.

“She is,” the third voice said, emotionless, as chilly as the evening, coming from behind the lurking pair. “And she’s mine.”

By the time the horny pair registered the alien voice and turned around to connect it with the appropriate face, they were dead. A saber was lifted above them, momentarily catching the silvery gleam of the moon before it sunk back into the shadows and bit into their bodies. The first slice halved the hooded head of one of the prowlers diagonally, obliterating him before he even got a chance to utter a cry. His comrade managed a whimper, his face red from the spray of blood, his mouth filled with the gut-wrenching taste of the crimson liquid, but by the time he noticed a pale face of the devil that emerged from the darkness, he too was sent to meet his maker. A double movement of the sword first opened up his belly, then his throat, leaving the head connected with the rest of the body by skin and about an inch of muscle before he too collapsed to the ground.

Sparing only enough time to wipe the blood off of his saber, Malagen returned the sword to the scabbards in his left hand before he stepped out of the shade, a black specter in an illuminated night. He had been following Ira through the streets ever since she left the Citadel, staying out of sight, keeping his eyes on her and his retribution pending until the right moment. The right venue. And the tribal girl waltzed straight into it. If there was a more fitting place to end her life then a cemetery, Malagen was unaware of its existence.

There was no anger in the barbarian... or at least that was what his mind kept insisting on, canceling out all emotions as it usually did. But the truth deviated from his usual machine-like demeanor. Because there were some feelings involved, born back in the enchanted arena and feeding on every moment he looked at her. The Dram couldn’t define these emotions yet – they were such a novelty to his emotionless being – but there was a definite upheaval within him, screaming with desire to burst out. And Malagen wanted that turmoil gone. It was something that was trained out of him, something that did not compute, and the only solution he could think of was cutting it off like a gangrenous limb before it caused more damage. That was why he followed Ira. There was only one solution to this problem she caused.

Death.

Whether it would be his – highly unlikely, his mind stated confidently – or hers, it was something that was about to be decided. Either way, tonight this usurpation that Ira caused by her rejection was coming to an end.

“I hope you picked one to your liking, wench,” Malagen said as he approached the purple-haired foreigner, his gait steady and calculated, making each step monotonously similar to the previous one. His hood was drawn, but under the acute light of the moon it did little to obscure his face. “Because I’m about to put you into the ground.”

The thumb of his left hand pushed against the armguard of his saber, unsheathing an inch of the blade and announcing his intentions rather clearly. Death came to collect Ira’s soul in a place that was a monument to all those it collected already. And Malagen was its bringer.

[Iriah Caitrak]

She hadn’t been paying attention. So used to the safety of her home that the danger of this place eluded her mind. Besides, what was the point of keeping her senses open when this placed teemed with life, with souls? All she would get was confused and a huge headache with all the spiritual energy that was around her. Still, she was regretting it and she knew she should have been more careful, watchful of what was going on around her. Her training as a Calerian had dictated she be careful, but not in such a place as this. Fallien was too tame, she was too naïve about the world and her rude awakening could cost her a life she was not ready to leave yet.

The release of two souls pushed into her thoughts and she felt herself tense.

The souls lingered.

Their energy pulsed into the area like the overbearing beat of a heart. She remained still, waiting to see what happened next. And as she reached out she realized there was a third soul in the cemetery. This one was stilled locked within its mortal shell and it was close to her as well. Familiarity ran through her at its presence but she was not skilled enough to know what mortal it belonged to. Energy felt too familiar, one soul like any other.

She stared out from the corner of her eyes, careful not to move, not to alert whomever was so close to her. But she couldn’t keep the charade up. Not when she perceived for the briefest of moments something flashing in the moonlight. The Calerian turned then and the form that stepped out of the shadows sent a cold shiver down her spine. It took only a moment for her eyes to pierce through the thin veil of darkness this region called night and look at his face. It was unmistakable and certainly not something she would easily forget. And the words he spoke erased the last sense of doubt from her mind.

But how…?

He must have followed her from The Citadel. This entire time, as she traversed through this city, lost, he had watched her and she’d had not the slightest clue. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as the anger washed over her. But she quickly stamped it down and kept her emotions in check. Ira knew she was in a dangerous situation when it slapped her in the face and it was slapping, hard. Malagen had easily been able to overcome her in the illusionary world of The Citadel, a nuance she could ignore. It was after all a conjured realm and the dead would be revived. But out here the stakes were considerably higher and there was no mistake in her mind he was playing for the highest of all. He wanted her life. And the scary part was, she was unsure if she could stop him from taking it.

How had it come to this? How had a simple sparring match in The Citadel come this far that her life and possibly his too hung precariously over a chasm? What had she done to send him over the edge? Surely her rejection was not enough of a reason to end the life of a living creature. Was he that cold? She was not going to go down without a fight though. If her life was going to end in some far away land by the hand of such a thing as him she was going to take him down with her. But she had no intention of losing.

“I thought the one with the asthipajara would suite you perfectly.” An overconfident smirk, hiding her doubt, slid over her face. The mask was on, the battle was beginning and she knew she needed to win. There was too much at stake to lose. But if she won and she let him live would he just walk away and leave her be, or would he continue to follow her? The answer was not known and it gnawed at her conscience and at the pit of her stomach. She had always been under the assumption that, better her own life than the life of another. But putting this man into the equation possibly changed things. There were already two dead behind him. She could just faintly see their bodies in the moonlight, the shimmer of their blood the most prominent distinction. Their souls still lingered, desperately trying to reclaim what was already lost. There would be no second chance for them.

Her training and instincts as a Calerian dictate that she should take care of them. Her fingers were itching for her blade, for the final feel of the spiritual energy they emitted as their souls crossed over. But she couldn’t possible accomplish that while Malagen was before her.

Taking a deep breath, Ira calmed the fluttering beat of her heart and summoned her armour. She hadn’t used it within The Citadel, but every advantage was needed for she knew her skill was below that of his. It pained her to admit it but she did not live within a world of fantasy and she was above lying to herself in such a way. One moment she stood before him wearing nothing the deep purple and red robes that had adorned her before. Then as if it had been there all along armour covered her body. Brilliant in the light of the moon, is shone like that of mythril, pure and white and teeming with her spiritual energy, the energy it took to form it. And formed it was. Fitting her body like a glove was one solid piece of metal covering her torso from her chest down to her hips. Her shins were armoured as well and her entire left arm was covered with the mystic metal. Leaving her right arm covered only to the edge of her elbow. It was not something she found herself needing outside Purgatory often. But in a situation like this she was glad she had it.

Her hands did not remain empty for long. Her half swallows quickly formed themselves, Uriahd and it’s nameless partner held in her relaxed fingers. The thought of appealing to him, of asking him to stop this nonsense crossed her mind and was quickly squashed. She understood such a thing as pride and she had much of it. Instinct also told her that such an action would help her little here. Brute force was the only thing he would understand. She would not make the first move though, that was his decision.

[Malagen]

He knew she wouldn’t run, even though fleeing was the course of action that many would’ve opted for instead of facing the murderous barbarian in this sepulchral locale. If Ira were the type of a woman that cowered in front of words and threats, Malagen wouldn’t have wasted his time with her in the Citadel. Instead of the usual mellowness that dwelled within most common women, there was might in this exotic southerner, the stubborn kind that reared its prideful head even more when push came to shove. It was what lured him into temporarily abandoning his regular foible and what ultimately forced him, the Dram messiah, to yield despite having the upper hand during the course of their battle. It would’ve been an impressive feat if Malagen was the type that had the ability to be impressed.

As it was, it was just a card up her sleeve that started to lose potency. Yes, she was a strong woman, and yes, in some obscure, half-emotional way he coveted her, but they played that game already and it led to nothing but words of deception and degradation. Most men would’ve collected their injured pride and let the whole thing pass. Most men would’ve walked out of the Citadel with a smug smile on their face, happy to trade a fraction of their pride for a chance to grope Ira once or twice. But Malagen wasn’t most men. Unlike their lax minds that were often neither here nor there, his operated with much more rigor, following the strict guidelines that led to the extremes. He wanted everything or nothing at all, and in case of the latter, he demanded satiation in one way or the other. Death did a pretty good job at that, especially if his victim begged for mercy before the coup de grâce.

If there was some begging to occur tonight, however, Ira showed no intention of doing it. The initial surprise that his entry elicited on her face dissipated just as fast as it crept into her lineaments, replaced by the same smarmy, dominating smirk that crested her lips back in the Citadel. It was a trap, that cocky smile of hers, but it was also a mask behind which she hid her uncertainty, her weakness, her true face. As if to prove his assumption wrong, Ira did her little magic again, summoning metal out of thin air. This time it formed a plate of armor over her curves, the enameled metal clinging to her body almost skin tight, enveloping her entire upper body. Malagen allowed a smirk. All she really succeeded in doing was proving her own precariousness. Armor was for the weak, for those who felt unable to strike their opponent before they were struck.

“Perhaps,” he retorted to her words as his calm footsteps came to a halt, leaving some fifteen feet and three burial mounds as the only obstacle between them. Their eyes found each other in the gray darkness of the cemetery, so similar in color and yet portraying such different emotions when they collided. Which was to win tonight; his hauntingly calm void or her tumultuous storm? “But I’m not the one who’s about to die.”

Her curved weapons were called forth, but they were only a minor nuisance. It was all about the skill and unless she managed to miraculously discover some forgotten technique between the Citadel and the graveyard, he had more of it. Resolve, heartiness, stubbornness, they were all admirable traits, but they failed in comparison with true prowess. You could be a raging bull and you would still follow the rest of the stampede into the gorge. Not that Malagen was about to allow her a running start, or any kind of start for that matter. Play time was over. It was time for this wench to meet the beast she’d been poking with a really short stick.

“Farewell,” he said in a low voice, and with that word he exploded towards the woman. Unlike back in the Citadel, the barbarian unleashed his full power, accelerating from his stationary position to full speed almost momentarily. His feet stepped from one grave onto the other in three quick steps and already he was on top of her. His saber flashed as it left the scabbards, the metallic sound the harbinger of the diagonal upwards slice. His movement was fluid and impeccable, the initial attack followed up by a horizontal slice aimed at the neck. But even though they were perfectly executed, both attacks were still just a ruse, a preparation for the final attack behind which Malagen put all his strength. His saber came lashing at the woman’s undefended groin, aimed to tear both her tendons and femoral artery, thus bringing a quick conclusion to her resistance. Once she was down and bleeding, there would be plenty of time for begging.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Her heart leapt into her throat as she watched Malagen speed towards her. The organ lodged itself in the passageway and beat wildly against the walls, restricting her airflow. She knew the moment she’d seen Malagen that it was going to come down to this. She knew he’d been serious, but it was different when it really started. Gone were the safe walls of The Citadel, replaced by the desolation of land filled with the dead. She knew she should be doing something, moving, protecting herself but the whole thing felt like it was going by so slowly. It felt like she was trapped in sand and no matter how much she struggled she couldn’t seem to move. Yet even if she could her mind had gone blank. No moves came to her. No defensive posture, nothing. Her mind was rebelling against her at the worst possible moment.

The whole thing came crashing down towards her. The scene sped up as if she were merely watching some sick illusion and not actually participating. One moment everything felt so slow and then the next it quickened. Instinct alone saved her from the attacks. The hollow night was replaced by the sound of metal impacting against metal as she deflected Malagen’s first blow. The second she merely stepped back away from, out of range, out of harm. But the third came in too fast. It cut through flesh, muscle and tendon. And that was all it took, one split second. Her leg buckled under her weight and threw her forward, her knees impacting on the hard dirt and sending shocks up her body. Her half swallow sank into the dirt to help brace her as she fell. In one simple move he had cut her down. All her years of training, all the battles she’d fought had mattered little. All in one move.

Shock set in first, leaving her mind disbelieving. She tried to move her leg but it wouldn’t respond. No matter how much she willed for the limb to do something the muscles wouldn’t move, not the way she wanted them to. Then the pain started. Dulled by the adrenaline, she could barely feel it at first but it quickly grew. In seconds it felt like Malagen had cut off the entirety of her leg and the throbbing and stabbing did not appear to be subsiding anytime soon.

Releasing her death grip on Uriahd, Ira placed one of her hands over the wound. She needed to apply pressure to it; she needed to stop the bleeding even if her mind told her it was futile she had to. The blood flowed quick and thick through her fingers. When she pushed her hand against the wound harder one of her fingers slipped deep inside. The sudden pain came out as a strangled cry. Nausea set in from it and bile rose in the back of her throat, it’s acidity burning all the way back down. The wound was right where her thigh met her groin and it was deep. It had severed major arteries and because of it she was probably going to bleed to death. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily, no she couldn’t. She’d been in helpless situations before and had the scars to prove she’d lived through them. She was not going to let him win this easily.

The Calerian looked up at the Dram whose face showed no emotion for what he’d just done. While she couldn’t help her pain filled expression from appearing.

“I…can’t believe…you did it…” Even her words sounded pained.

She couldn’t believe that someone could be so cold and uncaring. She couldn’t. But he could.

Without warning the world around them stopped. Everything froze in its last movement, except them. The branches of the nearby trees no longer swayed in the wind and the grass remained still and silent. Her shallow, heavy breathing was the only thing to break that silence, uncomfortably loud. Colour began to drain away from everything, except them. Everything that was once vibrant and alive turned grey, then began to rot. Headstones fell over and crumbled as if centuries were passing in seconds. The trees lost their leaves, their barren and twisting branches resembling mangled and broken fingers reaching outwards. The houses beyond the cemetery faired no better. Their walls crumbled, their windows broke and their roves caved in. Puffs of smoke no longer rose from the remains of their chimneys and there was no warmth to be found. Only darkness her eyes could not penetrate.

This was Purgatory. This was her realm and she did not plan on allowing Malagen to leave here alive. But not by her hand, no. There were creatures here that could do that for her because even now she could feel her strength waning. The transition to Purgatory ended, but still nothing moved. Everything in here was dead and forever frozen in time, everything except them. But for how long? If she could get out of here after the Fallen had taken care of him…if she could survived that long. But then what? Crawl to the nearest house? Travelling to Purgatory takes energy and so did staying in it. It was something barely noticeable to her before, but now when she was weakened she could feel the strain of staying here. She would not have to hold out for very long though, already she could feel Fallen. The presence of their souls made her feel ice cold on the inside. And they were quickly moving towards them. Fallen were always drawn to life.

Taking in a sharp breath, Ira eased herself back against one of the headstones as she tried to ignore the pain.

So this was how she was going to die. In some random fight that occurred all because she wouldn’t have dvailiggya with some siahd…all because she’d wounded his pride. All because things didn’t go his way. It was a sad reason to end another person’s life and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. There was no grand battle against Fallen for her, instead she died at the end of a cold-hearted bandhakineya’s blade. Perhaps she’d get to see her mom again…perhaps she’d see Uri as well.

She caught sight of the Fallen as they made their way into the graveyard. They were the only things moving in this place and their appearance made them stick out in all the grey. Their skin was blackened and burnt looking, clinging to their disfigured bodies. Faces with sightless red eyes that never blinked observed her and Malagen and mouths that never closed silently screamed their rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Every one of them was different, every one of them mangled in some new fashion. She could see one that had ten long claws for fingers, one with a blade protruding from its forearm and another with quills covering certain areas of its body. Amongst the Fallen were the barely corrupted, those not yet completely overtaken by the evils of Purgatory. They still looked human, except their skin was slowly rotting and falling away to reveal the white bone beneath. The only thing they all had in common was the void in their chest, the pitch-black area where their hearts used to lay. She knew Fallen well enough; they’d attack Malagen first. She was wounded, she was dying and of barely a threat to them. They’d fight him and he’d fight back, but he couldn’t hurt them. This was her realm. This was Purgatory. Here, he could do nothing.

[Malagen]

It was always the same. The disbelief, the remorse, the eyes that looked up towards him, betraying a constellation emotions. It was as if on both the conscious and the subconscious level all his victims knew that death came to collect and the gist of their emotions started to fight for survival, for getting out through these windows of the soul in order to make themselves known. Some begged, some cried, some cursed his mother and the festering womb that gave birth to such a monster, but in the end they were all forced to yield to the end that his blade brought. Malagen never understood why everybody made such a big deal out of it. Death waited for everybody at the end of their road and whether you made your peace with that fact or you whined in disbelief made no difference to it. Everybody dies.

A pair of unimpressed, uninterested eyes looked down at the woman that struggled with her wound. There would be no salvation for her, he knew. The action unfolded the way he calculated, the way he anticipated, the way he saw it before it actually took place, and regardless of how much her desperate hands pressured the wound, they couldn’t prevent life that seeped out of it. Perhaps it wasn’t the cleanest death, but the night was still young and his blade was still out of the scabbards. Given their current position, Malagen figured a decapitation would’ve been a fitting conclusion to one of those tales that he always tried to forget. Always tried and always failed. Failures were wounds that never truly healed. Still, her death seemed like a good alternative. It was easier to cope with failure if you were the only one who really knew about it.

He lined the edge of his damascus saber with her neck. There would be no goodbye speeches, no last minute revelations, not on his part anyways. He brought death, plain and simple and uncouth, no addendums.

And then everything changed.

Malagen didn’t see it at first, his eyes fixated on those of his latest victim, but somehow he was able to feel it. It was like a shadow passing over him, a change somewhere at the edge of the senses, growing in magnitude until it manifested itself. And suddenly the world around him started to fall apart. Stone crumbled as if centuries passed in a blink of an eye, trees lost their leaves as if some conjurer snapped his fingers and brought in early autumn, the very grass beneath his feet withered and decayed. It was as if the world around him was a painting and somebody threw a bucket of water over it, making all the colors melt and mix until there was nothing but the sick grayness all around him.

Uncertainty swept over his face for a moment and it lasted just long enough for his mind to provide the plausible explanation for this metamorphosis. And then his lifeless smirk was back on. It was all Ira’s doing. The witch could manipulate metal as if it was plaster; making an illusion such as this one was probably an even easier feat. He let her crawl away from him, semi-amused by this dead world she summoned. What did she think? That he would cower in fear of this imagery? That it would strike dread into his bones and make him spare her life?

“Interesting,” Malagen spoke in a tone that made it clear that he really thought otherwise. “But pointless. Do you really believe that this fake nightmare is going to save you?”

Of course it wouldn’t. He was the nightmare here, the boogeyman that lurked in the shadows. Everything else was unreal, a pretense that was supposed to distract and intimidate, the disfigured zombies included. About a dozen approached him, screaming and howling and waving their gangly limbs in an attempt to strike fear into him. In response, the dark barbarian sheathed his blade. They'd pass through him the way incorporeal illusions always did. And once her final attempt failed and she knew she tried everything and failed, he would kill Ira.

But this time events didn’t unfold the way he predicted.

The first walking corpse swung its clawed hands like a werewolf, growling through its yellow, jagged teeth while doing so. And to Malagen’s surprise, instead of passing right through him like a mist, the claws dug into his left shoulder, tearing a potion of both his coat and his flesh. The Dram stumbled sideways, stifling a cry and a cringe and covering his surprise with a firm frown. He reached for his blade, but another strike came from behind, a plank with rusty nails digging into his back and nearly throwing him on his knees. He finally succeeded in unsheathing his saber then, but when he thrust his blade through the chest of a specter that had swords for hands, the metal met no resistance, passing through the black flesh as if it wasn’t even there. He tried again, and again, evading the attacks of others, but he was fighting vapor it seemed, and the vapor struck back like a mallet.

“This is your devilry, witch,” Malagen spoke, backpedaling away from the wraiths and towards where she sat. There was no panic in his tone though. He knew a solution to the problem; when illusions posed a problem, get rid of the illusionist. “And it will die with you.”

[Iriah Caitrak]

“What if there’s a God a Hell and Heaven?
Fire is the torment I must face
Dying by the souls I have forsaken
No one’s gonna catch my fall from grace!”
Kamelot – Elizabeth: III – Fall From Grace

He fell for it.

His assumption brought a smirk to her face. How presumptuous of him to think that she had done all of this merely to save herself. That was not her goal at all, no; in fact her goal was his downfall. He would be on his knees before the end of this and then that infuriatingly emotionless smirk on his face would disappear. Yet, as the first blow was struck she found no pleasure in it. When he sheathed his weapon and faced the Fallen head she thought it the end of all this, but that was not so. The first blow was merely to his shoulder and the look on his face though of much improvement was not satisfactory. Seeing him stumbled forward almost to his knees caused no happiness within her when it should. All it left was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth. She could derive no pleasure in watching another person die, nor could she find it within herself to enjoy the knowledge that she was the one killing him. Her hands were already stained with the death of one person and now she was about to add another. Would Sanctuary still open its doors to her? Or would she be cast into Abyss with Malagen? For though she had killed one—soon to be two—he had killed many. He had not told her, she didn’t need him to. It was in his eyes and his disregard for life. Even telling herself she was saving others could not completely alleviate the guilt beginning to grow.

Ira was not built for killing and she did not want to kill him.

Was it better to kill the monster or set the monster free on the innocents of society?

How easily she went from wanting him dead to wishing for no such part in his demise. Seconds ago she had been sure. Where had that determination gone? Did her will abandon her when she most needed it? But her mind was not set. She was still debating with herself. If she left Purgatory now she could save Malagen, but no matter what she did she was still going to die. He had made sure of that.

Her mind was drawn away from its musings by Malagen’s words and a smile weakly tugged at the corners of her lips. How easily he could solve this dilemma for her.

“Your first mistake was thinking…this was to save myself…it was to kill you.” She shook her head as her eyes observed him. A mix of amusement and pain in their silver texture. They were the only things still vibrant on her. The colour of her skin was already paling. The dark tan that made her look exotic disappearing and leaving her feeling cold. “So go head…kill me. Then you’ll be in for a real surprise…”

The armour she had summoned at the beginning of all of this faded from her body. She could no longer sustain the energy it took to keep it upon her. Not that it had helped when she’d needed it anyway. The robes underneath her were soaked in her blood. Once purple and red they were now almost black and sticking to the skin around her hip, groin and all down her leg.

Shifting her position, the Calerian sucked in a lung full of air as a fresh jolt of pain worked its way up her leg and torso. “If I die, you’re stuck here. And they wont care how skilled you are. The Fallen will kill you eventually…after all, you can only dodge for so long.”

He was standing right beside her. Her head rolled back uncomfortably just to look up at him and her words seemed to have little effect. She hadn’t expected them to. But beneath that cold exterior he had to be thinking about it.

While they had been talking the Fallen had not been idly watching from a distance. Looking passed Malagen Ira could just see one of them sneaking up on the warrior. Before she realized what she was doing, the Calerian leaped forward from her sitting position, a small throwing dagger appearing in the loose grip of her fingers. She threw it towards the Fallen with more strength than she thought capable of at that point in time. The dagger sailed through the air, the trajectory slightly off. But it still found it’s home. Instead of burying itself in the flesh of the Fallen it passed into the darkness in the centre of its chest. Without warning, the creature disappeared leaving a black and red butterfly in its wake. A new manifestation of the corrupted soul it had become. All its guilt, all of its regrets and evils done after death were passed onto her. She could feel them within her. The butterfly disappeared after only a few moments as well, but Ira never got the chance to see it. The sudden movement had ripped her wound and the pain left her breathless and seeing blackness. One of her hands was shaking but she couldn’t seem to stop it and she had to continue to remind herself to breathe. Shallow gasps for air that came at irregular intervals. At first she thought she had clenched her eyes shut and couldn’t open them, but as her vision cleared she realized the pain had blinded her.

She was lying on her back against the hardened earth. There was something digging uncomfortably into her spine but she couldn’t muster the strength to move. Above her the endless grey expanse of this realm’s sky was the only thing she could see.

“To think…” her words were a whisper, “I’m going to breathe my last…in Purgatory…abhistadevata…”

Closing her eyes against the rot that was this realm, Ira waited. It was all she could do now.

[Malagen]

Lies.

That was what Ira tried to serve him. She wasted some of her last breaths on feeble attempts to convince him that this illusion was actually some kind of a purgatory and that her conjured monstrosities were the fallen. Whatever that meant. It boiled down to the fact that he was stuck in this place, defenseless against her summons, and that she was his only ticket out of here, and that he should probably repent for his evildoings and yield and be saved and live happily ever after. Or some other fairytale akin to that. Malagen had to admit that it was a decent bluff, but his rational mind was far too sensible and realistic to actually buy it. It was all about numbers and odds, and regardless of the macabre surroundings and the peculiarity of its inhabitants, chances that Ira’s claims are true were slim at best. On the other hand, the possibility that this madness would end once Ira was dead was rather good. Malagen, never a risk-taker, knew what he had to do.

But when the robust barbarian knelt next to Ira and prepared his saber for the deathblow, the rock-solid certainty with which he executed all of his actions was opposed by the candor in her eyes. The venue was different, as was their current positioning, but the flame in her eyes was something he saw before. Back in the Citadel, when they stood toe-to-toe and she threatened to take his life with her twin blades, there was the same cold fire burning in the silver of her eyes. And just like back then, it spoke of truth. Malagen didn’t know whether or not her words were actually true, but Ira’s glare made it clear that she believed every single thing she said. And while that didn’t change the odds dramatically, it was enough to shake the very foundations of his resolve.

Could it truly be? Was this hapless witch really capable of such powerful magics? This weakling that he cut down in three moves, could she really be the bringer of his demise? The blade in Malagen’s hand didn’t shake, didn’t waver, but it didn’t move towards Ira’s neck either. His pale visage was rigid, unchanging, but below it the cogs were turning, reevaluating the situation. And with each second that he spent deliberating, the odds were becoming less and less stacked against Ira. Ultimately, it all once again came down to the very thing Malagen preferred; playing it safe. Killing her under an assumption that her death would eradicate the magic was neither here nor there; it could yield the desired result or it could not. On the flip side, if he let her live and struck a deal with her, he had a guaranteed ticket out of this mess. And then he could kill her without any risks being involved.

But before the dark swordsman even got a chance to start negotiating, Ira was on the move. Despite looking jaded to the point where she was about to faint, the woman managed to retrieve a portion of her flare. And to Malagen’s great surprise, she used it to save his life. His life. The life of a demon that was a hairsbreadth away from ending her own. The walking dead that was upon them both shrieked as Ira’s dagger passed through the black hole in his chest, its body collapsing as if it was made of sand. In its stead a single butterfly spread its wings, bringing a tinge of red to the collage of darkness. It lasted only for a moment though, this speck of vivid crimson, until it was chased away by the Fallen. Three of them approached in their agonizingly slow steps, with at least a dozen behind their backs and who knew how many still lurking in the black mist that surrounded the locale like a shawl.

Malagen returned his attention to Ira. The exotic woman was hanging by a thread, life so faint inside of her body that her skin grew pale and cold. Her eyes were closed, but those breasts that he coveted until a little while ago were still rising and falling. His right hand moved with a purpose, returning the damascus sword to the sheath in his left before proceeding to slap her cheek.

“Snap out of it!” the barbarian commanded her, raising his voice a notch. The yawls and growls and teeth-grinding behind his back were growing in volume, a gruesome background noise that forced an almost human hue into the sound of his voice. His azure eyes were still solid ice though, plummeting down towards her dazed argent ones from above. “Listen to me. You don’t need to die here. If you take us out of here I’ll get you to a healer.”

Did he really mean those words or were they just empty promises? Even Malagen himself didn’t know at that moment, but the answer to that question was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was whether or not she would believe him and take them away from the metamorphosed graveyard. Behind Malagen, three specters approached, their disfigured, tortured faces rising over his shoulder, rage spewing through their eyes. There was no time for palavers anymore, no time to ponder on the repercussions of their actions, no time for debates. Just one last promise.

“You have my word.”

[Iriah Caitrak]

The slap across her face was jarring. She’d almost been gone as unconsciousness slowly sneaked up on her and blanketed her mind. The brief moment had been blissful as she could no longer feel the pain of her wound and her body was no longer as cold as ice. But then she had lost it. Like sand it slipped through her fingers. The sudden contact of his hand snapping her mind back to reality just as he had commanded her to. Her eyes cracked open, but it was so hard to keep them that way. They were so heavy and all she wanted to do was sleep. All she wanted was that blackness again. But he was talking to her, yet her own sluggish mind took longer than normal to hear and understand what Malagen was saying.

She didn’t have to die here, yet hadn’t he been the one who’d hunted her down just to kill her? Why was he suddenly willing to allow her to live? Was it only to save himself? Of course it was; whom was she trying to kid. Now that he actually believed her words and knew that killing her would only damn himself, he was just looking for a way out. This was no happy fairytale where he would change his mind and suddenly regret his own actions. Self preservation was one of the strongest traits a human had, even the emotionless humans that thought themselves so much better than others, were the same when brought down to base needs. Could she trust him though? If she took him from Purgatory would he really take her to a healer or would he leave her to die? Her mind said he wouldn’t. It screamed at her to realize how little people meant to him and how he would laugh at her naivety once she had freed him from this place. But her instincts, they told her to take the chance. Ira didn’t know whether to listen to her logic and reason or her gut, which had never steered her wrong before. This time it could cost her, her life, either way she might die. If she stayed here it was certain death for them both. If she left there was a chance he would honour his word.

Unlike before, his words weren’t hollow. There was a tinge of emotion lining their edges but whether or not that meant something she wasn’t sure.

There was no more time to think about it. As she’d been searching his cold eyes and warring within herself, the Fallen were closing in on them. She couldn’t debate any longer. She had to make her decision now or have it made for her. Ira only hoped she would not regret this.

Pursing her lips into a line thin, Ira reached out and grabbed Malagen’s arm. Her fingers wrapped around it as hard as they could, but her grip was weak. There were words flying through her mind. So many different things she could say to him but she knew they would do her no good. If he was not going to keep his word nothing that passed her lips could change that.

The world around them froze.

In Purgatory nothing moved, nothing but the Fallen. Their cries cut off as their disfigured bodies ceased their incessant clawing towards Malagen’s back. They slowly began to fade, falling apart like so many grains of sand and leaving nothing behind. In Purgatory they would stay. The stones around them were picked up from the ground by unseen hands and slowly made whole once more. Names appeared on rough surfaces and piles of rock took shape into winged figures that looked upon Ira and Malagen with sad faces that judged not. Leaves returned to the trees they had departed and the homes in the distance rebuilt themselves. Colour slowly began to bleed into the grey. Light set panes of glass ablaze and the sky was filled with the stars and moon once again.

Normally the transition from Purgatory to Althanas was instantaneous but in her weakened stated Ira was having a hard time bringing them back. The closer she was to death the more Purgatory tugged and pulled at her soul, trying to rip it from her body. It left her panting and dizzy and running out of energy. When she didn’t feel pain, she felt a tingling sensation pass through her from head to toe.

Finally she pulled them through, but the energy it took was too much for her to handle. She couldn’t remember closing her eyes but she must have for everything was dark. Sensation was slowly fading away from her limbs and her fingers lost their grip on Malagen’s arm. They fell to the ground but her mind was lost to unconsciousness before her fingers brushed the grass. If Malagen didn’t keep his word she would never open her eyes again.

[Malagen]

For the briefest of moments, a thought shot through Malagen’s mind that his bargaining was to no avail and that he’d be better off trying to conjure up a viable way to fight the semi-corporeal ghosts of the Purgatory. But then, just when he was about to roll away from her side and begin a futile struggle, her hand latched onto him and the scenery began to morph once again. The process was reversed now, as if time was running in a direction opposite of the one it usually ran, making the broken tombstones piece themselves together, retrieving the lush leaves of the rejuvenated trees, re-growing the grass just as fast as she originally made it wither. The wicked, fiery sky of the Purgatory was losing its blaze, quenched to the point where only the rebellious moon shone and the twinkle of stars specked the endless sheet of black. Malagen’s other senses noted the change as well. The stale air of the accursed place Ira took them from was exchanged for the earthy scent of the graveyard. Shrieks of the blemished fallen souls were silenced and replaced by the soothing sound of the rustling leaves and wavering grass.

The real world was back in all its nightly glory.

The moment Malagen was absolutely certain that this peculiar transfer was done, he tore his arm from Ira’s grasp. It turned out to be an unnecessary move because the tribal woman had fainted anyways, but the barbarian did it anyways, regaining his footing with as much grace as his wounds allowed. His thin lips curled into mildest of smirks. He didn’t need her anymore. She was foolish to believe in his promise. Promises were nothing to Malagen, just words like any other, thrown into the wind with, waiting for somebody to catch them and give them meaning. Ira saw hope in his words, she saw truth, sincerity.

She should’ve known that with the return of the real world, Malagen’s real nature reappeared as well.

He owed her nothing. They were adversaries from the very beginning, from the moment they met in the Citadel, and the only conclusion to rivalry that Malagen knew was death. Given the state Ira was in, it seemed that, despite the short Purgatory interlude, everything was unfolding the way it was supposed to. She would die in the graveyard just as he said she would and he would walk away just as he was supposed to. No attachments. No remorse. That was the way it has always been for him.

And yet this time around, when the ruthless swordsman turned his back to Ira’s dying body, there was a tug that prevented him from making more then a single step. This invisible force was clinging to his gut, to his mind, producing an emotion that Malagen couldn’t define. It seemed like a mixture of nausea and an oncoming headache, lurking somewhere beyond his senses, whispering to him words that he couldn’t quite comprehend. Was it guilt calling for him, replaying the promise as if it meant a damn? Or was it simply an anomaly in his emotionless demeanor? Malagen didn’t know, couldn’t know. Emotions and deliberation didn’t compute in his rigid mind. He was trained to disregard these nuisances, cast them away as irrelevant, redundant, obstructive. And yet when he turned towards Ira and looked over her fading body, they didn’t seem that way. Somehow, on some plain of consciousness in some forgotten, locked-away part of his psyche, these feelings seemed right.

And Malagen knew he had to end this torment of the mind.

***

A pair of loud thuds crashed through the fragile shell of serenity of Gerrard’s slumber. The third one crashed through the locked door of his establishment. The elderly healer started with a gasp, his wrinkled fingers tapping over the nightstand in search for his spectacles that seemed lost in the darkness of his sleeping quarters. By the time he retrieved them and put them on his bearded face, the footsteps of the intruder were more prominent, moving down the wooden floor until they seemed to reach the other side of his door. This time the thief – for it had to be a thief breaking into his place at this time of night – used proper means to open the door, turning the knob and pushing it inwards. Gerrard had to squint his eyes to see anything in the darkness, so his fingers did the tapping search again until they retrieved an oil lamp and a pack of matches.

“I have no valuables,” the old geezer said in a voice as dry as gunpowder as his fingers struck a match. He brought the flickering flame closer to the lamp with no panic in either his movements or his voice. “Unless you want my healing ointments. I have those in abundance. You didn’t have to break my front door because of them though.”

Once the oil caught flame, the aged cleric was finally able to see who invaded his privacy on this inauspicious night. A tall, dark man was standing in the doorway with a body slung over his shoulder, using one hand to keep the body steady and the other to point his saber at Gerrard’s face. Blood was dripping on the floorboards steadily, pooling at the man’s feet. And when the man finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the look in his dead eyes.

“I don’t want your ointments, old man. I want you to heal this woman,” Malagen spoke, struggling to keep his pointed saber steady and losing that battle. He didn’t come out of the battle with the Fallen unscathed and the bleeding wounds that the monstrosities tore on both his shoulder and his back didn’t go well with the toilsome lumbering of Ira’s body. All of this made the steel in his hand quiver minutely.

“Swords and threats won’t help you here, my son,” the gray-haired man said, retrieving his creaky bones from the sheets and pushing his feet into a pair of slippers. “Put both of them away and then we can help your woman.”

“She’s not my woman and I’m not your son,” the barbarian retorted with a touch of irritation. But the look in Gerrard’s eyes was relentless in its wisdom, fearlessly gazing into the eyes of death, making Malagen realize that the old man had the upper hand here. Killing him would do no good; he needed the man alive and willing to help. His blade fell at his side.

“Good. Now, let us see what can be done,” Gerrard said, throwing a robe over his linen pajamas before pushing past the barbarian and leading the way through the reception room and towards dispensary. The flame of the lamp revealed two short rows of beds, but there seemed to be no occupancies at the moment. “Put her down on one of the beds. I’ll fetch my apparatus.”

By the time the aged healer returned, the impeccable white sheets were already heavily tainted by crimson. The man wasted no time though, lighting a pair of lamps near the bed before inspecting Ira’s body. “She’s lost a lot of blood. Why did you wait so long to bring her here?” Gerrard said in patronizing voice that Malagen didn’t appreciate one bit. Unfortunately, he had to make peace with the fact that crushing the man’s skull against the wall wouldn’t yield the desired result when it came to Ira’s health.

“I’m going to need your help. Go wash your hands in the basin over there.” Malagen didn’t obey the command. The way he saw it, he fulfilled his promise already, bringing Ira to a healer. What happened afterwards was none of his concern. The queer notion inside of him and the healer thought otherwise. “What the hell are you waiting for?! Do you want to save her life or not?” Malagen, who never obeyed an order in his life, who in fact killed everybody who every tried to issue him an order, did what he was told this time. And when he returned, his bloody hands clean and his coat and blade discarded, the orders continued. “We need to take her clothes off.”

This was something that the barbarian wanted to do for a while now, and yet he derived no pleasure from undressing the exotic woman. Even his callous mind realized the gravity of this moment so he worked diligently, his hands strong enough to tear her blood-soaked robes off, taking off her boots, ultimately leaving her in nothing but her skin. By now, Gerrard had a wide assortment of bottles, jars and instruments prepared, the old man working faster then Malagen thought was possible given the old man’s age. But even with this uncanny speed, it was a long night for all three of them. The cut was the way Malagen’s cuts always was, surgically precise and life-threatening. By the time Gerrard stitched up the torn artery and stopped the bleeding, they were both bloody up to the elbow and visibly fatigued. Unfortunately for Malagen, the blood on his hands was not only Ira’s. The tear in his shoulder and the one that bathed his back in blood worked in unison to finally sap enough energy out of the ruthless man. Somewhere around the time when Gerrard applied balm that smelled of jasmine and pine, Malagen forfeited the battle with his wounds and collapsed.