The Art of Making Enemies [Solo]

[Sagequeen]

Part of Erissa's solo story. Coincides with the last part of Escape from Anebrilith (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23156-Escape-from-Anebrilith) from Arienne's point of view and explores beyond. Exerpts from 'Escape' are enclosed in quote boxes with minor edits.

Just a warning: the structure and timeline of this thread has changed and is changing. There were some glaring issues I had to address.



The pain, at least, was subsiding, giving way to a numbness that left Arienne chilled to her core. She was experiencing death, her breathing heavy and labored, though she did not feel the effort of drawing it; she would have simply stopped if it were her choice to do so on that fateful night. Her creeping death was but a rebirth; her master had willed it so. Frigid tendrils laced indelicately through her veins, overcoming her extremities, working slowly to her head.

The young woman lay crumpled near the Underwood tavern she frequented, The Dark Horse, cast aside there and left to suffer by the being to whom she had bound herself. Strength returned to her in minuscule increments; eventually she was able to turn her head to witness the frame of a large drake skeleton in pursuit of a small figure. A brilliant flash of light from the distant high elf renewed the pain, set it afire like the flare of kindling for a brief moment, but it quickly subsided again with naught to sustain the flame. As her grimace-drawn face relaxed, she saw her nemesis clinging to the drake's backbone. The beast shook, trying to loose the elf, but she clung with all her might within the ribcage; it was violent foreplay, a dance of death the distant figure did not lead.

Arienne's memory returned to her as she watched the unfolding events. This was the demon she had called into her realm; it possessed the bones and gave them movement. He had turned on her immediately, angered at her foolishness in creating a fetish intended to enslave him in her realm. Her face remained slack, unable to conjure the strength to react to the awe she felt as she watched her master command the mighty avatar of bones. As clearly as if he had whispered in her ear, she heard his voice.


"Thy strength shall wane before mine," the demon said as he shook the battered frame of the beast. "And yet, thy embrace is enticing. Cling to me in thy great fear, mortal. Until thou shalt falter and break this stalemate, perhaps thou wouldst entertain a proposition. My power is great, and I may grant a portion of it to whomever I wish. Thou could be a queen, little elf, a powerful queen among mortals. If thou should tire of such triviality, thou may join me as my concubine. Pleasures untold wouldst await thee."

Arienne flushed defiantly against the hyperboreal chill of her flesh; the offer she had received paled in comparison. Her acceptance was now fresh in her memory; less than two months had passed. The elementalist had been eager to exchange her loyalty for what little power the demon offered, had fallen to his influence with little more than the promise of a paltry new skill. Erissa Caedron, her former employer, had easily withstood Arienne's summoning of the dead in spite of the high elf's incompetence. Her hands and feet twitched in the dirt; Arienne sickened at the thought of being subservient to Erissa yet again, and for an eternity. Then, Erissa's clear voice rang above the din of grating bones and cobblestone.


"The pleasure of a demon is torment and pain," she cried out, "and I would sooner go to a fate unknown than bind myself to you!"

Arienne went completely limp in shock and confusion. Erissa had refused. The world handed to you on a silver platter yet again, and you still cannot recognize it, Arienne though bitterly. Sober as an abbess now, another plot hatched in Arienne's mind before the undead rebirth took her. If only, she thought, and as if in answer, Erissa was tossed from the drake's shattered and broken ribcage to within speaking distance of her.


"The rod," a weak voice called out, "pull the rod from the ground. Break the link."

Arienne retained enough of her own will that the demon was unable to discern her thoughts and actions, for now at least. She waited until the last possible moment before addressing her master.

"Let me present you, Lord Ezkahun, with a handsome gift, a penance as proof of my loyalty and dedication," Arienne thought as she opened her mind to him completely. The drake remains were poised to pounce, the demon hesitating for just a moment.

”Humbled so soon, art thou?” Ezkahun responded haughtily, distracted, before springing at the high elf who shuffled among the rubble. "What is thy oblation?" The demon inquired as he surged forward, but was interrupted and drawn from the bones back to his own realm in a spirit-rending disjunction.

“The elf, the lightbearer,” Arienne answered him in shrouded relief when she sensed him in his own realm. Arienne knew she must act quickly; she would be little more than a mindless puppet for her master should she allow the current transformation to take place. Arienne moaned and coughed, knowing the character of her former employer well; it was a weakness, Arienne considered it, that soft heart within Erissa. In a few moments, Erissa was there at Arienne's side.


"I can heal you," Erissa said gently as she knelt beside her.

"Mercy," Arienne whispered, shaking her head. The dark pact had already begun to mend her many wounds in undeath. "I have sacrificed hope on the altar of power and have found that only despair remains. That hope still lives elsewhere is an unbearable torment." Understanding, Erissa focused her power and released it into Arienne's body. The demon to whom Arienne had made her secret vows would not abide the holy and pure magic Erissa imbued into the woman's body, so he quietly stole away Arienne's soul from the vessel, leaving death in its place.

[Sagequeen]

Ezkahun's cavernous realm sweltered in the intensity of his fury. As he paced the generous length of it, the rock faces became white-hot and melted, morphing endlessly into visages of suffering; the tortured ground spewed forth fiery fountains, hissing and screaming in the agony of his passing. Ezkahun's many minions scrambled from him as he strode by, fearing the demon greatly in his current mood; they huddled in the gaps and crevices of the sooty walls. His sizzling, rune-carved children trembled in the ecstasies of their terror.

The lofty, natural ceiling sloped downward and the craggy walls narrowed until there was scarcely space for the demon to pass. A bright yellow, translucent barrier barred entrance to Ezkahun's sanctum; he swept a graceful hand across it, and the rune-lock spun wildly, the circular patterns flitting and flashing until each found its proper place in sequence. The barrier dissipated with an electric whisper, and he stepped through the threshold into the heart of his domain. The rune-lock closed behind him.

The polished, onyx-colored stone of his sanctum merely warmed in his presence, and the ornate mirrors ringing the dais of his throne quickened to reveal windows into the realm from which he had so recently been expelled. He paced to his seat, the sultry curves and definition of it illuminated by unflickering points of light; the wisps of souls, like deadlight fireflies compelled to never blink, wandered endless circles around the oily-black throne, bound there by invisible chains stronger than any mortal-forged metal.

As Ezkahun willed it, the ring of mirrors spun like a carousel; the people revealed therein were varied and colorful in stark contrast to the bleakness of the sanctum; they carried on in their glaringly ridiculous and short lives, most of them unaware they were watched. The movement grated to a halt; the mirror resting before him revealed the life-sized image of a silver-haired high elf. Ezkahun's gaze grew more intense and the semblance of a grin arced the corners of his mouth upward.

“My servant was foolish to create the binding rod, and thou art foolish to keep it. Now, there is nowhere thou can go that I cannot see,” Ezkahun rumbled, appeased for the moment. He watched Erissa wander the streets of Underwood for a time, calling out for someone unknown to him, before he finally willed the ring of mirrors to fall dark. With imperceptible quickness he grasped one of the souls; it quivered in his smooth, colorless hand. Where the light of the soul light fell closely upon him, shimmering crimson characters were revealed upon his skin, spelling every name of mortal anguish in an ancient tongue known only to those whom he held captive.

The demon cast the soul down on the dais before him, and as it was anchored to the floor, the image of Arienne hovered above it. Fully aware, she beheld her master in his true form for the first time, and was shocked by his pale beauty. There was no hue to his skin but pure white, and his form was like man perfected in lustful vanity. Only Ezkahun's eyes revealed his malice, as black as the stone beneath her, with horizontal, crimson slashes across the center. Had Arienne a corporeal body, even she would have blushed at his unabashed and sultry nakedness. His black, maroon-threaded hair dangled freely against his bare cheeks and chest. A long silence followed; Arienne instinctively knew she should wait to be addressed, and preferred the enthrallment of gazing at her master. Then he spoke.

"I see thy mind. Dost thou hate her so?"

"Yes, Master," Arienne replied meekly. Ezkahun scoffed and leaned back in his throne. "But not more than I fear you, Master." Arienne's image bowed to the knee and remained there. The demon's face remained without expression; his eyes revealed the intensity of his calculations, weighing the woman's plotting against his own. He played the game to every end and was satisfied.

"The little fly, the lightbearer, has annoyed me. Perhaps my spider may capture her alive for my enjoyment," he said at last.

"As you wish, Master," Arienne replied, wholeheartedly.

"Should thou fail..." Ezkahun began, but she dared interrupt him.

"I will not," she said, and was wracked immediately with an intense pain, the likes of which was previously unknown to her. Arienne withstood it. "I will not fail you."

"I shall enjoy this game immensely." The pale demon willed the mirrors to life and movement again; this time, when they ceased, the image of a beautiful woman was before him. She seemed agitated, her eyes shifting around as if an enemy were near. When he spoke, the life was sucked from her face. "Thou hast disappointed me. Come thee home; come and learn." One pale, beckoning hand he lifted in the dense, cavern air, and the mirror sang in shrill vibration, until another deadlight firefly was birthed from it. The woman in the glass dropped, wide-eyed and open mouthed on a finely-paved flagstone street.

"Thou hast a chance now; do not disappoint me," Ezkahun said. His arm again raised from its resting place, a gesture of being bothered, and Arienne's image was reunited with her soul. She was lifted toward the mirror, toward the reflection of the fallen beauty. "Bring the lightbearer pain before her fall. But thou shalt not end her life; that is for me." His words resounded in her as she was sucked through the glass, ripping between the fabrics separating her dimension from Erissa's; Arienne awoke in the early morning twilight, on the cold, dark backstreets of Radasanth, in a body that was not her own.

The carousel of mirrors spun once again, so that the demon might return to the object of his desire, his malice, Erissa. As the oily, liquid murk in the mirror began to take form, revealing her sitting in a high-backed chair, the demon felt a snap, as if a strand of hair had been plucked from his head. The form in the mirror dissipated, and it revealed only the reflection of a beautiful, pale demon whose expression quivered between rage and pleasure. He recalled the thrill of his spirit as she clung so closely to him, could taste the terror and warmth.

"I did not misjudge thee," Ezkahun growled with animal sensuality. "I am glad thou art wise enough to refuse my power, and my game shall be all the more amusing for it. But who, I wonder, taught thee to break my servant's trinket?"

[Sagequeen]

The woman shuffled to her feet, swaying and disoriented. The odd sensation of an unfamiliar body caused her to stumble, drawing the ire if passers-by.

"'Ave some more, then! You're still standin,'" one called to her. Arienne hardly heard what he had said.

"The date - what is the date," she asked them, and the answer left her stunned. She had not been dead for but a few hours. However, it was as though a lifetime had passed, an eternity even, as she was chained to her master's throne, wandering in oblivion without form. The sudden immersion into a world filled with sensation was jarring and only vaguely familiar. She wandered for hours, drawn by an unfamiliar memory through Radasanth, and finally up the winding paths on the cliffs of the northernmost part of the city. She opened the door of an affluent home, one she remembered opening many, many times before, and entered the empty dwelling. A beautifully framed and exceedingly large mirror gave the impression that the already gigantic room was twice its actual size.

Arienne stared at the reflection she saw in the mirror. She raised her hand to her cheek and the figure did likewise. A stranger's eyes studied her, almond-shaped, hazel eyes with long, batting lashes. Candlelight rested comfortably upon her high cheekbones and soft features. The gentle light revealed no flaw upon her supple, bronze-brushed skin; like rubies her lips glistened. Silken, black hair framed her face in loose, flowing curls, extending beyond her generous bosom to the thinnest part of her hourglass figure.

Arienne had wandered to this place, drawn by remnants of a foreign memory; one of the paintings that hung in the lavish home was of both its previous and current owner, the same dark-haired beauty that gazed at Arienne from the mirror.

“My name is Trinna,” Arienne whispered to the empty room. She blinked at the revelation, unsettled by the memory fragments assaulting her unexpectedly, as well as the sense that she was not truly alone. Still, she was eternally exhausted, and dawn was wielding its light-drenched brush, painting the sky in its favorite hues. Arienne lay upon a couch and slept like the dead, at least until a most unpleasant prickling awakened her. The woman's eyes snapped open, yet there was no one, no source of the needles in her consciousness. Slowly, she came to the realization that Ezkahun was surely watching her, an unseen and sleepless judge who would revoke her new life at his whim. She closed her eyes and opened her mind to him, awaiting his command.

”Enjoying thy new body, art thou?” Arienne nodded once, slowly. ”Indeed, it is an improvement and more suited to my tastes.” Arienne felt an exhilarating flutter in the pit of her stomach. ”Thou art to go to my servant, Enelrah.” The demon showed Arienne a nondescript house in Radasanth and the drawn, unpleasant face of an aging woman.

"Yes, Master," Arienne said. "Right away." She recalled her body's former owner, Trinna, kept stables and comfortable carriages. The bell, she thought, remembering Trinna's distaste for smell of the stables; Arienne pursued the memory to Trinna's chambers and found a braided, golden cord. When pulled, it would alert the stable crew the mistress of the house expected her carriage prepared immediately. The elementalist raised her arm to pull it, but stopped short. "Oh!" Arienne cried out as she caught sight of the wardrobe.

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

Ezkahun paced the wide, raised circle that supported his throne, lodged deeply in his designs. A new game was afoot, a new distraction, and he coveted after the fall of the lightbearer. He grasped a sickly-lit soul in his hand, measuring and weighing countless possibilities. He nodded slowly, deciding his course, before slinking to his throne and casting the soul to the ground.

“Ahhh, Trinna,” he cooed. “My little prodigy.” Trinna's image hovered above her soul as she stood and awaited judgment before the demon. She quaked in her fear; she could not hide from him. Everything she was, all she had done and planned to do was laid bare before him. “Surely thou dost not mind the use of thy body for a time. Perhaps it will not be marred too badly.” The woman convulsed inwardly; the thought of her beautiful form being damaged was almost more than she could bear. Ezkahun unleashed a clanging peal of laughter that echoed like funeral bells in his black sanctum. “Thy race is always so boring and predictable. Humans, wretched creatures! They, in their short lives, do not grasp the concept of eternity. The chase ends too quickly; they are too easily manipulated. Didst thou know I prefer the elves? Long-lived they are, and a much wiser prey. The pursuit is lasting and ambrosial, especially in engineering the fall of those who uphold virtue so loftily.

“Perhaps thou may yet redeem thyself to me. I do not trust my servant Arienne, and I have need of another set of eyes to keep watch over her. Go, now,” and as he spoke the mirrors shifted languidly. Trinna's image merged with her soul, and he dismissed her into the foremost glass. Had she a mouth she would have screamed with insane defiance of her destination. The demon boomed with laughter as he viewed Trinna in the stables she loathed, where in her former life she would not set foot for the stench. A young stable hand roughly brushed her coat and mane; he led Trinna to her manger filled with hay. Moments later, a bell rang loudly, and the stable hand led her by a rope as he prepared to hitch the proud mare to the carriage.

[Sagequeen]

"Perhaps you think your abilities are separate entities of power? That each is distinct and unrelated to the others? Not so," Troyas, Erissa's teacher, began. He gazed in remembrance from the balcony of his mansion in the oldest, elven part of Underwood, out into the autumnal-graced saplings that marked the edge of Concordia forest beyond. Erissa bathed in the sunlight, soaking in the fading warmth of the season as she listened attentively to her teacher. "Your powers all stem from the power of mind compelling matter, much like my own. They are all linked, branching like the mighty yew from your core.

"In the pruning of a young tree, the humble gardener removes the suckling branches, so the growth of the tree is concentrated into fewer branches, granting those branches greater strength. Remember this parable as you continue your studies, Erissa; pursuing too many abilities will leave the the lot of them much weaker. Yet, as you grow, so too will your strength and your ability to bear the weight of more branches as they flourish. However, each one of us has a limit - a natural limit." Erissa nodded thoughtfully.

"If my calling is holy, then why do you call it 'mind compelling matter?' That makes little sense," Erissa inquired, green-blue eyes intense as she twisted a curl of silver-white hair between her fingers.

"Because, no matter how you view it, should the mind fail, so too shall the matter; all ability springs from this. Your calling is holy, is divine, because even the greatest masters take years to perfect the art of mind over matter as applied to living beings, in healing. A single mistake would kill the one they intended to help. Most with our gift, the psychokinecs, die before achieving such a feat. However, this is a skill you possess instinctively. It is a rare thing, especially since you also are able to regenerate wounds, and quickly, instead of merely keeping someone alive, stemming the tide, until real, healing intervention can be made. You, Dear One, are a beautifully lopsided tree!” Troyas hesitated, weighing the benefit of further revelations to her. Resigned to wait, he spoke again. “It is time for a new lesson." Troyas waved for her to follow him back inside.

Not a single room in Troyas' home was without a wealth of recorded knowledge in the form of codex after codex, and script after script; he had spent the long years of his life gathering and cataloging this knowledge, long across many ages of men, and even across the ages of his fellow high elves. His furnishings reflected an age almost forgotten, antiquated wealth in the careful crafts of dedicated masters who would spend years on a single chair or sculpture, whittling away chip by careful chip, some flakes not falling for a week, until the form was perfect.

“You were fortunate those few weeks ago,” Troyas said with a gentle smirk, “that your opponent was weak. I have seen your skills with a stave are... lacking.” Erissa blushed, unable to argue. She recalled her experience with the undead army Arienne had summoned against her; the young arcanist had closed her eyes and swung her staff around wildly in her panic. “I prefer magic instead of hand-to-hand combat, so I will teach you how to conjure a shield of energy.

“The power you feel when you focus does not need a target, per se. You need only the will to command it in empty air. Watch.” Troyas cupped his well-manicured hand, and Erissa saw a crackle of light form therein; soon, the light grew. It engulfed his forearm, then his shoulder, and quickly enveloped the old elf in the lively, electric green of spring. “Come to my study when you can gather the energy in your hand. And I suggest you practice somewhere other than my mansion.” Erissa obliged, pacing the long halls of Troyas' Underwood home before slipping quietly into the nearby forest.

“Down, Osher. Down!” Erissa cried as he excitedly followed her on her expedition. The black and white dog was growing from a clumsy puppy to a handsome, strong dog, mutt though he was. The streaming light glistened on his black coat, and the speckled-white that colored his muzzle, chest, and paws lent him a formal air. As he pranced, he held his white-tipped tail high in the air. “You and your floppy ears,” Erissa laughed as she scratched between them. “You should not be out here,” she warned him. “Troyas seemed rather adamant that I practice away from any structures or people.” The dog huffed, an odd gesture for a dog, as he plopped down on his hindquarters. “'Very well. It is your tail, not mine. But I warned you...” Erissa held her arched eyebrows high as she waggled her finger at him, which Osher promptly sniffed. Her laughter drifted under the gracious boughs of Concordia.

The glorious shades of fall in the forest were alight like a comfortable fire under the clear, strong rays of the sun, the last flare in the hearth before the warmth of it was both a wistful memory and a sustaining promise of things to come. Gone was the fresh, living smell of spring and summer; in its stead was the earthy, humus-rich scent that assured the continuation of the cycle, old life passing and giving rise to new, after cold, crystallizing reflection. It was a cycle she knew well, and one she saw mirrored in almost all the facets of existence.

As Erissa focused her mind, she could still hear the sounds of Underwood. The sounds of many voices merged down to just two, her father and mother, arguing. From the outside she viewed herself in the throes of fury, the first time the high elf's latent power had been awakened, and she had summoned a bolt of pure energy. She had not given thought to anything but breaking the locked door that separated her from her parents; the intense emotion had then directed the bolt. As a result, her mother had sustained an injury from a shard of the door. Erissa was able to heal her, but she remembered the event with great guilt. It is easy to act without self-control, Erissa thought. That is my lesson. Draw not from rage.

The arcanist stood, arm outstretched and hand cupped for half an hour, but nothing happened. The heavy crease in her brow deepened with her effort until she was spent - with nothing to show for it. Frustrated, Erissa flopped down on the grass and crunchy leaves near Osher. She sighed heavily, staring at the beams of light that found their way through the canopy above her. Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to a dark-haired warrior from her memory. His face she could no longer see, or perhaps two faces had become one, blurred in her memory; however, her heart was bolstered with bittersweet resolve. I will not give up. For you.

Erissa rose again to her feet. This time, she was unable to clear her mind nor to surrender the gentle emotion that filled her heart; instead, she embraced it. Erissa embraced the memory of her brother, Tanus, lost to war, and that of Virlas, the man who had left in a heart-wrenching betrayal by her servant, Arienne. Somehow, the arcanist thought, I will find you, Virlas. My brother, who filled my life with joy and love, is lost to me. But I will repay you for your kindness, for teaching me how to honor his memory, and for reminding me how to live again. I swear it. A tear slipped from her eye, glimmering, onto her folded hands at her breast. She extended her palm again; in it she carried her oath. Moments later, there was a spark, a pulse that fizzled as quickly as it appeared. Again, she summoned another flash that winked several times before disappearing. Erissa made several more attempts, each more successful than the last, and her mood was quickly lifted. Osher slept on a nearby pile of fallen leaves, snoring loudly.

“Psssst! Hush!” Osher jerked up and glared at her a few moments before letting loose a kingly yawn. “Quiet! I am concentrating. You want to keep your fur, right?”

But Osher was no longer watching the high elf; he was intently focused on something in the distance she could not see. Fear gripped Erissa as he sprung to his feet and uttered a low, intense growl. She heard faint rustling, first to her left, then lightly springing to the right. Osher dashed with incredible speed, kicking up a whirling trail of leaves, and Erissa called urgently after him. He did not heed her, so she sprinted after him. A ball of energy glowed in her hand, prismatic white and at the ready.

The high elf could no longer see the dog, but she heard him barking wildly. She followed the sound; he had driven whatever had threatened them up a tree. The dog jumped and barked urgently at its base. Erissa approached cautiously; crouching, she crept forward through the leaves, and Osher looked at her expectantly.

Chi, chi, chi, chi! Chi, chi, CHI!

“Really, Osher?” she asked. The dog looked at her quizzically, and then at the squirrel who chided them from a low bough. She did not complain again; the high elf looked with wonder at the prism of light in her hand; it cast rainbows across her face and chest, lighting across her upper body with shimmering tendrils. As she silently commanded, the light floated gently upward, even with her green-blue eyes, suspended by Erissa's will.

[Sagequeen]

The old crone looked at Arienne with obvious disgust. Though the craggy, broken hunch of her feeble back caused the old woman to peer up at her, Arienne squirmed and fidgeted as though the crone were a mountain threatening to topple and crush her. Her cane knocked hollowly on the worn, wooden floor as she circled the beauty, gauging the used canvas sent by her master.

"Hrumph," Enelrah snorted. "You must be his new favorite." Arienne, forgetting her fears, smiled in wonder at the old crone who grinned wickedly back at her. "Yes, yes. You think that's a good thing," she said as she crossed the floor to sit with much effort on a ratty, old chair. "You were naught but a weak elementalist before. Hrumph! This body you possess is considerably more powerful. Trinna, my student, was a prodigy, exceptionally brilliant, which I see you are not." Arienne paled in the draining gaze of the old witch. Averting her eyes, she scanned the room; strewn about were all manner of symbol-engraved statuettes, jars of substances beyond her knowledge, fetishes in various stages of completion, and shriveled, hair-covered things Arienne could not discern. She coughed from the choke of dust in her throat.

"A chair?" Arienne asked, scanning the room again but finding none.

"You may sit here," the crone said sharply, tapping her cane on the musty floor, "at my feet." At once, the hazy-white eyes unfocused and the creases of her aged face went slack. "Yes, my Lord," she mumbled. For a few moments, the only sound was the heavy rasp of her breath. "I understand now. You are very wise, Master. It will be done." Enelrah's eyes snapped open, and a snarl overtook the crinkled lips. "Sit!" Arienne flinched at her command, hesitating in indecision. The old woman slapped the air in front of her and sent Arienne sprawling. The young woman crashed into a table, a blunted point of it jarring firmly into her ribs. Arienne pulled herself to her feet and obeyed the old crone.

"We haven't the time for your foolishness, girl! The Master compels me to train you quickly; he suspects your little elf friend has already begun her training." A cold, pale blue eye pierced Arienne from a sidelong glance; the many wrinkles encircled it, lending to the prominence; there was no haze to be seen. "Power is a possession, and you are its master. It is not a gift, but instead something you reach out and take for yourself; who willingly gives up their power? Fools!

"Pour everything you are into it; for every time the world has beaten you down, remember it, the feeling of weakness; replace it with strength, with greater resolve. Know that you will have vengeance, and rely on no one else to take it for you. Take all you can to yourself; when you hit your limit, then take more." The greedy eyes of the witch glittered as she looked upon the youthful body of her student. "Come." Enelrah leaned heavily on her cane, and the chaired groaned as she shifted her weight from it. "Come to the place of power."

Arienne followed, obediently as a dog, as the crone led her through the ramshackle, creaking room to a stairwell that led down, down into the bosom of the earth. The cold and damp air was refreshing compared to the dry, dusty abode above, and Arienne felt the cool bricks below the whisper of her slipper-clad feet. The young elementalist was wide-eyed and slack-jawed; a great circular rune-spell was carved upon the floor, and it was lit with the faint light of dying hope in the dark. Enelrah motioned for her to stand in the center.

"Conjure a blue flame," the witch commanded. Arienne balked; never in her years had she been able to accomplish such a feat. The elementalist began anyway, though naught but a bright yellow flame would emanate from her fingertips. She strained and struggled, screamed and squirmed, yet there was no change.

"This body already has all the power it ever will, at least while you inhabit it," snorted Enelrah, the old crone. "You've got to force it out!" Her old jowls wobbled as she shook her fist at Arienne. "Do it!" Arienne panted in the center of a large basement, feeling almost as if it were sepulchre; her beautiful features appeared sickly green and pale from the large, suspended glass containers that restrained a viscous, luminescent muck. Or maybe it's hell and I've just been mistaken, she thought bitterly as the old hag screamed at her.

"I'm trying!" Arienne cried out in frustration. She felt the power coursing through her, the tingling of it surging into full vibrations the woman strained to control. The musty, damp air had settled on her face and clothing, mixing with her own sweat and saturating Arienne. She was chilled to the bone in the coolness of the basement; the tips of her fingers were singed and her fingernails burned to the quick for her efforts.

"What a pathetic excuse for an elementalist! The reservoir of a master handed to you and you can not even call forth a blue flame." The old witch reared a mottled hand back and whiplashed a tendril of energy that slashed across Arienne's back, leaving a large, red welt. "Pathetic little servant! What a waste of my time." The young woman heaved and seethed in the center of the room, becoming a slave to her rage. "I shall enjoy the elf; she at least has some ability with magic, and in her own body no less." Arienne snapped. Fire emanated from her palms and mouth as she screamed, great plumes like a phoenix being reborn from its own ashes. The intensity grew with each passing moment, until, finally, the flame seemed to fold in on itself, to consume itself and belch forth a brilliant blue flame. The old hag sighed with disappointment.