View Full Version : I Wish I Could Eat Your Sun
(Solo / Mature Warning)
The Present
“Hyacinth...”
Her heart nearly skipped a beat as she read that first beautiful word again. She folded the letter neatly and slipped it into her pocket, pausing briefly to catch the feint whiff of a familiar perfume. In the cold evening hours, as the sun began to seat beneath the Concordia's canopy, Vynessa stepped carefully through freshly fallen leaves. Fall had nestled itself into the heartbeat of the wood. The forest ground was carpeted in varying shades of amber, auburn, and gold; the crisp air added weight to every cautious crunch. Though glimmers of sunlight caught her cornflower hair, she kept a free hand near her waist and the dainty, unlit lantern that bobbled at her side. The mist of her breath grew denser with every hour, and the grim specter of night grew ever closer. The Concordia was no place for after-dark dalliances, but the road that lead from the capital to Underwood was only a mile away, and a village at the forest's fringe lay not much further.
Before the war, Hamsil served as a gateway into the wooded depths and a hub of trade. But the years had not been kind, and traffic had stopped to a trickle, or turned into the steady march of soldiers' boots. When Vynessa had first arrived in the assembly square, she noticed the hasty battlements built on the smoldered ruins of thatched huts. And though time and scavengers had cleaned the ground of bodies, weapons, clothes, and debris, every few paces saw a blackened tree and its sulfur smell stand in testament to man's self-imposed misery. The girl had been quick to leave; silently, through the shambled village outskirts. With Radasanth still firmly in the empire's grasp, any movement not related to the Ranger's patrols was regarded with suspicion. A lithe blonde clad in deep green finery stood out amongst the poor villagers.
”Why so far,” she wondered. “Why so close to the road?”
Underwood was no longer safe for her. For years the girl had lived ignorant in the town's embrace. She had grown to love the vision of life fed to her; her betrothed, in his forties with a pot belly. He was no prince, but his money meant the lifestyle she could only dream about. None of it mattered now. Not since she first laid eyes on...
The letter. She wanted to read it again; just once more to make sure she'd followed his instructions well. Each step brought her to mounds and tree lines that matched the letter's description, like friends of friends heard of only in story. But the darker it got, the more unsure she was of her surroundings.
”He should have been here by now...” The forest was as quiet as the grave. The sounds of the village had died off well before sunset. She paused to grope at her midsection, clumsily lighting the lantern after several failed attempts and wasted matches. ”There must be something else in - “ A branch snapped not three meters from where she stood. The crack echoed off every tree trunk around her. Vynessa's new found light filled her with a pessimist's courage as she hesitantly moved forward to investigate.
“Roal?” She whispered more than she intended.
In rapid succession, she heard two more noises as another twig snapped and leaves were rustled. It sounded closer this time, but the lantern gave her enough dim light to see the swift trail of something falling ahead of her. Though brief and gray, the heavy thump that followed made her sure that it was a rock, tossed from somewhere -
Dead leaves rapidly turned to dust somewhere behind her. Before Vynessa could swivel to see who's hurried footsteps they were, she felt an arm around her neck. Her scream was muffled in her throat as she gasped for breath. Her hazel eyes widened, partly in panic; partly to adjust for her lamp shattering on the forest floor, extinguished by a damp sod.
An unnatural weariness began to overtake, and she slumped in the firm grasp of unconsciousness.
Damp earth.
The smell of decay and tilled soil was thick in the air, intermingling with melted wax. The chill night seemed weaker on her skin as it warmed to a ruddy blush. Vynessa stirred slowly from her dreams, only to find herself standing with her back pressed against wet stone; her hands bound uncomfortably above her head. As her eyes flickered open passed the last respite of sleep, she moved her face forward in instinct, only to find her neck collared to the wall as well. She suddenly noticed how sore her throat felt and how groggy her vision was. A weak rasp slipped her lips, followed by a coughing fit. Her memory was a haze, alight with flashes of pain and brief recalls of the letter. She craned her neck downward as best she could to see if it was still on her, only to discover she'd been stripped to the waist. Panic set in. The girl writhed against the rough stone behind her as warm blood mixed with the condensation.
Frantic looks across the room furthered the unease. The earthen walls and ceiling around her were only broken by stray roots and stones embedded within. The cavern was small and cozy, with several torches, a central firepit near the chairs, table and -
”How do you get a couch in here?” There were several shadowy nooks around her that could have been used an entrance, but none were large enough to fit a man walking straight through. Anyone who entered would have to slip in sideways. Towards the left, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the flicker of a candle. Standing upright and reading some grim tome was a young man with a nervousness on his face. His wide eyes darted back and forth, absorbed only in whatever he was reading.
“He-help,” Vynessa's mewled. “Ple-plea...”
“You're awake.” A weak grin strained his face. The man closed the book with a sudden thump as he walked over to the fire; careful not to slip in the wide, six-inch, newly dug hole in front of her. Placing the book carefully on the table, a mug of warm tea took its place in his hand. After each little sip, those nervous eyes studied every inch of her he saw. Her pale flesh flushed crimson shame as she tried in shield herself, but his gaze didn't linger at her breast. Perhaps it was the torchlight or the stress of the moment, but Vynessa swore she saw his eyes glow as they locked on to hers. A weird sensation crept up her spine; that familiar feeling that you're being watched when you're all alone. The terror that had gripped her moments again grew mute, replaced by the strange sensations of contempt and suppressed glee.
“Wh-”
“Shhh,” he soothed with a deadly calm. He skipped over to her, careful again of the ditch. “Don't burden yourself. You'll need that voice.” He held the mug up to her lips, gently giving her small mouthfuls of pleasant brew. Her screaming throat relented a bit. “I'm Sulla.”
“Suhl-”
“Sool-la.” He corrected her without missing a beat. “Are you familiar with the story of the fair maiden Daema?”
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Sulla still had that limp smile on his face, something that unnerved her. Occasionally Vynessa caught his verdant eyes check each dark nook beside or behind him, but his gaze always seemed to stay on her; boring into some unknown crevice. He was comely, but not handsome; with an oddly distant, familiar look that reminded her of a schoolyard acquittance one forgets after graduation. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but was quickly quieted by another sip of tea.
“Daema was a daughter of this very forest during the Age of Dawn. A warden of sorts for the new seeds sown.” Every innocuous word he chose was delivered in a scathing hush. “She met a gallant lover frequently in their own private wooded hideaway. But this was the tail end of the Age of Dawn, where corruption flowed as freely as the steady stream of stewards through office. One such impotent man, Steward Brotil I believe, fell madly in love with Daema. He claimed her as his right by position, though in truth the Baron of Concordia had a much better claim he didn't press.”
“Her response was swift, humiliating; an arrow right in his seat. Oh, sources don't mention this, but I personally believe she laughed alongside her lover - right up until Brotil and his vanguard met up with them.” Vynessa tried again to speak, only to have a now lukewarm drink nearly spilled on her.
“They broke her paramour's legs and made him watch as every man took his turn – a thousand strong some say!” The girl began to shiver. In Sulla's eye she saw glimmer of true happiness; his smile began to take a more human shape. “She was broken, beat, a quivering mass of near-dead flesh. The host offered up her prime, bloody cuts to her whimpering lover, but he refused to eat. And they let him starve.”
Shocked as she was, it took Vynessa a good minute to find Sulla was no longer in front of her. His back was turned as he causally flipped through the book he was reading on the table.
“The gods took pity on them, and wrought a terrible vengeance for Brotil, his men, even his bloodline. You're suppose to be able to see Daema and her lover in the skies above the Concordia, watching over all young love.”
“I...what was the point of that?” Her voice trembled with hurried breathe.
He shrugged.
“Just rehearsing." Though threadbare and flimsy, Sulla lolled himself down on the couch. He combed the side pocket between cushion and armrest; producing a small, black, leather bound book from inside. There was a greediness to his fingers as he flicked through worn tan pages rife scrawling. Every so often he'd tilt his head to check on Vynessa. The fire in front of her had died down to smoldering coals, and the tendrils of frost outside made a steady creep within. Sulla took a moment to grab one of the last of the logs to prod the pit, before throwing it on top.
“Where is Roal?” The fire crackled along with her voice.
“He'll arrive tomorrow night if he has as much sense as you, Hyacinth.” He cleared his throat, and began to read.
Hyacinth
Underwood has become too dangerous for our midnight rendezvous. Eyrnhart has eyes everywhere in
the street. I'm sorry I can't keep that promise for a creekside picnic, but I promise you many and more if
we can make our escape this week.
Even if Eyrnhart had The Coalition's blessing, he still has no way to enter Radasanth. But Ralvir, my
uncle if you remember, can sneak us in and out to sea.
I've arranged a carriage to meet you near The Saw Mull just before the midday lunch rush. I will meet
you near the town of Hamsil at Concordia's break at dusk.
Please, follow my instructions carefully...
“Which if you had, would have brought you much closer to this cave. Instead, I found you dotting is a meadow like a storybook character. I'm thankful I had the foresight to have you walk along the animal trails. Far fewer leaves, much easier to traverse.” Sulla smiled at her labored look. “Are the pieces coming together?”
“You sent the letter?”
“I sent two. It's why he's arriving tomorrow night, right before a guest.”
“Eyrnhart,” his sneer flashed in her mind. “How did you know all this?” She watched him put the journal safely inside the couch, never moving his gaze from her. Her squirms, hoarse whisper, shock; he noted everything with those dizzying eyes. The thought dawned on Vynessa that she'd been mistaken when she first saw him; he was never nervous, only curious. “What kind of monster are you?”
The Past
First Journal Entry
Eight Years Ago - Sulla, Fourteen
Ewin had been a good traveling companion. He was loyal, brave, and knew his place. If I didn't need a boy body, I would have written that all on a headstone. Instead I cut his filthy guts open with a very dull knife.
He'd died during the crash. As they climbed that steep mountain pass in search of a special mushroom I'd made up, they both waved at me with big grins. I was afraid of heights, I'd told them, and whatever nasty creatures lay in the brush. They chided me as servants do masters, with restraint, before leaving me behind in my family's orchard. They'd be back by midday, and I'd have time to eat all the apples I'd wanted. And then we'd all happily travel back to my father's main estate for a late dinner. Father loves his big dinners.
I didn't tell Ewin about the three bottles of wine I'd slipped to the driver. The boy was already so worried taking the carriage up the path. He'd wanted to make the journey on foot, but the driver and I convinced him otherwise. I didn't tell the driver I'd tinkered with his wheels and frame. I had the old drunk show me a few simple repairs months back. He thought I took a genuine interest in his work, like my dullard father.
When I found the wreckage, the driver lay wailing over Ewin's corpse. I should have known the lush would find some bottled cure to the perfect plan. He didn't see the rock in my hand and went down pretty quickly. The boy's corpse was a different concern. After I'd stripped down and dressed it up like me, it still bore a poor resemblance. The buzzards and wolves would do some work in fixing that, but -
I smashed his head open just to be safe, scattering brain and skull fragments around the crash to make it appear natural. Then I cut open some flesh, ripping it with my hands when I could, to allow easy access to the sweetbreads inside. I wanted him eaten first.
Nuncle Dussek hasn't returned a single one of my letters yet, but I need to talk with him. I know he's always busy in his Radasanth office, so I'll head there. But first I need to put some time in between this crash and I. The main roads to the capital are busy, so I'll spend some time in Akashima. I have enough money to live well for a few weeks and still book passage back to Corone proper.
Time to move, I've just heard the first howl.
The Past
Seventh Journal Entry
Eight Years Ago - Sulla, Fourteen – Six Weeks Later.
The last of my dried fruit ran out. I'll need cleaner water soon, too. I haven't passed a stream in ages, and I've been stuck in this thicket for some time. I wish I could have fit more into my pack without suspicion. It's torn now; a dirty gray thing that hangs around listlessly at my side - empty. Wanting. The peasant garb I hid away took up too much room. Every time I check the maps, I'm so damned sure I know where I'm going. I'm more ill-prepared than I've feared. But I caught the whiff of a thick, black smoke this morning that I had to investigate.
A woman bathed in front of me today. She didn't notice me crouched in the brush as I spied. For what seemed like hours, the haggard creature lathered her sickly form. A mess of red curls fell far down her back. Pale, bruised, freckled; I'd gauge her at no less than thirty-five. No matter how hard she scrubbed, nothing made her look better. I'm hesitant to touch the pool she soiled.
Necessity dictates course.
But my vigilance paid off. She camped with her husband and child. I followed her sopping form a safe distance behind, pausing only to fill my canteen – I'll boil it later.
Their daughter spends her days picking flowers and laying in a pelt her father freshly skinned. Yards away, I can still see the dirt under her fingernails. She spends time chattering with whatever vermin slink out of the ground, giving them names of fabled heroes from stories I read when I was five – she's nigh a woman!
The father is your standard forester. Tall, bulky, bearded – we had beasts of burden like that toil on the estate. Work was good for them, it kept them from hurting themselves. No wonder the mother had bruising on her thighs. He probably hits her when the ale runs out. Three rabbits roast of spits above his meager fire. A few mushrooms in a pot just bellow looks like a paltry strew, but my body is beginning to betray me. As quietly as I can move, nothing silences the unearthly rumble.
When their fire dies down, I'll do the deed. Approaching them in earnest for help was tempting, but the delay and risk involved is too great. Radasanth is still a distant dream, and my nuncle awaits.
Necessity dictates course.
I need food now. They'll have finished my meal by nightfall. I can't wait.
Vynessa awoke with a sudden shudder and the feeling of a thick sweat on her body. Memories of crisp autumn air outside seemed a distant as a sweltering heat filled the chamber. The sickly fire burned with a renewed vigor with fresh kindling on top, shadows danced on all the stone walls as it roared. Minutes, hours, days; she knew not how long she slept, only that an incredible dryness gripped her throat. Her desirous eyes darted around in a desperate search for relief. A waterskin had appeared on the table while she slept, still damp from when it was refilled. The couch behind it now had Sulla's brown leather jacket and sheer shirt folded carefully on top; just to the right of it, the monster himself.
He was prone to the ground in the middle of what seemed an intensive set of push-ups. His skin seemed to shimmer as he moved with a determined, rapid pace. Vynessa saw a level of sculpted muscle she'd never imagined when she'd first laid eyes upon him. His thin form belied an animal strength; his hands dug into the earth beneath them like claws. Sulla stared unflinchingly into the crevice in front of him, as if looking back on something in that dark abyss.
The man finished with a sudden jump to his feet. As he rigorously dusted the dirt off his hands, she noticed his shoulders had slumped somewhat from when they first spoke. His body seemed to collect inward on itself, huddled and guarded; his fidgeting seemed almost reptilian. He strode over to the table to fetch the skin. First he washed away what remained of the dirt with a splash of water, before holding it aloft and pouring just above his mouth to catch a drink.
“Water,” she coughed. Though almost inaudible, Sulla's ears seemed to twitch. He tensed back into a form more reminiscent of human before turning back to Vynessa. His mouth contorted back into that mocking grin. He walked towards her upright but noticeably twisted, giving her a draught with due reverence. Even with a heavy smoke in the air, she still caught a whiff of a flowery perfume on his hands. She stared in a wide-eyed disbelief at them.
“I washed my hands many times before I caught up with you, and several times after you dozed off. That stink is persistent.” He rubbed his hands again, cracking his knuckles in a sickening crunch. “I wish your calling signs to each other had been less,” he paused to crane his neck and look at her dead on, “pervasive.”
A flush filled her face and a bitterness began to twist in her gut. “More please.” Her words sounded more like a hiss. Sulla happily obliged. Vynessa filled her mouth with a might swallow, before spitting it all in his face. For a moment, she felt triumphant smile stretch cheek to cheek. But as the water poured down his face, his mouth had straightened into a tight-lipped grimace. There was no anger in his eyes, just two clear, bright pools of poison.
His left hand reached around her neck, firmly holding her head head steady. With his right, he felt along her jawline until he found a point just below her ear. He jammed his thumb into with an increasing pressure. As Vynessa squirmed to find relief, she found she could not move enough to stop the white-hot pain that flashed in her eyes. The girl could summon no words, only beastly cries and whimpers. Time passed at a snails pace, and she was sure that Sulla was going to puncture her neck. Finally, he released his hold and turned his back.
“Go back to sleep. We still have many hours.”
For hours the cave remained as quiet as the grave. Sulla sat on the couch, cross-legged and upright, seemingly asleep. But Vynessa could still somehow sense his gaze piercing through his eye lids. His breath was the only measure of time she had; steady, rhythmic, almost peaceful. His face was an unflinching stone slab; occasionally, in the red hue of the fire, she thought she saw him stir as if disturbed by some dream. The girl's mind still raced from pain. Her neck and mouth felt as if they could shatter at any moment, and her breathing had begun to feel labored from the strain of being bound for so long. Every shift in her body caused Vynessa's shoulder's to scream in protest, even if it provided some relief to her feet. The salt tears on her face had dried, but fresh ones came trickling down her cheeks again.
“Why are you doing this?” There was an ever-growing dread in each word she used. From across the room, Sulla's eyes shot open. When she caught sight of them, a foreign twinge of annoyance crept inside her.
“I asked you nicely to go back to sleep.” His words no longer dripped with sarcasm, nor did he feign a smile; his breathing returned to something more regular, and his body had begun to relax a little.
“You don't seem to like this, and you haven't killed me yet. Why not -”
“I'm following my contract to the letter.” Sulla's voice was quiet but forceful, like the steady howl of the wind. “You won't leave here alive. You won't die until tonight. All my pieces are not in place.” He waited a moment before closing his eyes again. “Sleep.”
A sudden, desperate idea took hold of Vynessa. Resisting her bonds as best she could, the girl attempted to use the charms her mother had taught her. “You seem tired, irritable even. Maybe...maybe you should follow your own advice?” There was a coyness to her she'd kept hidden behind her despair.
The monster rose steadily and closed the gap between them. He took a strand of her golden hair between his finger and thumb and played with it. His workout had left no stink of sweat, only a sickly sterile smell that made Vynessa gag. His touch made her skin crawl; she wished had a few more inches of movement to lunge at him and bite his throat.
“I have not slept well in weeks,” he began with an almost sad tone. “I did not find good quarters in Underwood. I needed the night to sneak into your father's house and copy all the letters your lover had sent. I needed the same nights to break into the shack Roal called a home and find the similarly sickening letters you'd sent him.” He paused to rip the strand of hair from her head. She winced. “He kept them on his desk is a disorderly pile, reeking of that cheap oil you bought in that ramshackle shop.” He grabbed her throat carelessly now, choking her just enough to bring her head back hard against the stone wall.
“My days were spent in abuse at the hands of that fat old woman who ran The Saw Mull, serving the gluttonous pigs who wallowed there, and watching you pine out the window like a fucking schoolgirl.” There was a fury Vynessa hadn't felt before, a hatred she could not fathom. His eyes had been green when she first saw him, but now all she saw in them was red. “You met Roal there once! But every day you'd return to the same damned booth and order the same damned meal.”
“I...” Her words were choked up with her breathe, “...I don't...remember you.” She began to tear up again.
“Of course you fucking don't! No one remembers waiters! That's why I was one.” Sulla started snarling now, and his voice could only be described as a hushed scream. “Watching you. Hating you. And all the while, imaging the moment tonight when -”
From behind them, through one of the shadowed coves, heavy foot steps could be heard. Sulla released Vynessa to turn to see who approached, and the girl panic to try and regain her voice. She inhaled rapidly, trying to soothe the burning in her windpipe.
“Please,” she croaked. “Help me!”
From the darkness came a man dressed in green felt and patchwork armor with a hefty sack on his shoulder. He had long, greasy black hair and an unkempt beard to match. His weatherworn face sported two small, dark eyes that scrutinized everything around the room, and then to focused in on Sulla. A smile sprouted on his thin lips.
“How did you get a couch in here?”
The Past
Eighth Journal Entry
Around Seven Years Ago - Sulla, Fifteen – Three Months Later.
This was not my design.
My planned raid on the family's camp went awry from the start. I shouldn't have lost sight of their simpleton daughter so easily. When I approached the scorching fire and succulent smoke around it, I was confident the man and woman would be busy. I could hear their grunts and yells from the tent, I assumed the father was giving her another stern lesson as to the place of a woman. The child was off weaving a shirt of lilies or some such frivolous activity. I was silent, I was swift, but I have no excuse but my own failure. There's a bitterness on my tongue whenever I try to find the words, but my left hand seems to suffer no ill-effects. My right, however...
The daughter caught sight of me the moment I had peeled the flesh off the first skewer. Our eyes caught locked, and for a moment the soft fall of branch and leaf seemed to melt away. I watched her big, stupid mouth quiver into an absurd circle; she was going to bark. Long, sharp, still hot from the fire; the skewer in my hand was all the decision needed. I leapt for her in quiet fury. Not quite quiet enough.
The father emerged half-dressed from the tent with a gin-soaked scowl on his face. I'd his daughter to the ground and only managed to gouge her eye a little, but some beastly spirit took him over as if I had already killed her. That's when I noticed the crude cudgel in his hand – a peasant's second wife, it seems. He ran at me in a slovenly gait, and I fled with superior speed. But the forest around that camp hadn't birthed me from its fetid womb. I didn't know which dung-strewn animal path was quickest, nor the best way to avoid the rank, muddy pits covered in debris. His bulbous nose caught my scent too quickly.
I'm not shamed to admit I screamed when the first blow caught my ribs, nor cried when the second slammed into my collarbone. Even when he shattered every bone in my hand, I deftly managed to plunge the skewer deep into his thigh. Animals have too much dignity to make the howls he made.
Broken, weary, near-starved – my quick wits had slowed him enough to buy me time to wander the woods in search of some hole to die in. The misty peaks that surrounded Akishima weren't too far off, which meant I could lay further from home than I could have hoped. Thoughts swarmed in my mind as rapidly as the screams of pain. Perhaps my dear uncle had never got my letters, maybe that's why he hadn't responded. Or maybe there was a letter, stamped from Radasanth, laying near my father's hearth at that moment.
Distant dreams. Necessity had dictated, I had followed, and slipped into darkness because of it.
The Past
Eighth Journal Entry
Around Seven Years Ago - Sulla, Fifteen – Second Page.
I awoke in an unfamiliar bed to a cool mountain breeze. The windows were monstrously large and open, and though my splints gave me very little leeway, I managed to crane my neck around enough to see the immeasurable magnitude of the Comb Mountains. I'd read about adventurers who climbed those heights. The assent was treacherous, the trials intense, and the reward seemed a paltry sum for such hardship. But limited though I was, I found some fool wonder in staring off into the rolling clouds and snow-kissed peaks.
The room around me was wide and bright, painted in a light coat of lilac and smelling of the same wretched flower. A steady smoke rose off gilded incense holders on tell brass stands by each sill. All the beds seemed firmer and lower to the ground than I was accustomed to, but I figured infirmaries were not known for their comfort. My memory was a haze of pain and silent wood wardens prepared to bury me; my body covered in welts and bruises – no scars predicted, thankfully.
Above me stood an old man with thin-set eyes and a kindly grin plastered between sagging jowls. He noticed I had stirred, and attempted to fix the blanket I ruffled; his wrinkled hand was as white it.
“Blessed morn. I'm glad to see you're up.” I never knew my grandfather, and my Great Uncle Dussek is as far from kindly as I; but looking into his eyes reminded me of the kindly elder trope I've seen in countless storybooks. There was a true warmth there that I'd never truly felt before. Perhaps it was the way his brow furrowed on his bald head, or the strange tattoo upon it that had sagged with his face.
“Where am I?” A direct and innocent request. He chuckled softly, before rudely tussling my hair.
“You're at the Temple in the Sight of the Sun. You were brought here when some of the hunters we trade with found you near death in the forest below. The healing arts are one of many our order strives to master.” He hand began to radiant an unnaturally pleasant warmth, and I swear I saw his beady, sunken eyes glow. “Who attacked you?”
I'm proud enough for not needing preparation for the lie I told. I surprise myself with my own quick-wit.
“I don't remember.” The old fool had left my possessions by my side, cleaned and neatly folded. My journal and pen lay unmolested at the top.
We spoke at length until the sun set behind the mountains. He told me of his order; more spiritual and introspective than religious. He told me of their martial prowess, and he told me of their vows to keep peace. The wizened man invited me, with some general concern, to stay a while and heal. Their physical training and meditation exercises would imbibe a new strength for both my body and mind. I'm in no current shape to continue on my journey, but I feel an uneasiness still. I could have simply asked the campers I attacked for supplies to feed me, a hungry child. But I feared them discovering my real name. So I've chosen a suitable alias for my short time here.
Sulla. In honor of my nuncle.
“You were suppose to be here near dawn, Yven.” Sulla turned back towards his hostage, his mouth twisted in revolting sneer that looked like he just tasted spoiled meat. “It's nearly midday.” Unnaturally cold, strangely smooth fingers traced the new red marks on her neck. Vynessa writhed from the touch in pain, her skin crawling from the thought of it. Desperate from some distraction from the grotesque, she eyed the newcomer in suspicion.
He was taller than Sulla, and bulkier too. His thin-lipped grin seemed lost in a jape only he knew and moved with the scars and claw marks that circled in. He lowered his patchwork cloak to expose more battle wounds and a half-missing ear, before moving closer to the killer. Yven unceremoniously dropped the burlap sack he carried, letting it hit the moist ground with a thunderous thud. “It took a while to get everything you asked for. Searched all of damned Underwood for a mask.”
Tired of playing, the killer walked towards Yven with two fingers resting on his temple, massaging his forehead gently. He didn't say a word as he looked through the back, pulling out all sorts of outs-and-ends. Three heavy, rusting iron bear traps were taken out, along with six iron spikes. Sulla set about placing them inside the whole in front of Vynessa, deliberate with their position and careful when he set them, before driving the spikes in to secure them. Next, he retrieved a few rolls of thin rice paper mats that he covered the trap with, before standing up again. Each time he grabbed something, he glanced at Yven as one would a gossiping friend; warm, but decidedly distant.
“What the hell is this?” In Sulla's fist was a crudely carved fox's face in wood. Some attempt had been made to paint it, but it looked as if it had been given up all to quickly.
“You wanted something to wear in front of Eyrnhart - “
“I don't want to be a fox,” said Sulla in all the sulk of a sullen child. Yven chuckled at at him as he crossed his arms, though the killer ignored him to continue his work. A large jug of wine was placed on the table, and next to it a goblet so massive it had to be held with two hands. The weak wood groaned as more weight was placed upon it.
“I didn't think you cared enough about our guest to provided refreshments.” Beneath those worm-like lips, Vynessa could see a few blackened teeth.
“I may hate the pageantry and uncleanliness of this kill, but I don't shirk from the details – I put myself in them.” The fire roared as Sulla threw two more logs he found in the sack into it.
“Hmm. Speaking of those details – my payment?” The man rubbed two glove fingers together; the dry scratch of leather could be heard throughout the chamber.
Sulla rose almost dutifully and walked towards him like a man to the gallows. But Vynessa did not see him reach for a coin purse or wallet. Instead, the killer raised himself on his tip toes, offering Yven his neck and shoulder; tilting his head in, what seemed, a repressed agony.
Yven hungrily accepted, noisily kissing every inch.
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The girl had gone through a deluge of emotion during her stay, but nothing quite prepared her for the scene that unfolded just ahead. Trails of smoke wrapped around her captors like ethereal chains, though their shadows reigned free on the walls. Sulla moved not an inch as Yven threw off his gloves and gripped the younger man so tightly he would surely bruise, throwing him into the couch with all the care of a carcass from the hunt. The wooden legs cracked a bit, splintering them in fine lines. A faint cloud of dust was kicked into the air, quickly dissipating from the intense heat of the fire. Sulla lay in repose, as still as the grave, with wide-eyes staring right in Vynessa. There was a thorough satisfaction in his fall, but somehow the hostage couldn't focus on it; those two venom circles so fixated her that she hadn't noticed Yven retrieve two more items from the sack. The first, a blindfold, he left on the table as he lumbered over to her and tied a putrid strip of knotted leather around his mouth. She struggled briefly, but found the man even rougher than Sulla as he laid a powerful smack across her cheek.
“She can watch,” he smirked as he turned his attention to more pressing matters. By the time Yven had returned, he'd managed to strip off all his clothing. His back was a mess of reddened streaks and half-healed burns. A thick layer of filth seemed to coat his skin in something browner than the pants he'd worn before. And though she had not noticed any before, a foul smell seemed to permeate the cave like the damp.
He grabbed both of Sulla's wrists with one beastly hand and held them above the smaller man's head. With his free paw he wrestled off his breeches and small clothes, before climbing down on top of him. Yven's pursed mouth seemed like worms, slimy from spittle and squirming with enjoyment. He bit the killers lip lightly, pulling on the lower one and nearly drawing blood. He continued downward, snapping at the exposed skin he found along the way.
“No scars.” Sulla's teeth were so tightly clenched that the words barely made it out of their ivory prison. By then Yven had released Sulla's arms, instead capturing the whole of him in his mouth. The older man tried to steal a glance at the killer's face, but the rhythmic sucking was in vain. Sulla's face didn't move, save an occasionally twitch of the eye. Dissatisfied, Yven rose with a jolt and caused the couch to groan more than his partner. He grabbed Sulla by the hips, flipping his limp body around and exposing the pale prize he sought. He spit in one hand, rubbed down his cock, and repeated until completely covered in an oozing brown from tobacco chew.
Vynessa tried to look away, but curiosity got the better of her. With the first thrust, Sulla's eyes finally shut. The pulses began to grow more violent, causing his head to smack against the couch's arm and making the whole damned thing rattle. Yven grunted as he pulled the back of the killer's hair, weaving it tightly through his fingers. His other arm wrapped itself around one of Sulla's legs, forcing himself with a renewed vigor. Painful minutes crept by as the girl watched piecemeal vignettes of the scene behind long blinks; until the older man let out one final thrust and groan before a spasm brought him crashing down on top of the other.
The killers eyes finally opened to lock on Vynessa's. No nook in the room than that vacant stare. Shivers took the girl's body, and strange feelings brought a flush to her face. There was no shame or sadness, but something hungry; some desire kept at bay by the patient promise of a grim reward. Now, more than ever, Vynessa wished her chains were broken. Nothing in the world made her want to slip into that stone wall more.
There was a mercy in the silence; a hesitant bliss one feels in the eye of a storm. Hours rolled along as Yven slept atop Sulla, his burly arms jealously guarding the prize. Every now and then he'd let out some noise that was part grunt, part snore; rolling a little as he did. The younger man did not find dreaming as easy. Like a stone sentinel, his blank eyes stared off into the distance. He no longer found interest in the girl, instead biding his time in the idles of nothing. Before long his breathing had grown to a loud drone, ever increasing in volume. His chest swelled larger and larger, until he was beginning to push the beast with every inhale. Yven had finally stirred.
“Let me just take a shit, and I'll be good to go again.” The older man rubbed his eyes groggily; his calloused hands made a scratching noise on his rough face as he slowly rose on the couch.
“Our guest should be in Hamsil by now. You should go and greet him.” Sulla's monotone made it seem more an order than a suggestion, as he finally acknowledged the other's presence. As he slithered up, his own hand met Yven's, touching it with a slight tenderness. “We have a schedule to keep.”
Yven scoffed as he reached for the wine jug on the table and took a thirty gulp of it. He swished it around his mouth with a sicken sound, before retching ever so slightly. “This wine you picked could blind a man with a stray drop.” He coughed as he slammed it back on the table. “I thought you had better taste.”
“Circumstance and necessity guide my hand,” Sulla said as his eyes traced the brute up and down. “Eyrnhart's estate in Underwood is kept in a poor state, and I hear the disrepair makes for a rancid vintage. Still, the portly fool loves it, or so Dussek's report would have me believe.”
Yven pushed the killer roughly off him and started to dress, glaring all the while. “You shouldn't use his name in front of witnesses,” he chided, pulling his green felt cloak over him as he did. Sulla got off the couch with a creek and stood, still naked, just before Yven. The killer's shadow played sickly on the cavern wall as the last few embers smoldered in the pit.
“I find the dead,” he began by playfully walking around the brute, “keep the best secrets.”
“And I know some mediums who would disagree.” Yven, fully clothed and fastening his weapons, shouldered passed him and began towards the exit. “You're not half as smart as you think, remember that.” Before Sulla had a chance to retort, he was gone. The thud of heavy footfalls grew more distant 'till it died out completely.
Alone and, to Vynessa, unnerved, the killer sat himself back down. Hunching forward to lean over the crowded table surface, he found his careful hands playing with the carved mask. He traced the haphazard chisel marks and dripping streaks of paint, and stared at it like it was reaching for his attention. Quite contemplation turned into an exaggerated sigh as he looked back at the chained girl.
“Our bodies aren't our own,” he attempted to emote. “They're vessels; simple, crude, sullied extensions of our will. We whore them out when needed, bind them to the chains of others, and mute our own desires, but...“ He surged to his feet, mask in hand. A new energy clung to his flesh like the sweat on his skin. “Deep beneath we bide our time and soothe the soundless fury, obscuring the turmoil behind...” He placed the fox mask over his face.
The Past
Twenty-Fourth Journal Entry
Around Six Years Ago - Sulla, Sixteen.
My body is nearly healed now, and with no mark or mar; The Temple in the Sight of The Sun has done wonders for my recuperation. Perhaps Octavius had died of his wounds on the forest floor. Perhaps my old flesh had festered into nothing but bleached white bone. My nearly five-month stay has been both invigorating and enlightening. I've joined the ranks of around ten other initiates, all boys and young men who were brought to the Temple at a young age; thankfully, ignorant of any news outside its domain. In truth they busy themselves too readily with our daily work-outs, sparring matches, and afternoon meditations. I resisted such group foolishness, before I found its structure and focus useful for more than inner peace.
I've been taught the cleverest little trick from my savior. With eyes reborn, I can see within the depths of another person's being and the symphony of emotions behind those fleshy walls. It was strange at first, looking at another boy and feeling a twinge of distrust – and the anger he felt when I slighted him! It's a marvelous little trick, though I fear Imial's reason had been more a lesson in understanding the other students; one of the few I failed at.
Brother Imial has also shown me a library without equal, kept well within the depths beneath the open courtyard. Scrolls from a thousand years ago are maintained by he with such spirited vigor, you'd forget his ice cold, boney hands were that of a simple healer. I've researched their history during my stay. Quite peculiar I'd be allowed to see the strife that rocked their little group only a century ago. The Temple in the Sight of the Sun is the only site left from the days where their enclaves slept in insular bliss, dotted sparely across all the continents. A dissenting voice broke off from the droning hums and took it upon themselves to enact their plans for peace apart from a group of ineffective wellwishers.
The Tide is the only reference I could find to their name, and Imial has been little help in my inquires. He gives me access to their history and works, but tries to guide me towards the founding principles of the more conservative members of the past. Such boring, soppy stories and prattling parables.
At least their fighting form is impressive, I'll give them that credit. The rangers who stay in the nearby guest housing often watch us spar. How curiously apt an order that preaches peace teaches such tools of submission.
Still, I feel I've lingered too long. I have already sent out a few letters during my recovery with any traveler or pilgrim who would take my letter to Radasanth out of pity.
Hopefully, I'll hear a reply soon.
The Past
Thirty-First Journal Entry
Around Six Years Ago - Sulla, Sixteen.
I have underestimated Brother Imial. What I thought was the withered corpse of a foolish old man, ever smiling in some macabre death mask, turned out to hide a keen mind and an iron will. In those eyes are not the kindly tidings of a grandfather, but the roaring fire of the zealot. No, I underestimated Brother Imial and I am in danger for it.
My uncle's reply has still not arrived, leaving me in agony to watch the weeks crawl by. The most interesting selections in the library have been read and reread by my weary mind. All that's left are the dry records of days long gone, kept as some account to compare how much better life is now to yore. My fellow disciples have all the wit expected of the dull masses, and with tongues blunted from what few words they can gather into simple sentences. Their knowledge lies in the eternal secrets they hope to unlock with each grueling workout. Its made conversation an interesting problem, and one I've grown tired of.
When I went to see Imial in his study, or the dusty cave he refers to one, I had expected a much easier time. How any room with so much open air could collect so much filth is beyond my comprehension, though I always supposed it was Imail's own lacking pace, as he shuffled around on limp, slippered feet. The brother had no desk, merely a collection of tomes that could be arranged into any surface he required. He sat on the floor cross-legged, though a look on his face always reminded me of the joyous pain he was in to do it.
“Ah!” He began, as always, with some meek attempt at cheer. “What can I do for you, my son?”
“I just wished to tell you I intend to take my leave of the temple soon.” The wrinkles on his face clamped shut at that. “I fear I've overstayed my welcome, and that it's time for me to continue on my journey.” There was a stillness in the air I wasn't use to. The Temple in the Sight of the Sun was always so airy, and the far cry of a hawk echoed off the mountainsides whether it was ten feet or a mile away.
“So quickly? I must admit I'd hoped you would have stayed with us for some time...”
I smiled my best and hugged my body closely, as sentimental fools are oft to do. “It's been too long since I've seen the world outside this temple. I'm afraid I've put this off for too long.”
“Oh. May I ask where you planned to go?” A questioned I'd expected, and an answer I had ready, until he said those sharp little words. “It'd be a shame if you found yourself in such dire straights again with another hunter.” Blood rushed from my face with a mind all its own. I'll never admit to shaking, but I came damn close.
“What do you mean?”
“Shortly after you were brought to us, we heard stories from rangers of a rapid boy who attacked a family in camp. Now, their description was vague at best, but that's all you can expect from such trauma.” He rose with a grace I'd never noticed before, mired only by the slight crack of his knees. For the first time, in the shadow of the waning twilight, I noticed how he towered over me. “Their account was specific with the wounds the father had inflicted on his attacker, though. There was a price on your head, but I hid you from any traveler who came here. I had hoped some lessons from out order could quell whatever turmoil clouded your vision.” He placed that talon-like hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly, but carefully. “That was, until, I had a chance to really look into your eyes. You're a very clever lad, Sulla. You must have known when I taught you our orders techniques that I had some mastery over them; that I could look into you with ease and find it all...wanting.” He turned away to walk to some shelf, rearranging a few parchments with a nervous energy.
“I'm -”
“I can't in good conscience let you leave here.” He turned one last time, with a look I'll never forget. “If it wasn't for my vows and the sanctity of this order, I don't know what I'd do with you.”
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