Astrid Whitepeak
11-06-15, 01:00 PM
Water for Those Who Thirst
A thin haze floated through the forest, carrying with it an aberrant mixture of scents: cloying incense, syrupy sweet and sharp as a razor, and burnt flesh, acrid and foul. It slid past stoic, ancient pines and harsh stone outcroppings with indifference, but where its tendrils touched, the blackness of the night seemed to deepen and grow heavy. Nothing stirred in the woods, nor made a sound at its passing. No deer bounded away in fright, and no bird took wing. Not even the wind dared touch the slithering mass. It was as though the world had abandoned this place to the darkness, leaving only the creeping cloud to fill the emptiness. Perhaps that was for the best, though: There was a malice to the smoke; it spoke of violence done and violence yet to come.
Where there is smoke, there is fire, and the fire burned bright and hot in the center of a wide, open glade. Beside a platform of logs lashed together with coarse rope, Astrid and her comrades stood in silent witness to the inevitable outcome of apostasy. Atop the structure, several men and women were bound to staves of green pine, posed in positions of prayer. One knelt on the platform, forehead forced against the soot-stained bark. A second was tied to a cross, with arms raised towards the sky. Tongues of fire danced around them, licking the exposed flesh of their legs and chests, leaving lines of angry red.
As she listened to their agonized screams, Astrid’s hand clenched tight on the haft of the torch. Frantic eyes met her own for just a second, but it was long enough for the sinner to see that he would find no compassion in her. There could be no pity, no remorse; they had forsaken the Sway, and deserved the cleansing fire which would whisk them away to judgment and damnation. Still… were it not for her fellow Witch Hunters, she would have simply lit the pyre and left the Sway to their work; she felt no love for these deviants, but nor did she revel in their pain. Astrid merely did what she had to for her people and her Church.
In an instant, the fire and her comrades were gone, leaving Astrid alone in the clearing with a pile of ash, embers and the charred husks of traitors. The torch in her hand sputtered weakly, and its light grew dim as the last of the pitch was consumed. A frigid wind picked up and tugged at her cloak, chilling her to the bone. She did not care. Her attention was on the corpses before her, still bent in forced penitence. They looked so small, so insignificant. The young Witch Hunter frowned, then spat at the kneeling heretic. “Unbeliever.”
Suddenly, the remains shuddered in their bonds, and flakes of skin sloughed off of its neck as it turned to meet her gaze. Ruptured eyes, desiccated from the heat of the fire, hung out from their sockets as the thing met her gaze. Cracked lips split to reveal eerily white teeth amidst the ruin of its face, and a sound like the growl of tumbling rock emanated from its throat. It was laughing at her.
“Hypocrite.”
Astrid lurched upright in her bed with a gasp, her heart galloping in her chest. She reached over to the short sword propped against the wall, but her fumbling fingers slid off the hilt and tipped the weapon over with a sharp clatter. A pathetic whine escaped from her lips as her eyes frantically darted past the edge of the mattress and tried to pierce the darkness that shrouded the room. Nothing moved in the shadows, and the only sounds she heard were the whispering of the wind through a poorly sealed pane and the faint hooting of an owl in the distance. The night was still, and she was safe; they were gone. No hooded figures waited, and no corpses tried to unearth memories best left forgotten.
The Witch Hunter pulled her shaking hand back from the blade and swept damp bangs from her sweat-slicked brow. Astrid pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She held it for a moment, and then exhaled slowly as the adrenaline began to fade. A dream… it was just a dream. She’d been having those more frequently lately, to the point where a night when she did not awaken in a near panic was a welcome blessing.
A grimace tugged at the corner of her mouth as she settled back into her covers. Just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream; no dead heretic had attempted to speak to her, but she remembered that night. She recalled the heat of that fire, and just how long the sinners had continued to scream after the flames reached them. She had watched the entire night, waiting for something to happen. Some sign, some recognition of their depravity. Anything. But, for all the blasphemy they uttered and all the contempt they held for the Holy Church, they died like anyone else. They were there, and then they were just… gone. She knew that they had suffered in their final moments on this earth and that the Sway would judge them for their sins, but somehow that just wasn’t enough for her. There was no recognition of her work, no acknowledgement of their crimes. In the years since, and with every witch and apostate brought to justice, the feeling had not abated. In her heart of hearts it still felt hollow.
Astrid sighed, and glanced back towards the window and the thick fur pulled down over the glass to cut the cold. No light seeped under the edges of the pelt, and she did not hear the familiar sounds of a city awakening. She had only been asleep for a few short hours before the terrors had seized her again. The Witch Hunter shook herself from her reverie, and slid out from beneath the blankets. The cold stung against her exposed skin and the calloused soles of her feet, shocking her awake. Not that she needed the help; she had no desire to face her demons again tonight.
Aching muscles protested as she padded over to the wash basin, but Astrid ignored them. Days of travel and sleepless nights wreaked havoc on the body and soul, and the strain was weighing heavily on her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to maintain this erratic schedule forever, but she was functional—for now. That knowledge, along with the fear of what waited when she closed her eyes, was enough for her to justify living on borrowed time.
She drew a breath then quickly splashed the icy water over her face. As the water dripped from her chin, Astrid looked up into the tarnished bronze plaque above the porcelain bowl. It was warped and would have been nearly useless even in the light of the day, but that hardly mattered; Astrid did not need a mirror to know how sickly she looked. Deep, purple bags pooled beneath her bloodshot eyes, and a quick brush with her fingers was enough to let her know that her short-cropped hair was matted and oily. She had not even bothered to undress before falling into bed earlier in the evening. A part of her mind berated her for her slovenly appearance, for the disgrace it brought on her Order, but she could hardly muster the will to care. Even the most half-hearted efforts at making herself presentable felt like a monumental undertaking.
As she sat down on the edge of the mattress to lace up her boots, the acolyte saw the faint outline of a sheet of parchment lying atop the bedside table. It was too dark to make out the words, or to see the details in the seal embossed beneath the tight script, but she had already committed the short missive to memory: “You are needed. Come.”Astrid yanked hard on the strings, tightening the boots to an uncomfortable degree. One was not supposed to ask questions, or to hesitate, but it had been months since she had last been contacted. Months, during which she had been left to wander – alone! – through Salvar without the slightest guidance from her Order. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her training told her that nothing was wrong; she had not been needed before now, so of course the Church would not waste precious time and resources in holding the hand of a timid little girl. But… Why do I feel such doubt?
The Witch Hunter stood up, grabbed the letter and carefully folded it along the creases before stashing it in one of the pockets of her cloak. There would be time for questions later; for now, she had her instructions. Once again, she had a purpose.
AN: Alrighty, so I have been absent from the site for quite a while, and I am keenly aware of that fact. I've decided that I'd like to take Astrid in a new direction to help me get some of my creativity back. This thread is going to be fairly short and aimed at explaining a bit of the why and how that change occurs. If anyone wants to join, let me know and I'll explain what the overall plan is, otherwise... Just put up with my rambling, I guess?
A thin haze floated through the forest, carrying with it an aberrant mixture of scents: cloying incense, syrupy sweet and sharp as a razor, and burnt flesh, acrid and foul. It slid past stoic, ancient pines and harsh stone outcroppings with indifference, but where its tendrils touched, the blackness of the night seemed to deepen and grow heavy. Nothing stirred in the woods, nor made a sound at its passing. No deer bounded away in fright, and no bird took wing. Not even the wind dared touch the slithering mass. It was as though the world had abandoned this place to the darkness, leaving only the creeping cloud to fill the emptiness. Perhaps that was for the best, though: There was a malice to the smoke; it spoke of violence done and violence yet to come.
Where there is smoke, there is fire, and the fire burned bright and hot in the center of a wide, open glade. Beside a platform of logs lashed together with coarse rope, Astrid and her comrades stood in silent witness to the inevitable outcome of apostasy. Atop the structure, several men and women were bound to staves of green pine, posed in positions of prayer. One knelt on the platform, forehead forced against the soot-stained bark. A second was tied to a cross, with arms raised towards the sky. Tongues of fire danced around them, licking the exposed flesh of their legs and chests, leaving lines of angry red.
As she listened to their agonized screams, Astrid’s hand clenched tight on the haft of the torch. Frantic eyes met her own for just a second, but it was long enough for the sinner to see that he would find no compassion in her. There could be no pity, no remorse; they had forsaken the Sway, and deserved the cleansing fire which would whisk them away to judgment and damnation. Still… were it not for her fellow Witch Hunters, she would have simply lit the pyre and left the Sway to their work; she felt no love for these deviants, but nor did she revel in their pain. Astrid merely did what she had to for her people and her Church.
In an instant, the fire and her comrades were gone, leaving Astrid alone in the clearing with a pile of ash, embers and the charred husks of traitors. The torch in her hand sputtered weakly, and its light grew dim as the last of the pitch was consumed. A frigid wind picked up and tugged at her cloak, chilling her to the bone. She did not care. Her attention was on the corpses before her, still bent in forced penitence. They looked so small, so insignificant. The young Witch Hunter frowned, then spat at the kneeling heretic. “Unbeliever.”
Suddenly, the remains shuddered in their bonds, and flakes of skin sloughed off of its neck as it turned to meet her gaze. Ruptured eyes, desiccated from the heat of the fire, hung out from their sockets as the thing met her gaze. Cracked lips split to reveal eerily white teeth amidst the ruin of its face, and a sound like the growl of tumbling rock emanated from its throat. It was laughing at her.
“Hypocrite.”
Astrid lurched upright in her bed with a gasp, her heart galloping in her chest. She reached over to the short sword propped against the wall, but her fumbling fingers slid off the hilt and tipped the weapon over with a sharp clatter. A pathetic whine escaped from her lips as her eyes frantically darted past the edge of the mattress and tried to pierce the darkness that shrouded the room. Nothing moved in the shadows, and the only sounds she heard were the whispering of the wind through a poorly sealed pane and the faint hooting of an owl in the distance. The night was still, and she was safe; they were gone. No hooded figures waited, and no corpses tried to unearth memories best left forgotten.
The Witch Hunter pulled her shaking hand back from the blade and swept damp bangs from her sweat-slicked brow. Astrid pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She held it for a moment, and then exhaled slowly as the adrenaline began to fade. A dream… it was just a dream. She’d been having those more frequently lately, to the point where a night when she did not awaken in a near panic was a welcome blessing.
A grimace tugged at the corner of her mouth as she settled back into her covers. Just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream; no dead heretic had attempted to speak to her, but she remembered that night. She recalled the heat of that fire, and just how long the sinners had continued to scream after the flames reached them. She had watched the entire night, waiting for something to happen. Some sign, some recognition of their depravity. Anything. But, for all the blasphemy they uttered and all the contempt they held for the Holy Church, they died like anyone else. They were there, and then they were just… gone. She knew that they had suffered in their final moments on this earth and that the Sway would judge them for their sins, but somehow that just wasn’t enough for her. There was no recognition of her work, no acknowledgement of their crimes. In the years since, and with every witch and apostate brought to justice, the feeling had not abated. In her heart of hearts it still felt hollow.
Astrid sighed, and glanced back towards the window and the thick fur pulled down over the glass to cut the cold. No light seeped under the edges of the pelt, and she did not hear the familiar sounds of a city awakening. She had only been asleep for a few short hours before the terrors had seized her again. The Witch Hunter shook herself from her reverie, and slid out from beneath the blankets. The cold stung against her exposed skin and the calloused soles of her feet, shocking her awake. Not that she needed the help; she had no desire to face her demons again tonight.
Aching muscles protested as she padded over to the wash basin, but Astrid ignored them. Days of travel and sleepless nights wreaked havoc on the body and soul, and the strain was weighing heavily on her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to maintain this erratic schedule forever, but she was functional—for now. That knowledge, along with the fear of what waited when she closed her eyes, was enough for her to justify living on borrowed time.
She drew a breath then quickly splashed the icy water over her face. As the water dripped from her chin, Astrid looked up into the tarnished bronze plaque above the porcelain bowl. It was warped and would have been nearly useless even in the light of the day, but that hardly mattered; Astrid did not need a mirror to know how sickly she looked. Deep, purple bags pooled beneath her bloodshot eyes, and a quick brush with her fingers was enough to let her know that her short-cropped hair was matted and oily. She had not even bothered to undress before falling into bed earlier in the evening. A part of her mind berated her for her slovenly appearance, for the disgrace it brought on her Order, but she could hardly muster the will to care. Even the most half-hearted efforts at making herself presentable felt like a monumental undertaking.
As she sat down on the edge of the mattress to lace up her boots, the acolyte saw the faint outline of a sheet of parchment lying atop the bedside table. It was too dark to make out the words, or to see the details in the seal embossed beneath the tight script, but she had already committed the short missive to memory: “You are needed. Come.”Astrid yanked hard on the strings, tightening the boots to an uncomfortable degree. One was not supposed to ask questions, or to hesitate, but it had been months since she had last been contacted. Months, during which she had been left to wander – alone! – through Salvar without the slightest guidance from her Order. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her training told her that nothing was wrong; she had not been needed before now, so of course the Church would not waste precious time and resources in holding the hand of a timid little girl. But… Why do I feel such doubt?
The Witch Hunter stood up, grabbed the letter and carefully folded it along the creases before stashing it in one of the pockets of her cloak. There would be time for questions later; for now, she had her instructions. Once again, she had a purpose.
AN: Alrighty, so I have been absent from the site for quite a while, and I am keenly aware of that fact. I've decided that I'd like to take Astrid in a new direction to help me get some of my creativity back. This thread is going to be fairly short and aimed at explaining a bit of the why and how that change occurs. If anyone wants to join, let me know and I'll explain what the overall plan is, otherwise... Just put up with my rambling, I guess?