The Demon and the...Librarian!? (closed)

[Seth_Rahl]

Closed for Ataraxis

The demon swordsman fingered his giant blade impatiently. The woman was late; nearly fifteen minutes now. For an extra fifteen minutes he had been sitting against the tavern door awaiting her, but his client hadn't appeared yet. The sun's rays were beating down on him, and his temper was beginning to rise. The agent who had set Ifrit up for this job wiped his brow nervously, and said, "Don't worry, she'll be here."

"I'm not the one who needs to be worrying right now." Ifrit growled, and the man's face went white.

"You remember what I told you, right?" the man asked, sweat dripping down his face. He was a fat man with a bow tie; a brightly colored one that hurt Ifrit's eye's everytime he looked at it.

"Yeah, yeah. Protect the girl through Brokenthorn forest, then see her safely to the boat on the other side of Scara Brae. That's all." The swordsman was obviously in a bad mood as he snapped at the agent, who cringed beneath the demon.

She better hurry up...

[Ataraxis]

Morbid clouds of rose spewed forth from the beast’s maw, their redolence so intense that the poor Tom Tabletop swooned, releasing his grip on the filigreed spoon of legends, the one hope to slay the Unicorn Liege and end its millenial tyranny. The end was soon to come, for the monster’s sanguine hoof hung steady over the Paladimp’s heart. ‘Woe to the Toe! Trow in the Flow!’ Tom hollered fervently as his ultimate act of defiance, knowing full well that such insolence would never see exoneration. The wind whisks, the hoof falls, and –


Lillian’s eyes were torn from the yellowed pages that told of the Paladin Imp’s latest adventures when her body rolled across the cargo hold, a mere rag doll in a mishandled carton box. Her back stung as if on fire, having jarred into a hollow crate with a shrill ‘crick’, and she saw stars dancing merrily before her jumbled stare. ‘This is not at all like the time papa brought us to Scara Brae!’ Her internal complaint was truthful enough; five years prior to this, she had distinctly heard men scrambling over the wharf as they moored the ship, and did not recall any crash of the sort. Recovering a smidgeon of equanimity, the twelve year old girl crawled over the moist floorboards, her curiosity having gotten the better of her pain. There was a short struggle as she clambered onto a barrel, almost tipping it over, but she managed to poise herself on its top, and peered out through the grimy porthole. Trees, trees and more trees; there was a long bulwark of trees blocking off the skies, stretching from the west to the east. ‘Where am I? Did I board the wrong ship? No, no! I heard them say they were going to Scara Brae!’

The hatchway opened, letting in the cool air of night and the voices of men, a meek garble at first, but as they nattered on, their speech became distinct. “Get the tools”. Lillian had found refuge behind a crate, not far from the dropped hatch, and her childish form was invisible to them, shrouded in thick layers of shadow. “Fast, you nitwits, These trees are not going to cut themselves.” At these words, light was shed upon her mind’s confusion. They were pilferers. She had thought them to be merchants, but the empty crates had been the first to pique her suspicion. She knew that Fallien’s wood industry was severely lacking in resources, and it had been so ever since the Vadhya, the Execution. It was nowhere near surprising that the nefarious men that took residence in the Outlander’s Quarters would exploit this deficiency and illegally import the wood from Scara Brae to expand the pool of their riches. Furthermore, she knew for a fact that they would not dock near Scara Brae, or any large city for that matter, in fear of being apprehended by the local authorities. By induction and from the map she had drawn in her mind, Lillian realized that she was currently stranded in the southernmost regions of Scara Brae, on the wrong side of the Brokenthorn Forest.

Feeling herself panic, she made a sharp intake of air, which sounded clear in the cargo bay. Realizing the blunder, her hands scuttled to stifle her mouth, and her eyes stared transfixed into the darkness. Lillian prayed to Suravani for the men to dismiss the noise, but the sound of steps loomed closer. It was over. Would they kill her? It was a close match between the generic psyche of criminals and the natural progression of books, which dictated that the hero or heroine who idiotically drew the bad men’s attention would have it detract once more by an owl’s hoot or the arrival of a huffing goon, bearing ill tides for the nefarious group. ‘Hoot or goon! Hoot or goon!’ Her body was stiff and her teeth were clenched, but she fought strongly against a grit that might avert all doubts as to a clandestine girl’s presence.

A long ululation turned their heads toward the ledge beneath the hatch, where stood a puffing man. “Boss! Giant Spiders!” he cried out repeatedly, until a blast of viscous web muffled his mouth and pulled him out of the frame. Blinking twice at such a happenstance, she wondered whether Suravani truly had such a sense of humour. An ear-splitting crack, wet and bony, and the ensuing sounds of sucking and supping and feasting told her no; all things considered, the poachers seemed quite amicable. Steel slid against steel; it was a sound familiar and known to her as the unsheathing of a blade. The mob of armed men rushed the ledge and hacked away, successfully slaying the arachnid with their swarming onslaught, though to their ever growing dismay, the overgrown spider was but the first wave of many more. There was but one decision to make: wait and see which of these two evils would emerge the victor or run now as the poachers distracted the eight-legged beasts. “Run now!”

Bolting from the crate-provided cover, she went for the book and the short sword that had flown not far off when the ship had come to a tumbling halt. Picking them up hastily, Lillian stuffed the dank tome in her the knapsack on her back and swung the blade back as a precaution as she readied herself for the dash of her life. Ankle boots splashed onto frigid waters, sucking mud as they sprinted along the coast. Her eyes were shut tight, having caught upon exit the morbid glimpse of a severed head careening across the nightly air. “Mama… I’m scared…” It was hard to fight the tears, the constricting of her throat, the knowledge that she would never see mother nor father again, that they could not possibly come and save her from this horrible adventure she had embarked upon. In her fear and sorrow, she had strayed from her path. Unbeknownst to her, she had run into the woods, where the dwellers of her nightmares had taken nest.


Lillian admonished herself for committing blunder upon blunder. The canopy overhead was too thick, almost opaque, and only shafts of moonlight that had gone astray could lead the weeping girl – into a den of monsters no less. What demon had possessed her? By scurrying silently along the border, she would have reached a town in no more than three or four hours, and had a far lesser chances of becoming an overgrown animal’s prey. Now, time had become but a vague concept and weariness the only reality of which she was still aware. Strange noises surrounded her; cicadas seemed to call from the treetops, the wind chimed eerily through the hanging boughs, a dark whisper that spoke of her nearing demise. It terrorized her, all of it. The only thing that coaxed her to carry on was instinct, self-preservation, but she knew the irony of it, that this damned instinct was guiding her on a path to assured death!

The sounds that once were carried on no more. The forest had grown silent, watchful. No chiming, no cricketing, no deafening din. Oh, how she knew that silence often equated impending peril.

It shrieked its horrible screech. The leaves underfoot rustled frantically as they were trampled by a multitude of hairy tarsi. Lillian’s head spun round, vainly seeking the source of the noise; the monster was too swift, circumventing her as it leapt from tree to tree, progressively closing in on her location. “I… I don’t want to die… Please…” She cursed herself for thinking she would ever live to tell her tale. Little girls were never meant to travel and see the world and live wonderful adventures. Oh, how she loathed the tales of pampered princesses! But now, she knew that such misogynistic stories were meant to be precautionary tales for girls like her, against the insurmountable evils of this world. “All I wanted… was to be like them!” As she yelled, outwardly or inwardly she was unsure, it hit her: Layla, her mother, had wandered the world, and had survived. He little fists tightened with the sudden surge of valiance, remembering then the cold, hard shaft of her father’s blade, the memento she had carried over the seas and into the Brokenthorn Forest. The spider pounced, its shrill drone resounding in the dark, but its position had already been betrayed by the momentous gleam in its blood-red gems. The foil of the sword followed its deadly arc, finding comfort in gooey flesh as it burst through one of the spider’s rows of eyes. In its fall, Lillian was taken, forced to drop the blade as a clawed leg gashed her left arm. She winced, the pain was terrible; but she would not scream, she would not give it the satisfaction of domination. Its appendages slashed at the ground, slicing and tearing large moats of earth, almost killing the helpless girl on many occasions. Lillian slithered beneath it, hand feeling the ground tentatively for the blade of her salvation, but the creature stopped, noticed her and pinned her down at the sides like an insect. She had fought well, but all things must come to an end, and this was hers. A feeble hand stretched to touch one of its legs, and closed around the scraggly pole. “Be kind, and don’t let me feel pain.”

The spider froze, its chelicerae wide and dripping an odorous goop upon the fallen leaves. Lillians eyes, sealed shut in capitulation, slowly yawned wide, only to see the creature eyeing her strangely, its hairy head askance. Something was strange, for this beast was very different. She must have been mistaken. It couldn’t be true, but as her ghastly blue eyes met the spider’s own, they met kindred souls, four little gems twinkling the same, innocent hue. What had she done? What she had thought to be her last words reverberated through her mind. ‘Be kind. And don’t let me feel pain.’ She had turned it! Somehow, she had drawn into the pool of her mysterious powers, brought all the required factors necessary to its successful casting and had converted the creature into an ally! “C… Can you… understand me?” The spider nodded, a hint of glee in its remaining line of eyes. “Could you… help me?” As if reading her thoughts, the friendly beast picked her up with its massive legs and tossed her upon its cephalothorax. Its spinnerets weaved a net to pick the girl’s blade, careful to wrap around its edges and temporarily blunt it. Then, without further ado, it leapt through the shadows of the forest, scuttling toward the nearest town.

[Ataraxis]

“Hey… Hey!” The world seemed to shake, but Lillian did not want to wake. “Hey! Are you alright?” The ruckus was incredibly nettlesome. “Wake up already!” Whoever this was, he or she wanted to be hurt… “JUST WAK-”

“Why can’t you just let me sleep!” Grumpily she rose, her body aching in places she never knew she had. Her eyes lazily scanned the surroundings, still torn between the realm of dreamless slumber and this particularly annoying reality. Before her was a foot, her foot, and its heel had dug into the nubile face of a young boy. In this awkward moment, her mother’s voice reminded her how she had always been a terrible sleeper. There were tales of temper tantrums of which she was the heroine, and she had always wondered how much was the truth and how much were but mocking lies. To her everlasting shame, the former seemed far more plausible now. An influx of modesty overwhelmed her and she promptly drew herself to a stand, industriously working the filth off of her once immaculate gown, though now it looked more like a shade of curdled cream. “I’m sorry! I… I don’t know how I ended up here…” The fog of her memories receded, and the blue-eyed spider filled the vast expanse in an instant. ‘So it left me here…’ Did the boy see it? Had the townspeople, perhaps the militia, killed the creature? She was worried, and knew this to be preposterous. The thing had almost killed her! Yet, she felt that it had redeemed itself, for without the spider’s help, she would have died anyway.

“Uh… Uh… I… You…” Lillian stared bemusedly at the stuttering boy, and took the opportunity to observe him from head to toe. He was a freckle-faced boy, a few inches shorter than herself. His hair was an unkempt shade of brown, shorn unevenly by some blind hairdresser, she assumed. Still, his eyes held a charming speckle, reminiscent of the green Kiramaini beads that adorned the ceremonial dirks her father had crafted en masse for what seemed like aeons ago. “Muh… My… I’m… Blorf?” Or at least, that was what she could make of the unintelligible blubber. If he had spoken clear, then she sympathized with him, and shunned his parents’ cruelty. “I’M!” Lillian jumped, surprised but his sudden burst of half-confidence. He mouthed silent words, but all she could think of was how he bore resemblance to a trout. “Sam! I’m Samuel Hamaltar! But… you can call me… SAM!” Lillian had unknowingly withdrawn a few steps, jumping with every violent peak of his boyish voice.

“G…Glad to meet… you? My name is Lillian Sesthal, but I… I guess you can call me Lily. Um… Could you perhaps tell me how I can get to Scara Brae?”

“Scara Brae? But you’ll have to cross most of Brokenthorn Forest! You can’t do this alone!” Somehow, the knowledge that he could be of help to her had shattered his timidity, and he was overcome with the naïve bravado of a stupid, twelve year old boy, something she found very endearing. “I’ll help you cross! I can protect you!” Perhaps this boy had read as many books as she had; but if he did, he hadn’t understood how dangerous the lives of these fictional people were… something she herself had hitherto ignored. Really, she could relate.

“Thank you for the proposal, but I’d rather have a… have a…” She knew what words she could use. She also knew none of them would spare his feelings, not one. She shrugged, sighed, and let the truth run wild. “I’d rather not die, but thanks anyway.” It wasn’t a pretty sight, a boy’s whose dreams had blossomed and withered, all under ten minutes. His recovery, however, was commendable, and already had he found an alternative to his utter and obvious incompetence.

“We can hire someone to help you! Lots of adventurers come by, and they’re always looking for ways to make a few coins! I’ll take care of it! Come with me! I’ll take you to my house, and my parents will take care of you! I’ll then run along to the local tavern! There’s bound to be someone who can help you!” This was a different kind of helplessness she felt as he caught her wrist and gently dragged her into the twists and turns of the town’s streets. It wasn’t complete fear or total frustration, but the simple incapability of voicing her refusal; a sentiment she had felt with puppies or kittens or little furry animals. And if anything, he did say she would be taken care of; she desperately needed to bathe.


“Sammy! You did it! You found yourself a girlfriend!” Lillian froze, joined in unison by the young boy. They had barely walked upon the front porch that the entrance had burst open and a hulk of a woman stepped over the doorsill to greet them. Luckily, they had stopped mid track for different reasons; she, because Samuel’s mother was so intimidating, and he, because his mother had managed to embarrass him in record time. “Oh, how pleased your father will be! And we thought you were… well… Oh you know!” She giggled loudly, her hanging flesh shaking like a particularly cheery walrus. “Oh sweetie, you are one beautiful young girl! A bit filthy, perhaps, but not everything can be perfect! A little bit of cleaning up will do. Come, come!” As stout arms pushed her into the humble abode, the poor girl wondered: ‘How many genres of helplessness could possibly exist?’

Homeliness exuded through every corner of their house. The walls were painted in earthly colors, not unlike the woodland tones of a forest under daylight. As it was night, all was candlelit and felt of a peaceful ambiance that was alien to her. Wooden desks – she had never learned the different types of wood, save for the palm trees garnered from the desert – and wooden banisters that gleamed so slick, for they were all covered with a coat of varnish she believed was molten Valaiyalman. The stairway creaked as they went for the second floor. ‘They actually have a second floor!’ she exclaimed in her mind. Lillian was captivated by all these strange things she had often read about in books, but had never actually seen with her own eyes. Not only that, but there were fragrant smells of citrus lingering aloft, mixed with the aroma of macerated petals diffusing in steaming water. ‘Water?’ In her daze, Lillian was brought to the bathroom, and the bulky yet kind woman had filled the porcelain tub for her. “Sammy, get out!” She yelled with a sneer, and the door to the bathroom nervously slammed shut. “Should I stay and help, or would you rather bathe and primp on your own?” Given a choice… Lillian shook her heard, expelling a meek ‘I’ll be fine’ and a word of gratitude. The woman smiled, rose to a stand and left the steaming room. Lillian doffed her gown and swiftly hopped into the ardent waters, which burned the filth from her skin and soothed her pores as would the sweetest balm known to man…


“Lily!” That voice… boys never learned. After her ablution, her wounded arm had been bandaged to protect it from infections, and she donned the bathrobe Samuel’s mother had provided and promptly collapsed onto the eiderdown bed of the guest room, and she had probably groaned a most unladylike ‘aaaaah’ at the divine softness of their quilts. Why was it that every time she abandoned herself to slumber, he would be the one to wake her up? She mumbled, twisted and turned, hugging the duvet-packed pillow against her bosom.

“Go away, Sam…” she managed, holding back her pressing desire to feel his skull cave in beneath her foot.

“But Lily, I have great news! I went to the tavern, and I found someone who could help you!” There it was again, the brave little pup voice. Because of this, she would allow him to humour her.

“Who, Sam? Who did you find?” The suspiration in the backdrop went unnoticed by the witless boy. It was surprising how different and bold she could be when deprived of her precious sleep.

“You’ll just have to come and see! We’re already late! I said we’d meet him at the tavern fifteen minutes ago!” The boy flew back a good four feet, the shape of her foot stamped upon his chest for what Lillian hoped would be eternity. Growling, she sat, eyes blinking wearily at nothing in particular as she pulled the folds of her robe back together. “I’ll change… so leave, please.”

The stairway creaked feebly, barely yielding under her feathery weight. She was garbed with her gown again, frilly and white as it should be; Mrs. Hamaltar had washed it, along with her grimy boots. Samuel’s breath was a thing of the past as he gazed to what he could only describe as a nymph or an radiant angel. He had already been smitten by her in total darkness, while she was caked in dirt and mud and blood. What the effects of a cleaned and well groomed young woman in such a pleasant robes had on a healthy boy’s mind…

“Oh no! No! Sam, where are my other things!” The morning mist of her mind had dissipated. Where was her backpack? And her father’s treasured sword? She rushed down the stairs, throwing apprehensive glances every which way in search for her personal effects. Samuel smirked wryly, turned his back and pointed at the leather knapsack he wore. He opened the door to the vestibule and pulled from it a beautifully crafted blade, though its beauty was still marred by wisps of steely webbings. “I picked them up on my way to the Tavern. I didn’t know if the sword was yours, but since it was near the bag, I took it too.” So he did have a critical mind. “Shall we go?”

After thanking Sam’s mother and accepting a few rations of food for her travels, Lillian stepped out the cozy little home. She had loved her stay, true, but deep down she knew that this was not the kind of life she wished to live. But what did she know? She was only twelve years old.


The door of the ‘Ogre’s Armpit’ squealed open, and the two children stepped inside. It was still somewhat empty: a few men sat upon the bar stools, sipping their drinks. The bartender was behind the counter, scouring a mug endlessly as if it would never come clean. Lillian reckoned that the usual clientele, comprised mostly of prowlers of the night, shunned such an establishment when in broad daylight. The apparent absence of the rowdier crowd made finding the ‘guard for hire’ far easier – not that noticing him was overly hard or anything.

“Oh my.” She yelped, a ball forming in her throat. She spared a glance to the youthful Samuel, only to notice his victorious, stupid grin. With much unease, she returned her stare to the mercenary, who sat near a podgy little man in eclectic clothing. He was tall specimen of a man, or whatever he was. ‘Definitely not human.’ A shock of white hair graced his head, and his swarthy skin offered a powerful counterpoint to the snowy crest. His sheer bulk had frightened her a bit. As for his eyes, ruby red or akin to blood stone, they would drive away any sane creature, for they were marked with a warrior’s ferocity and the strain of countless battles. Samuel was perhaps not the brightest of the bunch, and therefore would be unable to see danger if it bit him in his tender parts, but Lillian, a perfectly sane girl, felt strangely drawn to them, these unique gems that stem from a world unknown. The sensation was similar to what she felt for Jya’s Keep, every night of her earlier years, revelling in its otherworldly beauty.

“This is sir Ifrit!” Samuel declared with his ever mirthful timbre. “He’ll be taking you across the Brokenthorn Forest!”

Not knowing what to do, she grabbed a hold on the hem of her gown and curtseyed with deference. “It is… a pleasure to meet you, sir Ifrit.” How true those words were, she wasn’t sure.

In this quest, Lillian is but twelve years old. This storyline occurs prior to her Solo, which has not yet been, um, written. In any case, aye, it's long. I hope it's alright if I split it in two posts; it seems less hostile this way. *cough* I had to write all this, because even though this is Scara Brae, I would like this to be an actual part of her history, and I wanted to try my hand at a new style with a new character. I'll be experimenting for a while, so please bear with me!

[Seth_Rahl]

She's just a child!! Ifrit now knew the reason why he'd been hired amongst a throng of other mercenaries. A child could barely do anything against the deadly creatures of Scara Brae.

But then he took a closer look at the girl, and found he was wrong. Although she only looked to be around 11 or 12 years of age, her body aura exhibited danger and power. Ifrit had learned to trust what he saw in other people's aura's, and immediately his muscular body tensed. What is she? he wondered, and took a path over her body with his eyes.

She was short, only standing about 5', and she looked human, but Ifrit knew otherwise from his aura-sense. Her skin was so white it looked almost ghostly, and her hair seemed to be made from spider-strands. He looked at her eyes, and noticed that she was doing the same thing.

Ifrit and the girl seemed to be peering into the depth's of each other's souls. Her mouth was slightly agape as she stared at his blood red ones, and he tensed up even more at the sinister glow within her blue ones.

Ignoring the boy, and after the girl nervously curtsied to him(Sir Ifrit?), he dropped to one knee in front of her suddenly, so it just looked like a black blur. He bowed his head, and chuckled. "It is a pleasure, i'm sure. But your late."

[Ataraxis]

How hard her little heart jumped! The dark entity had become a blot of ink to her eyes, until his cording mass, patterned with the pulsing glow of extraneous nervures, kneeled before her and bowed in what she could only take as reciprocated deference. ‘Or,’ she added, her lips pulled into a mid-pout, ‘he’s just mocking me.’ It no longer mattered that he was by far her elder, that he was stronger, faster, and bigger or that his titan of a sword alone belittled her, making light of and scoffing at her petiteness with its hellish magnitude and wicked, curving shapes; in fuming hackles, Lillian pieced together the harshest, most eloquently degrading invective she could muster, which she would then elegantly fling to his brutish face. It would sting, it would burn and it would be pleasant, oh so pleasant! A mere second was all it took, a mere second to forge the words that would slay this evil’s pride! Leathery boots slammed against the worn floorboards as she stood her ground, wee muscles tautened as her lips parted to let the perfect insult escape, but chokes and wheezes had come instead. There was no denying it; this man, or whatever he was, intimidated her to no end, and she was just too timid and far too self-conscious to let her emotions run free. “I didn’t… I woke up and… Samuel only told me… I… I’m sorry, sir!”

Her arms had slumped and her toes shyly turned inward as her downy fingers fiddled with the fabric of her gown. Repressed anger and mortification had flushed her cheeks, the deep blush emboldening her youthful charms. The freckled boy could not possibly take much more of this, and in fear of losing control and embarrassing himself through heaven knows what imbecilic gaffe, Samuel forced a cough and turned away, distancing himself from the oblivious girl by heading for the tall barstools at his left. “I’ll leave you two to discuss, uh, details! Yes! Details…”

A moment of silence hung, marking her discomfort. ‘If he would just stand up already!’ In the stories she had read, no man who beseemed the role of an antagonist would ever kneel before a child, let alone a little girl. Such kindness and respect, she had only seen evinced by kind and hearty nobles, romantic poets or stalwart knights bound to their everlasting code of honour – save, of course, for Dandy Damius the Demonic Demiurge, a recurring Deus ex Machina in the ‘Tacky Tales of Tom Tabletop’ series; he was a sophisticated comedic relief, a highly empathetic divinity and an irresistibly honey-tongued devil. ‘But this man is not anything like Dandy Damius! Even if this Ifrit is a demon, the resemblance stops there!’ Mild composure recovered, Lillian exhaled the last nip of discomfiture from her mind, and moved on to more critical matters. “Sir, I request your aid in the crossing of the Brokenthorn Forest. My destination is Scara Brae, which, as you know, is a good distance from our current location. As for your boon for undertaking this mission, I cannot promise much, but I will do all that is in my reach to repay you equitably!” She was content with how the request came out; indeed, she had picked keywords from the books of her youth, where such pleas often came abounding. Lillian wondered if the man would think it unnatural, but she knew that, as long as he took her seriously, he would not botch his services and their voyage would go that much smoother.

“Oh!” A roiling throat called out, gargling through a draft of orange juice. Samuel hopped from the bolstered stool and scampered to his feet and toward Ifrit, his little fidgety hands working their way through his pockets. “My mother didn’t want you to pay, so she gave me a bit over one hundred and fifty coins for his reward! I’m not sure how much protection costs, but I’m sure this should cover it!” Noticing Lillian’s concern and impending refusal, the boy went on quickly. “Really, she wants to help you! It would hurt her if you refused!” There was another reason to Mrs. Hamaltar’s ostensibly selfless gesture; she wanted Lillian to return in a few years and marry her sweet little boy. Samuel had purposely omitted this condition, the voice of his conscience telling him that such a ploy would only drive her away.

“Tell your mother that I’m very thankful,” the shy girl finally blurted. She couldn’t say no anymore. “But I don’t want to be a burden, so tell her that someday, I’ll pay her back! I promise!” Her hands were held in front of her, shaking slightly as her voice, though wishful, grew in resolve. At this pledge, a spark of hope rekindled Samuel’s flame, and the simple boy’s head fluttered up and down in compliance. Lillian straightened herself and cleared her throat, facing the Demon once more. Her eyes skittered at the rough, oaken table behind which the stout little man was sat, sweating profusely as he listened with intent. ‘Is he… his agent?’ A shrug was all she gave to the thought. “If… you accept, we should head out now. As you certainly know, this forest is most inhospitable after evenfall.” She reminded herself that a bit of oral embellishment never hurt.

[Seth_Rahl]

Ifrit was stunned by the ferociousness of the girl's words and aura. One minute she was a normal little girl, the next...Ifrit felt shivers run up his spine. Her words...her words were elegant yet biting, like the silver shine of a rapier or the flight of an arrow. The boy with her handed Ifrit a large sack of what he was told was 150 gp, and then backed away nervously as Ifrit fixed him a long, hard stare.

He knew what this boy wanted, and hoped. Personally, Ifrit did not like the boy, but he wasn't supposed to get involved with his clients. The girl held power, power he felt she barely even knew, and this ordinary boy was going to find that out the hard way if he wasn't careful.

For a moment Ifrit did not move from the position he was in. He was wondering why the girl's posture was so defensive and her words laced with a harshness that had not been there before. Then he mentally smacked his head when he figured it out.

Of course! I'm intimidating her! Ah, dammit Ifrit, thats no way to make friends.

He stood as quickly as he could, and for a moment it seemed he had not moved at all. Then he stode towards the fat, sweaty man on the oaken bench and said, "Both I and she are ready. Do you have something for us or are we to walk?"

[Ataraxis]

It was an instant fall into enthrallment. Ears like red cauliflowers fluttered to the jingling melody, and the flinch had spread to his arms, the portly agent’s mug spilling froth over the table. He had always been a timid man, a wary man, a quiet man; but the sound, the smell, the feel of money against his skin was to him a powerful aphrodisiac. What induced his arousal wasn’t power or wealth, it was the money itself. Power, alcohol, women; they became nothing as long as he could smell the sting of copper, sterling or gold creep through his nostrils, as long as these little suns shone their benevolent light upon him. Yes, he loved money as much as he had loved his own mother, if not more. He craved the touch of it, and it would not have taken much out of him to leap onto the table and snag the pouch from the garish demon’s hands; but he struggled for composure, keeping himself on an ever-shortening leash. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. Not again. Most of it would go to the mercenary, but he would still get a juicy cut, and that would sate him for a while. It would surely be enough. “Y…Yes, I’ve made preparations.” It was a poor attempt at concealing his troubled state of mind, his voice breaking into nervous chuckles as he worked feverishly at the noose of his bow tie. “I couldn’t get two horses, but I haggled a cart for the little one for a very low fee!” The agent gave his most genuine smile, but with the way he constantly caressed the back of his hands and leaned over the wooden surface to meet Lillian’s gaze, his profile better fitted that of a child rapist… and, indeed, there was one thing he loved nearly as much as money.

Barring the view was the freckled brat, staring back with a fierceness unspoken, the emerald flames of his glare strong and immovable. He wore the face of a man, the cold fury of those who saw their loved ones threatened. ‘What does he think he is, her hero?’ the agent scoffed inwardly, still trying to sidle past the boy. Samuel stood his ground, mirroring each of his sharp movements and successfully shielding Lillian from the man’s now hazy eyes. As their game grew stale, the agent withdrew, an annoyed smile hooking his lips. “I’ll show you,” he said kindly, taking out a few of his own coins from his pocket; but he hesitated before slapping them on the table. Readjusting the lapels of his mismatched suit, he stumbled to his feet and sidestepped out with difficulty, his paunch pushing the table with a screech and his posterior tipping the chair over. The creases of the shirt he wore underneath were flattened by his podgy sausages, and after straightening the noose around his neck, the agent lead them out.

What an odd spectacle lay beneath the shades of the beech tree. The horse was laughable at best, and the cart could have seen better days, a century ago, give or take a few decades. In truth, he had swindled the sickly looking mare from a labourer outside town who was supposed to send it off to the slaughterhouse and had found the old cart lying around in some dark alley. He hadn’t spent a single coin, having dragged the cart all the way to the tavern, affixed the rickety thing to the wheezing horse and praised a job well done. “This sturdy little wonder should take you all the way through the forest.” He was still laughing himself off inside. “Now, kind sir, can I have my twenty percent?” Thumb and index brushed together under the demon’s nose, the short, fat crook forgetting how frightening the being was in light of his soon-to-come thirty gold pieces. They felt good, like sweet honey running inside his palm.

The little boy, Samuel, was crestfallen. ‘Good for him.’ Sobs ran from his frowning mouth, and the little girl simply embraced him within her willowy arms, rubbing his back comfortingly and repeating solacing words to calm him down. ‘Ha, as if you’re really thinking of returning to this sorry excuse for a town.’ The farewells were over, the demon was already straddled over the wearied horse and the child was comfortably sprawled over a makeshift bed of straws on the creaking wagon. Before they set off, the agent scrambled to Lillian, tubes of fat wrapping around her shoulder. ‘So soft…’ he sighed mentally, exhaling deeply as he rubbed her neck with a semblance of compassion. “Well I hope you have a nice trip, girly! If you ever come back to visit and need any help getting around, don’t be shy and come find me! I’m always glad to help the adults of our future!”

‘Unhand me.’

How do voices carry when the air has stilled? He drew back, the gravel shifting coarsely underfoot. Wincing from an unknown pain that besieged his mind, the agent looked at the little girl, bewildered, and had noticed a subtle shift in her presence. She was a fair child, whiter than chalk yet softer than the back of a dove. A wee little thing draped in a flowing gown of frills, giving her the air of some life-instilled doll. Strands of dark silk rained from the crest of her head, black streams banking a snowy plain. But her eyes, her foreign blue eyes… ice, a frozen tundra, winter itself had never been so cold, so hostile. Such anger, violence, darkness in those arctic pools. They were monstrous. Beautiful.

The carthorse had left, leaving a trail of ruts upon the beaten path. The boy had gone home. He was left to himself, alone aside the rustling beech, staring into nothing listlessly, brokenly.

“What is she?” The words had died, but were never given life.

[Seth_Rahl]

Four hours later...

Brokenthorn forest was a place filled with many dangers. Already Ifrit had turned the cart away from many situations that would have ended in bloodshed, and he was beginning to grow bored from lack of action. He may have the concience of humanity, but his demon blood demanded battle. He growled impatiently at the growing darkness, as if taunting the creatures within to dare attack now.

Dusk was approaching, surprisingly quickly for it being summer. Ifrit glanced back at the girl in the cart and saw that she was asleep. He had forgotten how easily humans gave in to the promises of sleep. He was weary as well, but still had enough energy to go straight until he found a clearing.

As he walked alongside the horse (for he had dismounted it long ago), he pondered the girl he was guarding. Her power was evident, and if he had been younger and less experienced he would have been afraid of her. But now he was simply wondering, who was she? What was she?

As if by magic, the demon swordsman reached a clearing that showed signs of being previously occupied. For example; in the middle of such clearing there was the remains of a burnt out fire. Ifrit rapidly scanned the darkness with his eyes and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he quietly squeaked the cart in and set it down, detaching the horse and tying it to a thick tree.

He went over to the sleeping girl and watched her for a few moments. Then he took his cloak off and put it over her, and he saw her move slightly. Ignoring this movement, he went over to the middle of the clearing and pointed one finger on the leftover pile of wood that had been there.

"Burst." he murmured, and a tiny hellfire fireball launched from his finger tip and ignited the logs instantly. He sat by the black fire he had made and shoved Beowulf into the ground behind him to use as a seatrest, then leaned against it.

Ah Ifrit, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

[Ataraxis]

When her eyes had succumbed to the call of slumber, their lids falling to a weary close to bring about a boundless darkness, they saw a world of formless wraiths, slinking through a clouded sight as they spiralled, stretched and shrivelled, the purplish blots and greened mists concealing the lone path toward her dreams.

The marred obscurity parted before her, rent by some strange machine of dreams, giving way to a beauteous expanse of snowy clouds, tipped with gold as the sun beat gently onto the gaseous down and irradiated what lay ahead, a spire built not of stone or wood, nor of any material she had ever seen before. It bore the sheen of silver, the transparency of glass and the reflective quality of crystals and diamonds, but there was something to the gleaming structure that transcended what little could be compared with her worldly knowledge. She was drawn to it, attracted by its beauty and the feeling it churned within her mind, her heart, her very soul.

The Home of Fallien’s Mother and the blooded eyes of her guardian demon shied away before this Wonder above wonders, and she felt the soundless whisper, the voiceless call to her rightful home. Her eyes became moist as she smothered her cries, quavering hands clasped against her shuddering mouth as the feeling of belonging she had forever sought in her waking hours grew and overwhelmed her childish spirit. Rushing along the invisible ledge in the infinite clouds, the young girl shed mirthful tears. Finally. She was finally home.

‘No.’ In the midst of heavens, a strong wind blew, dragging behind it a blinding light. The young girl had frozen and shielded her eyes from the powerful gust and the unbearable radiance, but as she lowered her arm to see what lay beyond, her soul cried despairingly, broken by the sudden presence of a golden gate, towering haughtily over her, denying her entry. ‘Let me in! Please!’ she hollered as tears cascaded down her ghastly face.

Cold fingers wrapped around the immaterial bars as the young girl attempted to pry the doors open, but a searing pain seeped into her little body, shredding her from the inside. Her grip loosened. The darkling web of her hair fluttered as she fell down, down through the very clouds that had supported her until now. In her descent, she heard mocking laughter, saw looks of disgust, and felt hatred puncture her fragile skin. ‘Your kind is not welcome.’


“Let me in!”

Lillian had risen from her restless sleep in utter disarray, her expression stricken with a sorrowful madness often seen upon the contorted visages of the demented as they woke. A flood of tears drizzled along her livid face from glazed and bloodshot eyes, and her chest heaved as she puffed and huffed, struggling to catch a breath that had never before been so elusive. The pain was unbearable, the pain that threatened to rend her heart in twine, and her body along with it. What aggravated her to no end was that, even with her gift, even with what she had thought to be the perfect memory, she could no longer recall the contents of her dream, but was still afflicted by the insurmountable grief it brought. Worse, this was not the first time she rose from a night’s terror, the slate of her mind completely blank, but the cup of her heart overflowing.

It took her a while to notice the large red fabric that covered her. It was of fine make, pleasing to the touch and not at all painful to the eyes, as were the agent’s strange vestments of clashing colors. ‘This is… sir Ifrit’s cloak.’ She wiped her tears and shot furtive glances all around. Trees punctured the ground and darted high toward the skies. Beside her lay the rucksack she had brought over the seas, as well as the gleaming edge of he father’s blade, ‘Tyrfing’. Farther ahead was a clearing, and from it came the dancing glow and crackling sound of fire, tended to by the muscular form of the demon himself.

The air was a bit frisk, and as Lillian came to a stand above the ramshackle cart, she wrapped the flowing cloak around her, buffering herself from the slightly chilling weather. Hopping from the wooden elevation, she dropped onto freshly fallen leaves that barely rustled, and made her way to the center of the glade, hoping to take advantage of the blazing campfire. A moment of hesitation halted her advance, seeing the wicked blade sticking from the ground, used by this Ifrit as a mere backrest, but she cast away the strange picture, and plopped down to his right, not too close, but not too far. She held her tongue, watching the billowing flames and sparks drop on the ground as her body warmed.

“So… You’re a demon?” Her nose snivelled a bit, and she swept it with the back of her hand. The emotions that raged inside were still intense, but she knew that if she kept herself occupied, they would somehow fall to the back of her mind, still present, but out of her conscious thoughts. They would lurk there, waiting in the mounds of sorrow she had put aside before, for the day she would be able to store them no longer. “Do you… speak demon…ic?” She fell quiet, unable to voice her request. She really needed something to do, and learning a new language would help her clear her mind. With a sideways glance, she eyed the black giant, hoping he would understand.

[Seth_Rahl]

"Rotho.I do indeed." Ifrit stared into the black fire as the girl asked him this question tentatively. He had sensed her awakening and had, at first, almost gone to her and helped her, but a wave of sorrow so profound it struck him to the very tips of his talons had emanated from the girl. He had decided to stay where he was and let her come to him, and she had indeed. Her eyes were bloodshot from what seemed to be unshed tears, and she had a weary presence, like she carried a burden that none but she could understand.

He noticed that she still wore his cloak. Good. he thought to himself. At least she's beginning to trust me. We need that trust to survive. "Why do you ask? Is there some phrase in the demon tongue that you need saying?" he spoke to her quietly and with his back to her, tending the fire with his mind.

The night seemed to whisper above them, and suddenly Ifrit became acute of all the motions in the area. It seemed to him that the forest was alive with sudden movement and life. He rolled to the side and quickly grapped his dagger from the strap that held it around his waist. "Get down,", he hissed at the girl, as something big and black streaked above them.

With a sudden motion he threw the surprised girl to the floor as something fell to the ground as well. The impact was so great that the pine needles were shocked off the trees, and as Ifrit turned he saw something that turned his insides.

A giant black spider stood hissing in the middle of the clearing, fangs dripping poisonous acid. It was huge, standing nearly ten feet tall and twelve feet wide. It glared at its two newest prey with a hunger that, the demon saw, would never be sated.

"Go." he whispered to the girl as he stood, grabbing Beowulf out from the ground and striding slowly to the hissing spider.

[Ataraxis]

Always had she imagined that the speech of those who dwell the hells would be harsher to the ears, abounding with sibilant hisses and hoarse hackings, but the word, though rough, held a pleasant flow that rolled into her mind with nearly no difficulty. ‘In a strange way, it’s like Elvish, with a foreign touch.’ In a way, it was a strong wave that crashed against her mind, but smoothed its surface as it ebbed away, faintly dulling the edge of pain. It played wherein her mind, over and over again, and she let the soothing word lap against the jagged shore of her psyche.

The inquiry had caused a moment of worry, perhaps even embarrassment. Lillian had never been one to share her deepest emotions and most secret thoughts, possibly for a lack of a moral outlet, but even so, putting words to her fears and heartaches was too much of a daunting enterprise. They would never be right, and would never say all of what she truly meant to say. With deliberation, she drew back a stray strand of raven from her face and hooked it behind her ear, but kept her shameful gaze to the peaty soil.

“I… I like learning… things.” The troubled girl suspired mentally, listening to herself speak. Would she never manage to let any of it out? “I’m sorry, I’m being vague… Languages have always interested me. I… want to be able to speak with anyone I meet, someday. I’ve… I’ve read that it is often a barrier between nations. I don’t want…” The lump in her throat had grown, trying to stop her from revealing the first of many childish musings, but in the throes of such pathos, she had to alleviate her burden, somehow. “I don’t want it to become a barrier for me.”

A cold wind crawled under the skin of her back. The demon had called out, telling her to hunker down; but before she could even ask anything of her little limbs, the powerful being had thrown her down with an uncalculated force that left her stunned. Flat against a coat of grass, Lillian peered up dazedly, unsure of what was currently transpiring. It was a spider, of the overgrown kind. ‘Is it… could it be?’ Eight, perfect eyes, full of blood and lust, convinced her otherwise, and she swore at her naiveté. ‘What are the odds that it would come back for me? I don’t even know if the charm was temporary or not!’

When the demon told her to go, she didn’t think twice. One encounter with such monsters was enough to abate what initial fear she should have felt, but one must not be mistaken, as it was still quite the fearful thing, with its palps beating senselessly against the ground and the murky, corrosive ooze it drooled in profusion. With a child’s lightness and dexterity, she sidled away, into the outer rims of the embowering trees. Lillian, however, emerged from her sylvan cover, quite a distance away from the arachnid, but behind it nonetheless. She had never thought of abandoning the demon Ifrit, and had heard not even an inkling from her subconscious. ‘I’ll do it again. It worked once, it’ll work again!’

Quietly, she slunk behind it, bridging the gap with unhurried strides. For now, the eight-legged beast was unmoving, watching its prey with caution as it brandished a sharp and pointy object that would probably bring it much pain, were it to bite through its flesh or slice through one of its appendages. ‘Distract it a little longer…’ Lunging forth, she locked her fingers around the rugged leg, as thick as a small tree. “Be kind!”

The air whisked, and she was sent flying. As she lingered in the wide space above the ground, she felt the wind had been knocked out of her, and a constricting pain had seized her chest, a pain that had become her only sense, the others having utterly vanished, discarded by her brain; even the concept of time was distorted, and she felt herself soar through the skies at a bogging speed. Much to her regret, the sting in her torso was beyond intensified.

There was a divinity looking over her, it was now certain. Against all probabilities, she landed in the heap of straw upon the rickety cart and its thickness effectively broke her fall, along with the wooden contraption. In a cacophony of shattering and rolling, she coughed, hoping that no tapered piece of wood would yearn for her tender flesh in such chaos, or that her short sword would quite unluckily stab her in this bedlam of timber. From the wreckage, her head emerged, generally unscathed save for a small bruise upon her forehead. By some miracle, the spider’s strike had broken no ribs.

‘Why didn’t it work?’ was the only thought that crossed her as she bumbled to an unsteady stand, breathing hard, her left hand upon her bosom. What had she done wrong? Physical contact, vocal suggestion; she had copied the course of actions she had taken the previous day against one of this monster’s brethren, but to no avail. Then, it struck her. ‘Last time, I accessed… something in me. I have to find out what, and how…” The spider screeched, ready to hew demonic bone. “…but in these circumstances, not necessarily in that order.’

[Seth_Rahl]

He had almost reached the spider when he noticed the girl still slinking around, behind the thing with an intense expression on here face. Ifrit was about to yell at her to get away, but revised his plan at the last moment. Let us see what she can do.

Unfortunately, her plan seemed to no avail, as the spider spun around at the touch on one of its legs and slammed her into the air. Dammit! Ifrit swore, and cursed himself for not moving sooner. With a spinning movement, he slammed the flat of his giant blade into the cart that she had ridden in, sending it flying as well and hoping for a miracle. The miracle came, and the flying cart and the girl made contact, as she landed in the pile of straw that had come along with it.

The demon sighed. At least she was safe, for now. He turned his attention to the spider-thing before him, and was surprised to see that its gaping maw was merely a foot before his face. Ifrit yelped and jumped backwards just in time to avoid getting crushed between it's fangs, and as he fell to the ground and rolled to his feet, he spun Beowulf around to block its next attack, which was a swipe with a claw-like appendage from one of its legs. The two creatures locked 'blades', and for a moment there was a question of strength. Ifrit, however, was being forced down by the thing's mere size, and had to roll out of the way once more as the beast lunged for his head.

Panting, Ifrit cursed himself once more for not paying attention when he should have been. The spider watched him with a hungry look in its eyes, and he saw that both he and it knew that it had more stamina than he, and more patience. Desperate, he tried something new, and slammed the the point of the blade into the ground.

"Burst!" he yelled, and an explosion of hellfire consumed his being. Debris flew everywhere, and the spider hissed as a glowing fragment of rock flew into one of its eyes, blinding it momentarily. Snarling, Ifrit leaped out of the smoke and hacked at it's foreleg, cutting it off and sending it across the clearing to smack sickeningly against a large tree. He then kicked it rapidly in the face, and the beast screamed and flailed with its pincers, catching his foot. Surprised, he could merely watch as the beast flung across too, and he heard something crack as he smacked against a tree as well. He screamed in pain and coughed up blood as he slid to the ground and, in a few moments, lay there motionless.

The spider, however, was not so affected, and limped over with its remaining seven legs as it hissed in victory. It was standing over him when suddenly, his arm shot out and extended into its open mouth, and its eyes widened in surprise and shock as he lifted his head up, revealing glowing red eyes and an evil, bloodlust filled smile.

"I'm not dead yet, but you will be, bastard." He said as he opened his palm to reveal a hellfire fireball the size of his fist. "Now Burst!" The fireball sped from his palm and exploded inside the beast, causing the spider itself to explode, sending its guts and blood all over the clearing.

Good, its dead... He thought to himself happily, but then groaned in despair as he felt his stamina flee, leaving darkness to overcome his vision. His last thoughts were of the girl he was supposed to protect, and hoping she was okay...

[Ataraxis]

The dance of crimson embers against purple shadows was a spectacle to behold. The spire of nether flames fed upon the entrails of its prey, consuming slivers of intestines as they fell to the ground in blazing festoons and black lumps, some raw, some charred, hailed from above, spewing viscous puddles of black ichor upon collision with the moist ground and tall grass. Before this gruesome scene, Lillian became host to mixed feelings such as an emetic revulsion to the raining gore on one side and a soulful pity for the dead creature on the other. Yielding to the former, she fell to her knees, white hands wrenched around her throat as she fought the rise of bile, eyes wide as nausea assailed her from within. Her will had almost driven it all away when a stray gush of murky blood splattered itself onto her face and white dress, the repugnant substance smelling of intense putrefaction, spilling the vase of her self-control. She gagged and expelled the spider’s blood, along with the contents of her stomach, but the bitter taste remained, burning inside her, churning her heart beyond its limits. ‘Urgh!’ She fell on all fours, vomiting relentlessly until there was nothing left to reject.


The world went blank. The stench of decay, the texture of blood, the image of a blood-slaked grass field… of these, there was no more, and only an absence of all could be sensed, or rather, the complete lack of sensation was the only thing that disclosed this absolute dearth of anything material. ‘Where…’ Her question was left unfinished, the girl unable to make sense of this strange ordeal. No longer was her robe tainted with the decomposing blood, and her ghost of a face was again a shade lighter than the moon itself. A bit worried, she testily lifted a foot and stepped forth, a sense of gladness spreading through her as the action met solid resistance. She could walk in nothingness. ‘This shouldn’t be possible… then again, this might not be a place where common sense necessarily applies…’ Looking yonder, she saw only an infinite whiteness; the vista was unchanging, no matter how many times she turned her eyes, be it upward, downward, sideways and slantways, or how many times she blinked, actually wishing for the gore to greet her eyes upon reopening. Sighing, she shook herself, and began her aimless amble through the bizarre realm she had been hurtled into by some mysterious means.

‘Wait! What was that?’ Heart racing, she squinted her eyes and spied in the general direction of the sudden discrepancy. Indeed, there was a faint shadow, a mere dot beyond the horizon, but it was something. ‘Maybe… that’s the exit?’ It was as good a guess as any. It took her quite a while of sprinting, panting and resting before the dot in space had grown into a spill of ink, and though there was undeniable progress, it discouraged her, the distance still seeming far too great - she had always had an aversion for physical activities. “Great,” she muttered under a sporadic breath, shooting dismayed glances at the shady blot in the distance. ‘Of all mysterious worlds in existence, Tom gets floating islands and turkey-drumsticks spiritual guides, while I get the one with gravity and a whole lot of nothing.’ The more she experienced, the more she realized the alternate worlds in her books were much more convenient to their protagonists than they were in real life. ‘Why do I have to come to it?’ she yelled, able to take no more of this nonsense. ‘Why can’t it just come to me?’

The veils of white fell, giving way to the darkest of draperies. Her wish had been granted: the black stain had come to her, and she was now inside a much different infinity. Casting furtive glances every which way, she noticed behind her a pinprick of white, the only remnant of her previous location. ‘That was… interesting.’ Her mild fascination was interrupted by a sound she had not yet remarked, an eerie hum or drone of some sort. Rolling on the ball of her heels, her eyes fell upon a massive thing she had never seen before, almost indescribable, but vaguely familiar. ‘My best guess is… that this is a … crystal?’ There was a certain likeness to it, such as its many facets – twenty, she assumed – and refractive qualities, but something in its dimensions was unnatural, as if its shape could not be defined by width, height or depth alone. The great icosahedron hovered in the shadows, glowing ebon black from within, but the sheen of its core was tinted with a benighted blue. Curiosity had possessed her, and without thinking of the consequences, Lillian pressed both hands upon the crystalline structure, her foreign eyes peering deep into the foreign object, mesmerized by its alien familiarity.

Blobs of black blood floated inside it, fluid substances not unlike that of the Brokenthorn Spiders. ‘No… they’re exactly the same.’ Lillian backtracked, realization creeping onto her livid face. Her mind reeled back to the moment before her sudden transition to this world. The blood had touched her, it had seeped into her; that she spat it out and swept it away was of no import, it still sickened her to no end… but beneath the wave of disgust had lurked another sensation. She felt… change. Yes, she felt herself change. It was an odd feeling, as if a part of her essence had suddenly shifted, evolved perhaps. And now, there was this artefact, one that transcended common dimensional comprehension, and inside it, she saw the blood being… processed, for a lack of a better word. As the pieces of the puzzles fell into place and the links were tied into a web of understanding, she had come to realize it, come to know the nature of this realm. It gave off the same atmosphere as when she had successfully cast the spell of conversion.

“This is my power.” Her voice was a whisper, but the echoes were powerful shouts. “I am inside my power.”


The first thing she saw was the half-digested remains of her breakfast. ‘I’m back!’ she smiled, genuinely glad to see the noisome puddle… well, at least until the urge of retching returned. Lillian scrambled to her feet, wary of the protruding stakes of wood that were scattered across the cart’s debris. Throwing a glare ahead, she noticed a limp mass of black muscles, and a worrisome urgency took over. “Sir Ifrit!” She clumsily scurried across the glade, almost tripping onto still fuming chunks of spider flesh and nearly stumbled onto the flaccid demon. Plopping to his left, she leaned over him, struggling to reach the other side as she inspected his wounds. Regrettably, she had little to no experience in assessing a person’s physical state and what medical attention he or she would require, and knew even less of the demonic anatomy. “He has ribs, right? Not some kinds of gristle-covered plates? How many hearts does he have? Those authors never agreed on how many hearts a demon should have!” She exhaled deeply so as to calm herself, and decided that proceeding with logic would be the best course of action. ‘He was swung by his foot, and then crashed, back first, into a tree.’ From what little she could glean, even though his foot was bleeding at a worrying pace, it wasn’t anything severe or mortal. It took all of her strength to turn him flat on his belly; she inspected his back, pressing against the muscle mounds to verify if any of his bones were fractured. ‘There.’ Even though aware of a possibly serious wound, Lillian was incapable of treating it. ‘Just do something, Lily!’

Obscurity congregated at the tips of her fingers, ten dark orbs no larger than a thread is thick. Eyes agape, Lillian watched them snake away, stretching into wispy filaments of darkness, but she could see they moved with the sway of her hands: they awaited her command. Hesitantly, she twiddled her fingers, and saw them react to the frenetic movements. She had quickly grown attuned with the magic, and seconds later, had learned to control these as extensions of her hands; moreover, during the adaptation, her mind had given her a glimpse of their function, as well as their nature. “They’re… spider webs.” Lillian spun the threads, saw them, split, mesh together and split twice over and again, giving shape to a dark web of magic that grew with each motion of her fingers, each flick of her wrists. Fierce was her focus on the intricate weave, and she worked as if possessed by a devil, letting her energies be drained by the consuming network of shadowy strings. Then, with a crosswise sweep of hands, the web spun quickly and diffused into the air. Though some would imagine she had failed her design, Lillian knew that it had been successful; beneath Ifrit’s skin, the web was wrapping around the fracture, replacing the pieces of the bone back together. What is more, the web would provide the bone cells more energy and would thus accelerate the rate of their regeneration. ‘I can’t believe I can do this…’

A moan issued from the demon’s clenched teeth as he stirred in his ‘siesta’. “Sir Ifrit! Wake up! We have to go, or more will come! I… I found a way to treat your wounds, but I won’t be able to carry you back to the horse!”

[Seth_Rahl]

Rain pouring. A sea of blades. A single lone figure stading cloaked in the wind, tattered clothing scattering. His giant blade gleaming with fresh blood.

Another figure...smaller. Darker. A purple aura emanates from this one. It hisses as if to speak, then launches forward with something shining in it's hands...

"Sir Ifrit!"

Ifrit moaned as he heard the girl's voice call his name, and felt something soft yet wet move like silk across his coarse back. What was that vision he had? Whatever. In a moment, a flare of pain spread through his body, eliminating all thoughts from him and causing him to scream in agony. He tried to remember what had happened, and recalled killing the giant spider before losing conciousness. It had been a tough battle, but he had won in the end. That's all that mattered.

The girl...was she okay?! In a hurry he tried to get up, but his arms wouldn't support him and give him strength, so with a groan he collapsed back into the mud. He then remembered that the thing had slammed him against the tree, and wondered without any real interest how many broken bones he had from the impact. It had felt like a juggernaut and crashed into him, and had knocked all the breath from him. Damn...he swore.I have to get up, no matter how bad i'm hurt!! And with that he tried getting up again.

This time he was succesful, and even as he moved he could feel that same silky feeling moving inside his bones. It felt like liquid fire, tearing him apart but renewing him, a pheonix being reborn from the ashes of its demise. He wondered what this feeling was as he held himself up using his giant blade, Beowulf, like a walking stick. It was then he noticed the girl kneeling in the mud, staring up at his rigid form with those strange eyes of hers.

"Lets...lets go." he hissed in between breaths that felt like he was being torn in two. "This...this place isn't...safe...anymore." He then limped off to the over-turned cart, afraid of those intensely blue eyes that peered into his soul.

[Ataraxis]

“This might be a technicality, but I never really thought this place was safe to start with,” she quipped through a shyly perked smile, incidentally the very first the demon had seen to grace her dollish lips; and the grime, the stench, the dread that had soaked into clothing, skin and soul did nothing to abate its soothing quality. Smiling went ways in quelling her troubled mind; but fear was a powerful thing, and what fear she felt was great and two-part: the first was that the singed gore and bloody froth that marred the clearing would attract siblings of the slain spider or a beast so fierce it actually feasted on the flesh such monsters, as a flame would appeal to a flock of moths; the second was the teetering condition of her guardian, who had struggled to rise and wobbled to the broken cart like one of the deader sort that prowled the night. In retrospection, there might have been a third, darker tier to her many-layered fear; that of her self and what horrors lurk within it. She shook herself and cast all doubts and fears from her mind as she did the dust and grungy filth from her dress and fleetly followed in Ifrit’s footsteps.

“I won’t go very far on that wreckage,” Lillian quite simply declared, neither disdain nor dudgeon in her tone, only plain pragmatism. There was no redeeming quality to what lay before them, only a heap of wooden sticks in the shape of an upside-down wagon. A distant chatter sounded from the brush of trees and bushes, alerting the girl that time was no item of abundance; Ifrit, having already assessed the cart’s worthlessness and weighed the looming danger, unfettered the horse and hurriedly mounted it as he called the twelve-year-old to haste. “I know I have to hurry! I just need my things!” Beams and rods clanked and rolled as Lillian recklessly rummaged through the wreck, stray splinters biting and bruising her fingers in revenge as they were hurtled away. The steel of her short sword gleamed wanly upon the bed of grass, and not far off lay the sackcloth rucksack. She scuttled back to the mount with both in hand and, with the offered leverage of the demon’s wiry arm, heaved herself behind on what little was left of the saddle, wary of not wounding the horse with the blade. Closer now was the grating noise of irate arachnids, seeking either retribution or a late-afternoon repast. The horse felt tiny heels rasping at its sides, but only the unmitigated kick of the mercenary’s boots spurred it to a dash.


Time had worn on, the halo of day doused by the distant, rolling hills and the darkling stripe of the forest’s high copses. What solace daylight carried was gone with the dusk, the skies now painted a baleful shade of sullen black. Now, the quiet of darkness was to become the waking sun for that which stirs and crawls come night. Lillian watched the ghosts of trees flit by as she and the demon rode to the northeast. They had shaken off their famished pursuers, but this did not allow the girl any soulful respite, for the Brokenthorn Forest was a vast venue where many nightmarish creatures had made their lair and feeding ground. This night, they would not be permitted to rest, and the next would not offer any more reprieve.

“Do you… um, are you feeling any better?” She had to holler the query to be heard, for the wind cried past their ears and the horse’s hooves grooved the beaten path further and deeper as they heavily fell. “I’m not quite sure what I did… well, I have a general idea, but for all I know, I might just be mistaken.” Feeling herself blather on again, she cycled air, releasing her anxiety as she took in calm and a sense of succinctness. “You should be feeling warmth stirring around your fracture. That should be my… spell, mending your rib.” The term was uneasy on her, feeling both unnatural and perfectly suitable. She had never considered the magical phenomena of which she was the source to be spells per se, but rather flukes of fate to her benefit; what she had done was dissimilar to those strokes of luck in that she had actually foreseen its function. She knew the general effects, the specifics of its limits and restrictions; she knew even as far as the surface mechanics of the odd magic. As strange as it sounded, it was what it was, a spell. Her spell.

At least, that was what it told her.

[Seth_Rahl]

"Spell?" Ifrit was immediately on the alert now. For several minutes now they had been riding on the horse in complete silence, until the girl had spoken of his condition and the incident. What was she talking about? He spun around on the horse to face her with piercing red eyes. "What spell? If your talking about my body, its fine...It'll heal fast enough on its own. Now shush." He pressed one black finger against her lips to silence any further questioning and turned back around on the horse to see the open road before him. All this talk of magic and spells was disturbing him.

Indeed, he was healing. Already he could feel his bones knit back together and the ache that had previously been there was fading quickly. Yet this also disturbed him, for he knew his body's limits and did not think it could heal that fast. This liquid fire that seemed to seep through his bones seemed to soothe his aches and pains.

Beowulf was strapped on to his back and he was wearing his red cloak once more, it flapping in the onrushing wind. He had retrieved both swiftly before leaping upon the horse, and it felt like two old friends had come back from a vacation.

Suddenly he felt a surge of emotion towards the girl, and tried to identify it, but he could only see that it was an urge to protect. He became keenly aware of the soft presence at his back and the small form that held on to him with spindly little arms, and how that any creature could probably snap her in two. He also knew that he would kill anything that tried to lay hands on her.

What is this!? He exclaimed. I am but a simple mercenary with a job to do. You must not get mixed up with your clients, you must not! Yet, as he thought these thoughts, he stopped the horse and leaped off of it, landing without a sound on the earthen ground. It was growing to be light, but yet neither of them had gotten a decent night's sleep. Ignoring any protests she might have given him, he swooped her up in his arms and held her against his chest as he slumped against a hard oaken tree, whispering, "Now sleep, little one. I'll stay awake just in case of anything. Sleep."

[Ataraxis]

Thrice did her eyelashes bat when Ifrit pressed a black finger against her pallid lips, shushing her quite boldly. Taken aback, she fell into silence, unsure of what to say to such a taciturn demon, but was more concerned with the possibility that whatever it is she had cast was not actually meant to mend the fracture, and that the crystalline entity she discovered in the perusal of her deeper mind had fooled her into believing the spell had a beneficial purpose. Fear began to arise, rushing through her blood in trails of ice. Had she cursed him? Would he suddenly bloat up and explode into tiny morsels of demon flesh, all because of her? It was overwhelming, to think oneself a would-be murderer. Her childish eyes welled up, but she abstained from whimpering, not wanting the demon to worry.

‘Grow up. He is not going to explode.’

The voice was deep and unnatural, sounding through her mind in a multi-toned din that felt of tenebrous caverns, blaring thunders and midnight whispers. ‘How can I trust you? I’m not even sure what you are!’ Lillian was a bit afraid, definitely not inured to an alien entity speaking by means of her own psyche. For now, though, it appeared to be… pacifist, for the lack of a better word.

Ah, the million coin, question. You know what? Just because I can, I’m not going to tell you. What I will divulge is that you can trust me… for now.’ Its final addition had sent jolts surging down her spine, and worse was when it indulged in a maniacal laughter that shook the very ground – or at least, it shook whatever it was that a mental landscape was comprised of. ‘Ah, that was amusing. Don’t worry, dear, I’m only pulling your leg. Besides, you won’t have to worry about me for a while… I’m spent, and I need some time to recover.’

Recover? Lillian was at a lost to hear this statement. Did it expend itself by passing onto her the strange healing spell? ‘Wait, what’s your name?’

There was a pause of stressed silence, noting its surprise. ‘Name?’ Ah… call me W.B.’ Lillian perked an eyebrow at the queer moniker it had given itself. ‘Those are the initials for Wallace Bing.’

Utterly no description for the face she made. Nonetheless, Lillian retained enough of equanimity to maintain a fleeting sense of demureness. ‘Um, pleased to meet you… Wallace. I’m Lillian Sesthal, but you can call me Lily.’

‘That was a joke, you sot. I am what you may call… the Welkin Body.’ Its voice carried an air of pride at the cognomen, which it had ostensibly chosen on the spot. ’ In any case, good night… Lily.’ And with that, her head was hers again, and hers alone. Its presence had faded completely, and she was left with the strange belief that she might have been just a tad mad. It wasn’t farfetched, she had read of many instances where people with her kind of genial memory suffered from side-effects such as mild psychosis. Maybe it had been the time spent at sea and the moldy air of the cargo hold that induced her with such vivid hallucinations. She called out its name, ‘Welkin Body, Welkin Body’, but the entity did not as much as wince at the awkward summons. Lillian couldn’t help but think that its hours of wake would come only eons after this night. In reluctance, she left the bizarre matter at that.


The dawning light tickled her periwinkle eyes, until it blinded them to a close; they had always been particularly sensitive to light, something to do with a deficiency in melanin, her surrogate father had explained, and this sensitivity had driven her to the strange preference of darkness over light – and no matter how much she read in the dimmest of lightings, her eyes would never become enfeebled. Wafting in the wind, the red cape Ifrit sported flapped against her pale visage, disheveling her dark hair in their loud flutter. For hours the demon had ridden like, well, a demon. He had been astride the thin mount for that much time, but he still did not seem to feel the wear of time, or that of a chafing saddle. ‘How can he possibly go on? It’s even hurting me!’

Pulling on the bridles without warning, he urged the horse to a trot, tugging once more for a full stop. Lillian’s face jarred into the coiling muscles of his back and bruised her button nose. Irritated, she watched him hop off the saddle and touch the ground with the faintest rustle. ‘Hah! He is sore!’ Little did she know that he would veer to snag her off the high horse, speaking no word as he dragged her away. “Hey! What are you doing? Unhand me now, you big oaf! Aaaaah!” No matter what she did, her dollish body could not contend with the mercenary’s raw strength. Her flailing and screaming and biting and booting was indeed in vain; she had feasibly better chances at making a stone gargoyle flinch than she did with this demon. In capitulation, her limbs drooped to her sides, but she was still grunting in mild discomfort at Ifrit’s coarse manners.

What followed was more affection than the girl had bargained for. The demon squeezed and cradled her against him, forcing a squeal out of her crushed lungs and through her gasping throat. He told her to sleep while he stayed guard, but the suggestion was now virtually impossible to take, the circumstances far too awkward for the socially-stunted girl to understand. ‘How can I, when there’s a two ton demon holding me with arms that could snap a tree like a twig?’ In truth, this was not a problem of trust imparted to the mercenary, but rather one of rational fear: fear of him slumping even further down the oak tree, succumbing to the call of slumber, and using her as a pillowcase or some other plush object to be squished at night when haunted by nightmares and a troubled past, things she imagined, perhaps prejudicially, that demons had in superfluous slews. ‘What if he’s a bad sleeper and rolls over and crushes me in his sleep?’ Swallowing the ball in her throat at this thought, the little girl shot sideway glances, wondering if some wild beasts could draw his attention while scampered off to escape his iron grip, but quickly did she come to realize that the chances of that in the break of dawn were slim to none. Somehow, she would manage to rest and dismiss the machine of death in which she was nestled. “My name is Lillian, by the way.” With that, she sealed her eyes, relaxed her breathing and slowly slipped into slumber, where she would explore a barren dreamscape of purple and green mists. ‘I wonder where Wallace has gone…’


She woke in the early evening to the nickering of the horse and its lapping tongue. “Eew, stop that!” she grudgingly groaned, wiggling on the bed of grass before wobbling to an unsteady stand. As a routine, she brushed off leaves and dust from her dress and flattened its crimps, squinted eyes looking daggers at the equine knave that so rudely shook her up. Picking heath and leaves from her hair, she scanned her surroundings, wondering where the mercenary had gone, but hadn’t yet thought of looking up to the hulking silhouetted upon the horse’s back. Apparently, he had risen early to feed the horse, fill their waterskins and hunt for the ingredients of their belated breakfast; her knapsack rested where the saddlebags should have been, and seemed plumper than when she had last seen it. On the other side was affixed her sword, pressed between lengths of ripped bark that the demon had fastened into a makeshift sheath with the roll of strings she carried in her pack. “How long have you been up?” Rather than a depthless question, she had placed an emphatic stress on ‘you’, making a point of his punctuality and his potential to be a nut job. Finally, after a long while of reluctance and complaining and muttering under breath, she pulled herself up with the help of his forearm and sat behind, feeling her inertia shift when Ifrit spurred the horse to a canter.

When the morning fog cleared from her head, she decided to contribute in her own way to their trek through the forest. According to her mental map of Scara Brae, the turns and swerves they had taken the day before and the horse’s speed, which she evaluated (it was more of a small subtraction from the average speed of horses she had read in a book about raising horses in Fallien) at a little over seven miles per hour at a trot and twenty-five at a gallop… “The nearest town should be about… one hundred and fifty klicks to the north, northeast. That should be less than six hours from now at our current pace.” Spying the path ahead, she grinned with glee, satisfied with her contribution. “Oh, and it’s called Greenclough. Rumor has it that their crumpets are to kill for!”

[Seth_Rahl]

Lillian seemed much better this morning, he could tell, for she had informed him of their current position and the nearest town with glee. She had even mildly laughed today when she had informed him of Greenclough's crumpets. But yet, something was troubling Ifrit about her.

During her slumber, she had been talking to herself. At first Ifrit had dismissed it as sleeptalking, but when it seemed like something was responding to her it began to trouble him, and he had left her slumped up against the tree trunk. He had just gotten their supplies ready when she had awoken, and the two of them left on their journey.

Lillian... he thought to himself. Mayhaps she was psychic, and could read his thoughts. But he heard no response, and focused his attention on the road ahead. Guess not.

Who was she? What was she? Again, these thoughts plagued his mind. She had already revealed that she had more than human powers, but it seemed that neither he nor she knew their extent nor their purpose. It seemed to be benign, for she had helped, he had learned, in his healing process, but Ifrit was not naive enough to trust appearences. He had to find out the extent of her powers.

An arrow lodged itself in the horses behind, and with a loud neigh it threw the demon rider and the girl into the air. What!? Ifrit was surprised. The arrow had come out of nowhere and hit their transportation method with uncanny accuracy. Still in the air, Ifrit reacted accordingly, grabbing the girl's clothing and with out a second thought holding her against him, a little harder than he meant to. I'll apologize later... he justified, and said to the girl as he flipped and landed on his feet, "Stay close!", as he pulled out Beowulf and spun it in front of him as he had been taught to deflect projectiles. "What now?" He growled, and spied several shadowy figures in the dark forest.

[Ataraxis]

The heart of the young waif burrowed inside her chest in baffled fear when the auburn steed reared up and hurtled her away with what little might still dwelled wherein its frail and meager frame. Deep into the forests, the horse’s lament could be heard, a pitiable and hoary neigh, pathetic testament of old age and failing health. Lillian cried in unison, matching its dismay as she felt her demise impend, for the demon cast a shadow growing big and thick whilst the earth whistled its proximity with rising intensity. She would be crushed. ‘My last nightmare is coming true.’ Her eyes were so close they could peruse the bloody network of his back, could see the faintest of his muscles twitch. ‘Thus ends the shortest and most pitiful of adventures,’ though her last words were rang glumly in a head that would soon turn to mush, a dark corner of her mind rejoiced that she would be returned to her loved ones.

Perhaps a swift, flattening death would have been less hurtful. The coils of a black-steel arm girthed her waist, pulling her limp body flat against a wall of moving bricks. “Ugh! Hurts! Hurts a lot!” The girl was so light and frail that a gust of wind could buffet her to lands unknown; she could not realistically hope to keep her skeleton whole in such a deathly vise grip. The worst was the flip they underwent, and she wondered if her bones and entire digestive tract could wedge through her throat and mouth. When the turmoil was over and the demon was on his feet, she dropped to the ground on wobbly knees and tried to find poise with outstretched arms. Tonguing her pallet, she made a face. “I always knew I’d hate the taste of liver…”

Up ahead, footfalls rolled like the loom of thunder, a nearing stampede full of the sliding of blades and the nocking of arrows. From the corner of an eye, the staggering girl saw shadows fleet beyond the thick coppice, slinking from bark to bush and bark again, but on a few failed attempts at stealth, their shapes showed flashes of fur, patches of bared skin and the textures of leather. “What are those? Barbarians?” she brooded out loud, her thin brows creasing as the burgeon of fear sprouted across her pallid visage. Ifrit told her to stay close, and for once, she had no qualms in following his orders.

That is, until the ruffians lunged from the woods, and they too were keen to comply. Taut wood twanged and arrows flew, on a course for the mercenary’s chest, an easy target for even the most inaccurate bowmen. Tempered steel arched forth, crisscrossing through the air like swarms of shiny bees. He was besieged from all sides, overcome by the odds as he scuffled against three sharp-armed warriors near and one keen-eyed archer far. The Demon lived up to his nature, crossing steel and shattering wood with the wicked swings of his falchion, but were it not for their slapdash ambush, he would have already fallen. Lillian would not let her guardian be felled, and was eager to return him the favor of having saved her life.

As they dismissed her as benign and hapless, she had easily eluded their watch, and had scuttled off to the heaving carcass of the horse, collapsed on its feeble legs. It nickered in pain, but it still breathed good long breaths. Sadness for the animal overcame her, and knowing that they could not possibly escape from these road brigands on foot, she knew they would need it still. With a sharp pluck, she tore the arrow out from its buttocks, eliciting its unholy cry, but she ignored it and placed her palms against it, fighting for time and hoping the Demon would last. Stitching up the gaping hole with wispy black threads that snaked from her fingers, she stemmed the trickle of blood, and proceeded to connect the muscle tissues from within. Sweat soaked her forehead as the black webs wormed their way inside its flesh, but her mind was still racing, ears intent on the sound of battle. ‘As long as metal clashes…’ Seeing the black patch of seething magic cover the wound, she knew it had worked. The wound would still hurt and was still hours from closing completely, but the horse would hopefully rise and gallop. She slapped it square on the thigh, coercing it to a stand. “Stay here! I’ve got one more thing to do!” The bark scabbard was unlatched from its sides, and the girl sidled the center of the battle, vanishing behind the low-growing copse.


“I’ve got him in my sights.” The archer grinned ruggedly, his face marred by a design of tartan scars upon his left cheek. Picking an arrow by its red fletching and sliding it out of its quiver, he nocked it and pulled the string far back to his ear, steadying his aim and pointing his right index slightly outward.His accomplices were wearing the Demon down, but were too afraid to step inside his vital perimeter, fearing his edge like pigs in the slaughterhouse. “Cowards. Well, at least they turned him around.” As he felt more and more drawn by the rhythm of his breath and the intensity of his focus, he could no longer feel the brush of wind or the rustle of bushes, only his heart, and that of his next victim. “Good night, demon.”

The arrow soared, but stuck itself in the right eye of an ally.

A great cold had blown past the back of his knees, sliding sharply through his hamstrings. “What?” Fires now spread from the wound, consuming him in a silent convulsion as he bit his lower lip, scarring it too. His legs buckled under him, and he fell in the manner of forested lumber. Blood trickled down his lip, his forehead beaded with sweat as tears came to his eyes, but he could see through the blur nonetheless, the form of a white nymph, standing idle over him. His writhing hands palped the earth for a weapon, but she had kicked his bow away, and his arrows were now strewn over the beaten path, lost in his fall. Even the dagger he carried at his hip had somehow vanished, parting with its leather-strapped sheath. With whimpering eyes, he looked up to her face, but the sun was cast down on her back, hiding all of her features, save for the eyes that stared down, down and far into his soul. Beastly eyes of ghastly blue. “Death?”

She was gone without a word, and the man wondered if he had seen the constructs of excruciating pain, or a wraith in disguise.


“Ew! Ew! I cut flesh! Eeeww!” As she ran back into the woods, Lillian shuddered and shuddered, still feeling the slick motion of her sword through his muscles and tendons. The tip of her blade was despoiled with a thick red fluid, which she forced herself to think as cranberry juice rather than a man’s lukewarm blood. Alas, it was not so, and she would be disturbed by this for many days to go. ‘But what did he mean by death? I don’t think it was that much cranberry juice…’ Her attention shifted from the gore to the hoof falls that stormed in the distance. “More? Oh no, we have to get out of here!” Hopefully, Ifrit had fared better with one less blade to parry and no arrow to deflect.

[Seth_Rahl]

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Ifrit roared in fury as another annoying blade pricked his flesh. There were many of these men, too many for even he to handle at one time. They were like little bees attacking a gorrilla, swarming, stinging, and dodging just out of reach. These tactics enfuriated him, and instead of waiting for them to come to him, he decided he would come to them.

Spinning sideways, he spun his sword with the movement and cleaved a man from head to crotch with a single blow, cutting him straight through without second thought. Ifrit ignored the the blood that gushed forth and spilt all over his black body and ran foward, a black-and-red blur amongst a sea of green. He hacked and slashed, parrying blades and arrows a like, as the classic bloodlust began to overtake him.

No!! Automatically he forced it down. He couldn't afford to go beserk with the girl around, not here. Then he blinked as the realization hit him. Lillian had dissapeared!

An arrow, shot from the keen bow of an archer, lodged itself in the muscle of his shoulder, and he clenched his fangs to keep his anger in check. Damn it, if this continues much longer I won't be able to hold up against these guys! Ignoring the protruding shaft, he spun around and scanned the area, looking for Lillian with worried eyes. A huge, fur-covered barbarian crept up behind him and raised a giant axe, his bald head shining in the sunlight, and said to the being below him, "Goodbye, freak!"

Just as the barbarian swung, though, Ifrit caught the blade in the palm of his hand without looking at his attacker. What!? the man's eyes widened in shock and fear, as black/red blood began leaking from the demon's hand. "What are you!!!" The man cried out and backed away as Ifrit tore the axe from his hands and threw it so that it became embedded inside a tree.

"What have you done with her?" The demon whispered, low enough so that it seemed he was talking to himself.

"With who?" The man was genuinely confused. Suddenly, he shivered as Ifirt looked up and pierced him with eyes filled with blind fury. The very ground beneath him cracked as the pressure of the air rose around him, and the barbarians that had attacked began backing away.


"What have you done with Lillian!!" Ifrit screamed, and the pressure around him rose immensely. His silver hair flew up and his cloak blew backwards as bits and chunks of the earth around him rose along with the blood flowing from his wounds. It was a truly terrifying picture to behold. Without waiting for an answer from the terrified man, Ifrit rushed foward in a blur, faster than the man's eye's could track, and cut him in two as well. The man had only a second to blink before Ifrit spun, placing his blood-soaked hand on the remains of the man, roared "BURST!!!!", and a fireball of shadow erupted from his palm and consumed the man.

The rest of the men, although great in numbers, backed away slowly in fear and awe, saying things like, "He's not even human!"

"He'll kill us all!"

"I wasn't paid to hunt monsters!"

With a cry that spoke of vengeance, Ifrit turned on the remaining men, ignoring the sound of rapidly approaching hoofbeats...

[Ataraxis]

His eyes were a warm and uneven shade of brown, like the creamy swirls in a cup of hot chocolate. An unruly head of russet hair sprang in curly locks shorn short, falling above his eyes and down his neck in sticky clusters of sweat and grime, while his beard was neatly cropped short, yet left thick enough to give him a rugged look. He would have been, generally speaking, a handsome man, were it not for his fur-clad, leather-cinched fashion, the bushy hair that infested his chest like dark mold or burnt lichen and the fact that he was now but half a man, his sectioned halves convulsing at Lillian’s feet as volumes of darkening blood imbibed the soil beneath. He would have been quite the man, were he not gruesomely dead. With listless stares she observed the corpse, the blood, the massacre… all works of a Demon in the throes of unbridled fury. The compassion, the kindness, the righteousness she had seen and sensed in her guardian had gone in smokes, consumed by the blaze of his enkindled heritage. What her little, quavering eyes saw now was a madman, a monster… just another demon.

She was scared shitless.

‘I’m… I’m h-here.’ Had she spoken? The words reverberated in her mind, yet she found no strength to give them lift, to let them soar, to end with them the tasteless spectacle of madness before her. Her eyes watered and pulled a thin mist in front, as if drawing a curtain partway in an attempt to hide chaos and evil from a crowd of children and their innocent eyes, but there is still much to see in a half-closed show, and though the details were blurred, the gist would forever remain as clear and present as the sun and the heat in a hot, summer day. “I’m here!” the girl sobbed in horror, closing her eyes and clenching herself to keep her stomach from turning over. “Stop! Stop it!” The blood. So much blood. She could hear it, smell it and, even though her eyes were closed, see it through the apertures of her wailing soul. “STOP!”

The barbarians scampered off toward the source of the hoofbeats, seeking refuge in the approaching numbers. The Demon felt the urge to pursue them, dice their flesh and hew their bones in the gluttonous hunger of his demonic falchion, but her desperate cry had awakened his wits, enough to mildly repress the heinous nature of those who dwelled the outer reaches. “We… we have to… go…” No matter how much she tried to swallow, something had lodged itself in her throat, as though a ball made of fear had caught inside. Nearer and nearer, the thundering came, and she knew that if the did not move, blood would flow anew.

Without looking at the demon, she rushed to the rejuvenated horse to take her place, not wanting his help to mount it, not wanting him to touch her. Even as he took his place and the bridles in his hand, she shuddered, trying her best to hang on to the backmost parts of the saddle. The books had told her much of Demons and their tempers, but she had deeply wished for these to be but fallacies. Regrettably, she now knew that fiction is only a watered down version of reality, its edges and harshness dulled by flowery prose. As they rode the tortuous paths, pushing the mount to its very limits, Lillian had begun disconnecting, favoring the solace of her soul to the morbidity that haunted her reality.


“What happened here?” The sight of maimed bodies hacked and diced into cubes of meat was an unsettling picture to the leader of the barbarians, all clothed in silver fur and armor. His face was masked by a decorated helmet, a discrepancy in his garments that would give shrewd observers the idea that it had been purloined from a noble knight – probably from his cold, dead body.

“It was a Demon, sir. The damn monster did all of this!” One of the escapees had spoken, teeth chattering as his bones still felt the algor of terror.

“Alone?” The leader’s concern grew, but his hardened mind allowed him to evince no conspicuous emotion. This did not bode well for their plans.

“Yes, though he said something about a… a girl, but I didn’t see any.” The upright was rather confused. He had seen the mercenary lose his wits and enter an uncontrolled rage, but not once had he seen the girl that was the source of his anger. Trying to find an image of her in his mind, he only recalled a name. “He… he called her Lillian.”

“Lillian?” The downward bend of his scowl had coiled into a surprised smile; the bandit wondered if this were fate or mere coincidence. ‘Well, well. The fruit of Layla’s womb and Merihim’s loins, back in Scara Brae. Perhaps this is not such a bad turn of events, after all.’

“Men, ride onward and get them before they reach Greenclough. Bring down the demon, but the girl must be brought back.” Executing the order, the horde of horsemen dashed down the beaten path, the horses’ gallop far swifter than that of their targets’ sickened steed. It would only be a matter of minutes before they bridged the gap.

Cries of befuddlement rose from the helm of the line. The leader’s grin faded, replaced by a tired grimace, muttering a ‘what now?’ under his breath.

“Sir! We… We can’t move on!” One of his henchmen cried out from the front, his tone denoting some sense of bemusement.

“And why not, lad? Why can’t you do such a simple task?” His voice had grown raspy, raucous and evidently nettled by this succession of snags and sticks. The young subordinate beckoned him forth, and much to his irritation, he did. Weaving through the idled horsemen, he narrowed his eyes and sought out what obstacle lay ahead. “What in…”

The space ahead seemed empty, save for a glint and sparkle here and there. He strode sideways, and the scintillations moved like reflections upon a mirror, following a network of complex twists and turns. Forced was he to acknowledge that this was no small hindrance when his eyes settled on the floating bodies of his men, and two horses, still alive and kicking, but clearly deranged by the circumstances.

A huge web barred their way, stretching from one end of the clearing to the other, thinner than the thinnest of a seamstress’ threads, yet stronger than steel wires. “This must the work of one of them giant spiders, sir! And it seems to be quite long! We could circumvent it, but they might be waiting for us in the thicker parts of the woods. It’d be safest to hack through them.”

With a sigh, the leader agreed. ‘This can’t be a coincidence. This web was spun just after they passed by. Looks like we're not only dealing with a crazed demon...’ After spying a glance to the thick underbrush, the leader of the barbarians did a double take. 'Nothing?' He returned his attention to the crowd of men hacking through the net, still cautious. He could have sworn that a row of blue eyes was staring at him from the shadows of the copses.

[Seth_Rahl]

Blood ran down his chest. Not his own blood, but the blood of his victims. His victims. Just the sound of those words made him wince, and as he snuck a peek backwards at his ward he felt a single tear run down his cheek. The girl was scared shitless of him now. Too late had he heard her call. Too late had he calmed down the insane power that ran with heriditary ruthlessness through his glowing red veins. Too late had he realized that she was standing there on the edge, watching him with fear that mixed with her own strange power to make him weak in the limbs and in the heart.

So, she had seen his blood lust. No...wait...that wasn't right. It wasn't his bloodlust that had consumed him. It had been his rage. As they rode, he glared at his claws, dyed red, and fully realized the danger he posed to the girl he rode with.

((I'll finish this later. I don't have the time to make a complete thead right now, so i'll just leave it right here for now.))

[Ataraxis]

With not a snag on the beaten path or a beast to bar theirs, the ride went on uninterrupted – ostensibly smoothly, some would say; but in the air, there was that dark, palpable tension, and in Lillian’s heart had fully flourished the murky blossom of fear. Only to protect me. He did that horrible thing, for me. Alas, no matter how long and hard she told herself, tried to convince herself that her guardian had acted on noble motives, she could not dismiss the raving red of his eyes as he skewered those men on his devilish falchion, the wicked pleasure that reflected his bared fangs, upturned into a monstrosity that should have been a smile.

In the end, the girl fell even more dejected, certain that these men would still be breathing, had she not been so selfish. I just had to come to Scara Brae, didn’t I? Embark on a whirlwind adventure, meet zany friends and eclectic foes on the road to some obscure magical artifact that holds the power to shape reality as we know it? Drooping lower on the saddle, her once lustrous black hair now sticky with the salt of her eyes and the sweat of her fears, she scoffed at herself.

To be like her parents is what she came for, or at least what she believed she had come for. They had trekked the world, battling adversities alongside each other, bleeding as one. They had seen so much, more than anything she had seen in the dusty pages of any book her eyes ever had the pleasure of perusing. However, she had never known why they took on such a perilous enterprise, just why they risked their lives on a daily basis, contended against the nature of the world, of men and of fate. Lillian stifled her breath, preventing herself from breaking down and bawling like some homeless waif. But that’s exactly what I am.

Like the warm shafts of light that had broken through the canopy of green, she was struck by understanding, the watery blue of her eyes widened by the lightness that surrounded her. Home. The horse trotted on, slow but still, its hoof falls reaching her ears for the first time in many gloomy hours. They faced death everyday, but they could have stopped any day. Strings of wind blew past them, unfurling like cool cloths over her weary skin. Yet they went on, because there was no sense in settling down. There is never any sense in settling down.

How warm it was, the benevolent eye that shone above all. Unless you do in the one place in the world you can call home. Gone were the thinning tracts of peaty earth and rising barks, for they had pierced through the borders of the forest. From the green hillock, they overlooked thatched roofs and the whorl of smoke from hearth fires, the sound of sprawling life humming in their ears.

“Greenclough, at last.” As she heard herself whisper, she found her voice to be surprisingly chipper, laced with an unheralded hope. Hope for the future. While they proceeded down the slanted trail, Lillian did what, moments ago, would have been unthinkable, the result of madness caused by inanition or excessive exposure to dangerous mold, as she had believed.

Little willowy arms rolled halfway around the demon’s waist, cinching it tightly as she shook away her terror of the being. No words were spoken, but she had read that strong men needed not speech to communicate their innermost feelings; she was not a man, nor was she quite that strong, but she felt this action was enough, and that he would know the contents of her heart.

Thank you, sir Ifrit - for everything. But now, I have to follow my own path, and find a place that I can call home.

Well, this is the end of part I. If I can get a hold of Seth, we'll start part II, but I don't know when that'll be.

These abilities were planned for Lillian a long time ago: I just wanted a quest to activate them. I don't mind editing the specifics of the additions, if they are deemed too strong. Just remember that without the Welkin Body, she will be unable to learn spells of any sort: it has to be there, since it's an integral part of her character.

I don't know about money. If possible, it'd be great, but I assume that I already have enough spoils as is.

Added to Equipment:

The Welkin Body – A sentient artifact buried deep in her complex mind, and the source of Lillian’s bizarre abilities. It is of a nature unknown, its composition a befuddling conundrum on its own while its dimensions are literally out of this world, beyond the comprehension that a dimensional tetrad can provide the likes of mortality. The closest Lillian has ever been to an accurate description of the object is a twenty-faced ideal polyhedron, constituted of a dark, crystalline matter, which contains the glow of a purplish-black light. It has revealed to her that it possesses the capacity of adaptation beyond that of humans, and that their symbiotic relation allows her to tap into this power to create an array of abilities, depending on the nature and urgency of her situation.

Its most notable use, however, is that of assimilation: the Welkin Body can capture the essence of virtually anything that substantially affects Lillian’s mind (as long as it is magic or organic) and absorb a portion of it for processing. The sample is then converted over time into powers related to the substance in question. Only one essence can be transformed at a time, and it can require several months, if not years, before the procedure is completed.

Added to Spells:

The White Widow – The very first set of magical powers produced by the Welkin Body's powers. Through assimilation of Giant Spider blood, Lillian has given birth to a unique form of magic, similar in nature to the Uncanny Hodgepodge. The only difference is her greater level of control over the White Widow abilities, which revolve around the creation of black threads that can be controlled through sheer will as long as they do not stretch over two feet in length.


Lillian's most prominent use of these threads is the weaving of an impermeable web that accelerates the rate of healing when applied to a wound. By feeding energy into the damaged tissues, the web precipitates cellular division without the risk of long-term degeneration of cells. The web remains affixed until it is fully healed, and is quite useful in stopping hemmorhages, as it stems the flow of blood. Surface wounds like scrapes and cuts take only a few seconds to heal, while fractured bones and burns take a few days, or perhaps a week to heal. Lillian is unable to treat serious and lethal wounds, and the exact efficacy of the spell depends on her mindset while sewing the magic into a web.

Edit, 17-07-07: Well Seth hasn't been on since the 9th of May. I tried contacting him, but I've gotten no reply. If he does return and wants his respective spoils, could the judge in question allow it and discuss the terms with him? It wouldn't be fair to him if he returned and received nothing from this quest, save gold and exp.

[Artifex Felicis]

Seth = Spoils may be awarded if you contact me. My AIM is nekobooi, and I would like tot alk about the thread to answer any questions you might have.

Continuity = 6
Setting = 7
Pacing = 5
Dialog = 6.5
Action = 6.0
Persona = 8.5
mechanics = 5
Clarity = 3
Techniques = 5
Wild Card = 6

Total = 58

Congratulations. A very fun thread to read, if confusing at points. PArt one of Judgements. (http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i199/nekobooi/?action=view&current=1of3of002.jpg) Part 2 of Judgement (http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i199/nekobooi/?action=view&current=2of3of002.jpg) Part Three of Judgement. (http://s72.photobucket.com/albums/i199/nekobooi/?action=view&current=3of3of002.jpg)

All Spoils are approved.

EXP
Seth gets 650 exp and finds some money in addition to his payment. He gets 250 gold for his efforts total.
Ataraxis gets 1500 exp for her falling down and running away. She later finds a very well made pocket watch in her pocket. She surmises it's worth a bit (300 gold) and got it from when she crashed through the wagon.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added! Ataraxis, welcome to the next level.