View Full Version : The Sacrifice
The night was deep in Radasanth when the figure's footsteps rang down the street. Each beat on the steps of the Palace of Pain was an echo of the empty heart that somehow still managed to feebly beat within. The slump of the figure's shoulders belied the pain and exhaustion that had washed over her since the desperate claw out of Concordia. She'd been fed on the milk of despair from the moment she'd unleashed the old Concordian goddess and been forced to work the spell that left her son little more than a cocoon for his fading soul. Now the fuel that had caused her to wrap up her child's body in the tattered remains of her shirt and somehow stumble through the darkness of the forest onto the cobbled evening streets of the capitol city was starting to wear thin.
This, however, could not wait. She had found the strength for battle on less than this before, and as a light snowfall began to descend on the city, dusting her shoulders, she steeled herself for what she hoped to endure within the Citadel tonight. If she was turned away after her half-mad dash to the Monk's stronghold, she was sure that it would be the end of her. Already, the rending of her heart as the bundle in her arms remained motionless was nearly too much to bear.
As she finished her ascent up the front staircase and into the temple vestibule, she stepped into the pool of light cast idly by the flickering torches chained along dark stone hallways. The sky above was overcast tonight, lending no light from the moon or stars, but the flames illuminated all the ugly truths that the night sought to keep secret. Her hair, a tumble of sanguine curls, was matted around her face with sweat and the small knots that the wind had worked in since the last time a brush had been brought down through the silky tresses. Her eyes, usually so clear were red with her tears and the strain her emotions had brought. With the babe so tightly wrapped in the white cotton that normally adorned her frame, Tshael stood in the fortress foyer naked. Scratches and bruises were scattered along her skin, and just over her left breast a hand print, burned into the flesh like a brand. Her hooves sparked along the stone, the thin iron shoes littering the hallway with momentary glitters as red hot as her anger.
With wide eyes, a monk came to her side, reaching out to take the bundle from her. She hesitated for just a moment, and then allowed him to hold her son in his toned arms, secure in the knowledge that he was safe with this man; he was an old friend. Indeed, when Loic turned aside the top layering of cotton, it was in kindness and tender touch that he did so. Underneath, he found the face of the toddler pale, though not quite ashen. He breathed as if asleep, earthen brown eyes closed in respite. When the monk reached out to the little one's wrist, searching for the strength of his heartbeat, tiny fingers wrapped around his, pulling ever so slightly.
"This is a good sign," the monk whispered to Tshael, letting her have her son again in her arms. "He has his father's strength in him, and perseverance. Not all hope is yet lost!"
With these words of encouragement, Tshael allowed herself to buckle, falling to her knees before the monk. She held Tsyliss close to her breast; her son was more precious to her than her own heart's blood. She felt weak, desperate. It helped a little to know that perhaps the spirit of his father was enduring somewhere within the tiny form. If any blood, rushing so feebly through those minuscule veins, could possibly help him to see the light of the next morning, it would be that of Thoracis Rakarth.
"What do I do?" she asked, her voice cracking from the sobs and screams that had punctuated the tragic afternoon. Somehow the knowledge that night had come and the day had approached it's end was a relief. With the darkness of the night came the sanctity in the world's silence. Things could slow at night, and she could find the one lantern that might possibly light her way back to a life not quite so destroyed by ancient tales and simple mirrors.
"We must pray, girl." he said with a wise, sympathetic smile. "It is so easy to forget that this is a place not only of battle, but of religion."
"That's why I came, because my life has been returned to me more than once by you and yours." Her smile managed to find its way through her worried expression, though the mirth was nowhere in her eyes as much as a softening in the reminisce. It was returned, however, with a visage of stern reprimand. Loic kept his voice as kind as possible, but he nevertheless waved a finger at her as they walked hurriedly around the twists and turns of the lower levels of the labyrinthine stronghold.
"New breath after Death's kiss is earned here, never given." His eyes moved downwards towards the peaceful, still face of the child. "Even among the totally innocent. There are tolls here that must be paid, prices beyond gold."
"I know." Tshael said quietly as they finally came to a doorway at the end of a hall. Truely, she did know what penance she must pay this night, and that it lay beyond the plain stone portal. Behind that gateway, Tshael knew she would find one of two things. Redemption or a Finality that her mind could not bear to face just now.
~~~~
The cemetery stretched out before the Dranak, as dark and gloomy as the night outside. Around the black iron fencing, small lanterns sat, casting shadowy light along the graveyard avenues between tombstones. Here and there an ossuary stood, tiny temples and houses from which through the rotting doors left ajar she could see the piles of bones stacked neatly in their
places. Grinning skulls made her shudder and as she held Tsyliss tighter, she said a prayer that he would not be added to the collection of remains found in any of the small mausoleums. In the center of the graveyard, a small altar stood. It resembled a coffin of frosted glass, and at the end of it, in small silver script, it bore a legend.
"Here lies Tsyliss Rakarth, for whom the Great Deeds lay here beyond." Tshael read in a trembling voice, her words growing ever weaker as the short obituary stretched on. It was one thing to look upon his comatose face and know that without divine intervention, her son would not last this night. It was quite another to read those horrific words aloud, to hear her voice carry them on the breeze as if the funeral were now underway. She lifted the baby to her lips, kissing him while she wept, closing her eyes against the reality of it all.
She had failed him, so miserably. What would Thoracis say if he could be standing beside her? Bitterly, she shook her head, sobbing aloud at the thought. No, if Thoracis had been around, Tsyliss would be safe. The Mage Rakarth was one man who would never have let the transgressions pass that she had been too weak to catch.
"Tears hold no currency here." a voice said, startling the woman from the internal scolding she'd been giving herself. She looked up, to see two figures standing at the head of the glass coffin. One was male, tall and muscled. He was clad in armor that seemed to glow in the lantern light, his skin bone white and his eyes and hair as dark as the sky above. His expression was grim, his arms hanging relaxed at his sides. His companion had the same general features of his face, the strong jaw and cheekbones, the dark eyes standing out almost sickeningly against wan skin. Her hair was long, pulled back in simple braids that shone like the feathers of a raven. Her armor was just as polished as her brothers, though around one arm she wore a simple white bandanna, glistening either as silk or vlince.
"We are here to hear your prayers, battle maiden," the woman said, her voice kinder than her brother's had been a moment ago, her eyes resting solidly on the body of the toddler in Tshael's arms. "In your tongue, we are called Kella and Khalon. It has been a long time since we were last called to hear the pleas of those who sanctify themselves with blood and pain."
"Indeed," said Khalon as he rested his palms against the top of the sleek sarcophagi, "We are the twins who watch over the innocent taken in battles that were not theirs to fight. So many souls are under our care in the afterlife, but so few of the living think of their fate as nothing more than inevitable."
"Then you can..." Tshael started, hope burning bright in her heart as it dawned on her that these deities wanted to help her.
"Yes, dear child," Kella spoke, smiling softly. "But our help does not come freely."
"I'll do anything." Tshael said, her voice clear and strong with the promise.
"We know," Kella answered, stepping around the coffin to come and take Tsyliss from Tshael's arms. She moved slowly, however, so that Tshael could bend and give her son a kiss upon his forehead, her tears still falling, dropping warm and wet on the wisps of auburn hair that had begun to grow in looping curls. When the goddess turned, placing him on the coffin, the top seemed to turn to water, ripples spreading across it. The child sank in, floating in the middle of the translucent casket. The twins each took a stand on either side of the catafalque, their hands resting on the top. As their bodies began to grow somehow more dim, a gray leeching across their resplendent armor, Khalon gave a grim nod to the red-headed Dranak who stood within the graveyard, terrified and anxious.
"The price of life is blood. It flows, it spills, and when it's gone, so is the glow of the living. Pay us in blood, and we will restore your child as he was before Nashiara took his soul."
Before the heartbroken mother could answer, the stone overtook them, leaving them austere headstones for the grave of Tsyliss Rakarth.
There were two witnesses to the dranak’s entrance. They watched, unseen, from the very depth of a pool of light. Illusions made them appear as glare against the stone, but their voices were disguised only by volume.
“Why is she-“ asked a harshly feminine voice.
A tired male’s drone interrupted her. “Expecting charity, maybe. I don’t think the monks are capable of it.” Neither voice was alarmed by her battered body, or even the disconcertingly still bundle. “Looks like I was wrong,” he continued as the monk led the woman away. There was no surprise, only a hint of annoyance. “If only they’d extend that kind of courtesy to everyone.”
“We don’t need it,” the female said curtly, as if the idea offended her.
“Heh. Yeah,” the male responded with smugness thick in his tone.
With the entryway once again empty, the two voices settled back into their expectant silence. Only seconds passed before a different monk emerged from the hall. He had questing eyes that peered over the large unfurled scroll in his hands. Seeing nothing, he looked toward the top of the stairs for bodies in the process of leaving. “Shadar and Brigitte?” he called out with his eyes on the scroll.
The illusion fell. In the pool of light off to the monk’s left appeared the named combatants. They sat back to back, their shoulders resting against the wall. Shadar, a half-elf in an ensemble of stark blacks and whites, raised one of his murky gloves and beckoned the monk closer. Brigitte twisted to look as well, though she still kept her naked harpy body well behind Shadar’s shoulders.
“No one’s come in all night that looks like they’re ready to fight,” he challenged.
The monk nodded in subdued agreement, “Yes. Regardless, there is an arena ready for you. It’s rather urgent.” He rolled up the scroll and held it at his waist. “If you would follow me.” He turned curtly and marched toward the hall.
Shadar and Brigitte stood slowly, their eyes contemplating the monk’s back as it moved steadily away. He stopped and turned on his heel. “Please,” he said with the barest hint of pleading under the command. Shadar stood with his arms crossed and his mouth pulled up in a contemptuous sneer. Brigitte wrapped her wings about her and tilted her head slightly askew, her human face betraying a bird’s curiosity. She stepped forward to press her feathered shoulder against the back of Shadar’s, but no further.
A tense moment passed between the three. Annoyance touched the monk’s face as if he might be willing to drag them. It wouldn’t be necessary. “You’d better hope I’m wrong,” Shadar spat as he started walking with Brigitte as close behind as his shadow. The monk turned away before his face could betray what he thought of the threat. Probably nothing. These were hard men with harder souls.
A pool of bitterness grew within Shadar as they walked through the dark halls. The monk’s stance was practiced, revealing nothing. But, the walls here had seen far more disgraces than this one old man, and they spoke in the way shadows clung to them like centuries of misgivings. Those shadows seemed thickest at their destination, a double door already ajar on one side. The monk finally faced them and gestured for them to enter. Shadar searched the robed man's eyes as he approached, but it wasn’t necessary.
“…our help does not come freely,” said a voice from beyond the door, one so hard it made the monks seem whimsical.
Hesitantly, Shadar looked into the room. The scene couldn’t have suited this place more; rows upon rows of graves and monuments that were half stone and half shadow. There was a monument at the center where the tortured mother watched her child sink into its tomb under the harsh gaze of two figures that seemed to embody death itself. They spoke of blood and sweet promises, both of which the Citadel offered to all, but only one of which actually existed.
“I won’t be part of your charity!” the half-elf growled at the monk, but the man was already moving away at a measured pace. Instead, he had to settle for slamming a palm into the closed half of the door. It reverberated thickly, as if far from impressed.
“We’re leaving?” Brigitte asked with concern as she moved closer and touched a wing to his back.
A figure appeared behind them and answered before Shadar. “Nah, stick around. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned baby sacrifice. Back in the good days, we did ‘em by the dozen.” The speaker was purely canine, though he stood upright in hieroglyphic red robes. Fire burned in his eyes that gave a sickly tint to the purple fur on his muzzle.
“You know that’s not what they’re doing,” Shadar snapped irritably to the creature that was nothing but illusion and malice, a ghoul calling itself a god.
Jackal’s false image contorted with a mocking grin as his true self in Shadar’s subconscious responded. Oh, I know. It’s really familiar, actually. All artificial underneath the ceremony, kinda like how I created her. His illusion bobbed its head toward Brigitte, who responded with a heated glare.
Don’t say anything about that, Shadar thought with venom, to which Jackal narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth teasingly.
Exasperated, the half-elf hurriedly turned to Brigitte. “Wait here. I’ll deal with this.” Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the room and the door began to slide shut behind him.
Brigitte recoiled in surprise, her face dropping in dejection. It quickly turned to anger as she rounded on Jackal. “What did you do?!” she crowed. Jackal’s illusion just laughed as it faded with the closing door. It clanged shut, and Brigitte was left alone in the hall as both Shadar and his demon moved worlds away into the Citadel’s gut.
Don’t you like to hear about your birth once in a while?
Shadar audibly growled. No, so do her the same courtesy.
That brought out a laugh sicker than their surroundings. I don’t know the meaning of courtesy.
As he ran a gloved hand through his short silver hair, Shadar surveyed the arena. It was just as dreary as the view from the door, as if the dead were contaminating the air. There were shadows everywhere and alcoves you could hide three people in, but that wasn’t important. He wasn’t going to play their game if he could help it.
With hands in his pockets and the open coat flaring behind, he walked to the base of the altar and addressed, with spiteful eyes, the grieving mother. “So, you lost the kid’s soul to something called Nashiara,” he recited as if it was as simple as losing a coin in the street. “Before you try anything, tell me how you managed that. I’ll know if you’re lying.” He looked her straight in the face to leave no doubt that he expected a serious answer.
“Hope it’s a good story,” Jackal snarled as he appeared over top of the glass coffin, laying on it lazily with one leg hanging down. “Normal mothers settle for losing a favorite toy or, at most, dropping the little runt on its head.” His eyes were closed and his mouth quirked up as if amused. One foot was braced against the pale female, now as lifeless as if the earlier scene had been imagined, while the other foot lightly kicked the side of the coffin in a slow rhythm.
There’s a line between a tough lesson and straight out cruelty, Shadar thought with a mute sigh.
Heh. It’s about as clear to me as that courtesy thing.
She watched him come, with wind whipping his clothing about. She wondered if it was cold, for his heavy coat brought with it the realization that it was indeed breezy. She wondered why she couldn't feel the chill on her naked skin, and why she seemed to be so detached from it all. There was something constricting in her heart with his words, as if he was choking her with the memories of what had happened the prior night. His tone made her feel guilty, accusing her with questions of her right to be a mother. Perhaps he was right; a fit mother would never have used her own child as a shield.
Before she could answer him, however, there came the lightest of sounds just behind her. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. She paused, letting her head tilt to the side, red curls spilling down her shoulder. Golden eyes narrowed and she spun on hoof to find the source of the sound. A clawed foot was bouncing on the glass coffin, her baby's coffin. Her mournful expression was immediately replaced with one of rage and she moved forward.
"You will stand on the ground this instant." she breathed, her voice coming out as more of a feral growl than the dream demon's voice had been. Her fists were balled at her sides, the knuckles whitening with the tension in her hands. She wanted to push this monster off her baby, keep him away from the precious gift she'd been given. The air seemed to respond, the ground trembling slightly with the intensity of her anger at this disrespect. Nearby, wilting roses and lilies were placed reverently against the tombstones, the only color against grey grave dirt and the dark blades of grass that patchily blanketed the yard. Weeds slowly nudged aside the soil to curl around the flowers, crushing them with tiny vines graced with the teeth of small thorns.
"I will not have him laying across Tsyliss' body!" she said now to Shadar, pointing a shaking finger at Jackal as her voice broke in the tempest of her temper. The weed vines reached up, brushing gently against the bottom of the coffin, as if they were seeking to rid their mistress of the annoyance of Jackal. Their growth, however, paused with the venom in Tshael's next words. As she raked her fingers through her hair, gathering the threads of magic within her mind to set her spell, her words could not have been full of more heartfelt honesty.
"If he does not remove himself from the grave of my child, I will kill you both."
Shadar wasn’t heartless. Once upon a time, he had known the feeling of loss as well as more guilt than most mortals could accrue in a lifetime. Now nothing more than smudged memories, they couldn’t possibly rival the torment she must be containing. He could imagine, though, and it added another spike to the hate he felt for the demon that was his shadow.
“Jackal,” he bit off warningly as he wrapped an illusion of his own around the monument, an image of the way it had been moments ago.
Wrapping my image in a counter image? Let’s see how long we can go, then. Layers on layers like a bloody onion! All to make the deadbeat mom feel better, right? The demon couldn’t help himself. It was in his nature to poke at every emotional hole until it tore.
Shadar concentrated on his heartbeat, a muted sensation ever since his bounds of mortality had been loosened, to calm his mind. With thoughts as still as iron, he denied Jackal whatever sadistic joy he might gain. Let me handle this. Call it an experiment… to see if I can break the bonds before they are even set in place.
Jackal was silent for far longer then usual. This’ll be fun, he suddenly said with a cackle as he relinquished all control over the illusions. Then, he faded into the back of Shadar’s mind. You’re overstepping… was all he muttered before his demonic voice became nothing more than a dull buzzing.
The lines smoothed from Shadar’s forehead as he too dropped his illusion. Nearly unnoticeable, the monument went from one that only appeared empty to one that actually was, save its small, faintly living core.
“You can’t kill us,” he said stonily to the dranak, “So just listen.” His eyes were slightly softer, but he didn’t make any sign of relenting. With arms tense despite his relaxed pose, he moved one step closer. “Fate is not lenient or charitable,” he said sternly, “And gods, for all their promises, are just as corrupt as anyone else. Spilling my blood may have been enough if your child had died in this arena. This is Ai’Brone’s pit, and it goes by Ai’Brone’s rules. But, you are bringing the world’s influence into it.”
Shadar looked down for a moment so as to offer her a respite from his accusing gaze. “If you won’t talk about why it happened, I can only assume the worst. Ai’Brone, for all its power, can’t forgive you or pay your child’s debt. That will follow the both of you for however long it takes Fate to collect.” He looked up then, his face shifting from heated accusation to cold, brutal honesty. “Fate doesn’t accept anything as petty as gold or blood.”
Her sneer deepened, her eyes growing as cold as the gold coins that he spoke of. Bribery? This was not a bribe to get free of a debt. No, this was payment in full, of a currency that someone so haughty as himself could not understand. Blood would have blood, no matter whose it was. It all went back into the fold, where the womb met with life. Her child's blood was her blood, and if she had to cleave through him and herself to pay for Tsyliss' life, she would. His words met a wall stronger than anything made of stone or metal. It met her stubborn love for what she had created. Tsyliss was hers, and she would not let him go.
"I've never offered anything petty here." she said, her voice as firm as the unyielding night, as cheerless as the light from the lanterns hung outside of the crumbling sepulchers. A growl started in her throat as her fingers began to move with quick decisive motions, each digit tapping against her sides as if playing a piano or working down a loom. With the angry hum in her throat, came an answer, from deep within the graveyard. The earth knew it's own, and came to her call with greed after too long of living life among the dead.
A thick vine, laden with ivy leaves and striped in verdant splendor, whipped from behind a nearby headstone to snap at Shadar's feet. This was anything but petty, and as a stone spike came barrelling through the ground where she'd hoped his tripped body would probably land, it was clear that these were anything but games.
In the illusionary struggle with Jackal, and under the wrathful and desperate presence of the mother, Shadar hadn’t noticed the vines that seemed to be bending sympathetically to her. His only warning was a heat upon his shins as she aimed… something. He tensed himself for a spell or hidden projectile, his eyes locked on her and waiting as he tried to form a logical rebuttal.
He felt a rustle at his feet. With an embarrassing amount of surprise, he was pulled from his thoughts and looked down at the vine closing its green flesh around his feet. He slipped one foot out of the noose, but the other was cinched tight, so tight it hurt. Annoyance made his words heavy and slow as he jumped backwards, arcing powerfully upward, and towed the vine underneath. “Oh, give up. I’m trying to tell-“ Words, thoughts, even his sense of position were scramble with the sudden rumbling thrust of the earth.
The graveyard had turned upside down, though it was hard to distinguish with the dim, foggy air rolling under his feet like a polluted ocean. He looked down, or rather up, and the surety of what he saw washed away the numb shock his body had initially slipped into. Between the bones of his lower leg, a single stone tooth jutted skyward. A burning like acid filled his leg, then the rest of his body as every cell recognized the invasion and quivered fearfully. Finally, a sound left him. It was a ragged, animalistic shout, more pain than fury. His body jerked, as desperate and instinctive as an insect underfoot. The vine held the foot of his pinned leg, though, and every movement added to the tension as it tried to drag him down the spike.
His voice cut off with gritted teeth as he let his head slump back and press heavily into the spike’s surface, just inches above the ground. He could see the blood that his motion had pushed from the wound. It misted into the air, a deep red cloud of steam from the unnaturally thick fluid that ran down and clung to his back. Someone, Jackal or the woman, was laughing at him, but he couldn’t tell which.
He laughed back, deranged and cringing. With scrabbling hands, he found the solidness of the earthen spike laying into his back. The inky depths of his gloves rippled, sending the pulse through his skewer. In that instant, when the rock was unsure of its shape, the reality of it became fluid as well. With one guttural push, Shadar left it. His leg phased through and shaved off the vine as the bloodied earthen tip became real again.
His laughter died as he drifted slowly through the air, floating through water that wasn’t there. He could still see the slow swell of his blood mist as it joined the dreary air and seemed to be devoured. The graveyard’s appetite had been wetted, but he wouldn’t allow it to claim any more of him.
Seemingly pushing off of the air itself, he flipped and stomped both feet to the freshly turned earth. His wounded leg buckled, pumping out another pulse of blood that slid reluctantly down his shin and formed a deep crimson puddle. In the next instant, he turned it off. The nerves deadened, and their signals slowed to the point that all he felt was a minor cut in his leg. With his good leg, he pushed off and found a place in the air, at height with the roofs of the mausoleums. There, he hovered as solidly as if strung up.
“Stop!” he hissed down at her, his presence commanding despite his wet-slicked back and the blood that still fell in large drops to soak the earth. “Think about it!” He snapped his hands out, and they were suddenly marked with prevalida blue veins that ran all through the surface of the gloves. This was the enhancement that he had come here to test against some Citadel-addicted goon. Not her. But, if he had to…
“What’s so valuable about this?” he asked bitterly, gesturing at his leg. “The monks will just put it back. It might as well be a bad dream.” With a low grumble, he realized that his toes had gone numb. He could dull the pain, but the effect always spread. Despite how fit he still seemed, there was a time limit ticking away in his head, now. Unintentionally, the urgency reached his voice. “You could rip your gut open right here, spill your innards all over the place, and it would be as if nothing happened. How can a moment of pain earn your child’s life back?!”
He let the question reverberate off the cold, uncaring bulk of the tombs. It seemed to hang in the air, heavy in the torch lit night. The only other sound was the steady beat of his blood, a loud, leaden drop announcing the passage of every second.
"Pain is all I have!" she bellowed, her voice echoing through night. It seemed to push the wind around them, force the lanterns to their grim wavering. The light was dimmed for a moment and again the flames flickered upwards to give what ghostly luminescence that they could. Her anger was growing, making her feel stronger, despite her worn and battered body, the burned imprint of a murderer's hand upon her chest. Put it back? The monks didn't put back blood spilt on the battlefield, they gave the heart strength to beat new life into the body, fixed up the wounds so that the new blood wouldn't just continue to spill. To say that it was the same blood that had been taken by sword and claw was something that a child might think, that a liar might say. He was trying to manipulate her from doing this crucial deed.
He was trying to keep her from her baby, she knew, and her baby was all she had. Thoracis had fled from her, never knowing his child. Shiryko had disappeared, as had Kadarus and Dan. The Silver was reduced to ash and twisted metal, so much glass that had been crushed to sand. All she had was Tsyliss, all the love in her heart was owed him. Her efforts and strength, everything inside of her...
It was for him when she raised her palms to the sky, her fingers stretching out to the heavens, where the man floated as if he could walk on the winds. The gold in her eyes was flashing, molten, the line of her lips was pulled into a taut frown. The magic was coursing like her blood, surging with every beat of heart. The ground again began to rumble, talking to her in the little languages that she could understand as a child. The years had mad the translation harder, more difficult as her mind was drawn to so many other things, away from the forest.
From beneath her hooves, rock came up. It had been drawn from the natural earth, from the subterranean walls of the mortuaries, all amassed together with magic. Stronger than mortar. uncrumbling as stone was apt to do. She rose, slowly at first, still too far from being able to reach him. She came nearly to his level, where she had to still look upwards but it wasn't quite the craning action that it had been while her hooves were planted solidly in the ground. As she glared with a triumphant smile on her lips, the magic thrummed through the stone pedestal. It was gathering again, building to something that she was certain may just ruin her. The dark circles under her eyes were getting blacker, the ruddy handprint on her chest seeming to come alive with a red shine as her sweat ran down from her neck and between her breasts.
"Tell me." She said softly as she swayed on her feet, her Concordian accent growing thicker as her words slurred a little, drunk on magic and tired as hell. Still, she fought through the stupor to hold one hand out to Shadar, beckoning.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
The fog was thick at this altitude, as if it were trying to conceal something; a holy power above them, or robed pretenders. Shadar knew which they were, and his mocking laugh was for them as well. "Believe in ghosts?" he asked loudly, so loud that the fog rippled around him, "I damn well am a ghost!" With that, he faded into translucence. The mausoleum peak behind him was visible through his body, wavy and distorted as if it were a dream.
Shadar hovered back from the large illusionary screen. From this side, he saw the same scene that the mother did. His own haunting eyes leered at him from the representation of his own ghostly body and the faux mausoleum behind. "I'm as dead as your son will be if you play their game," the ghost shouted, facing them both but addressing only one, and Shadar thought wryly, Dead. That's not too far from the truth.
There was still enough life to make him bleed, though, unlike his ghost. As he drifted back, concentration on the screen, he hiked up his leg and pressed both gloves to the entrance and exit wounds. Steel plates formed on his palms, the cold steel almost soothing. Then, he didn't feel the steel as he locked his nerves down tighter, nor did he feel the cauterizing flame that magically flared from the metal. The months had changed his blood from natural fluid to the misty substance it was today, and it no longer had the desire or ability to stop on its own.
"I'm bloody well talking from experience!" he made his illusion shout with fury to match the woman, fury that he couldn't have produced through his stern, medical concentration. He drifted as far as the decrepit spire overlooking the graveyard, and there he sat to rest and direct.
The ghost pointed to the empty path that had once hosted his door. "Outside, I have a creature... She's like a child to me." It was such a simplified and inaccurate statement that the true Shadar furrowed his brow, but it was the only way to make her understand. "She was created unnaturally and outside the will of Fate, just like this contraption will do to your child. Do you know what that means for her? She doesn't belong in this world."
Shadar winced. It was easier to make an illusion say it, but that didn't make the idea pleasant. He choked down his revulsion, though, and his anger at Jackal for so irresponsibly creating a life, to make the ghost say what had been chipping at his psyche since the beginning of his pseudo-parenthood. "Every day is a battle. I need to protect her from a world that is unconsciously turned against her. I need to do good deeds, as ridiculous or as bloody difficult as they may be," he said pointedly, "Just to earn some favor from the forces that want order in this world."
The ghost took on a manic expression, identical to what Shadar's face wore as he put all of himself into the illusion. "The Ai'Brone are a blasphemy against the world outside these walls, just as much as Brigitte's creator is against this reality. Nothing but cheaters! They can prolong your son's life, but it will not be what it should have been. The only way to do that is for mortal hands, free of pride, to do the work themselves; the hard way. The power to do so is in this very room!" the ghost finished. The final implication lay about the graveyard as heavily as the mist, baiting what lay beneath.
You're making a big deal out of a hunch, Jackal warned, drifting to the surface just enough to leer spitefully.
I know what I'm doing, Shadar thought angrily, and the demon retreated with a laugh.
He wished he could see her reaction. But, the illusion was a ground-to-fog mirror of his side of the graveyard, as she was supposed to see it, and he didn't dare peer through. The facade needed to hold. She needed to believe, even slightly, for him to turn the tide.
"That may be," Tshael said softly, as the spells web became complete in her mind. Something in her tone lacked the conviction that she held in her voice, but it was strong nonetheless. She paused for a moment, her tired gilded eyes looking back to the crystal coffin. Did the statues that stood at it's head wear a smile on their face? No, they watched the battle with grim determination, as if they would count every drop of blood spilled until it was enough to fill their cups. She had intended, when she turned to face her opponent to overflow them in his blood. Now, she realized, that they had never asked for the blood of Shadar Logath.
Her face ducked down for a moment as she caught her breath, blaming the difficulty on the thick fog that passed in waves between her and the spectre she spoke to. A tear, born from the coupling of her exhaustion and stress, began to fall, and when she watched it drop into the thick grey haze around her hooves, she steeled herself. Her lips pinched, a thin line of determination, she raised her chin and stared into the eyes of her opponent, never knowing it was all a figment of her imagination.
"Tsyliss belongs here, and it was no touch of Fate that took him from me. It was my hand that set the events to roll. If need be, it'll be my hand that brings him back, by filling the hands of the gods with the blood they ask. Yours, or mine."
She closed her eyes, raising her hands. They shook as they were brought ever skyward, the stone pedestal she stood upon vibrating gently with the tension. She could feel her two spells, the one that kept the pedestal from toppling over and this new one, wrapping around each other. When the spells were set, and the agony of her dais was at it's apex, she grinned at Shadar's image. It was cold and desperate, not a smile of happiness or warmth. Her teeth bared in almost a mock growl she took a deep breath and slammed down her hands, curling them into fists as she did so. In a flash, they smacked against the tops of her own thighs, though the sound of flesh hitting flesh through the thin layer of fur was drowned out in the sound of rumbling and exploding stone.
The platform barely had the time to crack, deep wounds spiderwebbing out from beneath her hooves before the two spell webs vivisected each other in their rush to do their purpose. In Tshael's mind, she saw delicate strands of spellwebbing cast out in all directions, in reality it was her footing that was suddenly cast out in a ball, chunks whizzing upwards past her ears, and outwards. She was struck as she fell, from stone falling back to earth from the blast upwards. The dust was billowing around her, obscuring the ground for the split second it took for her body to be flung from where she'd once stood to a large tombstone carved to look like a merciful angel. She hit the crumbling angel, her elbow striking the benevolent face while her hooves took out a chunk of wing. Her body hit the torso of the stone memorial like a rag doll, before falling at it's feet. Skin was scraped and split, her blood marking the angel like a dark anointment.
Her nose was bleeding, her lip busted, and for a long moment she could naught but lay at the feet of the angel, breathing in wheezing, small gasps. Finally her breath bubbled, wet and sickly before she managed to move her head to the side, spitting dark red into the grass. When she glanced upwards, golden eyes clearer than they'd ever been and filled with victorious pain, she tried to catch a glimpse of her opponent. Through the fog and the dust, she wondered if perhaps she'd managed to bring blood onto the battlefield that was not just her own, though she didn't care much if she hadn't.
She would bleed herself dry to save the life of Tsyliss Rakarth.
Shadar heard her voice from beyond the illusion, and he knuckled his forehead in exasperation. How can she be so bloody stubborn? he lamented. Jackal didn't answer, nor did Shadar want an answer from the godling.
"If you pay the gods to help you, then you have done nothing," his illusion said with venom, and was immediately interrupted by the crack and rumble of stone. Shadar pushed his vision through the illusion, stealing from it a sliver of the false reality, maybe enough for the mother to see through it also. But, the attack of magicked stone that he imagined didn't come, nor did she have the chance to see through the facade. She was falling amid exploding fragments in a glorious and utterly suicidal display.
"Idiot!" Shadar screamed as he banished his illusion and pushed off the stone roof under him. He didn't launch himself, though, as he had wanted. The numbness that filled his leg went as far up as his waist now, weakening his push into a slack-muscled slither over the edge. He fell, reaching for the border between bewilderment and action. The ground almost met him when he found his air control again, and he levitated forward with all the force he could squeeze from his mind. If I hadn't made myself seem invincible, she wouldn't have pulled that stunt! he cursed, mentally punching himself in the gut as he skimmed over the headstones.
He neared the dusty cloud that seemed to swim in the heavy air and locked himself there, mid-flight. She lay amid the haze, a broken and bloody mess with her fluids dripping from the stone angel that could not, nor would not, have caught her. "If this is what it means to be a parent...," he said in a struggling, horrified voice. It was a state both selfish and charitable, and childishly shortsighted. No more words came from him, or even a thought to complete the statement.
Instinctively, he lowered his prevalida-lined palms over her to perform the healing technique that felt so disused lately. But, as soon as he tried to push his essence into her, he knew it wouldn't work. He truly wasn't mortal anymore, so the energies that held him together through will and determination could do nothing to knit bone and muscle. He had more in common with these beings that called themselves gods than the mortal brethren he had left behind, and that gave him an idea. It grew purely out of need and desperation, so he didn't comprehend how impossible it seemed.
With his good leg, he pushed off the blood-soaked ground and threw himself past her barely living body. "If you will only pay," he left as a low echo behind him, "I will be the one to do the work." Shakily, he touched down before the crystal coffin, his boot laying a puddle of the mother's blood before it.
He pressed both of his hands to the clear surface and looked up at the empty eyes of the statues. The answer had to be there. There are two ingredients here, he told himself with something approaching scientific certainty, The dying child, and the life that is promised to him. The only barrier is the will of Ai'Brone's bloody gods. He looked down, closed his eyes, and delved into the monument's magic in a way that had never even occurred to him before today. The prevalida veins moved over the shifting surface of his gloves, spreading themselves iridescently upon the crystal like roots taking hold. He could feel the emptiness of the child's body, still draining, slow and unstoppable. There was something else, too, that one thing he knew would be there. It flickered near the edge of his mental vision like a glimpse of the sun. But there was so much space between dying shell and burning vitality, such a strong barrier built of nothing but sadistic joy at the suffering of beings deemed lesser.
"There are no gods!" he shouted from his detached body as he brought the hot scalpel of his mind down on the border.
She had lifted herself, sitting up as he descended through the fog and dust. As the clearing clouds started to dissipate between them, their vision distorted only by a few passing wisps of grey, she felt as if she'd begun to choke upon her heart. He wasn't coming for her, to finish the deed that her fall could not. Instead, his body was floating down to the coffin. She could see his features twisted by the splay of shadow and soft light that seemed to emanate so subtly from the crystal coffin. He looked, not like the grim memory of a mage that he had seemed at first. Now he was a monster, a creeping death that was coming for her child.
Before she could force her aching muscles to shove her to her feet, he was there. Confusion came flooding in. She could feel tension in the air, coming like a fog full of blades. Something big was on it's way and she would be cut into ribbons if she didn't find a way to stop it. Grasping feebly with her mind as she rose from her fallen state, her back hunched to the side from a pain that lanced with every movement, her knees shook with the realization that the threads of magic she so desperately reached for were slipping right out of her grasp. She couldn't hold onto any spells to set them in place, and her eyes narrowed as she resolved herself.
Her armor had been left where she'd removed it in Concordia, and she was regretting it. She hobbled closer, her hooves scraping rocks that lay hidden in the short grass edging mounds of earth over the graves. She was weak, and growing moreso by the moment. Rather than attack him, she stumbled over a chunk of the platform she'd once been standing on, sending her to her kness behind him. The grass was wet from her blood, from dew pressed onto the grey-green blades from the heavy fog.
"I won't let you harm him," she said, her voice shaking with frustration at her failure. She was running on her anger and her guilt, but even they weren't enough to keep her from pausing, shaking her head to clear the muted wailing that she chould hear behind her ears; the last dregs of her son's final cry.
Then it was this brigand that was yelling out. His furious cry, claiming that there were no gods, bit into her mind, and she felt all that sharp tension come sliding down. He was the guillotine alive, standing over her son, ruthless in his need to remove the last chance her little Tsyliss had. Her anger grew, fueled by the pain. Her eyes narrowed, tears springing into them. His form blurred and warmed in her mind, until she wasn't sure if it was his leg or the empty air next to it that she was aiming for. She didn't care. Her shaking hands groped inot the grass beside her, fingers curling around the cool, rough form of a chunk of stone, stone with her own blood still staining it from her impact. She released it, sending it flying towards him, though paid no mind to listen if it hit. Instead, she was searching for another rock, a bigger one, trying to rise to her feet as she did so.
If she had to fight as a Neanderthal she would, using chunks of stone to bludgeon and rip him apart with her bare hands. Magic had been futile, but that was nothing to the strength that was filling her heart. Shadar Logath had placed himself between a frightened mother and her child.
She sought to teach him that it wasn't a pleasant place to be.
The space between dying child and higher-plane life force was just that, empty space, Shadar realized as the momentum of his intrusion almost made his consciousness topple into it. Somewhere behind him, or so it felt in this inner realm, he sensed Jackal laughing as if at grade A slapstick.
Growling, he tore his eyes open. The low, haunting light of the graveyard seemed harsh compared to where his mind had been, and it was only through a squint that he could make out the statues looming at either side of him. They were alive before, he thought slowly, because he felt too groggy to think any faster. If the life isn't waiting in the coffin for some sort of trigger, then it must be-
Something struck the back of his leg right where the hole was burned shut, and the numb, but still scorching, pain became an inferno as his nerves jumped back into full, excruciating functionality. He screamed and went to his knees. His hands, anchored on their prevalida roots, supported him for only a moment before the metal retreated up his arms. With his body curling like a sun-baked leaf, his forehead struck the cool crystal, and he stayed there. The infant seemed to swim before his eyes like a crossbreed of cherub and fish; pleasant to watch, because there was certainly nothing else pleasant in his world at the moment.
"Stop it, you bitch!" he slurred loudly as he rolled to the side and looked at her with unfocused eyes. She seemed to be readying another stone. Oh hell. He shakily raised a hand to block it, and his mouth worked up something to stall the next strike. It certainly looked like a big rock, even accounting for the fact that he saw two of them. With the delayed pain taking such swift vengeance, it might as well have been a cannon she pointed at him.
He launched into an anecdote with relative clarity, and considerable desperation. "Your master has a stone in his hand, and your test is to get it from him. You could prove yourself by taking it before he closes his fist, right? That's what all those bloody martial artist types say, anyway. They never say that the master was willing to trade the stone for something; blood or whatever. What kind of master would let their student copout like that? One who wants something owed to them for being so lenient!" His guarding hand had shifted as if offering the imaginary stone, or maybe pleading. Seeing as a projectile hadn't hit him yet, or maybe it had missed, he continued. "Since you won't, I'm going to grab this prize for you. For you! You should be bloody thankful!"
Before the new fire in his voice could bring about another volley, he grabbed the edge of the coffin and heaved himself up it with a large dose of levitation. His nerves were becoming used to the pain, and therefore grew calm enough for him to slam them shut once more. The fires died down, but there weren't any other sensations to replace them, just a suffocating emptiness.
Despite the numbness, he made himself stand. His vision, now clear, fell upon the woman at the foot of the monument. She looked like such a poor creature, naked and leaking her own life all over the wilted earth for no reason other than her frantic, all-consuming love for her child. He shook the pity from his thoughts. His mind needed to be hard and sharp as obsidian for what he was about to do.
He raised his arms and opened his palms toward the stone faces of Ai-Brone, and the prevalida began to pool along his fingers. "He'll be fine," Shadar assured the mother with words that sounded as true as he wished they were. Suddenly and as expected as a headsman's axe, the blue liquid metal lunged at the faces in jagged tendrils like frigid lighting.
"Don't you see?" she managed to spit out through her heavy breaths. Her eyes fluttered once or twice and her head jerked upwards. Fatigue was crawling in, pulling against her. Instead of giving in, she bit down hard on her tongue, tasting the copper warning of blood and pain at the front of her mouth as her eyes watered and a surge of what little adrenaline she had left helped her to stand taller, to continue her answer. "You are the stone." She stepped forward, nearly stumbling, a self-depreciating chuckle flowing from between her lips.
Her hooves stuck harsh against one of the stones hidden between blades of bloody grass. The iron sparked, and she took another step. The hair along her forearms was raising now, as he turned his back to her. Grateful? She would be grateful when he fell, let her bleed him dry. If she squeezed death from his body like juice from some bittersweet fruit, she would feel better. Death was calling, their names on the breeze along with the tinkling of lanterns that hung from branches and rooftops. The empty song was all around her and as he spoke one more time, her scream of rage tearing from her throat as silvery blue metal spurted from his hands like the thin dregs of water thrown from a bucket.
As she stumbled forward, gasping for breath, events were unfolding too fast for her to anything other than watch. Tears sprang to her golden eyes, the lines and dark shadows beneath them seeming to blacken even more. When the prevalida hit, the stone gave way. It crumbled and fell in chunks and pebbles to the grass. A roll of thunder from beneath the ground echoed an enraged cry that seemed to come from all around them at once. In the grass, ivory flowers bloomed in the form of bones and skulls, stained with yellow age and burnished earthen clay smears. The skeletal figures that surrounded them now from graves were joined by fresher corpses, meat hanging off their frames in putrid chunks. They watched impassively, merely standing with eyeless sockets seemingly focused on the crystal coffin in a darkness that would never be broken. The statues continued to crumble, until there was nothing left of the images of the lesser gods that had offered their help.
For a moment, Tshael thought that she could take no more. A light cloud of disbelief and shock moved through her, numbing her toes, turning her stomach upside down, making her head feel as if it were unattached to her body. She reeled backwards, but was brought to earth when the bile bit into her throat, acid and bitter. She was forced to her knees, retching pitifully in the grass as she began to sob. He'd done it; Shadar had taken any chance of saving grace from her. He had doomed her child to death. As the loveless night seemed to only amplify the sounds of her crying, footsteps seemed to be so much louder.
From the mass of standing dead, two figures emerged. Kella and Khalon once again appeared before them, all kindness gone from the woman's face. Khalon himself wore a condescending scowl, though it looked far more at home on his serious features than the look of disappointment did upon his sister. She met Tshael's eyes for but a moment before looking away, her gaze intently on the babe that slept within the glass casket.
"Battlemaiden..." Khalon spoke, the bower of his voice something cold and angry. Even the armor that shimmered over his form was colder now, more untouchable than it had been before. The only spark was the anger in his eyes, the set of his jaw. Tshael bit down on her tongue to keep from sobbing; she saw the verdict in his gaze before he could speak his next words.
"You have failed us. You've brought so little blood, unable to even keep your opponents interest." He paused, his sadistic smile on Shadar. "It would seem that he had to turn his interest to sculpting instead."
It was now, that Kella stepped forward, her dark eyes swimming with regret as she removed the white silken band that was wrapped around her arm. As she draped the material over the coffin, watching as it was slowly soaked in, she avoided Tshael's gaze. The white bandanna instead fluttered down to Tsyliss, beginning to swaddle him tightly in the glassy grave. Tshael moved to lunge at it, but the firm grasp of the goddess on her arm kept her in place.
She would always remember the moment that Kella spoke. Her voice was as gentle as a summer breeze, almost timid, though there was the strength of the ages in the verdict. Magic was in the words, the magic to bind things away, to keep the secrets of the crypt.
"The babe belongs to us now. Go now, and forget what love your heart ever held."
"I'm the stone?" he asked, becoming more and more shocked as he realized the logic of it. It sounded exactly like what these sick gods would do, and it made him angry with her for the first time. Pity gave way to indignation. Of course, he was just a pawn to them. Every mortal that entered their house was. How could she expect him to submit to something so insulting? She had played her role like any old puppet, and all it gifted her with was a body so broken she wouldn't be able to resist when the gods demanded she kiss their feet. They owned her, but he would break that tie-
No...
The statues broke under the prevalida intrusion, though it was impossible. There had been no force, only a probing grasp of metal. How? he stammered as the metal lost its shape and retreated into his gloves, bringing with it nothing but dust and mockery. They did it! he realized. The gods of Ai-Brone had broken their own avatars to deny him the prize.
"They did-" he began to say as he looked back toward the woman, though his voice was more frantic explanation than anger, and he couldn't even finish. Behind her, the graveyard awoke. Bodies more broken than hers stood in their pits and stared at him with empty sockets. They were angry, and he could feel it; angry that he had dishonored the gods they loved so much they had given their bodies and souls. Whether they were real or just Citadel manifestations didn't matter. This was the will that made Ai-Brone unbreakable, these were the countless people that believe in the grand facade and refused to see the hungry, selfish beast underneath.
The gods from earlier finally manifested again, stern judges too prideful to know leniency, and the burning will of the masses focused into them. They radiated such dominance that Shadar felt shaken. His nerves opened again, and he fell backwards off the coffin, struck too mute to voice his pain or outrage.
They ignored him, except for the male's glance and sickening smile over the crystal crypt. He seemed to find this a more pleasant outcome than he had expected. The woman, visibly, showed some sadness, but it didn't stay her hand or her voice, nor did it alter their unanimous and cruel judgement.
Let's go over what you got wrong, smarty-pants. First, this is their turf. Second, you're so bloody insignificant! the demon laughed in his head, Third-
Shut up! Shadar snapped, and he shut out the voice with such force that Jackal's last message was a surprised gasp.
He needed to strike those smug faces, as self-destructive as it might be, but he couldn't move. His body had long ago forgone the trappings of the physical world to instead subsist on thought and sympathetic mental energies. There was none of that here. The very air was poisoned with centuries of misguided belief and willing, oblivious sacrifices. All he could do was watch and shudder as his aching eyes burned evermore at the shrouding of the child.
I'm sorry, he thought, because he could not speak and because he would not give these gods the satisfaction of an apology. He hadn't been able to break their much-practiced performance, and so the mother would suffer as the puppet that should have done their bidding. He couldn't make himself look at her face, though it hovered so close behind the last remnant of her child. I'm sorry, he thought again. Promises flitted about his head, I will try again, I will bring him back, and he knew they were absolutely empty.
He shrank away, crawling and hovering and shriveling under the mental pressure of the graveyard. Tombstones and lampposts loomed around as handholds that took him through the low fog at the outskirts. And, eventually, he found the door.
He spilled into the hall and quivered at the sudden clearness of the air and the firm, concerned touch of Brigitte's wings about him. Whatever words she had planned were lost in a low, sympathetic groan as she buried her face in his hair.
Then, in a slow and staggered voice, he found two promises that he knew he would keep, had to keep. "I will always protect you, no matter what gods or emissaries of Fate get in the way." Brigitte nodded, for she already knew that, and did her best to ferry him down the hall.
"And," he cringed at the sensation of a tear, such a foreign thing these days, "I will make them pay for taking that child." He made himself remember that small form being bound in the shroud like a spider's meal. He burned it into his memory. The mother, though, he couldn't bring himself to remember, not until he had done something to right the wrong that was partially his fault. "Someday, I will pull this Citadel down."
EDIT: Almost forgot this.
Spoil
Dust of Broken Avatars: A large amount of the dust from the statues was absorbed into his gloves, and the static nature of the Void prevents it from disappearing like other Citadel matter. Won't be useful until a later level.
He had left, leaving her surrounded by death on all sides. The skeletal army raised by the gods had been unshaken by Shadar's flight. Their stares were so intense upon Tshael's skin that she could feel them boring through her and lock on the floating image of Tsyliss. Behind the crystal, she could see her son's cheeks glowing into paleness, a blue flush across his lips growing darker. He never struggled. In fact, as she watched his tiny chest heave for the last time, and her tears poured down her cheeks, she could not help but be relieved at the perfect expression of peace on his face.
Kella's grip on her arm loosened, and she was free to drag herself, on scraped and bleeding knees, to his side. She laid her forehead against the edge, shuddering at first at the sheer coldness of the glass against her fevered forehead. She saw an eidolic reflection of her own amber eyes, ringed in the darkness of both sorrow and exhaustion. Her hand was placed so gently against the side of her son's sepulcher, as she stared past her own mirrored gaze to look upon him inside. He slept forever now, and she wasn't sure how she was going to make it without him. As her eyes closed and her body finally gave into the exhaustion beating against her heart and mind, her fluttering lids closed and the image of Tsyliss floating before her was burned into her mind. So many memories of that same sleeping face came flooding in as her consciousness cleared the way for so many other visions than the present.
She cradled him in her arms, watching his head jerk slightly as he tried desperately to fight off sleep. Continuing to rock at the barstool, keeping one eye on her child and one eye on the old man peacefully sucking down ale halfway down the bar, Tshael never stopped in the recanting of the old legends that she employed to lull her son to sleep. The old one seemed to be calmed by listening to the well-known Coronian tales as well, his lips moving along with some of the passages that had been told countless times to youths for generations past.
"And so, the prince went back to the place of spiders in the forest, and he demanded of their queen, 'You have brought this scourge upon the land. You will give me the door to take my vengeance to the beast.'
And the Spider Queen said, 'The door will not lead back again. Should you fail, you fail all.'
And so the prince went to the very Terrors of the Old Blood, and there he stood against the Golden Goddess, unafraid to save his princess."
When Tshael's eyes fluttered open, the graveyard was quiet. The dead had returned to their graves, the smell of damp soil strong in the air, mounds of fresh-turned earth piled up around them. The translucent coffin was no longer before her. Instead, her hand lay bruised, caked with dried mud and blood, on trampled grass where the great crystal sarcophagus had lain. The stone that had once been the petrified forms of the gods was still in rubble, scattered closely together. A large chunk of rock chiseled with an eye that accusingly stared at her caught her attention. Everything was silent; even the wind refused to blow through meager branches. Candle light flickered somewhere in her peripheral vision, though the only thing she could focus on was right in front of her. On the grass, just inches from her hand, a single flower bloomed. A white lily, the flower of death, was unfurling its pristine petals. It seemed so vibrant, bone white against the darkness of the graveyard behind it. The marble headstones and curls of night fog were painted with charcoal compared to the pretty blossom. Her face a mask of pain barely contained, Tshael rolled onto her side, staring up into the night sky. Constellations peeked down through the clouds, obscured after only moments by the watering of her vision.
Her hand reached out, grasping at the stem of the lily, pulling it from the ground. As she cradled the flower, as she had often cradled her son, she began to speak. Her voice carried in the silence, filling the necropolis with life. She stayed until an old friend came for her, his robes wrapped tightly around him against the chill that she couldn't feel, his face full of regret. He helped her to her feet and supported her hobbling form even as she went so frailly, reciting old stories about princes and the lengths they went to, saving every soul but their own. The monk couldn't help but pause at the doorway, listening to Tshael's telling of the ancient tale before he took her from that dark, cold place.
"And so she went to the very Terrors of the Old Blood, and there she stood against the Golden Goddess, unafraid to save her son."
He held her up a little more tightly, knowing that while it was not the way he had heard the tale as a child, it was a telling more true.
Ataraxis
01-18-08, 10:59 PM
Quest Judging
The Sacrifice
I will make both of you fail unless I am allowed a lick of my choice. Jas, I choose Jenn, and Manda, I choose Zook. Well actually I already did this a million times before, so you’re both safe.
Oops + Tee-hee!
But in all seriousness, I have to say, I was amazed by this battle. Yes Manda, I did enjoy it, and you get few to no points docked for all the angst, since that’s all I did before Althanas. BULLET GOES IN, BLACK HEARTS GO OUT. <3
I haven’t given out scores yet, but I have very high expectations! Now, to the numbers! Blue for Manda, Yellow for Jas!
I hope it blinds you. You too, person who's reading the judgment when it's NONE OF HIS/HER BUSINESS! <3
STORY
Continuity ~
8/10 M: You explained a lot in detail, such as Tshael’s past with men, the identity of Tsyliss’ father, but I think the passage about a Concordian goddess and the spell that left her son in his state very, very vague. Even at the end of the story, that part remained blurry to me. I just knew enough not to quirk an eyebrow. That being said, you’ve given me a clear sense of where she was, of what she was doing, and of how, and the sheer brilliance of how that was done more than offsets that one point.
7.5/10 J: I caught a few glimpses of your characters through the battle, masterfully inserted into dialogue and descriptions that weren’t obvious background exposition; very good, subtle work there. The only problem is, you’ve been perhaps a bit too surreptitious on that point, and a lot of information that I could’ve used was held back. For one, I don’t know why they were at the Citadel to start with, for reasons other than the typical ‘I come to fight’. If it’s only that, then I find it a unsatisfactory reason that makes their presence all too convenient. I also didn’t know much about how the three came to be together, and what goals they had in doing what they did (save perhaps for Shadar).
Setting ~
8.5/10 M: This was beautifully done. I always say how people tend to plug the setting into a story, but you integrated it almost seamlessly into the story itself. You set a powerful and poignant mood, using inspiring descriptions of the graveyard (ossuaries, lanterns, the grim descriptions for the grass, etc) and you interacted well with it using Tshael’s affinity with earth. Only sometimes did it blur to me due to a certain excessiveness in wording.
7.5 J: You both have great styles, but they remain different styles, and I think Manda’s in particular favored the effectiveness of the setting, though not by that much! I especially loved the passage where Shadar’s misty blood mixed with the fog when he was wounded, and other such similar passages. You interacted with the setting equally well, though the descriptions were sometimes ambiguous.
Pacing ~
8.5 M+J: I think you both tied here. The pacing was excellent and each post flowed into the other: this category is more the result of very good teamwork than it was of your individual skills. The only small critique I have is that sometimes, you both dwelled a bit, which slowed the pacing down and made me want to jump a small paragraph in impatience.
CHARACTER
Dialogue ~
8/10 M: Tshael’s dialogue was very in touch with her character, showing just how protective she is of Tsyliss as well as what lengths she would go due to her motherly devotion. Her last line was particularly striking, and adequately sums up everything I’ve just said. Only thing is, I wasn’t sure why she asked if Shadar believed in ghosts, and sometimes it was a bit too intense, like ‘Pain is all I have!’. I know it was meant in earnest, but I couldn’t shake that image of that kid in a black hoodie crying as he held a Braun razor to his wrist. Yes, Braun. I know. Sad.
8/10 J: Each of the characters you’ve used had a distinct personality that shone through their words. You could see Shadar’s time-raught apathy conflicting with the memories of a time when he used to be like Tshael, a very touching duality. His quick wits and allegories were also rather enlightening, giving him this slightly-wobbly wisdom that still manages to keep its balance above tackiness and sophism. Jackal was… wow, he was a damn cruel bastard. I loved it. Brigitte wasn’t there so much, so I won’t exactly count her in this, but she did come across as a bit hollow, speech-wise. Still, the sheer range provided by the sum of all your characters lifted you up to an 8 as well.
Action ~
8.5 M: Everything Tshael did simply fit. Just the premise of going to the Citadel to ‘revive’ her son was superb, something people have never, to my memory, used the place for before. How she did everything possible to draw blood was almost frightening, and the part where the totality of her nigh-mad resolve shone the most was definitely when she used that pillar of earth to injure herself (though with the hope that it would make Shadar bleed too), all for the sake of her son.
8 J: Nothing made me scream in outrage at a severe lack of sense. In fact, it was all pretty well done. I liked how Shadar was too focused to notice the vines until it was too late, and though a bit unclear at times, his use of illusions was very creative and smart, strategically-speaking. Wanting to look immortal was the best thing he could do to convince her that bloodshed was futile in all ways, without actually injuring her. His flight was a bit precipitated though, and even if there was nothing he could do, he came to that conclusion a bit too fast, especially considering the circumstances. He did just ruin a mother’s only chance at being reunited with her son. Still, how he interacted with Brigitte afterward was a good detail.
Persona ~
7.5/10 M: Tshael was very straightforward and didn’t doubt one bit that the lesser gods could restore Tsyliss’ life, even when Shadar was trying to convince her otherwise. Though she was right, answering to Shadar’s explanations with the slightest bit of doubt and then resenting him for shaking trying to confuse her and shake her resolve would’ve made it easier for the reader to associate with her. I also wondered about that passage where she said she used Tsyliss as a shield, because that seems a very strange thing for her to do. This does deal with continuity, but I thought I’d mention the repercussions here as well.
8.5/10 J: I could frankly get a bit of a better feel from Shadar than I did from Manda. Perhaps because he was so conflicted, in a realistic manner that is. He didn’t want to participate in ‘charity’ at first, then he was pushed by Jackal’s pressing, then he decided to use his own experience and talk some sense into Tshael from doing what he thought was a waste, going out of his way to accomplish what he thought would save her son. The horrible guilt when he realized his mistake made me feel awful. One of the only qualms I had was how quickly he slinked away from the arena, to leave Tshael dejected and miserable without a word to her, only to himself.
WRITING STYLE
Technique ~
8/10 M: Very good metaphors and similes, lovely poetic style. It didn’t really drag on, and even if it did, it was just barely noticeable. The use of an excerpt from a children’s book, warped to the situation at hand, was also a beautiful touch. The details about the swaying lanterns and the angel statue tainted with her blood like a dark anointment are just things I can pick from the top of my head.
7.5/10 J: It bordered more on colloquial than poetic, but not badly so. As I said, it’s just a different style. You had a lot of good rhetorical devices. Good use of analogies, and I particularly liked the part where you mention a cross of cherub and fish, referencing aquariums and plump little winged children.
Mechanics ~
9/10 M+J: You both had very few mistakes, which can be summed up to it’s/its mistakes and incomplete words (mad instead of made and press instead of pressed).
Clarity ~
8/10 M: Everything was almost crystal-clear, both writing and plot-wise. The involvment of Nashiara and how exactly Tsyliss lost his soul to her were what lost you points here, as well as a few moments where a certain verbosity got in the way.
7.5/10 J: I wasn’t always clear on Shadar’s logic, related to the mechanics of returning lives and how the lesser gods dealt with it. I know he’s more or less of a spirit similar to those gods, but the link between them was strenuously explained. The rest was taken out because of his use of illusions. They were very creative, but it took me a few reads to know exactly what had been done, where he was and where his image was as well. The rest, though, was in tip-top shape.
MISCELLANEOUS
Wild Card ~
8/10 M+J: Double Wild Card High. It’s rare that any sort of writing leaves me emotional. I should give you both zero for breaking my apathetic streak, damnit.
‘That’s just uncool, man’ Card -
-8/10 M+J: That was really just uncool, man.
TOTAL ~
74 and 72! HAH! Losers.
Aw hell.
82 for Tshael!
80 for Shadar!
Tshael wins the battle!
EXP Rewards
Tshael Nito gains: 2600 XP!
Shadar gains: 600 XP!
GP Rewards
Tshael Nito gains: 650 GP!
Shadar gains: 163 GP!
Other Rewards
Shadar gains: Dust of Broken Avatars
FINAL NOTES
Remember, I’ll get your mates. I’ll get ‘em good.
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