Sequestered ((Solo))

[DarkDelights]

The Witch raised her ebon torch, extinguished once more, to the ghost-lit archway that boasted a glittering teal often associated with the gemstones that monarchs or people of great import wear. She struck the light and disappeared down another of her sanctuary's five tunnels, bathed in a rich bluish-green.

Unlike the previous tunnel, non-descript and choked with barbed wire, the passage beyond the teal archway was painted in beautiful murals and patterned mosaics of intricately laid, colourful clay tiles. A repetitive figure dominated almost all the scenes, armoured for war, and standing atop a hill of corpses, or lurking in the dark while drunken revellers passed by, mere feet away from their ultimate demise. In a particular mural, the figure was clad in golden plate, with dead-yellow eyes, and it was he who turned his back to a hunter in the dark. The certain expression on the warrior's stoic, if evil, face seemed to say “I know you're there. I knew you would be there.”

Bhaal, the Lord of Murder.

She reached the end of the tunnel, not really paying much attention to the timeless works of art on the walls and pitched ceilings. The Woman knew them even with her eyes closed. She had created them, pieced together from stories and whispers, and dreams. She stepped into a veritable temple, brazers lit with blue-green flame, and a simple sandstone altar on which sat a sun-bleached skull, and a trio of new, unlit candles.

On the domed chapel ceiling, walls, and even the floor, the entirety of the Dead God's tale was recorded. She knew it by heart now. The temple floor was a mosaic of a man, almost human, and was the only image of Bhaal not depicting him in his customary doom-plate. In the mosaic he was a giant, proportions made clear by abstract scenery and objects vaguely resembling city structures. He was nude, boasted muscles not found on traditional male anatomy, and his mammoth hands clutched the hilt of a black two-handed sword.

She knelt on the hilt of the black sword, and clasped her hands at the center of her chest.

I would have found you in my own time, without the creeping influence that pervaded me since I was a babe. Over time and space, I would have heard your call and sought you out, even without the sound of your sweet voice. I was destined to bring offerings to your black temple, through both belief and temperament, though I may not have had a name on my lips to offer up a prayer. Bhaal, Lord of Murder. Black-Blade of Disaster. Claimer of Kings. Dead-God-Dreaming.

It brings me comfort to know that he too felt the impassive embrace of victimhood. Bhaal, pawn of fate's cruel ironies, was himself too, murdered. I don't think he bear's a grudge, even now. I truly believe he looks at the greater forces of the universe and utters: “Well played!” in that bass, rumbling voice I know too well. Mentor. Father. Lover. My modus operandi.

Retrieving the ebon torch, she stood, and radiated the only heat to ever grace the temple of murder, and drew near the altar of the skull with the aire of a cleric. She tapped the three candles in succession and they sprang to light, the skull glowing aquamarine in acquiescence. She dared to speak, though even as she did, it was soft, barely higher than a whisper so not to wake Him.

“Three candles I have lit for you, one for every time I've paid tithe. You demand more, and I hear you. I wish you could understand that even without the heavy hand bearing over me, I would align. Even without the demanding shout I would obey of my own accord. Even without your wrath, I would fear. The bladed-crown of Yvain is my heart, but you, Black-Sword, are my life.”

***