ค ɭเﻮђՇ ๒๏гภ ๏Ŧ ๔คгкภєรร: ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ [[ Jumbled & Fates.Gamble ]]

Jumbled · Jun 20, 2021

Jumbled · Jun 20, 2021

The stink of death and decay was a difficult stench to erase. Even if one left the focal point, the very epicenter of the travesty that rotted against the ground, the smell stuck in the nostrils and buried itself into even the thinnest strands of hair. It wove itself into each fold of fabric as it attempted to protect the flesh from the same fate as— whatever the pile of meat was that looked as though it’d been run across with a wagon wheel more than once. The carrion birds gathered in clusters along the rubble surrounding the mush while others perched themselves along crumbling walls that tilted pitifully toward the ground, waiting for the weight of just one more vulture to bring it toppling down. Rocks shifted and fell, with loud clacks and thumps along the already destroyed path, as pieces of wall deteriorated, aided by age, devastation and the pull of the earth below it. Or maybe it was from the fog that hung with a dampened weight of its own as it tried to coax the ruins down further.

When the birds were out, shrieking their cries into the void of a colorless sky, it meant the demons were elsewhere— or at least, that was the current trend among the destruction of a once beautiful kingdom. It wasn’t easy to imagine it as anything other than a muddy, rocky pit of remains. Minutes had ticked into days, and days slowly added up into years. The tragic setting that left the broken earth painted in deep reds and browns was difficult to imagine it as it once was. How could a once glittering cityscape turn into a cesspool of demise and suffering. It was certainly a big question for a lot of people. But not for Marlowe of the Wood— or shortened, Marley Wood. The witch, one of five specifically involved in the current predicament of the dying lands of Nordia, knew exactly what had transpired there, and she wasn’t one for talking about it. Actions were what mattered then; not words, not history. Talking about what happened that dreadful day, and all the days to follow after that, would not strike it from their colorful history. Moving forward was the only option, learning about the demons, and trying to understand how to destroy them was the most logical objective to take.

Marley didn’t know a lot about the other witches; she’d split off on her own after the dark events had occurred. Two of the women had died on site. She remembered their names: Hazel and Sybil. Their essences were stripped from their bodies as the monster clawed its way into their world. It slashed and hacked at the women, practically shredding them to pieces in the Astral Realm. Their physical bodies remained intact, though they crumpled like empty husks against the earth. Their spirits were destroyed. Astral Projecting during a summon seemed a little risky, but the King had assured them they were conjuring a Goddess of Goodwill and Fertility forth, not some wicked creature from the depths of the Under Realm. His stacks of parchments with detailed instructions were not from his own mind, but from his meetings with the mystical being, so he claimed. Marley often wondered if the King really believed he was doing a good deed.

Marlowe stayed in a cave on the outskirts of the place she’d overheard strangers call The Dead Lands. The name was straight forward, she supposed. It was fitting for what it had become. Even so, the enchantress wasn’t afraid to venture inside of the city the way most men were. She walked around the vile remains of the dead thing in the road, the birds refusing to budge. They were hardly scared of a human when there were far worse things out there that went bump in the night; nightfall was an entirely different world in the abyss. But even still, the birds sensed when a woman was a witch, and as the creatures were often kept as familiars or pets to women such as her— not that she had any to speak of— they stayed put, feasting on their rotten dinner.

Lately, there were clusters of cultists that had made themselves comfortable in the inner circles of the old, abandoned city. Most of the buildings still had their overall structures, even though parts of the walls were stained in blood and ash, riddled with gaping holes that welcomed in the chilling air and more fowl. It was likely the cultists resided in the more functional parts of the wreckage. They practiced and worshiped dark magics and Marley couldn’t help but wonder if they were involved with the witch, Erys, a necromancer that took part in the ritual that didn’t seem as disturbed about their demon summoning as the others had when it all happened. Marlowe did her best to avoid such people. She’d had a run in with the occultists a time or two, but her magic was stronger than theirs. They were not witches; they were sad excuses of men trying to wield energies they didn’t understand, probably Erys’ doing. She called men like that “mags,” which she jokingly decided was short for “maggots.” They had a general concept of how to use some magic, but it was a crude practice at best, in her opinion. They were pawns in something far bigger, Marlowe feared.

Her body moved steadily along her chosen path, one booted foot after the other, the dark charcoal fabrics of her cloak layered against her flesh to fend off the cold and dampness of the mist. The pelts and fabrics she wore were stolen from defeated cult members, shrouding the witch’s hourglass shape and ample bosom in a bulky way that made her appear much larger than she was. The hood of her cloak masked her features in shadows, from the green irises flecked with shining golden spots in her eyes to the deep, birch brown strands of hair that, if let loose, would flow down in a long cascade of wavy locks along her mid-back. It was more convenient to pin it back, though, so it sat in a gentle spiral of twists and twirls at the back of her head with some crow feathers pinned into place, hidden under cover. She didn’t need to be seen. Stealth wasn’t Marlowe’s best skill by any means, but she’d had a good deal of practice from her comings and goings in the ruins of the city during the past three years.

A flash of aquamarine mist zipped by, something she’d only noticed out of the corner of her enchanting eyes. Things that moved through the other realms were often displayed to her in a similar fashion. That particular color was only a spirit. She avoided those; they tended to be pitiful things with sad, warped faces and pleading cries for help she couldn’t give them. Her leather boots, worn in and fitted perfectly to her feet with darker straps that held animal furs that carried up to her ankles, didn’t give her away as she slipped past. Even so, she was careful not to step in freshly made pools of blood. The witch wasn’t fond of leaving trail marks of where she was traveling. Doing so had caused trouble for her in the past. It was hard enough to stay hidden when the birds hushed their cawing from missteps on bones that cracked and crunched, or a dip in a thick, still-warm puddle of crimson, followed by the unsuspecting yelp she’d undoubtedly make from her surprise. A woman was still a woman, after all.

As though it had apparated from her thoughts of inky blood, a swirl of dark red spun off to the side, trailing deeper into the mouth of the city. She tilted her head. That was not a helpless spirit. That was something darker. Marley followed it— she had to. It was getting later in the day, but it was still too early for such activity. The witch looked to the sky, noting the placement of the sun behind the crimson clouds and smoke that made it look hot when it wasn’t. She estimated the handful of daylight hours that remained. Her concern brought her to a town square with a dilapidated fountain adorned with crumbling, broken statues and only an inch or less of water that had so much debris in it, drinking it was out of the question. Standing in front of the fountain, she found a young man, his shoulders supporting the weight of a demon specter that masked itself in another realm entirely. Her eyes had the gift of seeing both realms at once. The creature perched itself precariously atop him as it shoved its jagged claws down into the boy’s throat. Guttural grunts of gagging made the boy sound monstrous as bubbles formed around his lips. His eyes had rolled back, replaced by a void of glowing blue color instead. She could see the struggle between the spirits. He was a fighter. Where did this demon ghost come from? Was the cult to blame? Was the boy a sacrifice? Or had the specter weaseled its way out through the first summoning site? That place was like a gateway she hadn’t been able to close completely, though she’d taken a stab at it before; several times, in fact, even though going there was terrifying and dangerous.

Marlowe crouched down, hiding her bulky figure behind a fallen pillar. She didn’t want to interrupt until she knew what the demon was doing. She also didn’t want to jump out just to land in a cultist trap. Thunder rumbled in the distance— well, it sounded like thunder. It could have been a slumbering monster and she wouldn’t have batted an eye anymore. The noise had awoken the beastly hounds that typically kept closer to the keep, the tower that billowed out dark and foreboding smoke. Marley suspected the Mad King was in there somewhere, though she hadn’t been bold enough to specifically look. She generally avoided even glancing in that direction if she could help it. The whole thing sent icy chills down her back.

As she’d watched on as the demon got a little too friendly with the boy clad in official garb of some sort, she was startled by a hushed voice of a man that must have suspected himself to be alone. Her attention quickly darted to and fro, searching for where it had come from. “Damn.” she muttered angrily to herself as she pressed her dirty fingers against the pillar. The cultists were probably nearby, as she earlier suspected. Still, she saw no signs of them out in the open and she was sure the man sounded more confused or concerned, like a passing traveler. Marlowe shook her head and lowered herself into better cover a few paces back where a broken wagon gave her enough space to hide underneath its damaged wood. This had “trap” written all over it, and although she could beat them, food was scarce and conserving her energy when she could was important.

The demon screeched loudly with the lungs of a banshee. The witch winced as she dug her foot into the hard earth, pressing one of her ears into her shoulder as her hand attempted to protect the other. Her cheek pressed into the dirt and nearly dried mud. The pressure from the high pitch forced her eyes shut. The noise broke through the barrier of realms in such a way that even a mortal could hear it. Those mags would undoubtedly be on the way if they weren’t lying in wait.

Fates.Gamble · Jun 28, 2021

One always heard of Nordia. The tale of a kingdom once blessed with wealth and beauty, only to lose it all in a single night, had passed from ear to ear the world over. But to lay your eyes upon it; to actually see the place in its twisted, malformed state... Well that was a sobering thing indeed, or so Lucian thought, his bright, amber eyes drinking in the horizon. In the distance sat the heart of Nordia, or what was now known as the Dead Lands. The city loomed like a giant, black, creature, its towers and spires reaching like gnarled fingers begging to be free of their earthly tethers. Despite the moniker, something about the place felt alive, like the wind was its breath, rippling across the valley in a sigh of anticipation, even hunger for the one who gazed upon it. There was a foulness in that breath; an overwhelming stench of death and decay.

“My great beast to be slain,” Lucian mused aloud, none to hear him save his horse, Sol. He reined the palomino stallion to a halt, coming to stand upon the edge of the cliff that overlooked the Dead Lands. Beneath his feet lie the final bastion of life; the last blades of lush, emerald grass before the valley found itself sickened with a dying, yellow border. Beyond that were dingy fields of brown, stretching for hundreds of yards before eventually settling into a wither gray and black husk outside of the city proper.

Lucian could scarcely believe how much of the land had been consumed since his first visit to this unhallowed place; a fateful research expedition which had changed everything. It was then that he first came to realize the sickness was spreading, growing into a calamitous plague which threatened to consume them all if it wasn’t dealt with. That was nigh on three years ago now, back when his words of warning were ignored, fallen on deaf ears for no other reason than who he was. Or, more accurately, because of what he had become.

But the fool who called himself ruler of Edessa, Nordia’s neighboring kingdom to the East, could no longer shut his eyes and pretend it wasn’t real. Not when the stench of the place was practically on his doorstep. And that was to say nothing of the malignant creatures they kept finding their way into his farmlands. Now they’d gone from laughing off his theories to forcing him to ride out and hunt what they believed to be the source of the calamity. How quickly the tunes of men changed when it came to their own self preservation.

From fearing my abilities, to demanding that I kill with them… Lucian thought, gritting his teeth with frustration. But it was no time to pester himself with the details, something had to be done and until he could find a better solution, this was the only way. And so the man steeled himself with a deep breath, face scrunching up at the stink that burned his nose, before urging his mount onward. Down the rocky slope they went, traveling the road that would eventually lead them into the heart of death itself.

It was a desolate journey, not a sound to be heard outside of Sol’s clacking hoofbeats and swishing tail, the dense, foggy air carrying them with an unnatural volume. That was, until they drew nearer to the main gates, where came the shriek of carrion birds, a thunderous clamor which seemed to drown out all other thought. Here the road was flanked by leafless trees, their spindly branches tunneling overhead as they reached for each other in the dusky light. Lucian eyed them warily, as if he feared they might come to life and snatch him out of the saddle as he passed. Something had to be responsible for the rotting corpses and picked clean skeletons that adorned this place, after all. If the rider was any kind of unsettled, that was nothing compared to his steed. The golden coated stallion tossed his head about, nervous snorts and pitiful nickers growing more frequent as they came into the shadow of the city, its lopsided portcullis lifted to permit them entry.

“Easy… Easy, boy,” Lucian reassured the horse, soothing him with a soft brush of his hand down the beast’s strong neck. Sol calmed almost instantly, fidgety hooves coming to a stop long enough for his rider to drop out of the saddle. The stallion had served him well, but he’d be better off on foot now that he was entering the city.

“This is where you and I part ways, friend,” He explained, looking the beast straight in the eye as he held him by the bridle. “Wouldn’t want some nasty creature to hear you clopping about and decide to make you his dinner. Head somewhere safe for now… I’ll find you again when the time is right, hmm?”

Sol gave a soft whinny as Lucian turned him about and set him on his way with a tap of encouragement. It might have seemed like madness, a rider sending his horse off and ever expecting to ever see him again. But Lucian wasn’t like most. He had a way with animals, like he could make his intentions known with little more than the brush of his hand or the sound of those voice; one of the many inexplicable talents he’d gained since he’d last stepped foot in this place. He watched the horse meander off for a time before pulling his dark gray coat tighter around his body, and wheeling about to enter the dilapidated cityscape.

The lurking haze fled from Lucian’s leather boots, swirling about his ankles while he traveled the cobblestone streets. He kept his head on a swivel not only to keep watch for potential threats, but also in an effort to navigate himself. He thought he’d find the place a bit more recognizable, but after three years of degradation the layout was rendered entirely unrecognizable. Sections of wall and entire towers of stone had all come tumbling down, crashing through the buildings to create a treacherous path. Who could say what sort of terrors might be stalking in the ruined hidey-holes left in the wake of the wreckage? Though, if he were to be honest, Lucian feared one of those crumbling structures coming down on his head more than he did the idea of any monster.

Both of those concerns fled his thoughts on the arrival of the first spirit. Unlike the other soul secretly navigating these streets, he could not see the thing but he could feel it. The spirit hovered like an invisible ball of focused energy, prickling his skin and buzzing about his mind with a sorry flood of emotions. The odd sensation stopped him in his tracks at first, a hand sweeping aside his cloak to grasp at the hilt of the sword that rested beneath. His fingers relaxed, however, falling away once he realized that it meant him no harm. Instead, it flittered about the man, emitting a sense of curiosity that cut through the sorrowful yearning that comprised it.

Lucian was equally curious, his vibrant eyes watching the empty space where the being lingered. But he could not afford to get distracted by every peculiarity this place had to offer. Until he discovered the source of all this misery he had to keep moving. If he found the point of origin, the accursed place where the witches had first cast the magic consuming this land, maybe he could find a way to stop it, even reverse it. It would be a daunting task, one he wasn’t sure he’d be capable of, if it were even possible. But ‘What if’s’ would not be enough to deter him, and so he turned heel on the spirit and continued on his way, using the imposing keep and its billowing smoke as a guiding landmark.

To his surprise, the spirit began to follow, trailing behind like a stray dog hoping for food. At first it was no concern to Lucian as he trekked along, stepping over fallen rock and splintered bone, but soon came another spirit, followed by a third. One by one the entities flocked to Lucian, seemingly drawn to something about him like moths to a flame. Before long they were swarming, the air heavy beneath their concentrated numbers, and his mind beleagued with their depressive emotions. Worse yet, they began to speak to him. It felt as though a million voices were all whispering at once, a cacophany of anguished cries begging for his attention. The ocean of words broke upon him like a tidal wave, making him sick with agnosia to severe it caused him to stumble; lucky thing there was a nearby wall to catch himself.

“Please, one at a time!” He shouted, clinging to the wall in an effort to save his balance. “I--I can’t understand you all like this!” How could he when they all spoke at once like that? Yet his attempt to reason with the spirits did little to appease them. Their voices only became louder, more desperate. Lucian clapped his hands over his ears in an effort to muffle the blaring sound, but it was futile. Whatever this was had nothing to do with his mortal senses. It was something else… Another side effect of the ‘boon’ this place had cursed him with, undoubtedly.

For a time, Lucian thought he might break beneath the immense pressure of it all. But then came another voice. This one wasn’t desperate or pitiful, but hellish and full of rage. The demon’s scream rang throughout the city, abruptly silencing the multitude of voices in his head as the spirits scattered like dust in the wind. While even the carrion birds deigned to flee, Lucian found himself turning towards that bloodcurdling shriek. He’d never heard anything like it before, and it sent a cold tingle of doubt clawing up his spine. But he couldn’t allow a silly thing like fear to deter him now. To stand before the source of this evil was to endure whatever horrors came slithering out of it.

Sounds like it came from the square, he said to himself, contemplating his location. Not very far off if I’ve got my bearings right… It was hard to be sure, what with the way those spirits disoriented him.

As Lucian pushed off from the wall, he lifted his gaze to the sky, silently wondering if it wouldn’t be smarter to follow the example of the vultures flying overhead. But his feet carried him onward, bringing him ever deeper into the ruined city. As he suspected, the narrow streets began to widen out, leading him towards the plaza from whence came that horrifying cry. Unlike the unseen witch hiding out across the square, Lucian was not nearly so cautious in his approach. He walked brazenly into the plaza, eyes bouncing between the damaged statues that greeted him. Once his attention fell upon the fountain, however, he stopped in his tracks, realizing the man that stood there was made of flesh, not stone.

The mantled warrior looked a bear among men; tall, imposing, and burly. Much of that bulk was thanks to the heavy surcoat he wore beneath the cloak, but the man appeared no less dangerous when he threw back his hood, revealing a full head of dark hair, olive skin, and a weather beaten face adorned with a growing, stubbly beard, and the sheen of a claw-like scar that ran from left temple to halfway down his cheek. Amber eyes burned with intensity as they focused on the man who lifted his head and sniffed the air, and gave a beastly hiss.

Lucian could feel the entity, like a devilish puppeteer wielding a mannequin of flesh and bone. The man-puppet twisted around, accosting the bold warrior with a pair of gleaming blue eyes. Such power he felt behind those eyes…like a maelstrom surging with fury and malcontent. Unlike the spirits he’d met earlier it did not seem to crave for healing and comfort. This thing felt like it thrived on bloodshed and yearned for pain. Lucian would be happy to deliver a bit of both if it came to that, which seemed likely, given the way the thing was looking at him.

The warrior undid the clasp of his travel-worn cloak, letting it drop to reveal the ivory colored surcoat beneath. Emblazoned on the front was the crest of Edessa: A solitary blue rose trapped in the coils of a golden serpent. Strapped about his waist was a hard leather belt, sword and scabbard hanging from his left hip, and a coiled length of chain lashed to his right. Something about Lucian set the demon on edge. Maybe it was the confident gaze with which he drew his longsword. Perhaps it was the argent steel itself, its razor sharp kiss a deadly promise. Then again, maybe it could smell what lurked inside of Lucian, begging to come out…

Whatever caused that glint of fear was soon dismissed. The demon tore another scream from his victim’s throat and charged for Lucian on all fours like some rabid dog. It was a chilling sight, but now was not the time to lose one’s cool. Lucian had to focus, setting aside fear and calming his mind. Only then could he tap into that wellspring coursing in his blood. Once he had, his power felt as though it were a slumbering beast rousing to its master’s call. It breathed with life, sending hot, crackling energy surging through his veins. Lucian quickly took hold of that energy and directed it, sending it down his arms and towards the weapon clasped in his hands. From his fingertips it bled into the hilt and began to shower down the blade. A second edge began to form, one forged of pure, burning light; as though he’d captured the sun and hammered it around his blade.

All the while Lucian kept his eyes locked on the charging man-beast. It was almost upon him now, but he remained as motionless as the statues, timing its gait and planning his move. By the time it lunged he was ready, countering with an upward swipe of his blade that sent all that concentrated energy cleaving through his foe. It was an unnaturally clean slice, splitting master and puppet directly down to middle in an explosion of blood. Even the crimson shower parted before the blade, splitting into a wide V that spared the swordsman's white garb as the severed halves of the body landed on either side of them with a wet plop.

Lucian eyed the corpse questioningly. Had the marionette truly been cut of its strings? It remained dead and lifeless but he could still feel some lingering power, like small tendrils of hatred worming their way through the ruined organs, desperately trying to piece them back together. It was a curious thing, but not nearly so curious as the other source of magic he could sense now that the demon had been suppressed. The witch’s power was suddenly as loud as roaring falls, causing his regard to jump to the wagon she crouched behind. He’d expected to find another monster there, but was that a flash of green eyes he caught spying on him?

“There's no use hiding anymore!” He shouted, brandishing his sword and his burning edge towards the wagon, “Come out!”

He never expected an answer to come from behind him. Just as the as demon masked the witch’s power, so too did her magic hide the lesser things that arrived. The first cultists appeared while he remained focused on Marlowe., leaving Lucian ripe for the picking while he gave them their back. Just as he remained none the wiser about their arrival, he also failed to recognize the sound of squelching flesh; the twitching of his 'slain' foe as those tendrils of demonic energy began to recover and reach out, seeking to make their puppet whole again.

Jumbled · Jul 1, 2021

The agonizing pitch— screams with such shrill sound as though it were a thought in Marlowe’s head more than it was a sound she heard with her ears— left the witch stunned. Although her abilities were psychic in nature and she was a skilled woman at her craft, there were drawbacks. The demon, for one, was penetrating her thoughts and metaphorically clawing at her brain as it shrieked the way it did. Marlowe took the hit as though it were an attack she’d have to recover from. She wasn’t expecting the monstrous puppeteer to be so powerful, but she should have suspected it since it was out in the open while there was still much daylight left. It was clear, as she began to open her dazed eyes, that engagement was necessary with this foe. The time for observations would present itself later, she assured herself. All she needed to do was project herself into the Astral Plane and separate the demon from the man’s body, which would allow the man to live if he was strong enough to survive, of course. From there it was a battle of magic.

As she decided upon her strategy, she paused, dumbfounded as a stranger walked right into the square as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening at all. A pained sound of annoyance left her tongue with her exhale of air. The man was mad. Not even cult members strutted around as though this was some normal city. These were ruins and this man looked as though he were trying to locate the nearest pub. Idiot. Perhaps he was one of those mags. Maybe they’d brought in some swordsman thug or barbarian to help with whatever mischief the cult was getting wrapped up with those days. But then his certainty and gait came to a halt. The imbecile hadn’t even noticed the man in front of the fountain by the look of his sudden stance. Marley squinted as she looked up from below the wagon. Her view was obscured from the back of the cart, but if she pushed harder into the dirt, she could see enough of the man. His clothing seemed reasonable for the climate, but also newer than what she wore. He had to be an outsider.

Realistically, the stranger was bulky and could undoubtedly hold his own against the man controlled by the demon— but only if he were just a man and the demon wasn’t part of the equation. The warrior looked ready and willing to battle the captive human as it hissed in the air like a wild animal. Far be it from her to stop a cultist, mag or not, from going head-to-head with that monster. But then, as he dropped his cloak, causing the glint of white to demand her attention in a place so dark and grey, she reconsidered her previous thoughts. Maybe he was just lost, or a champion sent to the Dead Lands to revive it. Not that she hadn’t been trying to do just that on her own. Marley decided she needed to free herself from the confined space she was tucked away in, so while the man drew his blade, his focus set only on his battle, the witch crawled out from her hiding place, crouching down behind it and some large broken barrels that had housed ale once in their lifespan.

The way the witch observed the fight was unlike anything out of the ordinary. While she could see the physical world around her, smell the death and decay, hear the loud claps of thunder, she could also view the Astral Plane and see the glowing red figure of the demon, and the white wisps of the man’s soul that pushed at the demon in a weak attempt to shake free from its clutches. The man’s spirit was still alive, it hadn’t even turned toward the shade of blue-green that indicated a lost soul, departed from the world. There was still time to save him, yet. She just had to—

The demon’s control grew stronger as it forced the body down on all fours, stressing each muscle as it demanded the body to run unnaturally like an animal might. It must have been more natural for the demon to move that way, she suspected. She was running out of time. Her eyes darted to the warrior. He wasn’t running in either direction. But then, as the witch contemplated whether or not to interfere, which meant losing her concealment, a color she’d never experienced before in the Astral Plane spiraled from the center of the stranger’s chest, down his arms, coiling around his weapon. Marlowe’s jaw was agape as she stared in wonder, bewilderment taking her attention as she attempted to make sense of it. What was he? The sword was altered with the searing light of the sun as it wrapped around the weapon like it had only ever been made of the hottest fire. Her fingers wrapped around the rim of one of the barrels. She was so eager to know what it all meant that she’d lost sight of the battle before her. The champion, with his blade of light and his unusual aura that radiated out like the sun on a warm summer day, struck his foe with a killing blow of that very sword. The body was cleaved in half, raining crimson painted the air around it in a blast from the impact. It was only then that Marlowe returned to her senses. She had planned to save the man, or at least try. She watched as the glimmer of white faded, pulsing several times before the next flash of its existence turned aquamarine.

Another death. Marlowe considered each life lost her fault, though she divided out her blame equally amongst the other witches and the Mad King. Her heart dropped as she sunk into guilt and shame. The body itself lay lifeless on either side of the man. The sight might have made her heave had she not grown so accustomed to her new life among the decay. Then, he looked her way, almost as though he could see right through the wooded wagon and barrels she used for cover. She dropped, sinking down behind them though she knew it was too late. She could feel his power surging, ready to strike again. Would she also be left, severed into half, left in a heap of organs and fluids for the vultures to feed on? Still, he was unlike anyone she’d ever seen before, and she didn’t know what that meant, though she intended to try to find out.

The woman began to stand up from her hiding place, her hands hanging delicately in front of her body to show she was without a weapon. But as she stood, her eyes were filled with quick blurs of dark cloaks darting around the man that pointed his solar sword at her. She stood before him, her eyes locking onto his for only moments as she demanded herself to resist being captivated by him. The cultists were about, and now they knew where she was, too. Not only that, but his mighty sword had not finished the demon off. While it ruined the man’s body, leaving him dead, it merely cut the demon free from its puppet. So, while this man was unique, it was clear to Marley he wasn’t able to see everything that she could.

A fight with the mags was exactly what the woman had been trying to avoid. She thought about fleeing fast, using her powers to create a burst from the ground that would blast upward, covering her retreat with a cloud of dirt and rocks. But then there was him. There was too much going on to just leave him there, back turned to his real enemies and a demon out for a new body to snatch. The broken one wouldn’t hold up for long and there was no telling what a demon might do with someone so different. She looked around him, her frame smaller and shorter than his meant she couldn’t see over his shoulder well enough to decipher what was happening. No sooner than peeking around him did Marley discover a man with hands that pulled at the dark energies from the earth creating a large, dark sphere of power meant to blast the Champion in the back. He’d already released it before she could tell him to turn around.

The man was in the way. She couldn’t deflect the attack when he was like a wall that blocked her view of the thing. So, before she could think of a more viable solution, Marley revisited her blasting retreat idea, only instead, she ducked down quickly with a surge of her own power focused on the ground, allowing the air to blast upward in a current that shot the barrels, wagon, and stranger high up into the sky as though they’d been thrown by an explosion. The chunks of dirt and surrounding dust were far less than what she would have created for an escape, though. She needed to see him and the objects, too. The dark ball of power blasted past her, zipping right over her head, grazing the very top layer of fabric on the hood of her cloak. She shook her head back, allowing the fabric to drop away from her face, her powers pulling it down the rest of the way. Her cloak then spun off of her body, flying off to the left as it landed against a board that had been split in half long ago. Marley was already retrieving her aerial pieces of ammunition as she flung one of the barrels at the cultist, slamming it down in a blast of splinters that shot forward at the attacker. The opposer screamed and deflected as both of his hands rushed to aid his bleeding eyes. She couldn’t take her focus off of the battle, though in the back of her mind she knew she’d just sent a very unique man free falling from the smokey fog up above into a mad plummet toward the ground. She’d catch him, she told herself.

The pounds of flesh inched closer together as bloody, torn muscle stitched itself together, pulling the flesh taught as the body was repaired by the monstrous form that hovered over it desperately. It had tasted the man’s power, and now it wanted more. The center of the body was together, though each twitch it made caused blood to ooze and spray out from its tear. Was this necromancy? Were the cultists to blame for what she was witnessing? She glanced up, looking for the man, and his gleaming sword of light. The next cultist had emerged, this one throwing daggers while another in hiding used a bow to send arrows flying into the air. She cursed, unable to target the archer while there was another throwing blades at her. She rolled off to the side, her body covered in brown hides that protected her from the cold and occasional weapon. She didn't deflect the weapons, worried she might strike the warrior with a stray projectile. Her hair was tousled around her face as messy strands escaped from where they were once pinned back. Those green eyes with flecks of gold quickly looked up, finding the man she’d sent flying.

Fates.Gamble · Jul 7, 2021

The warrior’s stoic expression washed away, his brow furrowing when the spy emerged. A woman? Well he didn’t anticipate that. On the surface she appeared harmless; small statured and vulnerable. But he knew better than to let his guard down over an innocuous profile, or the fact she’d come out with hands raised and empty. Lucian knew full well the kind of weapon she truly wielded. There was power behind those emerald eyes flecked with gold. He could sense it even before their gazes met; a brand of magic so raw and potent that he could practically taste it on the air.

Is she one of them? Lucian wondered, his usual nerves of steel faltering, if only a tad.

He knew there was a chance of discovering breadcrumbs in Nordia. Half the reason he’d come to the ruined kingdom was find a clue pointing him towards the witches, or, failing that, and understanding of how and why they poisoned the world. But Lucian never expected to find one of them in the flesh. A witch lingering at the scene of her crime? The very thought of it set the power about his sword shivering, its light resonating with a hunger for retribution.

Before he could even think about delivering justice, the witch’s eyes shifted, her attention seemingly caught by something behind him. Stupidly, Lucian found his head following her gaze, leaving him entirely unprepared for what happened next. A glimpse of the cloaked interlopers was all he got before an unnatural wind erupted straight from the earth beneath his feet, launching the hardened warrior and everything around him up into the air. Lucian exclaimed in alarm, the surprise of the event rendering his grip slack enough that his sword was thrown away by the force. Upon slipping from his fingers, the sword lost its radiant edge, returning to normal before it was flung away beyond his reach.

Lucian fought the urge to panic as he rocketed upwards, doing what he could to ignore his lurching stomach or the fact he’d just lost his weapon. He focused on the ground instead, eyes catching that black sphere of energy that blew past where he was standing to narrowly miss the mysterious woman instead. Had the witch just saved his life from an ambush? That was more than a little curious. But there was no time to get wrapped in the idea when there was a battle raging below, Worse than that was the inevitable fall. Soon he’d find himself lying broken in the mud, one more corpse to adorn this city of the dead.

Don’t think about the fall, Lucian quickly chastised himself. That would only take away his focus, rendering his magic useless when it was his only chance of surviving this predicament. There was no point resisting, so he closed his eyes, forgetting the chaos that waited below to focus on the upwards velocity as well. The momentum carried him as high as it could, the force behind the witch’s magic tapering off against the might of gravity’s pull. Once that pull became the dominant power, that’s when he would strike, shoving back against gravity with the power inside of him.

Everything around Lucian came crashing back down, barrels and wagon flattening against the cold, hard, ground in an explosion of wooden shrapnel. The man himself, however, remained suspended in thin air. The amount of energy it took to pull it off was even more exhausting than he anticipated. His muscles screamed, and his head was pounding, but he managed to hold the magic long enough to use his vantage point to survey everything happening below. The first thing he noticed was he sword, stuck in the mud somewhere between his unexpected savior and the two cultists that had her pinned down with knives and arrows. And standing a breath away from that was… The man he’d slain?! The severed halves of the body had somehow glued themselves back together, forming a wobbly, reconstructed mess that struggled to remain upright. How was that even possible?

Along with the cultists and their living dead man, Lucian caught sight of one more threat: Two hounds drawn from their vigil at the keep towards the commotion in the square. They were massive, vicious looking beasts, covered in pitch black fur with gleaming, yellow eyes. Those eyes were honed directly on Marlowe, the pair of them quietly entering the square to stalk the woman from behind while the cultists kept her occupied. At first, Lucian wondered if he shouldn’t just let this take its course. If she truly was one of the witches responsible for this place, then being ripped apart by a product of her own destruction was more than deserved. But, then, there was that annoying little fact that she saved his life with this stunt, and that’s what won out in the end.

His decision made, Lucian released the magic holding him in place and began to fall. It was a dizzying experience: The feel of gravity sucking him down, the wind stealing his breath and stinging his eyes, and worst of all, the sight of the ground rushing up to meet him with bone shattering speed. But through it all he kept his eyes locked on his target and controlled his fall to make sure that when he finally did land, it was directly upon the lead hound, slamming it into the mud and breaking his fall. The force of the hit racked his body with a jolt of pain, but all that mattered to Lucian was that his bones were still in tact.

While the other hound recoiled, jumping away from the surprise of the man who’d fallen from the sky, Lucian fetched his coil of chain and snared his catch around the throat. The snarling canine fought against the choking force, kicking its legs and snapping its jaws, but Lucian held it down long enough to put his abilities to work. The mind of a beast was a simple thing, ruled by base impulses that left it easy to manipulate. Just like before, he took hold of the energy inside of him, commanding it, directing it. This time he sent it flowing into the beast itself, letting the magic worm its way into the creature’s brain. In seconds, the struggle died away, its yellow eyes rolling back into its skull until all that remained was a glowing, white, void not entirely different from their possessed enemy.

With the beast pacified, Lucian removed the chain and sprang away. It lumbered for a moment, pushing back to its feet and shaking its head with annoyance. The hound was dancing to his tune now, rendered a weapon that he could control with little more than his thoughts, the first of which was to turn on its pack member. His unwilling servant obeyed without question, rushing forward and engaging the other hound in mortal combat. While the beasts fought and thrashed about, Lucian bolted for cover, taking refuge behind a headless statue just in time for an arrow to come buzzing past. More were quick to follow, knives and arrowheads alike clinking off the stone man he pressed himself against. To make matters worse, the resurrected demon also caught wind of him, and it was already staggering over to finish their contest.

“This is going well…” He grumbled to himself, heart pounding while adrenaline flooded his veins.

On the positive side, his pet hound quickly gained the upper hand, wrestling the other one down and managing to close its wicked jaws around its enemy’s throat. Gnashing fangs made short work of it, tearing out flesh with a wet gurgle that had the beast choking on its own blood. As soon as the other hound was incapacitated, Lucian directed his pet’s attention towards the rangers. The beast dashed swiftly on its massive paws, dashing across the square and barreling down on the man with the bow. The archer had just enough time to knock his arrow and take aim before the hound came lunging, its crushing teeth snapping around the cultist’s left arm to bring him screaming to the ground, giving the witch the opportunity to deal with the one that remained. Lucian had little choice but to trust her with that when there was still the possessed dead man to worry about.

The demon came at him with a grab, forcing Lucian to push away from his cover to avoid it. His first impulse was to run for where his sword had fallen, but he quickly thought better of it. Sure, he could try cutting it down a second time, but would that work? Even though his foe was sluggish and barely able to hold itself together, he could still feel its power growing. The blood oozing from its seam was thinning out, clotting even as the broken flesh began to knit itself back in a manner that should not have been possible, even for the most powerful of magics.

“What are you?” Lucian wondered aloud, eyes narrowing while fingers tightened on the length of chain in his hands. No, he wouldn’t cut it down again; not when he could capture it and learn what he could instead. The opportunity came with the next attack, the champion sweeping to the side as the demon lunged forward to assault him. As the entity stumbled past, Lucian called upon his magic and took his swing. What left the warrior’s hand was no mere chain, but a living, glowing serpent forged of the same energy which once showered down his blade. The snake gave a crackling hiss before it struck, sinking a pair of spark-like veins into it demon’s neck before yanking him down and snaring him in its golden coils.

A horrible, ear-piercing scream of pain erupted from the demon’s throat. That burning energy coiling around the man didn’t just scorch flesh and bone; it went deeper than that, agonizing the beast inside as well. The light that gripped it was beyond unbearable; it was downright torturous. Lucian could feel it squirming around in there, clawing against his magical binds in a desperate bid to escape. He could feel its fear; its suffering, and to his surprise, Lucian found himself enjoying it…

For so long now he’d been suppressing this power inside of him, convincing himself to hold back out of some irrational fear out of it. But why? This felt good. Better than good, it felt amazing. There was a sick thrill in knowing he was strong enough to make this powerful, immortal creature writhe in pain and terror. He wanted more. He wanted to punish it, to cause it so much pain that it shattered entirely, reducing it to little more than a scared, trembling animal. He knew he could do it; it would be easy. All he had to do was decide.

The snake’s eyes shot towards their master, burning in their intensity as it awaited the command. For a moment, he could swear that magic serpent was speaking to him, egging him on. Do it! It whispered seductively, its voice as ethereal as the spirits that had spoken to him earlier. Teach him fear! Squeeze him until him until he breaks!

Lucian’s amber eyes were glazy, filled with a lust to obey. For a moment he very nearly did, setting his jaw and grinding his teeth as he commanded the serpent to constrict tighter, drawing even more delightful cries from his prey. But then, the reality of what was happening settled in. What was he doing? A craving destruction? An appetite for pain? That wasn't like him. if he went through with this would he be any different to the demon he tortured? Would he be any better than the witches who brought this calamity upon them?

In the end, Lucian released his magic with a shuddering breath, the glowing snake dropping back into a lifeless chain once more. The demon hiding inside the corpse fled just as quickly, clawing its way back up the puppet’s throat and bursting from his mouth in a mad flight. The hound once under his control followed suit, its eyes returning to normal and giving it a chance to escape. Lucian probably should have moved to intercept them, but all he could do was watch them go. Even the witch was disregarded, all but forgotten as he stumbled back, and dropped to his rump in a state of shock and exhaustion. For three years he’d been keeping this magic in check, refusing to let poison his mind the way it poisoned Nordia. How could he be willing to throw it all away in a single instant?

Jumbled · Jul 11, 2021

Marlowe rolled and tucked herself behind a broken wall that was only tall enough to hide her form if she kept low, just missing the edge of a knife that rushed by her previous path. She heard it connect with rotted lumber further back with a hollow sounding ‘thud’, a landing place that would prove difficult to retrieve the knife from as it undoubtedly buried itself deep within the rot. She faced upward, her back pushing uncomfortably against broken bricks, roots and hard dirt, panting as quickened breaths exited her mouth. Her chest was heaving from the adrenaline coursing heavily alongside the stream of mana that was rushing to the surface of her flesh, the hairs on her arms tingling as though she was suddenly overcharged with power. Her fingers twitched, ready to stop her target from plummeting to his death. But where was he?

Anxious eyes raced across the sky as the witch tried to find the man she’d thrown high into the air. The unusual stranger was no longer a beacon; his sword wasn’t shining overhead like a guiding star to point him out. But there was a distinguishable, dark blur of what looked like a man that hovered above the dust caused by the falling barrels and wagon. Her eyes darted to the right as if they were demanding the particles to move aside, and just like that, they obeyed Marley and the air cleared as dust fell down, showering the earth in the direction she motioned for it to go. She found a better view of the champion. He was floating up there— which she found remarkable. Marley had never seen a man fly before, not that Lucian was necessarily flying, but it certainly looked close. So he could save himself, then? Good enough for her. She sighed after finding him safe, but her relief came too soon as an arrow sped across the plaza, connecting with the wall she hid behind. The brick barely held itself together, the force of the arrow reminding her as much as the faulty structure began to lean in her direction. A few crumbling pieces dropped threateningly around her. The woman gritted her teeth.

Marley’s vexation with the cultist grew stronger as she rolled again, grunting against the debris that jabbed into her back and then arms as she took her attention away from the mysterious stranger in the sky. If she stayed hiding, she’d have to focus her power on keeping the wall up, and in a battle, that was the last thing she wanted to deal with. Although she was very much on the defensive, it wasn’t typical for Marlowe to do so when she did get mixed up in fighting with those degenerates. Not that she cared to do that either. But, if he was staying up there, leaving her to deal with the battle alone, at least she didn’t need to worry about hitting him by mistake. Though, if the man had enough magic in him to watch from above, she couldn’t help but feel irked that he wasn’t helping. For the time, she decided he should consider himself lucky he was so special with his odd abilities and aura tugging at her curiosity. She wanted to get to the bottom of what he was. Maybe he was the key to fixing things in the Dead Lands.

The man cloaked in his clan’s dark colors, closest to where she hid, still hadn’t recovered from the wounds she’d inflicted upon his eyes. What could be seen of his face was wet, soaked bright red from the blood flowing down his skin, the fabrics that covered the remainder of his face drenched with his own fluids. Marley stood, controlling the cultist much like a puppet herself, though her methods were far less crude than the demon’s. Her hands worked in front of her body, guiding her will into being. The wailing man sounded distraught as his body lifted off of the ground by an invisible force, moving in her direction as she used him like a shield, his back becoming the next target for the projectiles that came her way. His screaming was silenced by gurgling in his throat as his own team members ended his life unintentionally. His body soon went limp in the air, slumped over as crimson pools flowed down him like a fountain, spilling onto the earth that’d had its fair share of men’s blood in the past three years. She tossed him like a child’s doll, her body exaggerating the motion of throwing something heavy as she sent him away from where the demon was collecting itself, not wanting to give it a new meat suit to wear instead of the broken one it currently used. Although Marley felt pained when the demon’s play-thing had been slain, finding him to be just an innocent bystander— a fool that wandered into a place he shouldn’t have been— she had little to no sympathy for the members of the cult. With the ranger being too far out of her reach, her attention was better spent eliminating the knife-thrower.

The woman stood, unafraid of what might fly her way. She could protect herself with a force-field in front of her body if she needed to, and it wouldn’t be the first time that the witch would send their own weapons flying back at them. The attacker faltered, stepping back as though he was in danger. Marlowe assumed he was terrified of her because in her mind that was logical. She had no idea that the nasty hounds had strayed from their keep, stalking down into the center of the once grand city to creep up behind her. It was impressive that the beasts, massive as they were, could hunt so quietly in the rubble. They were akin to wolves, perhaps mutated ones that were double the size, with inky black fur that looked more like quills from a porcupine that lay slick along their bodies. Marley had never touched one before, but it looked as though it might smite if she was hit at just the right angle by one.

The sound of a muffled yelp caused the witch to turn on her heel. Marley’s eyes widened at the sight before her: the swordsman on the ground once more, his body sprawled over one of those hell hounds as it went down, sliding into the mud, Lucian pinning it there with a great deal of might. He must have launched himself down onto it from above. Skillfully, at that, if the hound didn’t cut him up on impact. Not to say he wasn’t a large and muscular sort of man, but those monsters were frighteningly large. He was quick to wrap a chain around the beast. It occurred to her he may have just saved her life. Luckily for her he’d stayed up in the sky for as long as he did.

Lucian was proving to be a much bigger distraction than Marlowe had expected as a stray throwing knife embedded itself into the back of her right tricep. The woman hissed and quickly dropped down, wincing as she ripped it out of her arm angrily, throwing the two-inch blade behind her as though tossing it with that much rage might ease the pain that diffused across her arm. Her flesh had torn, but the thicker furs of her garb had prevented it from sinking further into the deeper muscle. Red trickled down her arm like wild vines spreading to her wrist, the droplets slowly falling away from her from her fingertips. There was no time to tend to the wound properly.

She looked over at the beasts, one captured and the other shaken as it started to return to an attacking stance. Lucian jumped away, leaving the hound without killing it. She huffed in disbelief, a silent objection to his mercy before she realized the animal was different somehow. Like a shining lead, a line of light moved from the overgrown mutt to Lucian. Had he tapped into its mind? Was he also puppeteering? Whatever it was he was doing, the beasts were battling one another instead of coming after the two of them. All the while, Lucian had darted away, not even watching what the animal was doing, as though he didn’t need to see it to control it. The snarling dogs in front of her were ripping into one another, their massive forms clawing and biting as the one with the tether gained an advantage over its kin. She couldn’t help but watch as Lucian’s pet crunched into the neck of its brother, bones cracking between its fangs.

If she could tame one of them like he had—

Marlowe still had the partial cover of the shoddy wall to her left. Fortunately for her, the cultist had turned their attention to Lucian, who was running across the battlefield to find new cover. The witch’s fury could have been enough to make her eyes glow red as Marley gripped her arm, applying pressure to her injury. Instead, she looked down beside her, finding the discarded knife that had struck her before. It lifted off of the ground, spinning slowly in the air in front of her, nostrils flaring as she decided on a new plan. Before she devised just what she wanted to do, the hound had finished its own battle, boundinging toward her. She tensed as the creature lept high above her and into the middle of the square, rushing back to the farthest enemy on the field. “One less, then.” she muttered softly, pushing the initial fear aside as she turned around, eyeing Lucian and tracing the path of the weapons that flew toward him. “Perfect,” she said as she set her sights on the individual clad in all black, ducked behind one of the collapsed buildings. She grinned, then, the pain in her arm coaxing her into punishing the man for what he’d done.

Discarded blades that lay scattered along the ground began to rattle and shake back and forth as she set her mind to honing in on them. Much like the knife that had struck her, they rose into the air, pointed up right, spinning vertically as they continued to rise up. Marlowe stood from her cover, her left hand dropping from her arm, painted crimson as it hung by her side. It was her turn to walk into the open, and as she did, the weapons remained twirling in the air, silently dancing to her unforgiving song. Each step she took landed heavily as her boots connected with dirt and blood, dots of the cool liquid splattering against the sides. This time, she had no reason to fuss over the mess on her shoes; this time it didn’t matter if she left a trail that would lead to where she was. The power that pulsed from inside her caused the loose hairs around her face to rise up, yet, there was no wind. Her chin tilted upward as she walked out, eyes fixated toward the toppled building, her feet pointed in the direction of her foe. While she moved toward him, the hovering metal around her remained where it was, all except the one that was stained red; that one stayed right beside her face, spinning freely while the others kept to their slow turning rhythms.

The air grew more frigid and thinner than it already was. The cultist began to retreat without turning his back to her. He took quick, clumsy steps backward while tossing another projectile her way. Marlowe stopped it in its path, as if she had frozen it in time. Her fingers flicked the new addition to her growing army, causing it to turn and join the others. Finally, the man had given up, and as his body shook from the cold in the air, his arms pulling inward as he attempted to flee faster, the witch raised her injured arm, squeezing her fist as though she’d just grabbed the back of his cloak from yards away. He was stuck. His boots dragged back against the ground, scraping against the floor as she watched him wriggle, trying to get free of his garb. He successfully released his cloak, falling a few inches while his body dropped, suddenly top heavy as his face hit the mud. His hands were trembling as he pulled himself forward, trying to get back onto his feet. The witch didn’t attempt to grab him again, not when his fear of her was doing all the work she needed it to. Instead, she set loose some of the knives that hung in the air, landing inches in front of the cultist’s hands. He gasped in shock, pulling back from the objects, looking no different than a trapped animal.

Marlowe released two more knives, they shot out, one landing in either of his arms, just as he’d done to her, but far worse as she made sure the metal dug into him. Had they been longer knives, he would have been pegged into the ground like a tent. His screams echoed loudly in the plaza. The witch, nearly satisfied, launched the remaining knives at him, leaving onto the one with her blood still floating beside her. The man was a pin cushion, his back as spiked as the damned wolves that guarded the keep. She stood still, lifting his body in the air and turning him to face her. He was struggling to breathe, the stabbings offering him a slow and agonizing death. But the woman with cross green eyes, dusted in gold, sent the last blade forward, watching as it landed in the center of his throat. He started to scream, but couldn’t. Then she dropped him, like the pile of rubbish he was, right there on the ground for the vultures to pick through later.

As the witch exhaled, her limbs jerking lightly, she glanced back to where the shining line of light indicated the hound had run off to. The arrows ceased fire, so she could only imagine that was Lucian’s doing. A loud hiss snared her immediate attention and she turned abruptly to find a golden snake formed around a different weapon wielded by the stranger. It dove down, burning and biting into the demon itself. Another Banshee-like scream filled the air and Marlowe dropped to her knees, her hands against her ears. The pitch wasn’t as painful as the first time, as it was more a cry of pain than an attack, but it still left her unprepared. She could only watch as her ears rang. He just stood there, the snake patiently holding its prize as though it were waiting for a command. Her lips parted as though she thought to tell him to finish it. What was he waiting for? The snake faded, its form disappearing into the fog as the weapon returned to a lifeless chain. Was he doing the same thing he’d done with the wolf? Taking control of a demon? She looked as the light that attached to the hound flickered then snapped like a fishing line. The demon was escaping, too.

Marley pushed herself up, running across the square as she scolded him. “You can cut an innocent man in half but not a demon? What are you? Get over yourself!” she screamed as she ran by, her hands reaching out at the fleeing ball of red light. She grabbed it, pulling back in a hard struggle, though the fiend was weakened from the snake. She forced it into the earthly realm, pulling at the very fibers of its being as the demon began to materialize into the dim light of day. It towered above her, with long arms and claws as long as a scythe’s blade. Its jagged teeth were equivalently long, causing it to have a massive overbite as the top and bottom rows both pointed outward without lips to keep them covered. Its eyes were missing, while its face was indented where one might expect to find them. The creature opened its maw to scream again, but Marlowe forced it shut. Her body was low to the ground as though she was struggling to hold its weight even while never touching it. This wasn’t a creature she could take back to study, at least, not alive.

Both of her hands were in use to better control her power over the thing’s jaw. There was no easy solution to finish it. Her eyes jumped from object from object, trying to find something strong enough to end it, but there was nothing. Her stare came back to the demon, suddenly noting its massive limbs. She panted, bracing herself for the pain she knew would come with the release of the demon. In a quick motion, she withdrew her hold of its face, taking each of its arms instead. It shook as though to fight her off, and as it opened its mouth again to scream, Marlowe screamed back, shoving those dangerous claws into the upper and lower jaw, forcing it to pull itself apart until there was a loud snap and black ooze spraying outward, bubbling at the ground like acid. A few drops hit her arms and she screamed louder as the demons head was severed off, dropping and rolling away onto the ground. She kept going, ripping the bottom jaw off before she released her hold, falling back as she tried to pull the demon’s tar off of her skin. She trembled, barely able to do it before falling back, her energy spent. “Damn— strangers,” she muttered through a cough before resting her eyes. She knew he might come after her, but what was he going to do? And what side was he on?

Marlowe’s body shivered from the cold that began to set in as she lay there, trying to find the strength to get herself up. She knew she needed to flee the scene and make it back to her cave she called home, but it was all too much.

Fates.Gamble · Aug 11, 2021

Lucian’s heart was thumping in his chest, his hands shaking. Overexertion was partly to blame, but it was more so his nerves. What had just befallen him? For a moment it was as though he’d lost command of his own thoughts, his brain taken hostage much like the hound’s before him. For so long now he’d tried convincing himself that he was in control of these abilities, ever telling himself that he was stronger than the magic coursing through his veins. Three years of success actually had him believing it… What folly that had proven to be.

The sorcerer’s amber eyes fell upon the corpse lying before him, the puppet once again slumped in two halves now that the demonic strings holding it together had been severed. His gaze lingered on one of the man’s lifeless eyes, the reality of the innocent life he’d taken settling in even before the witch found her voice to castigate him. Her words were blunt enough for Lucian to set his jaw, his attention snapping up to Marlowe as she ran by, but they might have hit even harder had he not found himself transfixed my the scene that followed. The witch rose to the challenge where the warrior could not, using her magic to snatch the cloaked entity out of the air and drag it out of hiding.

Lucian pushed to his feet, watch as the terrible creature was brought into the light, revealed as a colossal monstrosity of teeth and claws. For a moment his gaze lingered on its eyeless sockets, only to jump back to Marlowe when its jaw was snapped closed, drowning its scream of distress. Even with her impressive magic, holding back such a powerful foe was clearly a struggle for the witch. Lucian could see the weight of it in her hunched posture, to say nothing of her labored breathing as intelligent, green eyes darted about for a solution. Had he been of clearer mind he might have dashed in to assist her with the effort; instead, the warrior found himself gaping as though he were some bewildered child, caught in his awe of the demon and Marlowe’s strength alike.

The terror’s screech was as deafening as ever, the sound of it piercing Lucian’s ears when Marlowe freed its maw and seized it by the limbs instead. The demonic puppet master was getting a taste of its own medicine now, reduced to the role of the witch’s marionette as she took those lanky arms and speared them upwards, impaling the beast’s jawbone with its own, wicked claws. The snap of bones, the spray of acidic blood, the tearing of flesh as the demon’s head came free... Lucian had seen his fair share of death, but the brutality of this one saw the hardened warrior recoiling with a wince. To think he’d viewed this woman as harmless and vulnerable when she’d first stepped out from behind that wagon…

Even as the demon collapsed, its lifeless form plopping into the mud, so too did Marlowe. Before, the witch’s magic was as radiant as the sun, practically blinding to Lucian and his sixth sense; now it was akin to a smoldering ember, the bulk of her energy clearly spent. Lucian eyed her briefly, taking note of the trembling mess she’d become before he approached the scene. The witch was ignored for now, her curse falling on deaf ears as the man stepped around her and surveyed the demon’s corpse instead. The black, ooze-like blood bubbled freely from its headless body, sizzling against mud and stone.

How is this possible? Lucian wondered, boots carefully dodging the pools of acidic blood as he circled the downed creature, marveling at the witch’s handiwork. He could sense the creature while it was hiding well enough, but to be able to grab hold of it and yank it into the physical world the way she had… For all his magic, Lucian couldn’t begin to imagine how he might achieve such a thing. This woman was powerful indeed, and her proven capabilities only worked to reinforce his belief that she was one of them: One of the five that unleashed such horror on their world in the first place. The realization had him turning away from the demon, his gaze seeking the spot where his sword had fallen instead.

Lucian crossed the square, quickly making his way over to the weapon and scooping it up out of the muck. A spark flashed across its edge, the slop that begrimed it burning away as surely as if it were coated in the demon’s boiling fluids. The magic was relinquished an instant later, rendering the sword to its natural state, which was more than sharp enough to sunder his foes. Lucian’s attention wandered down the silvery blade as he considered what was required of him. Perhaps she was right, maybe he didn’t have it in himself to kill the demon. But he could think of a being even more deserving of death than that wicked creature: The one who’d set it loose upon their world in the first place.

The warrior turned back around, his fierce amber eyes settling on the exhausted hag, who remained a collapsed mess on the ground, far too weak to fight back. Lucian’s fingers clamped tighter around the hilt of his sword as he approached her, his resolve building with each and every deliberate step that carried him towards his duty. It’s what she deserves… He told himself, despite the nagging doubt seeded amongst his justification. Try as he might, there was no escaping the reality of her blowing him out of harm’s way, nor the fact that she’d slain the cultists and destroyed their pet devil. His conscience only grew louder the closer he came, leaving him a bundle of uncertainty by the time he stood before her, a looming figure donned in white with eyes that burned like fire.

Regardless of his screaming conscious, Lucian found himself lowering his sword, placing it beneath her chin where her throat was met with the kiss of cold steel. “You asked what I was,” he began to say, his voice dry as he recalled her words from earlier, “But I’m more interested in what you are. You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of the five witches who cursed this place!” Lucian’s face twisted into a sneer as he took his sword in both hands and pressed it tight enough against her vulnerable throat that the slightest movement threatened to draw blood.

“Don’t try to deny it,” he snapped, interrupting anything she might have said in her defense. “Seeing you pull that… thing out of its realm was all the proof I needed to see. Your coven brought nothing but suffering and death to this world… Should have known it was only a matter of time before it caught up to you.”

The weight of the blade fled the witch’s throat as Lucian swept it upwards, preparing to bring it back down with force. It would be a far kinder beheading than the one she gave the beast; swift and painless. He thought that kindness might have guided his sword when he brought it crashing down; instead he only made it half way, the razor sharp edge stopping a few inches above her neck where it sat hovering, held in place by trembling hands. The rest of him felt as stiff as the courtyard statues, frozen in time while he gazed down at his would-be victim with an expression mixed of anger and pity.

“Why!?” He demanded quite suddenly. “You destroyed this kingdom; poisoned our world! And now I find you slaying the fruits of your own vile labors? Why kill that demon when you brought it here in the first place?” Did she have regrets? Was she penitent? Or did he have this all wrong from the first, finding himself on the cusp of killing an innocent woman who was only here for the same reason he’d come to Nordia? All he knew for certain was he couldn’t kill her without answers; not when those answers might very well lead him to solving the mystery behind this terrible curse.

Before he could get any, however, a bone chilling howl rang out from a short distance away, catching his attention. It was answered by several others, the tell-tale sound of a pack of hellhounds on the hunt. Worse yet, he could feel numerous sources of magic fast approaching the square. More fanatics, he realized at once. Lucian had no interest in another run-in with those cultists when he’d scarcely caught his breath from the last fight. So he decided on the smart option now, quickly sheathing his sword and lunging down to snare the arm by the witch.

“More of those freaks are coming. You want to live?” He asked of the woman, “Then on your feet!” He wasn’t in the habit of giving her the time to find her own footing, instead choosing to yank her up off the ground, willing or not. “I’m going to give you the chance to make up for your mistakes,” he explained, hardly giving Marlowe a chance to find her balance before he pulled her into a mad dash away from the square and down a narrow alley to their left. He was anything but gentle as they ran for it, refusing to release his grip and dragging her should she stumble. The mags were closing in fast, their magic appearing to him like little beacons that gave away their positions, making it easy enough to avoid this turn or that in their reckless flight. Covering their tracks, however, was another matter. Lucian didn’t have the time to mind where he was stepping, remaining heedless of the fact when he’d splashed through a puddle of blood or trampled a pile of bones strewn across the road. He didn’t much care for where they were going, either. If they got lost, so be it. For now, his only concern was putting as much distance between them and their foes as he could muster.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been running before he felt the magic tapering off, the beacons of power he’d sensed before dwindling to faint glimmers before disappearing all together. Only then did he slow his pace, finally releasing the arm of the exhausted witch he’d spirited away and allowing them both a chance to catch their breath. “I think we’ve lost them…” he said, cheat heaving, “For now anyway.” His eyes jumped around, spying the dilapidated houses that lined either side of the street they’d ended up on. Sadly, their roofs and gables obscuring the wider view of the city and making it impossible to see the smoking tower he’d been using to guide him thus far. He’d never been to this part of the city before, but he found the twisted, crumbling structures here no less eerie than the rest of Nordia.

“How well do you know this place?” Lucian wondered, his attention jumping back to the witch to meet her enchanting eyes. “Can you get us to the Rift from here?”

The Rift… Lucian had never much cared for the term coined by his countrymen. To him, the site where the witches had cast their devious spell felt less like a ‘rift’ and more like an open, festering wound. He knew full well what sort of evil came pouring out of that wound; the very idea of returning there sent a chill up his spine. Odds were this witch wouldn’t be thrilled with the idea of returning there either, but Lucian would drag her there if he had to, if only to force her to look at the damage she’d done before he attempted to reverse it. Maybe he’d even pull it off, now that he had one of the women responsible under his thumb.

And if not, he thought to himself, then I’ll throw her in and let the demons tear her apart.

Jumbled · Sep 11, 2021

Tiny holes where flesh used to be quickly filled with warm, crimson liquid, swelling beyond the level of her smooth, sun-kissed skin as it domed, much like a leaf covered in dew droplets, though far less serene. Marlowe’s arm was minimally damaged from the acid that splashed her exposed skin, though the swelling beads of blood had reached their collective limits, the red bubbles breaking with small, trickling streams that ran away from the wounds, dripping against the mud where she regrettably rested in a heap of bulking cloths and furs. Though it was replenishing, her personal supply of mana that coursed through her body was running dangerously low. It was fortunate that she managed to draw the acid away from her limb and back to the ground before she rested her weary eyes— not by choice. No, the center of a massacre was not the ideal place to lay one’s head at the end of a battle. Marlowe would much rather be standing tall, opposite the stranger with the curious aura and powerful abilities. Letting the demon go wasn’t an option, it was too strong, and far too dangerous if left in the hands of her enemies. Marlowe made the right choice, but at what cost? She was defenseless; a rabbit in a cage, ready for the slaughter.

She could hear the weight of Lucian’s steps in the mud. At first, she thought he was approaching her, but he pivoted and drew nearer to the demon, or what was left of it, studying it as though he’d never seen one like it before. Demons weren’t pretty, and were certainly uncommon to see in the physical world. Not many witches could do what she did to tear the creature from one dimension to another— possibly none at all. Her peculiar eyesight was partially to blame, a condition that occurred after the Mad King’s ritual they’d been commanded to perform. Marlowe wasn’t sure if the other women had gained the same insight that she had, though. It wasn’t as though they stayed together. Even if they did have the sight, she wasn’t certain their abilities were well suited to pull the demons out of the Astral Realm. The five of them were all quite different in that regard, as the King had insisted; a Druid, a Healer, a Succubus, a Necromancer and a Psychic. Marlowe was the last, though her psychic powers had nothing to do with the mind-reading “abilities” like those card reading hacks claimed to possess. But as the man trodden off toward his weapon that’d gone astray in the sludge of the square, Marlowe couldn’t help but wish she had a glimpse into her own future.

Marlowe’s head lifted with the tilt of her neck as she caught a glimpse of Lucian locating his weapon. Her head lowered again, robbing her the show of him sizzling away the muck and mud that threatened to corrode the metal. She faced up at the dreary clouds and smoke over head, willing herself to move; to get up and leave before he noticed. Her body refused to cooperate. The swirling grays overhead were consumed by a bright white that left the witch squinting and turning her gaze away from Lucian and his brilliant garb. Through half-shut eyes, lined with dark circles that shadowed beneath them— signs of unrest while living in such a place— she locked her gaze with his blazing orbs that threatened to purify her in their fires. It became clear he wasn’t there to help her up, nor was he looking to thank her. The cool steel recently kissed with magic swept in front of her body, stopping at her throat. Her chin tilted up as she tried to create space between the tip of the sword and the delicate flesh of her neck. His accusational tone fueled him to tighten his grip on the blade, centering it as he applied more pressure. One wrong move would leave her cut open. She was at the mercy of a man that didn’t have the stones to slay a demon, but was now threatening the second human he’d come close to in the square.

Marlowe’s lips pressed together in a thin line that immediately curled into a frown. It was obvious the stranger had his mind made up about what she was, and his suspicions were right, at least partially. The problem with his information was that he only had pieces of it, the rest being lost in time with the people that had worked and resided in that castle. Not many were privy to the King’s plans, either. Servants could only speculate why witches had gathered there. Marlowe’s molars were clenched together, she had no intention of defending herself. That story was far too long and Lucian didn’t look like he was the type that wanted to listen. Still, his words irked her as he lashed out at her with all of the misinformation he’d gathered. Years had passed and this was the legacy she left behind? She was labelled a monster in the eyes of men and history alike? He swiftly lifted his arms like a true executioner, readying his hands for a proper beheading. Her eyes widened, reflecting the scene back at him. Did she have enough power to throw him backwards? Even if she succeeded to push him aside, would it be enough to actually escape? He was larger than her, stronger and looked as though he came from a place that nourished his body with regular meals. It seemed her death was inevitable, so she remained there without so much as an objection. But then he wavered. His sword remained in mid-air, halting before the strike could be completed.

She struggled to pull her eyes from the shining sliver of his sword and the crisp edge of the blade that lingered above her. The air in her chest lay trapped in her lungs, waiting in anticipation of her death. But, when it didn’t come, she released a gasp of an exhale that stung on the way out. She tilted her head to the side. It was a small movement, only enough to notice the quivering of his hands against the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he wasn’t just a murderer of men, then. He demanded to know why. Did he expect her to just remain there under his weapon, in the mud, regaling him with a story of how she was pulled away from her small village, brought into the kingdom of Nordia under the rule of an already slightly mad king, and then finish it by leading all the way up to her laying in the mud by sword point? She was no bard, nor did she ever have success in telling the story, anyway. What person was even around to hear her on any normal day? If she started to explain wrong, would the sword drop the rest of the way?

An ear splitting howl cut through the thick air like a call to arms for its fellow wolves. More followed the cry in a symphony of beasts gathering to hunt. The man before her removed the immediate threat to her safety, sheathing his sword with eyes that scanned the area as though he knew something that she didn’t. Several small orbs of spirits flitted around the square, but that was all Marlowe could noticeably see. Without warning, Lucian charged at her, gripping onto her arm and lifting her as though she were nothing more than a child’s doll. She twisted, though it pained her to fight against his grip. In an almost lecturing tone, he gave her an ultimatum of sorts. Go with him or be left for the mags. She was in no shape to battle so soon. Her feet barely held her up properly as large fingers pressed firmly against her skin. Of course she didn’t want to die, but he had nearly ended her moments before. What was the better option? Still curious about the aura that surrounded the stranger, as well as the magic he wielded, she would have chosen to go with him willingly. However, the speed in which things took place left her being ordered around and dragged before she could properly stand.

Lucian’s speed only increased while the hold he had on her limb never loosened. She struggled to keep pace with him, his legs were far longer and she’d tripped on more than one occasion as he made a run for it into the ruins of the city through narrow alleyways and beaten paths. If she had the energy for it, she would have used her own magic to hover off of the ground, avoiding all of the man’s clumsy steps that left her getting yanked around by the arm and scraped knees. At least her boots managed to fortify her ankles. It seemed as though he might be aiming to leave her like a wounded deer in a field surrounded by hunters, but he kept her secure by his side.

They ran until her lungs burned and her eyes threatened to lose sight, her vision flickering to pitch black several times fast. She panted, soon released when the man found a place of his liking to rest. She looked around, trying to trace the twists and turns of his running. It was getting late, but even still, there would be no stars visible in the surrounding sky that loomed ever downward toward the city like the smoke wished for nothing more than to consume it. Marlowe found a building to lean against, sliding down its sad structure as she sat on the ground, furs encompassing her body. He asked her more questions and she wondered if this time he actually intended to hear answers from her. She knew the city fairly well after the passing years, and if she took the time to look around, once she caught her breath properly, she was sure she could find her way back home to her little cave. But he didn’t want to get away from the danger, it seemed. His escape from the center of the city was only a farce to go deeper into the pit of evil. She looked at him like he was crazy.

“You can’t go there.” she said flatly. It wasn’t that she wasn’t going to let him, it just wasn’t possible. The place was heavily guarded, and demons crawled out of the tear like the open doorway it was. “You couldn’t even fight back there, what makes you think that’s a smart direction to go? I can’t close the rift yet anyway. I need to find the other witches.” she said, nearly hissing at him. The location of what he was referring to was in the heart of the castle, in the courtyard where the ritual was performed. The Mad King lived in one of the castle’s towers, the wolves took up residence along the path that led to it, and she could only guess what else hid in the shadows that swallowed it. She’d tried to go there in the past, hoping to see if she could close it by herself. It was earlier on, when the rip was first formed and the demons were smaller in ranks. But the demon that now possessed the Mad King, from that very ritual, was like a God more than an evil underling. “And I’m in no condition to make it far enough. Why are you trying to go there? You don’t look equipped for much of anything, though your magic is peculiar, I’ll give you that much.” she admitted. “It seems you have pure intentions, or at least you think that you do. Some valiant knight, coming in here to slay the evil witch and close the rift. Was that your plan?” she asked him. Her sarcasm flared and she quieted to collect herself. He still had the upper hand and could finish what he started if he chose to.

“Listen,” she offered. “The King forced us into this. Believe what you will, but that demon was whispering into his ears for months if not longer. He was convinced he was speaking with an angel or a god that wished to bring forth a Utopia. I did what commanded of me, less I wanted my village to burn at my refusal. The king is possessed by the thing that tricked him, and it’s dangerous up there. Two of the witches died on site when it was summoned. The rest of us lived and fled. I think that those mags— the cultists— are running under the rule of one of them, which is why I haven’t left. As well as trying to contain this mess. Like it or not, my village is still in danger if this thing spreads.” she explained.

Fates.Gamble · Dec 29, 2021

Lucian demanded answers, but he gave the witch little regard once she began to speak. His eyes were too busy leaping this way and that, glancing at shadows as though demons might come springing out of them. Everything about this place unsettled him; from the ghoulish architecture of houses, right down to the cobblestones beneath their feet. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Lucian could swear those stones were moving, wriggling like maggots beneath his feet. More disturbing yet was the vibe of these long abandoned houses, empty creatures looming all around as if hungry to invite them inside.

Why does the land of the dead feel so alive? Imagination or not, the witch's comment about the mishap back in the square worked to break him out of it.

"I couldn't fight?" He said, jeering at the way she 'd slumped down to the floor. "That's amusing, coming from one who still fights to catch their breath. No wonder it took five of you to curse this place; one tussle with magic on your own and you can barely stand! You're lucky I was there to weaken that creature and drag you to safety. If I hadn't been, your body would be feeding those hounds by now." Not that it would be much waste, as frumpy as she looked in those rags. Pretty enough face, perhaps, if just looking at it didn't set his teeth on edge right now.

But never mind that now, did he just hear that she'd planned on closing the rift herself? That was enough to have Lucian biting his tongue, his angry face melting down into a look of suspicion.

Why? He wondered to himself. Was she truly repentant? Or was this just a plot to win his trust? Perhaps some dastardly trick to seduce him into finding and delivering these witches to the blackened heart of their evil? Whatever the reasons, the witch was right: She didn't look like she had enough strength to make the journey, let alone work magics powerful enough to heal Nordia's gruesome wound. Somehow, that didn't stop the woman from pointing out his own ineptitudes. Why no, he wasn't equipped for much. In fact, he'd even managed to leave his length of chain behind in their flight. That rendered one less tool in his arsenal. The lack of its weight was a welcome addition now, but thus far he'd been unable to create his binding spell without that chain to focus the light into.

The light is what Lucian had decided to name that 'peculiar magic' she spoke of. To many, the very word magic felt profane in its utterance. Hadn't it been magic that brought this death and ruin to Nordia? How could he ever associate himself with such a wicked blessing? If he was going to use this power, Lucian had to convince himself that it was something different to magic; a light that would destroy the darkness that swallowed Nordia whole. But there was more to coining the term than mere poetry or peace of mind. As the witch said, his light was a most peculiar power; one unlike any known to the eldest sages of Edessa, nor even the most revered scholars of its history. Lucian had lost count of how many sleepless nights he'd spent in the Phrontistery's grand archives, pouring over tome after tome of anything to do with the arcane, just in the hopes of discovering a likeness to the abilities he'd developed. It was bitter work, as magic was scarcely understood at best, to say nothing of how few witches were able to use it to any great effect in the first place.

But even the way others described using magic felt completely different to what Lucian experienced. When Lucian called upon the light it didn't feel like he was casting spells. It felt more like he was forging something; like he'd taken hold of pure, moldable energy and shaped it to his design as though his very thoughts were the hammer. To do it properly, however, required incredible focus. One stray thought was all it took to lose his grip and see the creation shattered; sometimes with explosive and dangerous results. As much as he would have liked to argue that his power would be enough to see them through, he was, in truth, still only learning how to wield it properly. It was a hard pill to swallow as he stood there, subjected to the witch's sarcasm of a valiant knight riding in to save the day. The full truth of his reasons for coming here were far more complicated than the fairy tale she described, but she hit enough marks that Lucian's attention fled the weight of her gaze for a moment.

If not that, there was his own curiosity that had him abiding her request to listen for now. What happened that day was the greatest mystery and loudest gossip throughout the surrounding kingdoms, after all. None had yet heard the truth from the mouth of those responsible, yet even as the witch spun her tale, Lucian could only guess at whether it was an honest one. Forced and deceived made for a more sympathetic story than unhinged and depraved. But if she were telling the truth, Lucian couldn't say he didn't know the feeling… He was less the 'valiant knight' she described than he was a 'useful tool' for another king. But even if she were being honest, it was hard to sympathize for a person when they were standing in the consequences of their choices. Part of Lucian wanted to ridicule her for it; to tear her down over managing to slaughter an entire kingdom just to save one village. But what would it serve, other than stoking the fires of his anger and grief? Instead, all he could do was heave with a frustrated sigh.

"This isn't the place to talk about this," Lucian decided. They'd put some distance between themselves and those mags, as she called them, but they were still out there somewhere. Lucian would bet gold that those fanatics were searching for them even now. To keep moving would probably have been the best option, but his unanticipated guest was in no shape to run and he wasn't just about to leave her behind, not when she'd given him so much to digest on. But anything was better than hanging about in the open for anyone to find, leading his attention to jump to the row of nearby houses.

"There," He said, nodding towards the closest of the abandoned homes. The place was less than welcoming, but it would serve to keep them away from any prying eyes or open ears. None of those seemed to be around, as far as Lucian could tell, but that didn't keep him from surveying the area while the witch was given a moment to compose herself. As soon as she was on her feet it was off towards the stoop of the house and the front door. Conveniently enough he found it unlocked, but the old, rusted hinges ruined any chance of subtlety the moment he pushed his way inside. Their screeching complaint echoed across the walls of a large foyer, the heart of what looked to have been a cozy home, once. Now there were only ashes in a long dead hearth, and empty seats scattered about a table big enough to seat a family of six. By the look of things, they'd been interrupted in the middle of their supper. Plates of half eaten food remained, their contents black and rotted beyond recognition after three years of neglect.

Lucian's eyes lifted to the jetty above their heads, the upper level concerning him more than whatever might have caused these people to abandon their dinner and their home. Any potential lurkers would know they were here, so there was no need to stand on ceremony. "Shutter those windows," he told the witch, shutting the door in her wake. "I'm going to make sure we're alone." He didn't spare her so much of a second glance before tromping off towards the stairs, but chasing her from his thoughts was another story. The witch consumed his mind entirely, distracting him from his task as Lucian ascended the old, creaky stairs and made a sweep of the upper level.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Lucian wondered to himself, voice no louder than a whisper as he checked the first room he came across. The sizable bed chamber appeared as lifeless as the rest of the abode. A twin pair of beds occupied either side of the room, sheets thrown aside as though the dwellers had just sprang out of them and rushed down for breakfast. Once he confirmed the room was clear, Lucian returned to the hall and went right back to lamenting his choices.

"Why didn't I kill her when I got the chance? Nothing good can come of this. If anyone finds out I spared one of them, let alone planned to conspire with them… " Lucian's reputation was already less than stellar thanks to his gift; he didn't want to think about what consequences he might face if his superiors learned he'd worked with one of their sworn enemies. Maybe she'd save them both a great deal of trouble and decide to flee while he'd left her alone with the opportunity. The idea of it had Lucian approaching the balcony's edge, his fingers wrapping around the railing as he stopped and peered down at the foyer below. His gaze followed her for a moment, silently wondering if she would book it for the door and leave the knight of Edessa and all the trouble he posed behind. But he knew it was too much to hope for. Even if she did want to escape him, she was in no shape to make it through the city. Once those mags found her she'd be just another corpse strewn about the city streets; one more sacrifice to compliment Nordia's macabre décor.

Lucian swept away from the overhang, returning to the job at hand even as he tried to puzzle a way out of this mess. If any living being was stalking this place the light surely would have alerted him, just as it did when he sensed the witch hiding behind the wagon. Even so, he continued his search, stepping into the master bedroom and throwing open the closets as if someone might be waiting to pop out. He was simply thankful for a chance to be alone with his thoughts, and this was a plenty good enough excuse to relish it.

"I have to learn everything I can from her at least," he reasoned with a sigh. There was still so much he didn't know; the method of the magic that ruined this place, for starters. A wound could not be healed if one did not understand the nature of the injury, after all. There was no end to the questions this rose; a stream of queries filled his mind by the time he moved on from the master bedroom and strolled further down the hall.

What should I demand first? He wondered silently. The location of the other witches? The method of their magic? Perhaps a name would be a good start-- they weren't bound to maintain civil discussion if he was calling her witch at every turn. Though, perhaps its better if I don't learn too much about the girl herself… Who knew what he'd decide once he heard more of this tale? Maybe his heart would decide it best this house become her tomb. If so, he couldn't weaken it with empathy; not when he'd faltered in putting her to the sword once already.

"It's so much easier when they look like monsters," Lucian grumbled to himself upon barging into the final stop on his tour of the home. He came to a stop in the doorway, eyes jumping to the mess of toys scattered across the ground. A child's playroom, he realized, slowly coming out of his thoughts about the witch downstairs as he glanced between the toys and the chest they'd come from, then to the wooden bench parked between two small bookshelves housing fairytale stories long untouched; aside from the couple that had been left face down and open among the wooden figures and other knickknacks around the place. The Archive's tome keepers would lose their heads had Lucian treated books like that back in his Phrontistery days.

Bereft of the energetic children this place once housed, Lucian felt like this room was the emptiest of all. It was too easy to imagine the memories that had been forged in this home; memories that came to a grinding halt all because of a coven of witches and the ritual they chose to perform… He couldn't help but wonder at their fate… No sign of a struggle anywhere, it was simply as if they up and vanished. Perhaps they fled at the first sign of trouble; maybe even managed to make it out of the city before the worst of what was to come. A happy thought, but one he hardly believed. Most likely they were just another pile of bones lying in a gutter somewhere in the city.

Because of her, and the rest of them, Lucian reminded himself before turning away from the playroom and stepping back out onto the jetty overlooking the foyer. "Not a soul to be found," he called down to the witch, his tone as sharp as ever what with his heavy considerations behind it. That iciness stuck with him as he pulled away from the balustrade and stalked back down the stairs. Once he was back on her level, he struck right for the table, gathering up one of the discarded chairs along the way. He gave the seat a quick dusting before setting it down at the table and plopping into it with a weary huff.

"Come sit," He told her, his words sounding less like an invitation and more like an order. "I intend to finish our discussion." He waited until she obliged, any objections or comments brushed off and ignored with a stony expression until she'd rooted herself for the uncomfortable conversation to come. "We need to talk about what you said earlier," Lucian started to say, "About closing the rift…" His keen eyes stuck to hers like glue, his gaze remaining locked that he might detect any lie that may shimmer behind them. "You spoke as if it'd be possible with the help of the other witches, right? Well, you'll forgive me if I lack any confidence in that plan. I can only assume you need the other witches because you're not strong enough to close it on your own. It took five of you to open it, and if things are as you say there's only three of you left alive to do anything about it. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say one of them is leading the crazy bastards that attacked us in that square? I can only assume your sister witches aren't as eager to close this rift as you appear to be. The fact you wish to mend the damage you wrought upon this place is astounding enough on its own without imagining that you can pull off such an incredible feat."

Lucian paused, steadying himself with a breath before his temper got the better of him and he found himself ranting all night. Once he managed to separate himself from such emotions, he continued: "I know a truth of this place; of the sickness that poisons Nordia. The rotting heart of this city grows bigger by the day. Even now, I can feel it festering; spreading. It stretches out from Nordia in every direction, consuming more of the land every day. This place has become a beast; a hungering monstrosity looking to devour everything its path. So, why should I ever believe a mere three of you can destroy the monster that took all five of you to birth?"

Jumbled · May 10, 2022

Satisfyingly, the knight looked properly paranoid. Marlowe suspected he once underestimated just how dangerous the dead kingdom could be, and if so, he wasn’t the only one to make such a mistake. Many visitors died from their assumptions that the lands were abandoned and littered with items up for grabs, like the traders and merchants that previously frequented the decaying dark spot of Nordia years ago. Not that this fighter seemed the looting type, while some of his garb was weathered, he was dressed rather well. He had the air of a savior in the making, fighting for honor and glory, or to have his name written in the stars and gracing the tongues of historians for years to come. People that wore white while traveling to a dirty place had that sort of confidence. Or maybe it was just men from Edessa, as that blue rose emblem on his chest indicated. Truth be told, Marlowe couldn’t yet glean what motivated him. Well, other than killing her and sparing the demons.

The little, aqua orbs of spirits that lingered nearby ebbed and flowed through the alleys surrounding the rows of houses the way fireflies might in a forest, slowly moving closer to the man that had dragged her a mile deep into the maze of abandoned buildings. They poked and bounced against his dark hair, like koi fish nibbling at pebbles of food. She watched the lights as her chest heaved with burning cold air that stung her lungs. So spirits found his aura special, too? What was it about him? Could he be the key to fixing things? Maybe the historians would tell his tale. It didn’t look like he could see them the way she could, but Marley couldn’t be certain as he did appear to have sensitivities to them at the very least.

When she hissed at him defensively, his response was adding insult to injury. The two weren’t exactly on their way to a budding relationship. Marlowe sat firmly on the ground, still huffing, as the knight before her worked to make her feel small and powerless, ridiculing her magical abilities as though he was suddenly the expert on what one such as herself was capable of doing. He sounded like any other typical man, leaving her far less curious about his abilities. It was enough to make her eyes roll back. Sizing him up, it was evident he was healthy, warm, and well fed. His standard sized meal was probably more than what Marlowe would find in days, and even then, rationing was essential if she wanted to survive to the next week. Of course she was out of breath, weak and tired! She just ended a powerful monster that would act as a weapon for those that wished to side with the evil king up in his tower. She lived in a place that chilled a person deep, penetrating down to the bone with a bite that even the heaviest furs couldn’t keep out. No, the stranger was wrong. He was lucky she was there to slay the demon, because the creature with its eager maw and daggered claws would not hesitate to end him the way he had hesitated with her.

“And here I thought—” she started, inhaling deeply to finish her sentence. “—that it was standard to thank a person for saving them from a giant monster. To be clear, I wouldn’t have been in that situation at all, had you not been poking around where you shouldn’t be, stranger.” He was the one that didn’t belong. It wasn’t her home by any means, but Marlowe had been surviving in the depths of the destruction for years. “You stick out like a flower in a wasteland.” she said, haphazardly moving her finger around in the air to gesture at his clothes. Yes, he was a bright, beaconing flower while she was a scuttling beetle looking for the next rock to hide beneath.

She gave him a diluted attempt at explaining things, not expecting him to lend her an ear, but he was more responsive than the witch had anticipated. His silence and avoidance of her gaze were both enough to give her pause. Perhaps she should have offered up more details. His sigh left her mirroring it as she dropped some of the tension that locked her shoulders into place. “Why would anyone purposely try to destroy the earth? This isn’t a situation that leaves one comfortably surviving. Except the demons, I suppose? But if the decay that’s poisoned these parts is spreading, then maybe even the demons cannot survive on this alone. Alternatively, maybe they can only survive in more hostile climates.” her voice shifted from tones of defeat to curiosity and wonder as she pondered the thought, never really considering it. But, before she could think about the topic longer, he shut her down. Her lips pressed into a fine line as Marlowe watched the orbs circling around him. She batted a few away from her own face as though they were gnats she could shoo with the back of her hand, then guided the others away with a shift of air. The area had seen a lot of innocent deaths. The cottages always accumulated more of the little spirit lights, though she couldn’t understand why they’d ever choose to stay. Marlowe was still uncertain when it came to the ways of the mysterious realm she could see, so perhaps there was no real choice for them at all. Choice or not, she was relieved that none of them were strong enough to manifest their human form. It was always more startling when they did that.

Pulled from her thoughts by the rumble of the stranger’s hushed voice, she turned her gaze to the direction he gestured toward. What did he want? Marlowe realized she hadn’t actually been paying much attention to him by that point, getting more lost in her own thoughts than watching what he was doing. “What now—?” He wasn’t in a defensive stance, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an enemy in that direction. Grunting, the witch used her hands to push her aching body up with the help of the ground, then the wall behind her. Straightening, her joints cracked and popped like she was one of the old houses that lined the street they were on. The heap of furs that covered her frame dropped down to her ankles and her arms and hands retreated back behind their cover. She could have used that time to run away from him, and had she been less distracted, perhaps she would have. Instead, she followed after the man, wincing as the door whined against his force. ’I know how you feel,’ Marley thought as she empathized with it.

The state of the home was typical as she glanced around cautiously. Although several reasons could have been the likely cause of abandonment— the hounds, other demons or the damned mags— there were no gashes in the doors or on the walls; no blood splatters in sight either. If she had a guess, the family that once lived there heard chaos in the streets and ran out of the house before being attacked. The chances that they made it out alive to another town weren’t strong, though. At least, not with the entire family intact. There were too many chairs at the table. The odds just weren’t in their favor. Now, the only thing left in their place were their unfinished meals, just as rotted as their corpses were, undoubtedly. The witch frowned, but was beyond feeling racked with guilt over the ordeal. It had been years, not to say that she had made peace with it— just acceptance. The reality of the situation was all around her every day. But what dangers waited for them there in the discarded home?

The Edessian ordered her to secure the windows. Spending years of not being under the boot of a man’s authority, the witch arched a brow at him before wandering off to the left, waving a hand in frustration, finding her way to the first frame. She listened to the weight of each creaking step he took up the stairs, not bothering to look back in his direction. She could not say that she trusted him by any means, however, spending any more time fretting over when he might land a killing blow was a waste of her energy. It was clear he had chosen to keep her alive for whatever it was he wanted regarding the castle and mad king.
“Why am I even bothering with this?” she asked herself as she worked her way along the inside perimeter of the home, closing shutters as she went. Her curiosity was getting the best of her. With the creaks from above drumming closer, Marley turned her earthy gaze up to the railing where the man stood, looking down at her with his piercing amber stare. No sooner did their eyes meet did she turn away from him. Even as she felt energy building in her fingertips again, finally recovering from the mess of her battling, she wasn’t ready to venture back out with the swarm of enemies outside looking for them. Had it been a quieter night, perhaps she would have left the knight behind. So, instead, as instructed, she secured the rest of the house, not finding much in the way of danger.

He came into view, reporting his findings. “Same. No one is hiding down here.” she responded, ignoring his tone. If he chose to be angry with her over every empty home in the Dead Lands, that was his choice. Marley crossed her arms in front of her chest, still hidden under the layers that covered her form. Her hip leaned up as she bent her right knee.

He returned to the first level and immediately transitioned into barking out a new order. His anger was exhausting for Marlow to listen to; it was a wonder he plopped down so wearily onto his chosen seat. He wanted to continue his accusations and play more of his blame-game with her, but his energy was being lost as payment. With some more of her mana back, the witch gestured to one of the chairs that lay on its side on the ground, lifting it in the air with little effort, grasping it with her hands to place it down properly in front of the table. She didn’t sit right away, instead, holding both hands against its back frame, fingers curled around the cold, splintering wood. His eyes were locked onto hers like a hunter watching his target out in a field. “So when you want to talk, I’m allowed to speak.” She challenged him. He ignored her, staring her down while he waited to see her more obedient. She huffed as she shook her head, rolling her eyes as she maneuvered the layer of fur from her frame, draping it along the back and seat of the chair for more cushion before sitting. She crossed a leg over the other, her chair leaning back as she sat, though it was difficult to know if it was through the force of her foot or the magic in her being. “I’m sure I’ve said many things earlier—” she began, though he cut her off with a more specific topic. “Yeah, okay fine. Closing the rift, what of it?”

He didn’t have confidence in her plan? Well, maybe she didn’t have a lot of faith in it either. “It’s not like I’m the one that concocted the ritual to open the rift in the first place. I’m simply working in a manner to reverse engineer the thing. It took five, unique wiches to open it, and while yes, some of them are dead now, I was hopeful that the remaining women might be strong enough to at least fight; Hopefully close it. It’s not like I can ask just anyone to help. Do you want to help?” she asked him sarcastically. “I’m grasping at straws here. Studying demons, collecting samples of the land to see if anything sticks out as important. It’s not my specialty. But I don’t know what else to do. So I stay instead of flee. And yeah. Erys. I suspect she is at least behind those mags in some way. There’s just a stench about that woman, something that doesn’t want to leave the nostrils and I swear I can smell that same rot on them. And the way they move and cast magic— all signs point to her necromancy. That’s bringing the dead back to life in case you didn’t know.

I’ll admit I’m not so convinced she wants the world to go back to the way it was. Perhaps it’s more in her nature to side with demons. In which case, she still needs to be found and stopped. But you need to get something straight: They are not my sisters and we are not in a coven. I have no real ties to any of them. There was only one I remotely liked and she’s dead.” Although her guilt had leveled off, her internal mission to heal the lands remained the same. Everyday she worked toward surviving and learning enough to cure the wound brought forth by a cunning demon, a mad king, and the five witches. “Maybe it’s not a good plan, but I’ve been at this alone for a while now, watching the spirits and demons wandering about. Did your king send you with advice from a proper advisor; a sorcerer?” The chair tilted forward as all four legs connected with the floor once again. Her fingers folded together in front of her on the table as she willed the plates of decay to move away from them. “You don’t have to believe me, but I implore you to leave me be.” She tried to hide how unsettled she was in hearing the curse upon the Dead Lands was spreading like a disease upon the earth. Soon their entire ecosystem would hang in the balance and everyone would live in the same nightmarish place she’d spent years in.

“Maybe my plans are half-baked and in need of better thought.” she allowed her eyes to trail along the path of his tanned skin, the underlying tone of his muscle and healthy hair. The witch was malnourished by comparison and was lucky to come up with any decent idea at all. “Help me find and confront Erys. Her cultists are only aiding the demons at this point. If we locate her and weaken the ranks of those mags, getting to the mad king might be feasible without us being as overwhelmed as we were out there.” It was a bold ask, she knew. But he was desperate, too.

ค ɭเﻮђՇ ๒๏гภ ๏Ŧ ๔คгкภєรร: ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ [[ Jumbled & Fates.Gamble ]]

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