Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
Morathor
Supernova
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2012
- Location
- Midwestern USA
The sun beat down on the desert landscape, glistening off the ridges of the golden dunes. And standing stark against the cloudless blue sky, a vast structure loomed over the sand. It looked for all the world like a gnarled tree of black stone, its trunk twisting and weaving; entire wings hung off the building by the merest thread of a walkway, and the sparse knotholes that passed for windows let only thin shafts of sunlight in to illuminate the interior. Every so often, those glimmers of light glinted off the blade of a sword. Its wielder, a tall, lean figure, hurried through the shadowy hallways, her eyes shining like a cat's in the dark. And like a cat, she tread across the stone floor with silent steps, a long, thick braid of hair trailing behind her as if it were weightless.
The same could not be said of the other residents of the building, whose hurried footsteps echoed through the halls. In time the woman's course took her to a large room, where the smell of burnt meat filled the air, a half-butchered boar lay abandoned on a table, and half a dozen people huddled together, muttering. When they noticed the new arrival, one broke off from the group to approach her; she did not look at him, but with a whip-like swing of her arm, severed his head from his shoulders without breaking her stride. The rest scattered. Some didn't seem to notice, or perhaps didn't believe, what was happening, and were cut down before they could react. Some bolted for the exits, but were not fast enough. Some ran for the tools of their trade, their knives and cleavers, to mount a last, futile stand.
The woman made her way to the top of the spire, where a broad plateau blossomed out, and stepped out into the light. The sun shone on a brown face, on black hair and dark eyes, on a suit of white and gold that covered her from neck to toe and clung to her muscles and curves in equal measure. The garment was pristine, made of some material that repelled the grime that caked her face, the dust of the road and the fresh splatters of her recent work.
The plateau had no walls or railings; standing between the pillars that held up the roof offered a perilous view of the sands far below. But the woman paid no mind to the edge. Instead her attention was on one grand column in the center that seemed to grow out of the rock like a stalactite. It had been carved into a throne, in which sprawled a dessicated husk of a man. Heavy bands of gold hung around wrists and neck to withered to bear their weight, and his dark veins were clearly visible beneath skin as thin and pale as paper. In front of him sprawled a banquet table, barren of food; at his feet knelt two women, each beautiful and clothed only in a smattering of silver jewelry. One was nearly as pale as the man, the other as dark as the stone tower, and each equally engrossed in servicing his flaccid member.
Another woman, this one standing behind the throne, dressed in layered silks that covered much of her face and body, rushed towards the new arrival. Concern and relief warred in her expression, but both gave way to dawning realization, then resigned fear--perhaps as she noticed the freshest blood spatters on the newcomer's hands and face, or perhaps she recalled some scream that had echoed from the floors below. Either way, she stood her ground as she was run through, and crumpled at her killer's feet.
The swordswoman walked around the table and approached the throne, dark eyes moving between the two women kneeling there. One was beginning to tremble, but neither had abandoned her duty. She looked up to the gaunt figure between them. "Shall I wait, Master?"
A weary groan emanated from somewhere in his chest, which heaved from the effort. "No," he wheezed. "I'm not much in the mood for this. Let's just be done with it."
Once the concubines were dispatched, and their bodies dragged to the side, the swordswoman knelt at her master's side.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"Of course," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly.
A pale, spindly arm reached out for the kneeling woman, and her breath caught in her throat as the man cupped her filthy cheek. She leaned into his touch as he began to rub away layers of grime with his thumb, eyes fluttering closed.
"Ah... my Anya... I built you too well..." She did not reply, biting her lip as the meticulous work of his fingers peeled away the dried blood from her skin.
In time, his hand fell still. In time, it fell limp. In time, the lightning in his veins stopped flickering, and the rasping of his breath fell silent.
---
Wind howled across the frozen wastes, carrying a veil of thick flakes that darkened land and sky. The tall, lean figure that trudged across the landscape was barely visible through the curtains of white, and the stark trail she cut in the knee-deep snow was buried almost as fast as it formed. Her clothing was ill-suited for the weather--a tattered suit of white and gold that exposed several stripes of smooth brown skin to the cold. But she showed no signs of discomfort or fatigue.
Barely visible against the horizon was a towering spire, like a gnarled tree of black stone. Even on the rare occasion that the sun found its way through the perpetual storm that clouded these skies, very little sunlight made its way through the knotholes that passed for windows. Not that there was anyone inside who might need the light; the woman made her way through winding hallways and narrow staircases, effortlessly stepping over the scattered bones that littered the floors.
Finally she made her way to the top, a vast plateau that had once overlooked sea of dunes. She approached the throne, where a skeletal figure still sprawled, heavy golden bands still weighing down its wrists and neck. She set down her bag and sword and picked up the platter that sat before him. The food was frozen solid, the meat beyond salvation; she took it to the edge of the plateau and dumped it over. She doubted even the scavengers would have much use for it. She took the platter back to the table, wiped it clean, and set it once more before the skeleton. Then she opened her bag and laid out food before the throne.
Only once her master was served did she circle around the table and lay out a second, slightly smaller portion for herself. Then she sat, waiting, as long as she could bear, until her stomach started to ache. And though every fiber of her being, the devotion etched into her very bones, screamed that she was not to eat before her Master, that same devotion demanded she survive for as long as she could.
Anya was under no delusion that her Master, as godlike as he had seemed to her in life, could ever return to her. But to appease that part of her that wanted to be ready, in case she was ever needed again, she forced herself to lift bread to her mouth, to part her lips, and chew.
The same could not be said of the other residents of the building, whose hurried footsteps echoed through the halls. In time the woman's course took her to a large room, where the smell of burnt meat filled the air, a half-butchered boar lay abandoned on a table, and half a dozen people huddled together, muttering. When they noticed the new arrival, one broke off from the group to approach her; she did not look at him, but with a whip-like swing of her arm, severed his head from his shoulders without breaking her stride. The rest scattered. Some didn't seem to notice, or perhaps didn't believe, what was happening, and were cut down before they could react. Some bolted for the exits, but were not fast enough. Some ran for the tools of their trade, their knives and cleavers, to mount a last, futile stand.
The woman made her way to the top of the spire, where a broad plateau blossomed out, and stepped out into the light. The sun shone on a brown face, on black hair and dark eyes, on a suit of white and gold that covered her from neck to toe and clung to her muscles and curves in equal measure. The garment was pristine, made of some material that repelled the grime that caked her face, the dust of the road and the fresh splatters of her recent work.
The plateau had no walls or railings; standing between the pillars that held up the roof offered a perilous view of the sands far below. But the woman paid no mind to the edge. Instead her attention was on one grand column in the center that seemed to grow out of the rock like a stalactite. It had been carved into a throne, in which sprawled a dessicated husk of a man. Heavy bands of gold hung around wrists and neck to withered to bear their weight, and his dark veins were clearly visible beneath skin as thin and pale as paper. In front of him sprawled a banquet table, barren of food; at his feet knelt two women, each beautiful and clothed only in a smattering of silver jewelry. One was nearly as pale as the man, the other as dark as the stone tower, and each equally engrossed in servicing his flaccid member.
Another woman, this one standing behind the throne, dressed in layered silks that covered much of her face and body, rushed towards the new arrival. Concern and relief warred in her expression, but both gave way to dawning realization, then resigned fear--perhaps as she noticed the freshest blood spatters on the newcomer's hands and face, or perhaps she recalled some scream that had echoed from the floors below. Either way, she stood her ground as she was run through, and crumpled at her killer's feet.
The swordswoman walked around the table and approached the throne, dark eyes moving between the two women kneeling there. One was beginning to tremble, but neither had abandoned her duty. She looked up to the gaunt figure between them. "Shall I wait, Master?"
A weary groan emanated from somewhere in his chest, which heaved from the effort. "No," he wheezed. "I'm not much in the mood for this. Let's just be done with it."
Once the concubines were dispatched, and their bodies dragged to the side, the swordswoman knelt at her master's side.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"Of course," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly.
A pale, spindly arm reached out for the kneeling woman, and her breath caught in her throat as the man cupped her filthy cheek. She leaned into his touch as he began to rub away layers of grime with his thumb, eyes fluttering closed.
"Ah... my Anya... I built you too well..." She did not reply, biting her lip as the meticulous work of his fingers peeled away the dried blood from her skin.
In time, his hand fell still. In time, it fell limp. In time, the lightning in his veins stopped flickering, and the rasping of his breath fell silent.
---
Wind howled across the frozen wastes, carrying a veil of thick flakes that darkened land and sky. The tall, lean figure that trudged across the landscape was barely visible through the curtains of white, and the stark trail she cut in the knee-deep snow was buried almost as fast as it formed. Her clothing was ill-suited for the weather--a tattered suit of white and gold that exposed several stripes of smooth brown skin to the cold. But she showed no signs of discomfort or fatigue.
Barely visible against the horizon was a towering spire, like a gnarled tree of black stone. Even on the rare occasion that the sun found its way through the perpetual storm that clouded these skies, very little sunlight made its way through the knotholes that passed for windows. Not that there was anyone inside who might need the light; the woman made her way through winding hallways and narrow staircases, effortlessly stepping over the scattered bones that littered the floors.
Finally she made her way to the top, a vast plateau that had once overlooked sea of dunes. She approached the throne, where a skeletal figure still sprawled, heavy golden bands still weighing down its wrists and neck. She set down her bag and sword and picked up the platter that sat before him. The food was frozen solid, the meat beyond salvation; she took it to the edge of the plateau and dumped it over. She doubted even the scavengers would have much use for it. She took the platter back to the table, wiped it clean, and set it once more before the skeleton. Then she opened her bag and laid out food before the throne.
Only once her master was served did she circle around the table and lay out a second, slightly smaller portion for herself. Then she sat, waiting, as long as she could bear, until her stomach started to ache. And though every fiber of her being, the devotion etched into her very bones, screamed that she was not to eat before her Master, that same devotion demanded she survive for as long as she could.
Anya was under no delusion that her Master, as godlike as he had seemed to her in life, could ever return to her. But to appease that part of her that wanted to be ready, in case she was ever needed again, she forced herself to lift bread to her mouth, to part her lips, and chew.
