Massacre Anne (Arkadin/Morathor)

[Morathor]

Moonlight filtered dimly through the dense clouds, glistening off of swirling snowflakes as the howling wind carried them in thick flurries. It was not light enough to see through the pitch black night, only enough to cast shifting, disorienting shadows across the snow. The frozen wastes, ever inhospitable, were particularly dangerous on a night like tonight, and only the foolish or the desperate would brave the wilds before morning.

The short figure that cut through the dark was too unhurried to be desperate, and even through knee-deep snow, they moved with assuredness that did not befit a fool. They wore thick, dark clothing, with a fur-lined hood pulled down low over their head. Still, a careful observer might believe they saw two pinpricks of silver light. The figure carried a satchel, nearly as big as they were, slung over one shoulder without apparent effort. In their other hand, they carried a sword--gently curved, with a pristine blade that shone more brightly than the dim, mottled moonlight should have allowed.

Barely visible against the night sky was a sprawling spire of pitch black, a twisted tower that looked more like a massive, gnarled tree than a building. Entire wings had fallen to the ground, reduced to rubble, while other parts of the structure were held on by narrow walkways that seemed like they should have collapsed long ago. The figure walked confidently through the ruins, paying no heed to the wind that whistled even through the crumbling remains of the building. They desecended a staircase, deeper into the heart of the massive structure, until they reached a stone sarcophagus.

The satchel was discarded, and the heavy boots kicked off. Thick snowpants were allowed to fall to the floor, revealing slender legs with smooth brown skin. The sword was passed from hand to hand as the heavy coat was peeled away from bare shoulders. Beneath the winter clothes, the slim woman wore only a tattered black dress. At one time, it might have reached past her knees; now it barely reached to the top of her thighs, with her long white hair falling farther than the dress. The straps meant to hold it up had long since worn away; now only the curve of her supple breasts supported the garment.

Freed from her heavy clothes, the woman approached the sarcophagus and knelt, planting the point of her sword in the ground. "Mission complete," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Damage sustained..."

She hesitated, reaching up to her shoulder, fingers gliding over a rough stain of ruddy brown. Most of the blood had soaked into the coat, and the wound had healed on the way back. But pushing at the soft flesh, an unpleasant grinding sensation and a jolt of pain told her the bullet was still lodged inside. She sighed in frustration.

"Damage sustained, manageable." She lifted her sword, pressing the point to her own skin...

...

The woman sat panting, clutching the hole in her shoulder, feeling it slowly seal beneath her hand. She glared down at the discarded piece of metal on the floor. Her pain tolerance was high, but that did not make it pleasant to have to repair herself in this way. And for what? She could call it a mission, give a debriefing to a corpse, but she had no assignment. No orders. No purpose. At times like these, she wondered why she bothered doing this. Why she bothered staying alive, when the only thing that gave that life meaning was sealed in the sarcophagus behind her.

 

[Arkadin]

"Wouldn't recommend heading out that way."
"Oh? And Why's that?"
A figure wrapped in a thick fur cloak finished stuffing some supplies into a pack. Blue eyes peeking out from under a hood. The old man at the settlement looked at the figure's clothes. Worn, but not as worn as some of the other clothes out there.
"You're from a big settlement, ain'tcha?"
"...The city of Seawall."
"You're far from home, stranger."
The young man threw the pack onto his back with a snort. As if he didn't appreciate the old man's obvious statement. A single braid of hair, dyed blue hung down out of the hood. The rest carefully tucked up under it. The younger man motioned with his hand. Urging the old man to continue giving his unsolicited advice.
"Anyway. Spire's certain death. It's far enough from the settlement you'll be out in the dark before you reach it. When ya do there's somethin' in that spire that kills. Survivors barely know what it was. Anyone going out that way either comes back dead or lucky."
"I appreciate your concern. But I'll be fine."
"Whatever you say... so any news from Seawall? I heard a prince was killed out there."
"A dead prince isn't news for Seawall."

...

The whipping of the wind almost drowned out the sound of the booted feet crunching over the snow. Steady movements checking the ground with each step. One step. two. The chill of the storm soaking deep into the bones of the single lone figure now stepping across the icy wastes. A single blue light trailed ahead of it. Casting a dim, uneasy glow over the wastes. When the man lifted his head, the blue light glimmered off his eyes which seemed to be a similar hue of blue.
"Thank you, but this pace is fine."
He said to the glowing blue light. A small floating orb of pure glow. It waved left and right as if shaking a head. But still he followed the light. Soon enough the spire rose. Dark, imposing, derelict. He put his hand to the wall as he let out a low sigh.

"It should be here somewhere..."
He lowered his head. Eyes widening as flashes of memories coursed through him. Painful and foreign. Emotions that were not his and were his hammered against his ribcage. He leaned against a solid stone part of the wall that seemed intact and sturdy as he exhaled shakily. Turning and striding through the ruins. Descending slowly down the stairs. He held onto a long knife at his side. The blue orb floating next to him still. He reached a hand out and grasped the orb. For a brief second his hand glowed and the skin became translucent. Underneath the now blue, sheer skin was glowing blue bones. They grasped the orb and shoved it deep into his cloak. Hiding it away as he continued down. He'd need to channel its energy if something dangerous really was there.

Slowly he strode into the tomb. Pulling his hood back. Short, messy black hair falling out of the hood and that single blue braid tumbling after. He gripped the knife tighter as he saw the sarcophagus. Sealed. He scanned the room. He wasn't looking for that. Where would she be...

 

[Morathor]

She sensed them coming. Of course she did. She was an assassin, a hunter; she had been designed to track her targets no matter how far they fled, no matter how they tried to hide or disguise themselves. Their very souls shone bright to her arcane senses; she knew the movements of every living thing within a dozen miles, and when she had locked onto the aura of her prey, she could track them across half a continent. An intruder could not creep into her master's tomb undetected.

Or, was it two intruders, or three? She couldn't tell. Something was strange about the approaching presence. Something was wrong. Something prickled the back of her neck and twisted in her gut. She didn't understand, and that made her uneasy. She wasn't used to this sense of trepidation, especially since her Master had died. If there was any upside to the emptiness of her existence, it was that, with nothing at stake, failure or death carried no fear for her. With no Master to disappoint, there were never nerves or anxiety. So why, and how, did she now feel uneasy?

So she hid. She waited, and watched. She would observe carefully what she was dealing with.

It was all the more confusing when the man who entered was... merely a man. Not a monstrosity, not an ancient warbeast, not a twisted mutant; a mortal, human man. She could smell his sweat, hear the beating of his heart. She could sense his aura, the soul of an ordinary human. But then... there was something more, past that. Something that set her on edge, something that seemed desperately important and entirely inscrutable. She needed to act, before her dread and confusion overwhelmed her, doomed her.

She charged from the shadows, sword drawn back for a sweeping cut. Whatever the composition of his soul, she could tell that his body was decidedly human. Frail and fallible. She would have severed his head from his shoulders in one stroke; he would be dead faster than his body could register the pain.

But she didn't. She halted her sword, inches from his flesh, her hand beginning to shake.

The man in front of her was a stranger. She did not know his face, she did not know his soul.

The man in front of her was her Master. His face was strange, but the soul she was born to serve shone as bright as the sun.

How was this man two men? How was one of those men her Master?

How had she come so close to killing him? How had she dared to lift her blade against her Master?

The blade tumbled from trembling fingers, and she fell to her knees. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

 

[Arkadin]

The vortex of self and not-self whirled and boiled. He knew that if she was still here, she should be defending the place. What a horrible life that must have been. To guard an empty house for so long. How lonely. Part of the not-him felt guilt. He felt pity. The two emotions blurred at the borders of his identity in ways that made him feel cold. Instead he focused on his goal. Recruitment. Arcane sensors would undoubtedly ensure that she would identify him. Understand what a piece of him was. She would know him. No. She would know the not-him. Ever since the cold, dark storm he'd had to keep his inner self warm. He focused instead on their faces. Laughing, smiling faces as he fell. His anger burned inside him and renewed the border between him and the others. She would be here. She had to be.

When he stepped into the room and didn't see her, he went through the process. Out? Not this late and in this weather. Hiding? Possible. If so she was following ambush protocols.
Ambush.
The word made his attention suddenly focus on silver in the shadows. Raising the knife to block. Sword sweeping over. Too much force, dodge. not block.
The blade stopped right before his neck, jaw clenching as he tried to prepare something to save his life...
She stopped. She fell to her knees and began to apologize. How touching.
He regarded her carefully. Before he lifted a hand and rested it softly on her silver hair.
"...It's alright. We're okay. This is a new situation for all of us."

He stayed standing. Looking down at the apologizing girl. Was this the weapon he'd been promised? His brow furrowed a little. Tattered black dress, obvious damage done recently. There would need to be some changes there.
"... I am Erebos Harkthorn. I am also Sol Aten the 3rd. Though it seems you can sense that."
He moved over to the sealed box. Touching fingers against the tomb and tilting his head at it.
"...Well you aren't in here anymore, Sol."
He muttered to the air.
The man turned back to the woman. The weapon. Crossing his arms a bit.
"I require your assistance. Though I imagine you're also rather confused about a few things. Do you have any questions?"
Whatever protocols had kept her running, they seemed to recognize him and the piece of her master that had entangled together. She'd waited centuries here.
... He admired that level of loyalty. He needed it.

 

[Morathor]

She shivered as he placed his hand upon her head. He was gentle, soothing. She didn't ever want it to stop. How long had she yearned for her Master's touch?

But he wasn't her Master, and the way that her entire being keened for his fingertips made her sick. The way she could not bring herself lift her head, not without his permission, made her jaw clench. As he walked across the room, as he had the audacity to lay an unworthy finger on the sarcophagus she had guarded for centuries, she wanted to split him in two. She wanted to scream. She wanted to take the sword to her own skull, and cut out whatever traitorous part of her brain dared to think ill of her Master.

With great effort, she forced words through gritted teeth. "Y-you... are not..."

She couldn't finish. She couldn't tell him he wasn't Sol Aten; her senses told her he was, that his very soul was that of her Master. And she had no right to contradict her Master.

He required her assistance. He had work for her. For the first time in centuries, she would have a real mission. She hated how she craved it. Craved him, and his commandments. But she did. She would give anything to have a purpose again.

"My only question," she murmured, "is how I may serve you, Master?" The word tasted like bile on her tongue.

 

[Arkadin]

Erebos watched her carefully. He'd met this woman with a sword against his throat. He was going to be at least a little cautious. With great effort she seemed to voice out some dissent. Yet the words died falling from her lips. Then she muttered her need to serve him. Even calling him master. He smiled at that. He had missed the feeling of control.
"Raise your head."
He commanded. Striding towards her and keeping a look on her reaction. Those iced, blue eyes regarding her carefully. Either his mix with Sol Aten wasn't enough to fully satisfy her or there was something wrong with her programming. Part of him wouldn't entertain the idea she was flawed in any way. Erebos considered if that pride was part of Sol's downfall. Well. He'd need to see.
"Well let's start by getting better acquainted. What is your designation? Or I suppose what name have you been going by?"
The man regarded the Spire as he looked up at the ceiling. Listening and taking in any information he could.
"Also report on the current status of the Spire. What assets are currently available to us?"

By the disrepair and ruin he saw outside, he doubted anything else from the Age of Wonders still existed here. Pity. He could use more tools. Not just her. Though she would be a powerful asset. The level of control it took to stop that sword so quickly spoke to a level of mastery and control that was inhuman. More than that, the strength to wield it so effortlessly was also impressive. She was everything Sol had promised and more.
Sickeningly, Erebos moved very much like he owned the Spire. As if he'd lived there for years. That disgusting paradox like he knew this place and didn't. He had a thought as he paced around. Letting her finish her report before speaking again.

"Have there been any recent intruders? Anybody you've killed and still have the bodies here. Preferably only 10 years at the oldest."

it was a long shot, he knew. The old man said people didn't come to the Spire. But there were always treasure hunters. Human greed never really changed in the grand scheme of things. He set his backpack down and rummaged around, taking out a piece of dried meat and biting into it. Munching quietly. His enemies were going to be spreading out. This would be a long process to get his revenge. He had time though, plenty of time.

 

[Morathor]

She raised her head as instructed, staring up at her new Master. Her silver eyes shone not just with their usual silver light, but with the glimmer of tears welling up. Joy and misery were swirling within her, and joy made the misery all the more perverse; it was overwhelming. But it didn't matter how she felt. Not when she had a duty to perform.

"My designation is Anya," she said. She had little interest in sharing that name with the humans of this age; more than a few of the local officials she turned her bounties in to knew her simply as "girl." But when they were obstinate--and humans could be quite obstinate when they didn't think you were going to behead them--she had not seen any point in coming up with a false identity. The name her Master had given her was one of the few things she had left of him.

Which brought her to the man's second question, a stark reminder that he was not Aten Sol, no matter what her senses told her. "My Master did not wish his empire to fall into the hands of the unworthy." And none alive were worthy, after his passing. "His last acts were for the destruction of his property. Anything worth taking was to be destroyed--weapons, treasures, labs. Generals, advisors, arcanists, heirs." After all, the people of his empire were property as well, his to use and dispose of as he saw fit.

She doubted this answer would please her Master--and she wanted so badly to please him--so she furrowed her brow, looking for some piece of good news. "As I was tasked with the elimination of human resources, I can't speak to the thoroughness of those who destroyed his material goods. There may be a few assets remaining." It was unlikely, though. She had guarded this place for centuries, but from any outsider's perspective, she doubted there was anything worth taking. That might have made their deaths tragic, if she had any regard for their lives.

But it seemed her new Master had some interest in them. And already she felt as though she had failed him. "I... have not been tracking, time. It did not seem to be a priority. I don't know how old the bodies are. But I will take you to them, if you wish to see them."

 

[Arkadin]

Erebos watched and listened intently. She seemed to be crying. Though whether it was joy or some other emotion he couldn't tell. He felt a twist in his stomach at the idea that the old sorcerer kings made something so human and yet so twistedly machine-like. Her loyalty seemed like a mill stone. Moving in circles for as long as the river would run. Uncaring if there was wheat or a hand under the rock. Anya. He liked that name. He saw no need to change it. After all, she'd used it for centuries. Erebos regarded the next information with a simple look. He didn't seem pleased or displeased. It was what it was. Scorched Earth Tactics his tutors had told him. A tactic where you will keep your enemy from gaining anything by burning and salting the Earth. There was so little fertile ground these days. He could scarcely understand such a tactic. He imagined that Aten Sol didn't expect to come back.

He gave a soft shrug.
"After this long a time, I doubt anything would remain usable without someone to upkeep it."
She didn't keep track of time. He gave a soft hum.
"...You'll need to start marking time again for convenience of the mission. Waiting centuries you didn't have anything to look forward to, but now we have work."
But still. There was death here. If the bodies were all piled up since the fall, there should be something usable. If only in the bones.
"Take me to the bodies. I'll salvage what I can."
He wondered if she was haunted. Not in the sense of her feeling guilt. He wondered if there were angry ghosts hiding just outside his sight that were going to wail at her from beyond her sight. She could sense souls. Perhaps she could sense the lingering ones. Well. They would need to see. He reached out a hand and pet her softly.
"Good job staying alive this long."

As they walked he rummaged around in his bag. Taking out a small canister, some pieces of chalk and a black leather bound book that he tucked under his arm. He tucked the canister and the chalk into a pouch on his belt and then flipped open the book. Flicking through the pages. Glancing up at her as they walked before he looked back down at the book. Continuing to read to himself and following her movements. Making sure to step exactly where she had stepped. As if avoiding traps or weak floor spaces.
"While we're walking, what functions do you still have available to you? Defense protocols seem to be working at the least."
If speaking to the shard of something within himself wasn't so difficult he'd just ask. But he couldn't take for granted the fact that he was lucky to have the knowledge he'd obtained. Far luckier than he'd been any other time in his life.

 

[Morathor]

She shivered again as he pet her. When he praised her for staying alive, her heart swelled and her stomach twisted. Maybe it would have been better to die, long ago. To spare herself these centuries of isolation. To spare herself the agony of falling into this man's hands. Regardless, at his command, she took up her sword, rose to her feet, and led him up the stairs.

She lowered her head as her new Master asked her about her functions. She wasn't sure how to explain, where to begin. She didn't know what he knew, and didn't know; she had gone from a man who knew her inside and out, a man who had meticulously and methodically constructed her, who had etched his magic into her bones and personally attached every sinew that stretched in her limbs... to a man who had to be told her name. What could she tell him?

"My energy reserves are low. I was designed to subsist on my Master's mana, although I was given a digestive system as a backup for long missions." And it had been so, so long, since she'd felt her Master's touch. "Human food has sustained me, but it's been difficult to consume enough calories to maintain peak performance for long periods. In particular, regeneration expends energy rapidly." It was also automatic, to ensure she could recover even if reduced to an unconscious state. But these days, that meant that she couldn't simply choose to live with an injury to conserve her strength. "I have had to be cautious. Ration my stamina, avoid injury when possible." Without thinking, her hand went up to her bloodstained shoulder. She couldn't even stop her flesh from healing around a bullet, necessitating her to cut it out later and waste more energy. That injury had cost far too much.

"Otherwise my functions are unimpaired. I have not sustained any damage I could not recover from, my body has not degraded." Not that he knew what her functions were, and she wasn't quite sure where to begin explaining. She supposed she should tell him where her abilities surpassed a human, but where didn't they? "My senses and reflexes significantly surpass human capabilities. I can sense living auras at a range of just over twelve miles. I can further focus my attention on one aura I have been exposed to, and detect it at distances of several hundred miles. This is my primary function, as a hunter killer. I... was not designed, for defense. It is simply the role that seemed most necessary, after my Master's death."

She took a shaky breath before continuing. "Once I have located my target, I was designed to pursue them relentlessly. I don't sleep, although with my current energy situation, rest is often necessary. I can survive off mana in lieu of food, but that option may no longer be available to me." She did not know if her new Master was capable of infusing her with power--and even if he was, did he have the same mana at his disposal as a sorcerer king? "I am immune to disease and toxins and can operate unimpeded in temperatures between 250 to 325 kelvins." Of course, in the centuries since her creation, temperatures below 250 kelvins had become much more commonplace. "Below the optimal range, my muscles begin to stiffen, impeding movement, but I am not at risk of permanent injury from temperature alone until 200 kelvins or lower."

She held up her sword, tilting it and watching the silver gleam along the edge. "I can, as necessary, cut through most substances, if I can analyze their harmonic resonance and adjust the vibrational frequency of the weapon to match." She tightened her grip on the handle and lowered the weapon. "This takes a significant expenditure of energy but the option is available. It also requires a weapon properly designed to be receptive to mana. If I lost this blade I am not sure it could be replaced." Fortunately, the weapon was almost as indestructible as Anya herself.

They reached a room that had once been a kitchen; the vast counters that had once produced the most extravagant, decadent banquets lay undamaged, though many of them were encrusted in frost. A crack in the far wall left this room frigid, which meant the corpses spread across the floor in piles had frozen over rather than decomposing. Most importantly, as far as Anya was concerned, the smell was almost completely neutralized.

She turned back to her new Master. "Are you satisfied with my report? If there is anything else you need to know, I will tell you."

 

[Arkadin]

As he walked and listened his eyes seemed to glow a little. From within him the bits of information about her she was telling seemed to fill in blanks. He turned it over in his head. Memories that weren't his. Mana infusion was meant to be the main source of energy, although food may need to be digested now. Regeneration. A memory of skin re-knitting itself. Hunting via aura, cutting through almost anything, intense temperature resistance.
He remembered the feeling of her bones in his not-hands. Had a memory of etching arcanic circuitry into her. He couldn't remember how it worked. It wasn't him. It was him. He knew what a Kelvin was. He hadn't known that before. He knew what an arcanic circuit should technically be. Gaps filled but didn't cement. He remained fractured. Spread between several souls that he had to bite at like a rabid hound for his body. Her weapon would be something bespoke to her as well. There would be no good in replacing it with another. An extension of herself. Her body was human. She could feel, touch. Everything a human was supposed to do but more.
Homonculi. Anya. Kelvin. Resonance. Frequency. His eyes closed a bit as they stepped into the kitchen and he re-centered.

THIS he knew. His eyes opened wide, lips twitching a little. Those blue eyes started to glow as he looked over the frozen bodies. Mummified in frost. Barely the whiff of death to them. He tapped a little at the knowledge he could squeeze from Aten Sol's whispers.
"... You said you're unsure if surviving off mana in lieu of food is an option available at this time. Have your Mana-Reserve Cells taken any damage from any altercations or accidents?"
That was really the only question he could muster. He had a pretty good idea of her limits as it were. However if giving her Mana was a moot point anyway. well that just meant they'd need to keep more snacks on hand. Slowly Erebos reached his hand out as if seeing something that wasn't there. Moving his hand slowly as if a child playing with smoke. His blue eeyes scanned over the numerous corpses here. He wouldn't find anything too useful here. But with this much death in one place, the necrotic aligned energy was would be enough to ease the ritual along. He tapped at his lips softly in contemplation. Would he need servants this soon? It might be better to wait. Even mummified he doubted the bodies here could easily be transmuted into vessels for the souls and spirits that lingered around. He'd need to make sure that his Mana could transfer to her. He also would need to make sure that mana he siphoned from the souls of the dead and the atmosphere of death wouldn't effect her negatively.

 

[Morathor]

"I am undamaged," she told him. How could she explain to him that he was the issue? He had the soul of Sol Aten, and though she did not understand how, she knew it made him her Master. But it did not mean he had her Master's power, or knowledge.

"I am exactly as I always was. But the world has changed." She gazed at the crack in the wall, where the icy winds seeped into the spire. "Since the storm, the winter. Mana has changed. Magic has changed. I don't know how these things work anymore." Not that she'd ever had a particularly clear grasp of arcane theory. Her information had been focused on the practical aspects; she knew what magic could do, more than how it worked.

"If you can empower me, Master, I may be able to serve you more effectively. If that is not within your capabilities, I will do everything I can to maintain enough stamina to serve your needs."

 

[Arkadin]

There was one thing that Sol Aten and Erebos had in common within the storm of self that was whirling inside that body.
He could NOT be the issue here.
There was too much pride between the both of them to even consider such a thing.
What Erebos DID have was his own power. A power that had done something the sorcerer kings probably didn't think was possible.
A power that had occurred because Erebos was lucky.
Sure he was powerful and learned by the modern world's standards. That was nothing compared to the abilities the old God Kings had held.
He'd had a stroke of luck and pulled off a feat unheard of. But that didn't make him powerful. Not unless he could utilize the opportunity.
It was time to see if he could do so.
"Well. Let's see if we can do that then."

He plucked the cannister from his belt pouch and opened it up. Slowly he picked up a small pen-like device from inside it. Then he opened a second lid and dabbed the pen into an ink like substance. Slowly he applied symbols to his face. Starting from the forehead to the nose, then out around the eyes. Until he had made a mask of white from small, interlocking symbols. Then he picked up the chalk and drew a circle on the ground. These movements were practiced and memorized. These, he was confident in.
Using himself as a conduit was the one thing he'd been amazing at back at home. It wasn't considered a useful section of his family's particular magic study. But it was HIS.
He took Anya by the shoulders and positioned her.
"Stand here."

Then he settled in the middle of the circle. And inhaled deeply. As he did his skin turned from the pink of a normal person to the ashen gray of a frozen body. As he exhaled, steam came from his mouth. His eyes seemed more sunken. First, to be a conduit one must be clean. His mana slowly left his body. Impure and imperfect energy, leaving only the purest and most vibrant mana there. Second. The invitation.
He raised his hand and began to mutter in a strange, whispering language. For this, he didn't want to transfer memories or experiences. Just energy. So he did not speak to the human side of the souls. He whispered feral things. Swirling among the half-memories of the dead here he found energy. Souls so old and rotten they barely had memories. Just visceral pain.
Third. The integration. He gathered up the energy of the numerous souls. Sapped it into himself. If he were making a new servant, he'd use the deaths of others to fuel the one he wanted to imbue. But this time he just needed the energy. He sapped it from the area around him. Tasted the cold, frigid mana of death. Then, lastly, he consider Sol Aten. recalling a memory of giving Mana to this doll. Mana was different now. But the human body still held it within.

So he sucked all that rotten, pain filled mana into himself. He felt it. The way her blade felt cutting throats and cracking skulls no matter how you begged. Then he pressed his hand to her and did what Sol Aten used to do. He focused the cleaned and processed mana forward into her.
By the dead, he hoped this Necromancer's trick was helpful here.
He hoped this worked.
He could use some good news.

 

[Morathor]

Anya obediently took her place, watching curiously as her Master plotted out his ritual. She had seen Aten perform such elaborate procedures, but it had rarely been necessary. Certainly not for something as mundane as recharging her mana reserves. But, if this was her Master's way, she would accept it. She waited patiently, though inside she was thrumming with uncertainty and anticipation.

His aura was changing, shifting. More souls, or fragments of them, blended into the mix. Was this how he had become her Master? How could that be possible? Surely Sol Aten would have set up safeguards against such a trick. But... perhaps this was only possible in this new world. She had thought the magic merely diminished, but perhaps it possessed new capabilities that had not existed in her Master's time.

The thought that Sol Aten might have lacked the knowledge or imagination to prepare for this eventuality never crossed her mind.

Finally, her Master finished his ritual and laid his hand upon her, as he had always done. She felt the mana surging into her.

It hurt. Aten's mana had always felt warm, and energizing; it made her feel invigorated and alive. This power seemed to tear through her, the sensation like blades shredding her apart.

She was glad. She didn't want it to feel good. She wanted to feel she was being punished, for serving this usurper. For accepting his power. Maybe punishment would make it easier to bear, since she couldn't bring herself to defy him. Since every instinct for rebellion was immediately smothered under a wave of guilt, for daring to even think of opposing her Master. It was better if it hurt; she could endure the pain.

When finally the flow of mana stopped, and the pain with it, Anya took a deep, trembling breath. She wanted to move, she wanted to flex her arms and legs and see how they felt, but her Master had told her to stand in place, and had not given her any indication that she was free to move again. But even standing here, she could take stock of the mana that filled her flesh and bones.

Before the death of Sol Aten, Anya had been used to starting every mission from full power. Power enough to last her for months without having to resort to eating food. Over the centuries, she'd gotten used to treating thirty percent power as an unbelievable bounty. To living at twenty or twenty five percent, to panicking as she slipped below fifteen, worrying her existence would come to an end, wondering why she cared.

Sixty five, maybe seventy percent. Even with his elaborate ritual, whatever dregs of soul energy her Master had gathered had only restored about two thirds of her energy reserve. But he had still given her more energy than she had scraped together in the past two months. It was more energy than she'd had in centuries. It was... wonderful to feel powerful again. To feel useful again.

And to have someone to use her. Even if she hated it as much as she loved it.

She looked up at him, on the verge of crying again. Relief and joy and a tinge of guilt rolled through her.

 

[Arkadin]

Erebos didn't know that his mana was painful. That the cold, sharp points of sapping energy flooding into her was not something warm and comforting. Because even Sol Aten would not have known. He'd never wondered. Never thought how his homonculus must feel having that energy pulsed through her. The world was different and changed. There was less magic. Less life. Less vibrancy. But in this world of cold and endings. Death had a new power. And Erebos knew death well. With the flow completed, he pulled his hand back and waited. Then remembered that she often followed orders to the letter.
"You may move."
He liked that he had to be specific. While it wasn't efficient in his mind, it was good. He was use to push backs and follow up questions. To servants who were under his and other princes' control. He was used to the struggle of power.
He wasn't used to this.
To power coming fully and without question.
To OWN someone. To make them his.
He felt so safe in that. Despite her initial attack on him, he found delight in her subservience. He saw her eyes on the verge of tears and he pet her head softly.

"Did it hurt? Necromantic energy can be a painful experience when you first embody it. But if we've recharged you past the point of worry I'm afraid this will be a necessary evil in our goals."
Not his goals. Not anymore. She was his. So his goals were hers now.
He was going to make use of her. First, he'd have to hunt down the small prey. The ones who were spread to other settlements now. Those who had killed him.
From there, he would focus on the one behind it all. Seawall would be the last stop in this journey. Perhaps afterward he would rule.
Or perhaps he would the burn the city down.
To finally feel warm again.

He continued to pet Anya's head. He enjoyed this small bit of touch. He'd been without contact for so long. He felt Sol Aten thrum inside him. The proud Sorcerer-King pushed under the bootheel of his soul as he pushed the walls of his self outward again. Reasserting his will over the entities within him. If he had taken the shards within himself hundreds of years ago when the bastard had died, would he even be able to wrestle for control?
No point in theorizing now.
He had his tools. He had his work. He had his revenge and he had Anya.
It was time to begin the long and bloody journey for catharsis.
"What percentage of your reserves WERE filled by that ritual?"

 

[Morathor]

Anya sank to her knees when given permission. She wished she could have done so sooner, and on some level, she could have. She was certainly capable of taking initiative, acting without instruction; it was all she had been doing, since the death of her Master. But this Master was new. Different. She did not know his priorities, his objectives; she could not presume to act in his interests without knowing what his interests were. And in this case, she did not understand his magic, his rituals. She didn't know what he needed of her, when he was done; he didn't know if moving before he was ready would disrupt something. So she could wait for permission.

"I don't mind pain," she told him. Aside from the perverse part of her that relished in it, pain was simply... a diagnostic tool, her body's way of reporting injury. It was information, and she could decide how to act on that information. Whether the damage sustained was an acceptable cost of whatever she was trying to achieve. Although in this case, it was not for her to decide. Her Master had declared it a necessary evil, and so it was necessary.

"My reserves are between sixty five and seventy percent." Though her awareness of her body was fairly thorough, Anya could not measure her energy levels more precisely than that. She hoped it would be enough. "Enough for basic operation for at least two months. Sustenance, travel, light labor. If our objectives require me to eliminate armored targets or breach structures, or if I sustain damage, this time may be shortened."