Masks [Lagertha x Ryees]

[Lagertha]

The Legend​

There is a story that has been twisted throughout the years of telling about the Masks, how they came to be. The one most told in detail throughout the centuries has always been this one; No one knows where the Gods came from. All we know is the Gods existed long before the rest of us. They ruled over us, devoured us like sheep, and played with us like toys. When they grew tired of us, they wiped out our lands and rebuilt them from the ground up. Teik, the blacksmith of the Gods, grew so tired and dull with this he had asked the others “Why, why do you destroy that which you make in your own perfection?” Amusement, the Gods sat around, ten of them laughing. One god watched carefully, and the last of the twelve simply found no amusement in the ordeal. Teik turned to the two of the twelve, the ones that seemed to notice his anger. “Are these beings not worth our affection? Are they not worth our devotion? Have we created them as less then ourselves?” The two were silent, and Teik was outraged. Laughed from the halls of the holy order of Gods, he took to his blacksmith. There, in his rage and lack of answer, the God of metal took hammer to steel and forged a single weapon to destroy the Gods. “If you wish to destroy that which you create, then I shall do the same.” Teik had given them power with weapons over the millennium, and they seemed all to willing to use it against other ‘lesser’ Gods. With a sword forged in the flames of his rage, he stormed the holy order sanctum once more. Without pause, without warning, Teik slew each great God in his rage. Reason died first. “You have no reason to save the beings you so created!” Teik had spat. Emotion, Order, Warrior, Teik slew together with one fell swing. “There is no emotion, no love, no structure, no protection that can save you from my wraith!” Slowly, he picked them off one by one, until only two were left. Bodies lined the ground of their companions, but the two did not run. They simply looked at Teik, as he panted in rage. Silver blood laced with jewels dripped off his copper skin. Plunk. Plunk. Like the thrum of his heart. He raised his sword, the destroyer of Gods, to strike at the two who remained seated. One, watched him with careful eyes before raising a hand to stop him. The God did not move to fight Teik, or run and scream, and the blade surely cut through his arm to his elbow. “Watcher!” Teik had breathed as the God simply..watched.
“I have seen what you are angered about and I agree, you should listen.” Watched, old and wise, stated gently. Teik looked to the last of the Gods, the biggest one yet. Yet this God, curled in on itself, and smiled softly at Teik and the Watcher.
“You plan to kill us, there is no doubt. For which you much replace us. A world without us, is a world without purpose.” Teik watched the contoured thing speak, a soft sweet tone.
“What would you have me do?” Teik knew the answer by it’s single eye, as the colors shifted and glistened.
“Remake us brand new.” It was a simple sentence, but Teik obliged. With another raise of the destroyer, he slew the two Gods in half.
“I will do just that.” The last remaining God now, Teik took their souls one by one and walked slowly to his forge. He placed their souls in the forge of his body, melted them, and remade them a new. With each God’s soul, a new mask was made in it’s place. Each mask, took place of one of the twelve God’s lost. When Teik was done, he destroyed his forge, and left the masks out to call to their new owners.
“The Masks will breath, will think, will protect whoever bears them. Head my call. If you shall take a mask that is not yours, death will follow all in your wake and decay your soul.” Even with this warning, ruler after ruler took a mask, forcing it to their face in the twelve Kingdoms of Aseria. One by One…Each ruler fell to their knees in death just like the Gods before them. Generation after Generation, people tried to claim a mask that was not theirs…and they too fell a death most befit to them. Thus, the Legend of the Masks was born.​

 

[Lagertha]

Leorn Ero - Artist Masked One​

698 years ago.

There had also been knowledge of the Masks, everyone knew about them. Well, at least eight of them to begin with. Then, eventually, eleven had been chosen at one point. It had been about four hundred years at this point, 1098 years ago, that all eleven of the masks had been awoke at the sometime and in use. It had been odd, and interesting, but it had quickly reverted back to it's old ways; One Masked, or five Masked, sometimes ten Masked in use. Normally..it seemed at any given time there was a normal flow of at least three Masked in use at a time.

Eleven: Reason, Emotion, Chaos, Order, Warrior, Divine, Overseer, Executioner, Sorcerer, Beast, and the Watcher. Those were the known Masks up until this point 698 years earlier...so where did Leorn Ero come into play?

Leorn Ero was a fickle man. He was tall, skinny, and often tripped over his own feet. He had always been a weird man. Skinny like a skeleton, curly blond hair, large glasses that covered half his face. Awkward. Socially unaccepted by the masses. Leorn Ero kept to himself for majority of his life. How could anyone like him be special? But...he had a gift for art. He loved to sculpt, to make any type of three-dimensional artwork he could. This, was his gift, and it was the one thing that had allowed the weird man some form of happiness.

He got a career. He moved out of his impoverished town, a town which no longer existed and it's name long forgotten, and moved to the (Capital) to make more money, to live a better life. There were only eleven masks known to existence, and he knew being in the (Capital) would bring him closer to the Masked ones, the ones who made the basic laws and regulations for the world. Where the Kings and Queens of the twelve Kingdoms gathered to discuss with their chosen deity, Masked, about important decisions. For some reason. Leorn Ero was hoping just to be close to the Masked ones. Maybe he would get to see one. Maybe they would ask him to make a sculptor. Maybe, he would not feel as awkward.

From the way the stories were told of Leorn Ero..he went mad. A voice called to him. Repeating his name over and over, urging him to listen. It had started as a whisper..but over the days and weeks he stayed at the (Capital), the voice grew louder the more alone he felt. Finally, when Leorn Ero was in his forties, the Voice was screaming in his head day and night.

"LISTEN!" It screamed in an angry voice. "COME TO ME LEORN ERO!"The voice was strong, and Leorn Ero had lost sleep. Red bags were under his eyes, and finally, the crazed man listened to the voice.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" Leorn Ero had first yelled back. Until this point, when the voice was too overwhelming for him to ignore anymore.

"I choose you." The voice called to Leorn Ero. Leorn Ero thought himself mad, to the point he would have to see the doctor. Perhaps his success was going to his head, the perfect lifelike forms of the human sculptors he was making were in high demand. Still, he followed where the voice told him to go. If he found nothing, he knew he was really insane. To the point he needed to be put away...

Leorn Ero was not going mad. He was not insane as he traveled further in further under the Capital to the ruins below. There, after hours of moving rock and ruble, there he found the room. There, under the rocks, he found the Mask. A Mask no one had ever seen before. One with insane colors that fused with him, DNA, Blood, Soul. One that took over.

Every Masked one knows how overwhelming the power is. How hard it is to be in control of the entity. For Leorn Ero...it didn't take him long to get in control. However, he and his art was never the same. His perfect sculptors took a more angular form, rougher, more dark. The line blurred, between what artwork was his and the mask. Classical work of realism turned to pure abstract. But it took Leorn Ero only a year to dial it back to a happy medium. He could still sculpt people, but where their edges had once been smooth and realistic, he no longer sanded out the rough lines off their face and features. Truth was shown through his work. Finally, Leorn Ero had found his place. A Masked one. A member of the council of Masked. He become what he always wanted; an extrovert, a happy funny man. If only, in his Masked form.

Artist. People rejoiced when the thirteenth Mask joined the ranks. Although, the other users did not quiet enjoy his joining of them. All men. All testosterone. All Humanlike. All more or less one skin tone. How selective the Masks were. Only taking one group over the others. To no extent it outraged Leorn Ero. The Artist, his friend, tried to counsel him, but it helped littler. Leorn Ero was in full control of his Mask, his powers, and his outbursts came out frequently in the council meetings. The other Eleven, loathed the Artist..while the people, the middle and poor, celebrated his presence.

Easily. Order and Reason had found him out his true identity through his work. They had caught him, after noticing his outbursts, during his transformation into his Masked self. With their knowledge of him, the others worked to deface him to the public. Buildings were painted by students Leorn Ero had taught, sculptors made in his image, half Masked as the Artist, half unmasked, with his name below, and a script of word saying "Down with the Artist!"... You see. Some people seek peace, love, equality...Leorn Ero fell under this category. For twenty years peace had reigned with him in power as the Artist. But for twenty years, the other Masked ones had schemed to dethrone him. For some people seek chaos, power over others, madness. At sixty-three, the people wanted Leorn Ero dead. thanks to the paintings on the buildings, the sculptors of him...Leorn Ero knew he was not safe. The Mask, his friend, begged him to run into hiding, but Leorn Ero loved these people...and wanted to bring them joy, laughter, and peace...his heart would be the end of him.

It had only taken a week of the paintings and sculptors showing his true identity to the world, before the people had turned. They blamed him for any problems they had. The Rich were unhappy that the poor would not bow to them, the middle class were hungry for power, and Leorn Ero the Artist was to blame.

Story goes, Leorn Ero had gone to see a village, to help the children have a healthy outlet...Story goes the villagers had setup a trap to lure him out. And the story goes they tore him to pieces, literally. Divine, the Masked one, had been behind this. Telling the people this is what the Gods wanted. So they had listened. So they had killed Leorn Ero. So his mask had broken free from him as he screamed and begged for mercy. The Mask had hide, watching him be torn apart...and it had watched as they hurried his remains, spreading him out over the world so he could never find peace in the afterlife...Now people wanted the Mask, to die itself...

Struck with grief, the Artist Mask took form with what little energy it had left over from being tethered to Leorn Ero. Angered, mad, insane from the lose of it's Wearer, the Artist slaughtered the villages, the Divine Wearer who had co-hershed them into killing his Wearer Leorn Ero. He painted the village, Ud-op, in paint, colors, and blood. Gruesome was the scene, before the Artist Mask had disappeared from the face of the world. No matter how much the people searched, the mask would not be found.​

 

[Lagertha]

Wvir.
The city had once been one of the most important of it's days, about a thousand years or so ago. For centuries, the city was known for it's power and wealth..for it's unique beings; The Sea Giants. Beings so large and massive that had come from the sea, and stood over forty feet tale. Men. Warriors. Known for their aquatic colored skin, and the helmets they wore to war. The last ones had died a thousand year ago...and no more had emerged from the sea since then...

The city of Wvir had felt the downhill slope. Once full of nothing but the richest people, the populace had become poor. Known for it's colorful shells and pearls, the sea had been over fished to the point the pearls had become nonexistent. Much like the Sea Giants that had once lived there...the city had become much of a ghost town. There were few rich prosperous people, and three thirds of the city had fallen into ruin and slums. The city had turned from trade of colorful shells, pearls worth more than the finest jewelry, to selling and buying of slaves. Wvir...once known for it's diverse populace..had since segregated in the last five hundred years. Those in power? Typically white. Sad it was..but this was one of the less pleasant cities in all of the planet. Still. It was by no means the worst of them.​

Abinon Theriko

Amongst the wealthy, Abinon Theriko lived.
An older man who resided in the Sigil of the capital, a head of the mass council of elder men that oversaw the city of Wvir..as well as several neighboring smaller villages that had since become ignored by the Kingdom and Masked ones over the centuries.

Once he had been rigid and judgmental. Remaining with his people, the Whites..the wealthy. He cared little for the poor, or any other creature that was no human. To him, he originally wanted them all to be beneath his feet.

Simply. Things had changed.

Forty-eight.
Abinon had still been in his prime at this point. Bitter and cruel. He had taken a stroll as he did many days, along the beach side of Wviren in front of his golden mansion. Everyday he passed the sapphire waves, a mix of lilac in the ocean. Everyday it brushed his feet as he moved over to a large fixation of rocks that jutted out of the ground and formed a cliff that overlooked a shall of water. He'd walk there to the edge where the rocks. He'd sit at the edge and look at the bottom wondering if he should end it all. You see...Abinon had never been happy. He knew something was missing in his life. He knew something was wrong. But he had been raised to not share his feelings, so he sulked. Today he had planned to end it all once and for all. Today. The Universe mocked him with joy...Abinon had stumble over a shell. A clam shell of mixtures of whites and blues that looked like the ones that used to carry pearls. Once he had seen so many drawings of. Desperate for more wealth, Abinon had run to the shell he had seen washed up on shore. The thing was roughly two feet long, and two feet deep. Closed tightly, Abinon picked the shell up trying to force it open with his bear hands. He had picked up the shell, ready to slam it on the ground to break it open to find the pearl inside. The shell was above his head and he was ready for the motion...
Magical little thing the clam was. It opened it's jaws, bitching off a few of his finger son his left hand, a pinky, a middle finger. Abindon dropped the clam, blood coming from the front. It bounced gently on the sand before stilling. The shell glowed, sparkled like glitter rained from the shy, before it slowly opened it's jaws. Abinon cursed ready to smash the clam with his foot when it opened fully. He heard the cries of a child before he saw the thing; a little new born baby girl with blue fluff hair and skin as pale as snow. One look at the child and Abinon knew what had been missing from his. Love.

At seventy-four. Abinon was known for raising a blue haired girl, as well as throwing massive parties in the city of Wvir. Everyone was welcome to his lavish parties. No judgement on skin color, race, status. So, no one stole from Abinon. Often, Abinon would guide them through his home on tours. Such as days like this.

"Here!" Abinon was a man of five and eight. His white hair stood straight out to the left or right, and he bald on top. Gold fingers replaced the ones he had lost to the clam. He jumped up and down in his gold robes, pointing to large paintings on the wall as he walked through the hall fo his home. The carpet stretched out, blue, shells lined the bottom of the walls in greens and whites, and the tiniest shells made the wallpaper. But, he pointed to the paintings of people in love, figures of important. "Aren't they wonderful? My daughter is so talented!" Abinon would chirp and laugh pleasantly with a glass of ale in hand. He bounced through the hall pointing at this one or that, but the further the lot got down the hall, the more the paintings changed.

"Recently..My daughter's work has been changing." Abinon pointed to a painting of madness that was hung with chair next to a portrait of a King. The painting was a furry of colors, a madness of sharp edges and shapes, as well as a mix of whimsical lines. "It's been within the last few months her paintings have turned to this. But! They have been selling like hotcakes! Haha! I barely even get to have a conversation with the child anymore before she dismisses me to go back to her work." Abinon raised his cup. A mingle of people were behind him, but he seemed to care not how many or what they were. Or in fact what they said. He only paid attention to the praises he got about his daughter's work.

"Who is your daughter again? I've heard rumors she had hair as blue as the ocean.." A woman sneered, no doubt many women were jealous of the looks his daughter got. Abinon turned on his heels, lips around his glass, head back drinking. The ale ran down his beard, and his eyes burned wild this green hues, as he looked at the haughty woman.

"My daughter is Yerinia Theriko. Yes!" He raised his empty glass above his head. Drunk with glee. Always smiling, happy, laughing. "Her hair is the most perfect blue. Only the sea is her rival." He brought his cup down, large golden doors stood behind him. People were screaming and cheering behind it, music playing. "Although.." Abinon paused as his hand was on the doors to open it. "I think they have become great friends over the years. On day's like this..you'll find her by the ocean doing her work. Allowing the waves to move her to paint." He smiled, a proud look before ushering them forward as he opened the door to display the party behind. "Now! Let us enjoy this blissful day!" Abinon slide inside, disappearing amongst the crowd.
​

Yerinia Theriko​

Abinon knew her all too well. After all he had raised her. Not once had he told her the truth of where she came from. Not once had he told anyone where she came from; the ocean of Wviren. People would want to harm her. Or take her to study. Some would even want to steal her for popularity. So..Abinon did what any good parent would do; he lied to her and those around her. If you asked him..Well then you would not get the truth. Now would you?

Yerinia Theriko was exactly where Abinon said she would be; by the ocean doing her artwork. She always went to that cliff, the cliff he used to walk everyday before finding her. There was a small cave under the cliff, that Yerinia had found as a child. Abinon had never told her that was where he had found her. Yet still, the girl had been drawn to the site. It was no surprise she would be here anymore when the weather was good, but Yerinia always hid in the shade.

Canvas she had made form ground down seashells and planks from the forest behind, rested against rock. The pieces were large, anywhere from twelve feet height and twenty feet long to longer or taller. Majority of the canvas here was roughly twelve by twelve. half of it was smaller, six feet and under. Often, she would have to pull the canvas, move it on the ground and walk around it to paint. Her paints were lined up around the sand in large shells. Shells she had found here, that she no longer tried to move. Her colors were just shells just ground down to a power, and with the mix of jellyfish ground up, it made her paints. The ocean was a few feet away from where her canvas and shells were setup, but the waves never seemed to come too close to her work. They stayed just the right distance away. They provided a soothing sound that drew her in, that made her relax...

Relaxtion is what she needed anymore. In the past months she had moved out here to calm herself down..but Yerinia could no longer paint what she had sketched out. She knew something was controlling her, forcing her to paint it's work and not her own. So here she was, on the beach, a canvas under her.

Yerinia was small, standing only five and three if she was not on all fours at the moment. Her knees were on the edge of the canvas, right hand propping her up. Her left hand was coated in red paint, and she was stirring it on the canvas with her hand, mixing yellows and greens together. However, the edges always came out sharp, and no matter how much she aimed to fix it, it ended up the someway.

"Mine." The voice called to her, snarling at her. Yes.. Yerinia knew better than to fight the voice when it made her paint. It's anger showing through her hand. Her ass was in the air, a pink skirt she wore had been folded up and pinned to make makeshift pants. Her feet bare, her skin white as snow or a sea shell. Her blue eyes were drawn to the canvas, almost as though she could see nothing else. Her pale ears were revealed, her long blue hair pulled back behind her head in a long ponytail that fell over her right shoulder and into the paint. Her top was a dark navy blue, and had pulled up as well to not fall on the canvas as she moved. Her pink lips were parted on her round face, high arched brows furrowed in concentration. Long black eyelashes stared down her small button nose to look at the masterpiece she was making...all while the voice growled in her head.​

 

[Ryees]

One week previous

"You will not find it here."

Anmillaen sighed, slipping his feet down from the desk and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "If there are only so many fools the city can offer, where might I find myself a fresh batch, then?" He heaved himself to his feet, striding to the map that comprised nearly the entirety of the eastern wall to his study. Scrubbing a hand through his red-brown hair to messily sweep it away from his forehead, his silvery eyes scanned the continents, lips pursed, his clean-shaven face pensive. He had to bend to see the lower parts of the map, his six-foot-and-two-hands frame unkind to such an expansive view of the lands perched so low on the wall.

"There."

Anmillaen nodded in time with the voice, the same idea clicking in time in his own mind the moment his eyes lit on the name. "Wvir, then. I suspect you are thinking that the peasantry there is so discontent that any beacon will be one they will follow?"

The feeling of a nod came through his mind. "They are reeling, and have been for hundreds of years. A single breath of fresh air to their morale is all it will take to breathe new life into them."

Anmillaen's grin was as sharp as the blade on his hip. Sharper.

---

The horses plodded eagerly down the slope through the gates of the town, but for all the renewed pep in the animal's step at the opportunity to rest, Anmillaen already had one foot out of the stirrup by the time the gates passed by him and his horse clopped onto the cobblestone. He dismounted and tossed a purse dismissively at the stableman, trusting the man to properly stable up his caravan but not seemingly uncaring whether or not he really did. The worker looked around bewildered until the armored man from the caravan tapped him on the shoulder, explaining with a sigh that he would be overseeing the Lord Elminaratorae's caravan and seeing to its proper housing.

Anmillaen had come to the city with a modest train, only six wagons in total and most of them supplies for the journey, with just enough of a guard and crew to manage them. He had wanted speed, expediency, and he was very used to getting what he wanted. The inn he had chosen for his men to stay at had a room chosen out for him, the finest suite the establishment had to offer; he was in and out of it in minutes, trading travel gear for his finery, giving his teeth a quick salt scrub with a horsehair brush, and toweling the dirt from the roads from his face. Refreshed and renewed, he left the inn. The layout of the city had been emblazoned into his memory over many long hours of studying the layout of these streets. As such, he made for the manor.

---

Hefting the abalone knocker, Anmillaen let it clack against the door and took a step back, giving himself a last once-over. His ivory cloak trimmed in silver lacing sat tossed over his right shoulder, hanging down his left side and flowing in the light breeze. The tunic underneath it was cream-colored silk, split at the hips to flare forward and held tight with a black silk cord around his hips. It sat snug-but-not-tight against his chest, settling over his broad shoulders with the fit one would expect from a noble's personal tailor. His breeches were dark, silvery lacing down the outside seam and tucked into top-turned-down boots of fine back leather chased in the same silver stitching of the rest of his garb. The whites and silvers and creams matched well with his icy eyes, an ethereal gleam present about him even as he stood in place. The nose of a hardwood scabbard poked out from under his cloak, fastened to his left hip and peacebound with red cord around the guard as per tradition, safely binding the blade within the sheathe.

The quick-release knot in the cord was safely hidden underneath his cloak.

The man that answered the door was quickly dismissed by Anmillaen, who slipped inside and joined with the crowd by throwing an arm around the shoulders of a portly lord having an engrossed conversation with his wife.

"Do you mind?" he man balked indignantly, putting a hand on Anmillaen's wrist; a note of surprise entered the man's eyes when he found himself completely unable to budge against Anmillaen's combat-strengthened arm.

"I do not, no, but your Lady does," he said with an oily smirk, shooting a glance across the man's shoulder to catch his wife's eyes. "This place is not one for any like you, sirrah," he chided, using his free hand to give the lord a tiny tap on the tip of his nose. "This is an art gallery, and you..." He paused to give the man a deliberate look up and down. "You are not art."

Anmillaen loosed the lord as he sputtered indignantly, gliding to the front of the crowd and falling into step next to the obviously drunken man spouting about the art work. He ignored the annoyed glances that those at the front of the pack gave him for cutting in front of them, but the icy, violent malice in his eyes when he glared them down shocked their tongues to stillness and their mouths slammed shut with clicks of teeth. They never spoke a word to him as the tour continued, the man rambled on, and the silence was a welcome time for Anmillaen to let his eyes wander over the art.

Just as he was about to slide up to introduce himself, Anmillaen grimaced as Abinon said some final words and disappeared into the great hall. The crowd milled about, some entering, some wandering off to stroll the gallery again. Anmillaen stood for a moment, contemplative. The smooth lines of his jaw swayed back and forth as he ground his teeth, weighing options. Finally, he nodded internally.

He spun on his heel and made for the side gates of the manor. The scenery of the beach played in his mind, his destination set.

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia's chest bounced as she moved, stretching her left arm all the way out. The waves crashed against the golden sand, small shells rolling from the deep to the surface. They mixed, the shells, in the sand, making it glisten with a million colors. The rocks stretched out above her, shielding her from the sun's view as she moved, slipping on the surface of the canvas.

"You move too slow!" The voice mocked her. "Your work is MINE."

She gasped for air, moving, twisting her body as the images popped into her head. They were jumbled, they made no sense, but they came all the same. Like fire and brimestone, it boiled her skin and flesh from the inside out. The Artist, the voice, was as though it was right by her ear, whispering and shouting at the same time only to her. It felt like, a hand was moving her arm, orchestrating the piece.

"I want to stop.." Yerinia mustered through her ragged breaths. "This isn't my art.." She slipped, chest and chin into the paint, her bottom -round and firm- upwards as she stretched."There is no stopping until the piece is done!" The voice commanded. Her body ached. Sore. Yet, she moved, feeling as though she was being pulled and forced around the canvas.

Crash. Swoosh. Caw. Caw. Caw. Yersinia felt as though the weight had been lifted. The piece was not done, half the Canvas was still bare, as well as the edges. Yet..she could move herself. She sat up on her knees. An opening in front of her of the black birds flying over head. She breathed. Paint, blue, yellow, purple, white, was wet on her bottom lip and chin. Her breasts, fairly large and plump, were also coated in a mass of blue paint. White an red seemed to coat her stomach, to her thighs that twisted into darker colors. Her whole left arm was renched in wet paint..and it dripped from her chin onto the canvas as she watched the birds.

"Where did you go?" Silence. Alone. The voice had seemingly come and gone like it always did. She expected she should be grateful, she should relax and wash herself off. Yet, she felt alone. The voice had grown so strong in the past few weeks that..it felt strange not to hear it whispering in her ears. It felt weird to not feel it's presence even though it was in her blood, twisting under her skin. "Come back.." She wiped her forehead. Sweat beaded on her skin as the paint smeared on her face and she fell off the canvas to the sand with a sloosh! Her hands dug into it, before she fell on her back and closed her eyes. Still..her lips parted to call for the voice. "Please?"



An hour must have passed before she heard the humming. A low rumble that resembled something more akin the likes of a beast. Yet, she felt it, here next to her on the sand. Her eyes opened, looking to her right to see the mass black figure that was contorted strangely in nature. It's purple piercing eyes staring into her blue ones.

"You should hide..." Yersinia was not scared of it anymore. The thing she saw before her as it twisted it's large head this way and that. Shadows dissipated around it, as though it were made of smoke.

"Ahhh.." the voice was low, rumbling, and shaking the very core of her being when it spoke. "Only you can see me Yerinia..." The figure looked at her, it's eyes mad. "And you can't control me. Hahahaaa!" It laughed, but there wa sno mouth on the figure. Just a white piece of mask that stood over it's purple pupiless eyes. She watched it twist on the ground, before moving to get up. "Let's continue!" It shouted.

"Be quiet...someone will hear you." She insisted as the figure leapt at her pinning her down. It's purple eyes stared down at her. Melting like paint, the purple dripped into her mouth.

"You are a dumb girl..." It laughed. "I said. Let's CONTINUE!" Yerinia nodded reluctantly, large bags under her eyes."Maybe then I'll let you sleep." It grumbled.

"Just.." Yerinia watched as it rolled off her, grabbing her wrists and pulling her off the ground. For a brief moment, she wondered what this might appear like from the outside. The being looked down at the small woman. No doubt at full height it might be close to ten feet. "...promise you won't leave again?" It was like it was infecting her, corrupting her. It feed off her in some way, she knew that, yet she did not know what. Was her art that fueled it? Or was it her loneliness? Whatever it was, at some point Yerinia have craved it's attention. It's constant talk, it's constant appearance in her life. When she didn't see it..she did not feel normal anymore.

The mass nodded in agreement. For once, it was agreeing with her. Though more times than not it controlled her, and was her. Right now. It seemed like the calm before the storm, as if it had some sort of attachment to her more so than blood. Slowly, it stretched out a long arm, which was large near the big body, before thinning out to a point, and the hands were something like sharp mittens. It pointed to the piece, it's eyes blazing. She knew what it wanted.

"Yes..I know. It's not done. I can't rest until it's done." The girl, pale and covered in paint, stood on her feet. She leaned forward, hands on her knees and looked over the piece. She could see it; the influence the being had. The painting was sharp, angular, as though knife's were placed in the piece. Straight sharp lines up and one zig zagged across the work in a multitude of colors. As she looked at it, the figure stood towering over her bend over feature. Her head turned to the right looking up at it s it looked down at her. "What is it?" It stretched out it's other arm, pointing to her ass where some of her skirt had fallen down from being pulled. Her left chee was showing, pale, a seashell design with tendrils that made a crescent moon shape around it in a multitude of blues and purples. Had a normal person looked at the art, it would looked nothing more than a fancy tattoo. Had a Masked one seen it..they could see that the piece was forever moving, uneasy.

"Hide it idiot girl." The being mocked her. "Oh...sorry." Yerinia reached back, grabbing the heavy fabric and pulling it up. She moved to tie her black belt into a new knot. "Don't ever let them see it." It warned as though she were a child about to touch an open flame. "If they know..you'll be the next one dead!" The face moved, right in front of her, the body bending unnaturally as it looked at her. "Will you tell me someday what you mean? Or what you are?" Yerinia stood straight up, moving back to the canvas and falling on her knees on it. The being just watched her, before grabbing her right hand and shoving in into the paint of the canvas. Instead of answering her, it forced her to work the paint again.
​

 

[Ryees]

The trek from the manor to the beach was longer than Anmillaen had expected, but the paved path made it an easy one. He had drawn his cloak back around him to cut the breeze coming from the sea and stop the salted air from staining his clothes with that starchy, itchy white palor. The sea was not a place he spent much time, and for good reason: He hated it. Ships had not been kind to him in the past, and while there was no fear of the sea in him, the mage had no inclination for it either, preferring to keep his feet solidly planted on Terra Firma and allow others to do the seafaring work. He kept himself busy enough on the mainland as it was; he saw no need to complicate it with sails and gangplanks and anchors.

Coming to the end of the path, he sharpened his senses. He was not the only one to do so; he felt the senses attached to him spread as well, complimenting his own and spreading out further, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Quickly, those senses came back to him, and a voice echoed in his mind. She is here, but she is speaking. She is not alone.

Anmillaen’s brow quirked at that. Who would be talking to down here, right now? Everyone of note is off at her idiot father’s soiree.

None come to mind for me, either. Perhaps we should…

Anmillaen was already nodding. His weight shifted as he lighted on the balls of his feet, and he slipped from the path, moving into the brush on light, airy steps. A flexion came from within his mind and he felt a familiar power rush into his body. The edges of madness clawed at his mind, but a practiced mental dance kept his Self away from those tendrils of insanity. The sound of his footsteps dimmed into nothingness as his feet swished through the grass. Indeed, every sound he made Changed. The swishing of his breeches against the stiff stalks of the grass made a sound like the soft breeze; his cloak, flipping and falling over the top of the grasses, splashed like the swell of the tide on the beach, even rising and falling in volume as the waves waxed and waned; and his boots on the soft-packed earth clicked like the tips of crab legs scuttling over the beach.

Anmillaen ghosted through the brush, making what most would call startlingly good time for a nobleman used to sitting in the courts. His mind wandered back to the days he spent before his fortune was made for a moment, of the time he spent in back alleys of slum cities and rushing through the woods trying to catch a hare, back to the days of his childhood before his power had found him. Those skills had been useful to him many times, over the decades. Many times indeed, he thought grimly, pushing a different set of memories back into the blackness where they belonged.

He neared the edge of the brush and slowed, his eyes refocusing to allow sight beyond the thin sheet of grass remaining between him and the beach. He would be invisible for long enough to see what he needed, certainly—or more accurately, as he soon found out, what he wanted.

What he hoped was a very pretty girl was bent over a canvas, her very pretty behind in the air and covered only by a tied off skirt as far as he could tell. As the girl mushed herself up off the canvas, her blue hair came into focus, annoyingly covering her face from Anmillaen’s angle, but more than enough to confirm her identity if the canvas had not already made it blatantly obvious. Curious and content for the moment, he settled on his chest, letting the grasses naturally wave around him, and he watched.

---

Nearly an hour passed, and in that time, thoughts raced through Anmillaen’s head. Her artistry was superb, but there was something to her movements that suggested… something. An idea was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, but he could not pin it down to properly interrogate it, and so it remained fleeting, darting in and out of his mind as often as he breathed and taunting him with its closeness. Chaos felt it as well, and began digging, rooting around through Anmillaen’s subconscious and jerking ideas from shelves only to dismiss them and deposit them on the floor of its host’s mental landscape. As such, Anmillaen had to fight for his clarity as memories and thoughts were tossed into his conscious mind with no warning or reason. It was trying, but not something he was unused to after so many years sharing his mindspace with the other’s thoughts.

Focused as he was on the painting and the girl’s movements and clouded as he was in his mind, it was many minutes before the inky black pool next to her finally triggered his mind to focus on it. His breath caught in his throat at that, for he recognized it. Not in detail, and not in specific, but in concept, he knew it. All at once, that intangible, evasive thought slammed home in his mind.

Artist!?

The Masked lord could hardly believe his own thoughts, but the following minutes did naught but confirm his suspicions. Puddle turned to pool, and pool to mound, purple dots blinking to life in it and rearing up to watch her paint. It was another handful of minutes before she realized it was there, and paused, turning to speak with it.

After a very short conversation, the pool coalesced into a beast and leapt at her, pinning her to the sand and saying something to her in a voice too low for Anmillaen to hear from his distance. He could not truly be sure any sound came from the thing at all; he simply watched as the girl stared at it, then spoke, then stared again, then spoke again, the rhythm clearly indicating a conversation despite Anmillaen’s inability to catch any of the words.

It lifted her, the nodded. She stood, and leaned forward, giving Anmillaen another look at her body. For the second time, his breath caught in his throat. The markings splayed over the upper skin of her bottom were not completely uncovered, but even partially visible as they were, there was no mistake in his mind. That tattoo danced before his eyes, undulating like the drifting leaves of plants under the water and glistening like the sunlight sparkling on the waves.

“Now is the time,” came the whispered voice in Anmillaen’s psyche. He nodded in agreement. As the girl’s attention was freshly refocused on the painting, he ghosted aside, back to the path, and sifted out of the grasses.

His boots announced his presence with a hearty click on the stone, a sound that faded as he left the path and stepped into the sand. “You know, you truly present a man with a dilemma,” he called out to her smoothly, a charming, cheeky smile pulling at one corner of his lips. “You stand next to something like that, and you make it impossible for him to decide which is prettier: the art or the artist.” He took a few steps closer, lighting just behind her, the proper two steps' distance that would allow her proper space should she choose it, but easily allow her to approach comfortably. That distance had been hammered into him by the court ladies that insisted he know how to act like a gentleman. Needless to say, those lessons were written up well before they had ever truly met him.

 

[Lagertha]

'Perhaps one day..' The Artist had been silent for a time, watching her and pulling her body around. It missed this. It missed being able to be fully tangible to everything and everyone, to create its splendor. It missed the smells, the feeling of the paint on it's black hands. It missed being able to create life and people. For, it had once been a God. For, it still remembered that time.

There was still the feelings and sensations it gained through its user. Sapping their energy so the Artist could reveal itself. The process took time, and it took a certain person to be at the wavelength they needed to connect. It could still remember those lonely nights in the ruins of a forgotten land searching for someone whose energy he could connect with. It remembered the centuries it was in solitude, losing almost all its power and wondering if it would be the end. Wondering if..it would never be remembered again.

Of course there were artists and creative people over the decades and millenniums that it could have bonded with, but, like most parasites, the intake of energy it would sap from these lower beings would be all too much and kill them. It could have taken several. There were so many humans that had creative talents that it could link itself to. Yet. They would have not lasted long enough for it to manifest as it did for her, as it had for Leorn Ero. It knew that the people before Leorn, had it so chosen to bind with them, would last maybe seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, or a few months before dying a painful death. As much as it had hated to be forgotten, to be alone and unable to share it's gifts with the world it so loved..the Artist had waited. It still remembered the time when it had found life precise, when it had found Leorn Ero's energy was much higher than the others, when it knew it would not kill him and be able to form a solid bond.

It's purple orbs of color glanced at the painting at it remembered. It knew all too well the images would pour into her head, jumbled. None of it would make sense to Yerinia, their bond was only beginning. The painting had turned from it's rough edges, her hand moving to create more curved lines. The small purple eyes, narrowed to purple lines, before opening wide, as though fire was coming out of it. When it had lost its sense of compassion? It's sense of love? 'Stupid girl! What have you done?' The artists moved as Yerinia looked up at it. Its black hand grabbed hers, the right, the dominant hand, going over the curved lines she had made. A mix of personalities in paint. 'You've ruined it! It must be fixed! FIXED!' There was a desperation in its voice, commanding the young woman to finish the painting the way it saw.

Yerinia nodded. Following its instructions. She could still remember the first time she had heard it, calling to her, begging for her to listen. The woman of twenty and six, had heard it as clearly as she heard the waves crash against the shore, the birds above, the people who would chatter as they walked by, and the sound of slushing as she moved the paints around. It had been subtle..until it had grown so loud she could swear someone had been trapped beneath the waves, crying out for help. However..whenever she had asked someone who passed by, no one else had seemed to hear the voice and well...Well eventually Yerinia decided to rush into the waves, and dive below the current. There she had found it.

"How much longer?" She was tired, and the Artist was impatient. Still, a noise sounded, a feeling of something off. The Artist stiffened, circular head veering in the direction of the sound. It moved, it's cloaklike body running over the paints on the canvas. Yerinia looked up, watching it. "What is it-" It growled, a warning she need to silence herself. Slowly, she watched it move, as if it walking down stairs backwards into the paint and moving to form a puddle once more. Everything disappeared but it's eyes stayed above the surface, round on top, white mask framed around those purple glowing eyes, and it's sharp fingers held onto the edges of the puddle, as if keeping itself up to watch out. It looked at her, hidden in front of her, but in such a position it could see between her right bicep and the side of her body.

'Something is coming. We should be careful.' Careful. We. It was the first time Yerinia had heard the being address them together. Though she had known it had likely said it before then denied it. It seemed to loath the fact it was stuck with her. At least, in her eyes. She moved, but the Artist snarled. 'Keep still! Let it approach...that man..' Yerinia continued look at the paint, staring down. The Artist watched, calculating as the man approached them, and then finally addressed her, Yerinia. 'Be quick about making him go away.' Yerinia sat up on her knees, before turning to look over her right shoulder at the stranger. 'Something is strange about this human...' It warned, as Yerinia gave the man a confused look.

"Excuse me?" Yerinia tilted her head back to the left, her long hair swaying. The bottom was coated with drying paint, but the wet parts stuck to her lower back. 'Friendly! Friendly Yerinia! Least he find you out..' The voice growled in front of her. "Who might you be? A friend of my father's? An Art collector?" Yerinia moved, wiggling her way back off the painting until her feet touched the sand and she could stand straight up. She whipped around, her back to the blob the Artist had made on the canvas. It glared at him, but she looked up at the strange man. Man. He was tall. Her arms crossed under her chest, pushing them upward unintentionally. "Might I be able to help you? If you are looking for artwork on sale..it'd be in the house. You know..the weird house with the large seashells?" That was definitely the Theriko's home. Ever since Abinon had found Yerinia, his whole perspective had changed. Once a gold and silver thing, with god and silver still shining through under the bright blue paint, the thing was different than everything else. Large shells as tall as twenty feet or more, made a line around the base of the manson. All of white were different shades of greens, and blues, and pinks. The walkway he had made of the tiniest shells, and everyone with a brain knew which home was his..in the mass of silver and gold homes, his was the only one with shells and blue. "Did my father send you out here?" Her head inclined to the right side, hair falling in line behind her. "Seems like him to send a strange man out here to entice me to stop working." She huffed. 'Nicer! Be Nicer! Yerinia!' the voice was panicked, as though it felt something was off. Yet, it could not expose itself to a normal person. Still regaining itself, it watched from a distance as she interacted with the male. As though he was a friendly couch reminding her to not blow their cover. Despite it's insanity, The artist knew better than to let others know it was here with a new user before it was fully recovered.​

 

[Ryees]

It had been some time since Anmillaen had had the opportunity to meet someone where his reputation did not precede him. His name had spread through the central kingdoms quickly when he rose to lordship, an up-and-comer from nothing that suddenly had power and holdings and influence in the world. That had made him a curiosity, and he saw several very busy months where every day was a meeting with some or other nobleman and his lady for introductions over honey wine. Those months did nothing to quell the populace’s curiosity of him, as meeting him had a tendency to raise more questions than it ever answered. Eventually, his cunning, provocative nature got around, and a reputation settled in. One he was very happy with, by and large, except when it predisposed some lady to assuming he was going to assail her or some lord that Anmillaen was going to brutalize and kill him for his holdings.

Not that those things were always untrue. But it was inconvenient when they assumed it ahead of time.

Luckily for him, Anmillaen had always had something going for him that many lords did not: Simply put, he was attractive. Nearly six and a half feet in height and broad in shoulder, he was born with a strong figure that was only molded for the better by his path in life. Years spent as a soldier saw him training in armor and kit most days of the week for the duration, toning and hardening his body. His face was a mix of pleasant curves of the jaw that angled into prominent cheekbones, framing blue-nearly-silver eyes that had a natural sharpness to them even before he opened his mouth and revealed his refinement. In bright light, his red-brown hair seemed to ignite, pulled back away from his face in a tight braid down the center of his skull. His face took well to animation and expression, smiles appearing more jovial, glares more menacing, smirks more patronizing. He took the natural charms born into him and crafted them into a tool, another edge of his angular personality that he could use to create friction in the courts, as well as a route to ensuring he never slept in an empty bed.

Anmillaen let the girl ask her questions, giving a polite shake of his head to most of them before answering her all at once. “A friend of your father’s indeed, but he did not send me. He spoke a great deal of you, to his guests,” he explained, his eyebrows flicking exasperatedly, “as seems to be his way, but some of what he said rang with truth, and made me want to meet you face to face.”

His right arm swept out from under his cloak, folding it up and back over his shoulder. A tiny sprite of crimson light coalesced at the tip of his outstretched fingers and held there as he swept that hand inward to his heart. The light orbited around the back of his shoulders as he bent forward at the waist, and just as his hand crossed over his heart and balled into a fist, that light snuck in between his fingers; his hand closing down on it saw it burst into tiny pixels of light that rained down from his hand like diamond dust, tinkling into the sand and seeking out the micro-shells laid there within. He held his bow for a short moment, and as he straightened, those lights rose with him, a cloud of incandescent, red-glowing shells helixing up around him before fading into ethereal mist.

“Anmillaen Xetrix Elminaratorae,” he cooed warmly, offering her his best smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Theriko.”

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia watched the strange man and listened to his words. So he confirmed majority of what she thought, though she had never seen or heard of a man like this before. Than again. Yerinia was more enthralled with the being behind her and her work to care anything about men or women.

'What a funny man..' The purple eyes behind her, one of them furrowed as though there was an invisible brow. 'He means to seduce you..' It cackled at the scene, shaking its head, and Yerinia grunted.

"Well..you have seen me, so begone now!" She wanted to be rid of him, the Artist had said something was funny about the man, and it's mocking voice behind her did not sit too well.

It was only when he bowed, and the two of them watched him curiously, that they saw the sparks. Magic. Magic was forbidden in Wvir,. Yet here this man used it freely to summon the shells from below to introduce himself. Her stomach dropped, and the Artist shook its head as he stood.

'Oh no..this is bad.' said the Artist, though he was not speaking about the man. Yerinia had stiffened straight at the man's smile. "Are you mad?" She yelled, wiping her hands in the air in front of her, fling paint on him. "Moron!" Yerinia raised her right hand, aiming to smack the man across the face. 'Idiot girl...' The Artist covered its purple hues with it's black ghostly hands, but he split his fingers over his left eye to continue watching. Yerinia was livid. This man was a ignorant noble who flaunted his magic in front of a complete stranger begging for death.​

 

[Ryees]

Anmillaen’s face froze. ”Begone?” Does she think me some servant of hers?

His intention had been to seduce the girl, win her over, with the idea to take her in and teach her about the being lodged in her skull and how to use it, how to control it. He had perhaps expected hostility or exasperation, but not dismissal. And from her, he found, it was especially infuriating. He did not have a moment to explore that feeling, though, as she flung a hand up in front of her. He felt something wet tack onto his clothes, fleck on his chin, and he looked down. Flecks of paint dotted his tunic, multicolor speckles breaking the expanse of cream and white and silver.

He put a finger to one of those globules, drawing it out of the clothing and balancing on the tip of his finger like a tiny globe. His mouth opened to speak, but his eyes caught further movement.

That orb of paint sizzled into dust as he quickly freed the tiny floe of energy he had used to draw it out, his left hand lancing out and slamming into her wrist just below the joint. With a heave, he hauled her forward, breaking the balance of her legs, and then lifted. He had a foot and change over the girl, and she was small and light, making it a small task for him to lift her up to eye level by that arm with only a little strain from the angle of the lift. He held her close, barely a hand’s thickness between them, and locked eyes with hers—making special note to keep his periphery cognizant of her other hand, should she try to get uppity again.

“To think,” he spat, his voice low and dangerously dark, “that a girl raised in nobility would somehow go her whole life without learning basic manners.” He wiped a pair of fingers across his face, mopping up the pain on his chin and sliding it down her cheek. “Perhaps it would have been more beneficial for my reputation to precede me. At least then you would know the mistake you just made.”

 

[Lagertha]

'Oh no!' The Artist cried, hands on it's face as it shook left to right. 'What an idiot you really are, Girl!' He watched it horror as the man reacted. Yerinia's eyes turned wide. The man was fast. The man was skilled.

Artist. It had seen the whole thing transpire. It knew exactly where she had gone wrong. Yet, it could not help her. It could not reveal itself to protect her. No..the centuries it had been without anyone, it was far too weak in its state now to help the girl. It knew it should be protecting her...but for now Yerinia was on her own.

"P-Put me down!" Somehow, the man had gotten her arm. Somehow, he was strong enough to hold her up by that arm with only one of his. Yerinia's legs kicked as she danced above the sand, a foot no doubt, to come eye level with him. He spat. Yerinia spat back.

"You know nothing about the ways of Wvir!" Yerinia insulted. Yes. She was a noble. A noble that had been raised in isolation away from other nobles. No. The only nobles she met now were to commision paintings, or they had always been. "Reputation?" Yerinia had no idea who he was, besides the name he had given. She cared not to listen to rumors about this or that. No. Not anymore. The girl was too busy with the thing behind her that...was disappearing into the painting with a wave of it's fingers as if it was saying 'Good luck!' Her free hand moved, trying to hit him, and she kicked trying to make contact with his body. "Put! Me! Down!" Yerinia snarled.​

 

[Ryees]

“Legs.”

Anmillaen’s eyes flicked down, catching the twisting of the hips that signified an incoming kick. Why thank you, friend, his thoughts called back, his body already moving. Amillaen let her swat at his head with her free hand, scrunching his face against her flailing hits, much more concerned about the lower body power most women possessed. As her leg lashed out, he lifted an arm, taking an abrupt step forward. Inside the fulcrum of her legs, her thigh simply meatily bounced against him, the momentum of her kick dissipating in the open air behind him, and he locked his free arm down around that thigh. He jerked her lofted arm upwards, giving her just enough lift for him to let go of that arm and transfer his hand to her upper chest. He braced that hand there and spun across, pushing her around and down by her held leg.

The momentum of her falling carried him in a half circle, away from the canvas, and Yerinia’s back impacted the ground. The spin from the fall took most of the punch out of the landing, sending them rolling once, a motion Anmillaen quickly stabilized with an outstretched leg, coming to a halt atop her. He still held that thigh under his arm, perched between her legs with his hips pushed up against hers.

“I may not know the ways of Wvir,” he growled, his voice very sharply opposite of the charming coo it had been just moments previous, “but you do not know the ways of the rest of the world. Or my ways, clearly.” That pulled a smirk to his lips, and he sat up above her, keeping close attention to the movement of her arms and one free leg as he towered above where she lay on her back.

“Tell me, little Yerinia,” he murmured, venom thick in his voice, “have you ever lain with a man?”

 

[Lagertha]

He was strange. Skilled...and she felt alone. Easily he caught all her attacks before they could come to fruition. Somehow, kicking him had given him an advantage. Before she knew it, he was closer, between her legs, and fear struck her. His hand holding her arm jerked it up making her yelp in surprise before it released her right arm and...found her breast. Yerinia brought her arms down, slamming them against him as she spun. Her wet hair swung around, hitting the back of him and some of his face in the motion.

The world spun around them. Down. Down. They went. The sand broke their fall, her back smashing into it, her body bouncing. She watched as the sand shot up around them from the impact, going a foot or two in the air above them before falling down. Her hands were on his waist, pushing him away. His crotch, though it was clothed like hers, was too close for comfort. She tugged on her leg, but to no avail. Trapped. She was trapped.

"Release me you swine!" Yerinia spat the insult. Her eyes grew large, his tone had shifted to something more menacing. She stared at him, arms and free leg flailing to get him off as he spoke. His ways and the rest of the world eh? No doubt she knew she did not want to find out.

"You wouldn't dare.." Her shoulder were tensed at the thought, paint still caked on her body drying, some of the wet paint had mixed with the sand that clung to her form. She raised her hands, moving to smack his face. The look in her eye told her all too well that he would, indeed, rape her.​

 

[Ryees]

Her fear-fueled insults spurred him to greater enthusiasm, keeping hold of her leg and rising to tower over her. She tried to swat at him, but he was simply too tall for her to reach anything of value up high, and the only weak spot below was safely tucked against her hips. The grin that split his face dripped with acid, his eyes lighting with a dangerous glimmer. “I have dared on far greater than you, little girl.”

He threw the left side of his cloak back, too, revealing the sword at his hip and the belt knife perched behind it. Drawing the small utility blade, he held it for a moment between his thumb and first two fingers, delicately tracing its edge with the tip of his other hand’s finger. “Not so fine as the other blade I carry, but more wieldy for right now, I suspect.” The matter-of-factness in his voice was starkly juxtaposed to the darkness creeping into his eyes, an eerie contrast that made that flatness of his words somehow more remarkably unsettling.

Anmillaen very suddenly lunged down, curling the blade into his fist point-down and driving it viciously down… into the sand next to her head. His face came close to hers in the process, their noses nearly touching, the heat of his eyes nearly palpably radiating into hers. He let her bask in the shock of it for only a tick of a clock before immediately grabbing for her wrists, aiming to pin them up in the sand over her head.

 

[Lagertha]

Stillness followed her body as he towered over her even sitting up. This man was menacing, and she needed help. Her mouth parted to scream out, shouting the word, "Helllp!", over and over she repeated it.

The blade caught her by surprise. Of course, why would he not have a weapon on him? No doubt he had been in battle. Darkness seemed to be creeping into the picture, malice in his voice. Still, she screamed for help, only to find...

The blade stashed in the sound next to her face. Some strands of her hair were caught under its edge, separating by its weight. She gulped. He could dispose of her. Eyes widened. Fear inevitable. They stared into his, as if looking through glass to see his soul. Stiff like a corpse, Yerinia was as he gripped her wrists. Her eyes twitched.

"You mean to kill me?" The words were forced. Parting, her lips moved, wondering if she should attempt to scream again.​

 

[Ryees]

Shifting her wrists across each other, he fitted his left hand—remarkably larger than hers—easily around her wrists, freeing his right hand to jerk the knife from the sand. “You think me so horrible as to murder a defenseless young woman?” he wept, a theatric, mocking, maudlin creeping into his voice. “You wound me, good lady! You must think so little of me.”

He barked a laugh, dropping his chest down on hers and pinning her beneath his weight. “No, my dove, I have no intention of killing you so long as you are quiet.” The blade was in his hand, then drawn from the sand and its tip pressed against her temple. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” he crooned, voice dripping with rotten sweetness as he drew the point of the blade down the line of her jaw to the corner of her lips. “Can you stay quiet for me so I don’t have to hurt you? I would hate for you to startle me, and for this to slip.” The blade traveled downwards, its tip scraping at the skin of her throat and continuing its descent.

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia was silent. Watching the creases in his face, his eyes gleam with joy as her dismay. How was she supposed to think any differently from this creature fixing its claws on her?

His chest weighed her down. Sand pooled further around them and her breasts ached from the weight of him upon her. Quiet. She watched him, the blade in the corner of her eyes. Slowly, with a sharp motion she nodded her head. Yes. She would be as quiet as a mouse. If it meant her life. Her eyes closed, the blade on her skin. Her breathing shook as the blade traced her pale skin screaming it would harm her. Then...it found it's resting place against her throat..but only for a few seconds as it grew lower. Raggad came her breathes. Yerinia was about to be humiliated.​

 

[Ryees]

“She listens well. She will be a good student.”

Shut up. This is not business time. He felt the eye roll, but the voice went silent, to Anmillaen’s satisfaction. A quick shift on the grip inverted the blade in his hand, and he levered it under the collar of her shirt. A quick, seemingly practiced motion later, and the blade tore through the fabric, the toothy edge of steel producing a satisfying []ssshck![/i] as it chewed through the silk. The fabric fell away to reveal the ivory beneath, and Anmillaen took his time to trace those mounds with the tip of the knife, leaving erratic red lines in her skin, hot and prickly.

Easing forward with his hips, Yerinia’s legs raised around his hips, the skirt slipping out from between her thighs and falling open. The reveal of the white, lacy undergarment stirred him, a noticeable—and sizeable—twitch able to be felt through his breeches against her thigh. Leaving the skirt for the moment, the knife danced down her body, over her navel and past the fabric of the skirt. Reverting his grip to normal, he pressed the back spine of the blade against her flesh and pushed, delving the metal into the crevice made by the fabric inching up between the lips of her cunt.

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia was praying, to whatever Gods might heard her. The only voice that came was the Artist. 'You put yourself in this predicament girl...should not have acted so rashly!' The Artist sighed, as she felt the weight of her shirt be cut away. Pale as whitest pearl, revealed her breasts, light rosy nipples revealed to him. Ah.. this man was going to take her. How vivid the Artist was, unable to do anything but sit in her head and listen, watch and feel. 'Oh this is going to be a terrible time for the two of us...but a good one for him.'

Yerinia squirmed when he moved, her skirt, her legs, revealing her covered snatch below. She felt it, the thickness twitch in his crotch against her leg. Yes, she knew all about the man's body, all about a woman's still...this brought her fear. 'Do you know what that is?' The voice was mocking her. 'That's the real weapon. Hahahaaa' Artist cackled at her. What a fool she was.

Only did her eyes open with a gasp as he pressed the back end of the blade against her most delicate part through the fabric. She felt it. Sliding in and her lips pressing against the sides of the blade. Her head picked up, tears in her eyes as she squirmed. "Please! Please stop!" Yerinia's voice made a high pitched noise as it broke, fear evident.​

 

[Ryees]

The echoes of her pleas in his ear rose Anmillaen’s arousal to its full height, rising another part of his body along with it. Another pass up and down her slit later, he shifted the blade up to the hem and back down, slicing away the lace. Done with the blade for now, he shifted back up to her head and shoved it into the sand just next to her neck, the edge a hair’s breadth from her flesh.

The hand that held the knife now trailed downwards, groping her breast along the way with a brisk pinch of the nipple. It trailed down her belly to her hips, over her pelvis, and finally sunk between her legs. He was a touch surprised to find a dampness there, and the toothy grin he offered her conveyed that as he slaked his finger in it. “You lying harlot,” he chided in mock indignation. “You would do well not to be dishonest with me.” His hand shot up and whipped across her face, leaving a thin stain of her own sticky sweetness glistening on her cheek. Another few moments of spreading her wetness about, and his hand left her.

The telltale snap, wssh of a leather belt unbuckling and sliding out of breech loops came next, and Anmillaen took the time to loop that belt around her wrists, buckling it too-tight around her wrists and looping it low enough to disallow her hands to squeak out of it. Wiggling his hips, he shuffled his breeches and undergarments down, producing his cock and letting it flop eagerly against her pelvis. Nearly the length of her forearm and over half as thick, it throbbed enthusiastically, a crystalline bead of precum dripping down onto her virginal flesh. A practiced shift of his hips let it slip down and align with her pussy, nudging his head up and down her slit to mix their juices together.

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia looked away from him, up at the rocks above. She tried to still herself. Even when the knife nearly cut into her juglar. She shook, frightened as she stayed as still as she could.

Bare was she now, save for the skirt still around her waist. There was a soft breeze on the beach, and it hit her nipples and exposed lips. She jumped a bit, but more so when his hands pinched a nipple making her yelp and went down..down. There it found her slit, virgin, inviting, pink, and slightly damp. "Ah-uh!" Yerinia cried when he pushed a finger inside. It sucked on the digit, begging for it not to leave, but her hips twisted trying to push it out. Fast. Like the wind his finger removed itself before colliding with her cheek and reddening it. Yerinia grimaced, before spitting up at him. "May you rot in the lowest bowls of Teik's stomach!"

Why? Why did this feel like an eternity? The sound of his belt, the belt around her wrists tightening to the point she could not feel them. She struggled against the restraints, but it was the meaty thing that hit her and made her tense that stilled her. Ah. A man's real weapon. Her face was blank, eyes twitching as he moved it towards her damp slit and rubbed against it. No, that did not feel like anything but a hard weapon ready to split her open. "Don't.." Yerinia cried as it rested just at her virgin entrance.​

 

[Ryees]

Acid could have dripped from his lips. “Don’t speak to me of bowels, girl, or you’ll be feeling something encroach upon those as well.”

In one movement, his hips slammed forward, his cock burying half its length in her in one go before it caught, her tightness too great to allow him immediate entry. He drew back, red mixed in with the fluid on his length, and surged forward again, pounding to two thirds his length before roughly wriggling himself deeper, jostling his hips and shaking her until his body fully came in contact with hers. Small as she was, and large as he was, the feeling tried to take his breath, a satisfied rush of air puffing out between his lips. It would smell only faintly of the wine from Yerinia’s father’s manor, alcohol never quite being Anmillaen’s vice of choice.

His heat mingled with hers and he halted, slotted deep and tight into his plaything. Throbs and twitches from his cock shot sensations through her, the stricture of her cunt allowing her to intimately feel every smallest movement. He dipped his head down, ambushing her lips with a rough kiss that saw his tongue dive unyieldingly between her lips. “It’s all mine, now,” he growled at her as he pulled back, their noses touching. “Every part of you will belong to me for the rest of your days.”

 

[Lagertha]

Yerinia was frightened of this creature, more so then she was of the Artist. At least, she knew that if she died, Artist would have nowhere to go but hide.

A scream, a shriek left her as he shoved forward. Her legs tensed, tears blotted her eyes, and she froze. Pain coursed through her body, but that was not the end. He pulled back, then forward, another shriek, a break of her hymen, her innocence gone. Then again, until this time his hips rested against her own. A single tear rolled down her cheek, her body shaking as she gasped for air. Her feet kicked into the air behind him, her lips parted in loud cries.

Cries were muffled by his lips, and she fought against them. Tongue invaded mouth. His tongue pinning her own down. A single strand of saliva connected their tongues as he pulled back from her, and she looked at the beast on top of her. "I will...kill you one day.." She bared her teeth at him and a sigh came through her ears.

'I could have told you this would happen.' Artist was never one to be silent for too long. 'Oh..I can feel you want me to go away...but you begged me not to leave earlier..' It had emerged from the painting, and the large thing was laying on it's side propped up with one arm. Grapes it had created from paint dangled from it's other hand as it watched from a distance. 'You should probably learn to make threats you can keep girl..Not wise to say things you can't commit to.' Artist sighed, closing it eyes. Though when it opened them, it was evident there was pain in its eyes as well. 'What a terrible view I have.'​

 

[Ryees]

He balked at that, laughing earnestly. “Kill me?” he shot back incredulously, another pall of laughter taking him—laughter that made his cock pulse inside her in time. “Why, I’m a good friend of your father’s,” he smoothly lied, “he would be so upset to see me dead.

"And besides,” he added with an edge, slowly pulling his hips back until just the head of his cock was within her, “your attitude will change soon enough.” And so he began, pushing his hips forward to the base, his head paving the way for his shaft to split her wide, satisfyingly nestling itself full within her for only a moment before reeling back and reentering. So it went, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, Anmillaen letting his pleasured grunts fill her ears and his lust-filled eyes penetrate hers the way his body did.

It seemed that each thrust came a touch harder and faster than the last, and indeed they did: as her body adjusted to its intruder and her walls stretched to accommodate him, the crushing grasp lightened to a tight, white-hot glide, no longer breaking her body, but molding it, shaping it to the size and shape of the cock that had stolen from her the innocence she had never even thought to lose.

 

[Lagertha]

Was he really? Her father's friend? She had never seen him before and-

Yerinia could not think when he moved. Her head jerked back, her eyes searching for something or anything to save her. Pain surged in her legs and this weird feeling..a rhythm started with his motions. Soon her walls molded around him, begging him to continue and she stiffened. Awkward was a virgin. Awkward was the feeling. Still some part of it felt good.

Soft sounds left her lips, ones she could not stop. They mixed with her cries as she closed her eyes, but he touched everything inside of her. Somehow..her mind stopped thinking, stopping listening to the rambling voice of Artist as she lost herself in it all. He was there, Artist, standing above them looking down with judging eyes. She knew he was speaking, but she could not understand him through the motions of the strangers hips. There was this hot feeling, their bodies being combined. The Artist's eyes narrowed at her, as if he was motioning something was wrong.​