Things Get Worse

The trio of wounded and exhausted adventurers, stumbled through the clamoring streets of Memnon towards the docks. Sagacious could see masts in the distance, sails furled as the waiting galleons bobbed in the waves. Isobel clung to him for support and Scarlett used walls, refusing Sagacious' offers of assistance.

"Only a few more blocks, I can see ships there." He breathed heavily, obviously struggling.

Onlookers began to gather, whispering and pointing at them and at Scarlett in particular. Noting this, she stumbled closer to Sagacious and whispered, "Why are they all staring at me?"

Isobel laughed darkly and then coughed, grimacing in pain. "You're a bright red devilkin who happens to be faintly glowing with power. I'd stare too." A few more shambling steps brought the sea into view, and all three heaved a sigh of relief. Scarlett raised her eyebrows curiously and noticed for the first time that her markings were pulsing with a greenish radiance.

"Inspect them later, please." Sagacious sounded exhausted, "I don't know how you did what you did back there, but the amount of power that was spent would of course leave its resonance on you. See if you can't consciously 'wash' it away?"

Scarlett leaned against a dockside tavern and closed her eyes, once more envisioning that great green river that she threw herself into when she confronted the great howling storm. She saw herself wading into it, letting it wash over her. A fresh breeze washed in from the Sea and a smell of fresh growth washed through the area again, carrying the usual tavern scents of stale beer, urine, and vomit away for a short time. As Sagacious and Isobel watched, Scarlett's bloodied and burnt clothing changed into a fine emerald travelling tunic, leggings and cloak, covering most of the visible tattoos, save for her face. The fine lines of the creeping vines glowed the same green as her clothing. Her usually white and pupiless eyes snapped open, and Isobel gasped. They were now the same emerald as the vines. Scarlett smiled and asked impishly, "Better?"

Sagacious shook his head in amazement and reached out, drawing the hood of Scarlett's cloak up. "Mostly. Do you know how you just did that, Scarlett?" His voice was gentle as usual but his concern was audible.

Scarlett answered in a hollow voice, detached from the situation. "No. I just imagined that I was very dirty and that I was washing it all away from me." She stood away from the wall, checked her balance, and gave a sly twirl. "I think it's fetching."

Isobel seemed to have recovered a bit more and also stood up, straightening her clothes. "Sure, Scarlett. Very fetching." She winked at Sagacious, "But we need a ship heading north and it isn't going to offer. Let's go."

The three of them walked into the disreputable tavern which served as the Harbormaster's unofficial office and, after buying him several rounds, they were able to book passage on a merchant galleon headed to Caer Ashwynn. In fact it's captain, Jaleesa Del'Tharian was an elf who was happy to take their money and depart later that evening. Scarlett sat silently during the negotiations, trying very hard not to draw attention to herself. Sagacious paid for everyone's passage and very kindly refused to take anything from Isobel, and Scarlett assumed that went for her as well. Just the same, she nodded her thanks. They sat back and enjoyed a much needed rest and a sub-par stew before heading to the docks and boarding their new home for the next four weeks.

She was a beautiful Elven galleon, built for speed. Her crew was busy preparing for an early departure and Captain Jaleesa welcomed them onboard 'The Queen Thia'andathas'. An hour later the vessel carved an almost delicate wake through the harbor as it headed out to the greater sea, and freedom.

Behind them, clouds of deep black had gathered in the desert once more and a terrible sandstorm swirled around Memnon…

*****

Darkness was all Ciara could see. She remembered very clearly being stabbed by Isobel, knew the wound was not only mortal, but designed to impede healing. Something about the type of wound made by the Merciful's tri-egded blades created made them difficult to close. Ciara remembered feeling the power of Annatar sustain her as she hurled Darruk at the woman, remembered seeing the body strike true, hurling them both into a pile of rubble that had served as walls. The angelkin had dropped the roof on her then. Yes, and she felt herself be impaled by a flaming support beam, and then…. Darkness?

She instinctively reached down to her chest, no wound was there. No pain either, just… nothingness? Surely she was dead?

"Hello?" She called out into the blackness, it muffled her voice like plush velvet and dimmed it to a tiny whisper. A sense of dread began to creep over her, distantly she could hear the howl of a great hungering beast. Dim light began to shimmer all around her, illuminating a great hall surrounded by silver mists. Ciara knelt in the middle of the hall, naked and shivering as her vision returned. A lone figure sat at the end of the hall, great rusty iron chains about his feet and arms, Ciara could see the bloody bolts that held them to his flesh. She knew who this was, her blood ran cold and tears began to gather unbidden in her eyes.

A cold, delicate face stared at her impassively as she prostrated herself before him. "Great God," she shakily began, "Forgive my failures in your grace and love!"

His eyes moved slowly as if noticing her wails for the first time. "I will do neither. You are dead and you come before me for judgement." The voice oozed like oil into her mind, filling her entire thoughts. It was dark and rich, seductive in its power. Ciara kept her eyes downcast and shook silently in terror. Dead? Yes. The damned angelkin. Judgement? Did that mean should make a case for herself?

"Dread King, I can offer no excuses for my failures, save for one. Had the power of Fate and the agents of Mercy not interfered, I would have -" She began slowly, picking up confidence until she was interrupted.

"You would have been dead just the same, half-breed. You pollute the elven blood in your very veins." The tone was deadpan and cynical, not angry as Ciara might have expected. "But you do have a point," he continued in her mind, "The fabric of Fate did interfere. And who knows, with my power infusing you, you may even have healed from those grievous wounds?"

Ciara was wisely silent.

"An errant part of… my tale… is the cause of the storms and of the death you have been using to find the devilkin and her cloak, which is now one with her very being." Ciara heard the chains rattle as Annatar rose from his throne and moved towards her, still somehow graceful in his bindings. "And so," he touched her cheek, and Ciara wept with terror, "I offer you one last chance. One. And if you fail, the next time you stand before me I shall see to it your soul suffers indignities undreamt of for centuries!" She gagged reflexively as she smelled carrion and rot overwhelmingly.

She heaved a couple of times, held fast by his piercing gaze. Alabaster white skin, marked by black veins, jet black eyes of almond shape, hair of a similar glossy black. Atop his head he wore a black circlet of lightning that seemed to writhe and swirl. Black lips twisted into a sardonic look of pity as he gazed down into her very soul.

"I accept, Dread Lord. For your glory." Ciara felt excited and horrified all at once as he nodded approvingly.

"Be reborn then, half-breed. And fetch me that little devilkin." He began to laugh then, hollow and rasping it encompassed Ciara in darkness once more.

She opened her eyes, lids caked heavy with something, and the first thing she beheld was a terrible sandstorm howling all around her. She opened her mouth to scream, and as clumps of moss fell from it, hot desert sand began to sear her insides. Held in place by the support bean that had killed her, Ciara could do nothing but stand still as the storm raged around and swirled into her as she screamed soundlessly.

All around her, the greenery turned a dead brown and then putrid black, insects and birds began to die and drop from the sky at the same touch. The city of Memnon began to die as Ciara lived once more, citizens screaming and dropping where they stood as the storm of sand washed through the streets and flowed into Ciara's impaled corpse. A great piled of now desiccated wreckage stirred and Darruk rose unsteadily to his feet, once more to aid his mistress, even beyond death. Massive hands grasped the great beam and pulled it from her corpse, Ciara's own body assisting him as he wrenched. When it came free she stood awkwardly, like a marionette moving on its own for the first time. Around her, the corpses of Memnon began to rise to their feet in a similar manner gathering into a massive horde around their new Mistress...