Silver Shells and Stained Inkwells

[*Nimiane]

*Thrust. Parry. Cut. Thrust. Deflect. Jab.*

*Bathed in a glistening sheen of sweat, rapier in hand, the bardess attacked the wooden dummy with a ferociousness that sent it teetering on it's foundation in the center of the room. True, such activities were better situated to the gymnasium, yet Odette found comfort in the atmosphere of the upper floor of the home she had been invited to call her own.*

*A booted blow to the wooden base brings a arm-like boom swinging sharply toward her freckled features in a springed reaction, the blow deflected with the buckler strapped to the bare forearm of a dagger wielding claw. Under Kelth's mentor-ship, her blade-work had become deadly, despite their differing styles, the tip of her rapier that darted out a testament to such as it's viper-like tongue lashed the imaginary artery of the mannequin's jugular. Conversations, scenarios, flashbacks, all played continuously through her mind.*

*Thrust. Cut. Deflect. Strike. Strike. Strike!*

*A fist smashes against the wooden countenance of the dummy with a loud crack, though it does little to drown out the single growling sob that catches in Odette's throat with the hanging of her head. Her arms fall limp, blades clattering to the floorboards at her feet in her moment of weakness, hands reaching for and sliding down the ligneous form in front of her as it took her weight.*

"Do as you wish. We all burn either way."

*The mage's words offered to her in the eve previous echoed in her mind like a struck gong, paired by the memories of Illia's final breath and the molten rivers that accompanied it.*

- - - - -

Entry Five:
How? How am I, how are any of us supposed to cope with the constant threats which cling to and snowball throw a narrowing chasm, growing larger and faster with every day that passes? I do not know how much more of this I can take, how many more lives will slip through my fingers as I stand by helplessly, able to do naught more than watch the verse unfold before me and pick up the shattered remains of it's destruction. The rope has reached it's length, how long until it starts to fray and snaps entirely? So many people depending on me, so many lives at stake.

I know not if I make the right calls at the moment. Tensions run high. Perhaps, if nothing else, this is training for future goals. I reached by limit once, and broke to be reformed as something stronger. Am I being pushed to that limit so that I might become even stronger still? I know not, nor if I will survive to speak of it. In the light of everything that is happening, I struggle to remain optimistic internally. Masks of ease come easily so that others will not despair, but I truly wonder if we are even on the correct path any more. I never thought I would have to ask how I am supposed to feel, or expected that such would become so convoluted and hard to define in this sense. I force myself to refrain from sharing this, even when I am unable to understand the actions of those around me.

The refugees of the prime Galvinar, whom we treated in the House of Healing, have been slain by the same assassins, the Cult of the Wyrm, who almost beheaded Brindas. Vyse found Inferno's shattered phylactery, the one broken inside the King Killer, in the Bazaar... tormented with threats before Brindas has taken it. Now... word has reached my ears... another prime, Yick, has also been smashed to oblivion by the debris of a shattered Illia. There were no survivors. Three primes destroyed... the latter by the destruction of the first. I feel the weight on my shoulders, the forked road of decisions that need to be made. Do I have the right to make them over anyone else? No. The hells am I supposed to do? This is bigger than any one of us.

As for the phylactery, I find myself torn in two completely opposite directions. Brindas and Quinn both feel the need to pass on the seemingly cursed object, inherently evil, to some... celestials. I know not who, some who wished to destroy it at any rate. Then there was talk of involving others; red wizards and vampires and sorts not so easily trusted with such things. Trust aside, I cannot help to react strongly to the possibly that in opening this up to those whom had nae insight into the trials endured and undergone, that we're risking their lives to. With claims of taking down a Lich an easy task, it is concerning to me. They know not who and what we deal with. Were such to be handed off so lightly, and their blood on my hands too... despite the fact that others have the right to choose for themselves... I don't know how I will cope.

Torn. Torn. Torn.

Yet it's pointed out that we cannot do this alone, that I have failed in our task, and all that I carry overflows from my grasp; spilling out and affecting those I cannot protect. Has it reached a point in which one must look on all that has occurred and simply admit defeat? Even as I write this, I know I cannot. I cannot simply pass this off to another and pretend as though everything is fine... even if it kills me.

Gods, I hope it does not come to that. Despite the fact I would, and have sworn my life to a cause, I do not want to die yet again any time soon. There is still much I wish to experience and explore within my own life, and achieve in the lives of others.

Perhaps this is selfish of me? This, none of this, is about me; regardless of impact. It would do well to remember this.

Phantom once expressed that the events of a prime have little effect on a larger scale, and no effect on the verse as whole. It is us who impacts the verse by drawing such trauma to it's center. I have many thoughts on the matter, but I cannot help but feel as though this has been proven wrong. The destruction of one world has rippled out, killing hundreds of thousands of people across worlds. Would these events still have occurred without our input? I don't know at this point. I would think that such would happen regardless, as it seems to despite our efforts, but... *the paragraph ends, the thought unfinished.*

What is there to be done when your best just isn't good enough?

When countless lives slip through fingers on a daily basis, resultant of my actions?

_{I fear I shall end up in the Gatehouse, or woefully desensitized before this is through.
Pessimism be damned. I cannot allow either of those things to happen. Be strong, for them.}

[*Nimiane]

*The following is scrawled on the opposite page, written with the lazy slant of a relaxed hand some days later. It is clearly not meant to follow any of the format previous entries have, rather a single thought penned in a passing moment.*

Blessed be the rocks that aid in keeping us grounded and above the rising tide, even through the most fierce of storms.

[*Nimiane]

*With the waxing of the cage's light cycle, gentle rays of warm light drift in through the window's parted curtains and bathes the exposed contours of a woman who stirs from her slumber. With a quiet groan the blonde rolls onto her side, exposing the freshly inked griffon that spread over the curve of her right hip and the concave of her ribs as her head comes to rest on the muscled chest plateau of the warrior with whom the bed was shared.*

*A momentary pinch of her brows eases with the slow parting of her lashes, bleary gaze soon finding focus as it wandered over the nearby floorboards all the way the the hearth. A fond smile curled her lips with the memories of the place she had come to call her home over the past few months. Shifting slightly on the mattress furs, the bardess' head lifts enough to rest her chin on Kelth's chest so that she might drink in the imagery of his sleeping visage.*

*For a brief moment she fights the urge to reach up and pinch his nose shut until he woke, the very thought drawing a quiet snort of amusement as she refrains. Her impish thoughts melt into quiet appreciation of the sight before her. The scene was a familiar once, yet no less remarkable with the unchoreographed steps of the bonded dance that had brought them together. Two paths that had, at present, merged to form one road. Or rather, travelled along side one another to form a new one that plodded along at it's own leisurely pace.*

"S'not the years in our lives...s'tha live in our years...moments like these, should be there more often..."

*His recent words ringing in her ears, Odette presses her lips gently to the muscled mass of his bare shoulder for a lingering beat, before slowly rolling to the bed's edge. Throwing back the warm furs, she stands and stretches with a back-arching yawn in the soft light of morning.*


Entry Six
Kelth and I have decided to see each other. Exclusively. There are many thoughts I could pen on such; be it the uncertainty of our futures, or the pain of our pasts... yet I will do neither. It is not a thing to be picked apart by thought, it is a thing to be felt, experienced and explored without expectancy. We have pledged to see where this path goes, as equals, be it two days or two years. Life is short, it is something I have learnt more so now than ever before. That is why one must push through the 'what-ifs' and grasp these moments of merriment with both hands. Our newly defined relationship has been a popular talking point over the last tenday, surprising for those whom do not see us interact often. Regardless, I look forward to slowly exploring way lay ahead.

There is so much in life we cannot control, moments where one has to step back and realize they have done everything in their power and be willing to accept that. It's not giving up, it's acceptance of being mortal and shifting focus to other things. Illia's destructive path continues, and yet I now find myself calm. Strangely so. Perhaps my outlook has changed, perhaps it was the discussion Kelth and I had over it, or perhaps I have grown wiser in these few months in the aftermath of countless ripples. Likely all three. Looking back and knowing that there is a small possibility that what has occurred is what it is because of my own choices is a heavy weight to carry. It's all I can do to give it my all when opportunity presents, without delusions of heroics or grandeur, and go on living life in the meantime.

Things have been progressing well for Maelfina in her take over of Occipitus, the war we waged on Athux's troops a bloody, violent thing. Though, I find it strange to be named a veteran, a leader of people. Not like I even ask for such, either. Once a deckhand, now a combatant... and looked to in terms of such. At least partially. There will always be those who choose to forge their own paths, however. Honestly though, who the fok picks a fight with a black dragon in the middle of a war? A berk, that's who. At any rate, the task is far from completed and there is still much work to do. That statement applies to a great many things, however. Some more troubling than others, such as the request Vale has made of me. I do not give my word lightly.

I have a new tattoo. Not a brand, or a claim. It's amusing in some small way, perhaps more symbolic than I had realized. I have seen rivers of molten fire, I have burned to death and lived again in nothing short of a miracle... but I am no phoenix. No. A phoenix must die to be reborn anew, it's life an endless, tiring circle. A griffon, however, it endures. It claws and bites and dives with ferocity, doing what it can with the time it has. Then, when it's time ends so too does it.

There is much that can be learned from such a beast, majestic in it's own way.

[*Nimiane]

*Odette vaulted upright with a start, torn from the discomfort of her dreams. A sweaty palm lifts to rub drowsily at her tanned features, then pulls down the length of her face with an accompanying groan. The remnants of her dream lingered still as the bardess shook her head, wisps of darkness and a heavy weight of foreboding amidst dancing shadows; the haunting cry on the edge of consciousness that had echoed in her restless sleep.*

" . . . Fokkin' Mnemur."

*Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet finding the chilled floorboards, Odette stands and runs a hand through her hair in the dim light of the nearby dying hearth. Bleary eyes now adjusted to the room, she shuffles over to check on the scrolls she had recently acquired. Each had been stored exactly how she had been shown; individual vacuumed canisters. Carefully she eyed each of them one at a time, snapping the container shut and placing them back into separated extra-dimensional bags. At least for now.*

*The floorboards creak softly as she makes her way over to the liquor cabinet - after all, it was never too early nor too late for a glass of whiskey. Bottle resonating with a deep 'thuum', Odette pulls the corked stopper and pours herself a glass full to the brim. Before the bottle has a chance to be sealed once more, the glass briskly lifts to maw for a heavy draught followed by an approving smack of whiskey-tinted lips.*

*The amber liquid is swirled in the dusky glass, bardess pushing the nightmares from her mind and instead reflecting on the day's unrelated conversation with Amir; dear friend returned once more and with him. . . news of a time long since passed, a confirmation of purposeful actions released to the wind. Tapping a slender finger against her beverage, Odette finishes the glass in it's entirety before making her return to the hides of the large bed. As her lashes slowly drifted shut once more, the blonde's own words of earlier conversation repeat softly in her mind before she falls into restless sleep once more.*

[color=818181]Aye, I'm better off. But, that were me Amir. I did that. I built this. I was the one who made this happen; who struggled through, who persevered and grew into t'woman standin' before ye. None of that was his doin' or anyone else's. This is my victory.[/color]

[*Nimiane]

*Standing at the top of the hill where the ground gave way to cliff-side, the bardess inhaled a deep breath through her nose and took pause to revel in the somewhat fresher smells of the Gatehouse's garden. Eyes closed, chin lifted and lips parted, her arms opened slightly at her side in placid surrender to the moment's sensation. Odette drank it in, metaphorical a feather on the wind.*

*After a time, her lashes gave way to a slowly focused oceanic gaze that traversed her surroundings with a small smile. Her left hand finds the bark of the tree beside her, fingers crawling over it's surface as if for the first time. Slowly her vision weaves to the campfire's remains at the cliff's base and her serene expression takes on a hint of fond amusement, a two beat chuckle easing from her lips with the renewal of some distant memory.*

*Finally, Odette seats herself at the base of the oak and leans back against it in appreciative silence. Slender fingers dance lightly on the hilt of her rapier, sliding along it's plain filigree on their way into the leather satchel at her side from whence a leather-bound book, a quill and a travelers vial of ink is retrieved.*



Entry Seven
Kelth's taken up his mercenary work again, now that things have settled down for us all and we've found something of a 'center'. The mission he's left on will take him away for some time and there's no telling when he'll be back, not even he knows. When we decided to give this us an honest try, however, we knew it wasn't going to be easy and thus would encounter challenges in attempting such. Yet words were given freely to stand and support one another come what may.

"Dearest Odette" he murmured my name softly, our bodies and lips parting reluctantly. My thoughts linger still on that passionate farewell. *There is a slight smear to the page here, ink pooling as the bardess paused and gently brushed fingertips over her lips in indulgent recollection.* The house feels empty, true enough, yet even as I write this a smile blooms on my lips. I am at peace. Morrigan, guide his blade to strike truly until he is brought on your wings to my side once more.

I believe the performances given by Vyse and myself at the Sensate's Masquerade Ball was a success. It's been a long time since I've performed in front of such a large group, and never in such an establishment. The ornate halls of the remolded Festhall and masked occupants are a far cry from the limitless horizons and roguish adventurers. Regardless, it was an enjoyable time and I have become acquainted with a number of new faces personalities that I would enjoy speaking with again in future.

Come to think of it, there have been many new faces around the bazaar as of late; both clueless and returning. Interesting, none the less. That being said, there are still many with whom I must speak with on varying matters and often not enough hours in the day to see it done. I will have to endeavor to have this seen to over the coming weeks, but not without taking time for myself as well.

I made a promise, after all.

[*Nimiane]

*The stone was a small one that fit easily into the palm of her hand, lightweight and unblemished save for the dwarven phrase that had been carved into one side. Odette brushed a thumb over the roughly etched divit of each letter in a single sweep as her remaining fingers followed suit, clenching the rock in her fist. With enough force to ensure it would shatter, the bardess drew back her arm and pelted the object into flickering maw of the stoked hearth before her. The stone ruptures on impact, it's destruction accompanied by a sharp discharge of sonic energy that assaulted her ears and mind painfully before dissipating into nothingness.*



Entry Eight:
Amir has returned to the Cage once again, up to his usual shit. I missed the bastard. Having been away to deal with a particular farewell, he brought with him news I had long since known but he confirmed. A Shade will always be a Shade, and everything that was done was done knowingly and purposefully. I will write no more on it; time already given was more than enough and I'll not waste a moment more on the mistakes and betrayals of the past. It is done.

It does, however, return my thoughts to a conversation Quinn and I recently shared concerning the remnants from the Plane of Shadow that permeate my being; of which Maelfina and Brindas bore witness to upon our venture. Though it was not a sought after boon, and the circumstances that lead up to and following it were not ideal, the abilities gained have had their uses. From what I understand, however, it could perhaps be considered a taint? Slightly different to, but not unlike the arts of those who dance with shadow. Yet it goes just beyond that, if only a mere tendril, and is likely to corrupt over time, if tapped into and heavily relied upon.

Quinn believes there way be a a way in which it can be extracted and thus I would not have to make a conscious effort to keep it at bay, yet I remain uncertain. Such shadow manipulations of stealth mean that one relatively inexperienced in such can be cloaked in a way which results in the ability to scout. Usually these abilities are limited to those trained in the art of the dance; not something an outsider would just pick up. Surely this would put to rest my own awakened shadow, and if so can I afford to give that up? On that same thought, can I afford not to? I did not ask for this, but now that I have it, it makes the question no less prevalent.


*As questions of morality took root in her contemplations, Odette's gaze slowly wandered to the seated silhouette of her own shadow that flickered in into proximation to the fireplace. The scene holds her attention for some time, various arguments and counter-arguments relentlessly undulating in her rumination.*


It then begs the question, how far is one willing to go? Even in questioning that, the response comes to mind instantly: As far as I need to. It is the age old question - do the means justify the end? If it achieves that which I aim for, without harming those around me, is it really that bad? Does that make me no better than the necromancer whom claims to use unholy methods for the greater good? One would argue that Necromancy taints the very essence of what it means to live, where as the taint of shadow affects only the self. If it can help me achieve that which roars so fiercely in my heart, then I shall continue to use it as needed until an alternative method can be found.

It's been a month since Kelth left, though he remains on my mind often. A strange thing it is to have entered into courtship (a thing I do not take lightly) that is still in it's budding stages, yet be unable to see, or touch or in any way explore it further. So long it took, bit by bit for us to reach this point; shared battles and tender nights. I am not so dependant that I require constant attention, and the promises made were those spoken fervently; yet even still I cannot help but wonder how he fares and wonder when and if we will meet again. I miss his company, now more than ever.

A ghaele by the name of Nero has become known to me. Having claimed to be a friend of Kelth's, he has asked for my aid in dealing with Krystelle's rehabilitation. I will admit, I was skeptical at first given what I had been told and sourced before confronting him of his intentions. Open and honestly he admitted to past mistakes. Despite the fact he can be a demanding sod, I have given my time freely to aid in the task. Nero believes our meeting is no coincidence, though I am not sure I am convinced enough to believe in fate. Regardless, we seem to work well together on tasks undertaken (of which seem to pile up by the day) and the company is enjoyable.

*The ink is left to dry, open on the table. Only after a later addition, is the book closed and stored away.*

I took back the phylactery.

[*Nimiane]

*With a dull thud, the wrapped bundle found it's place on the thick oak of the dining table. Though it vaguely resembled the size and shape of many of the traditional drinking horns which hung on the walls within the den, the mass of cloth was stained with blood that had long-since dried. The muffled two-tone drop of leather boots on wooden floorboards follows as the bardess removes her footwear and tosses them in the direction of the door she had come through.*

*As Odette's steps take her through the home she had come to know as her own, so too do debris-covered articles of clothing find a place on the floor in her wake. By the time the woman had reached the upper floor's bathing room curtain, she was shamelessly relieved of her clothing and accessories. It was only after she had soaked in the tub for near on an hour, allowing the grime and aches of the day's combat to be capitulated by the water's heat, did she remove herself from it and set about recording her thoughts with an accompanying tumbler of whiskey.*


Entry Nine:
I'm not sure what the afterlife holds, but when I die I'd want my soul to partake in festivities of Arborea eternally. Is that possible? I know not. What I do know is, having recently travelled on business to that very destination, it was every nuance of freedom packed into one occassion. The desire to partake was near overwhelming; platters upon platters of the most piquant of foods, wine and booze that flowed freely from seemingly bottomless pitchers, music so joyous and vibrant it seemed to bloom colour into every and everyone present. That is nothing to say of the mountains of pillows and the freedom of shameless writhing bodies in sexual euphoria. Sounds like somewhere I could get used to being for all eternity. It was a truly impressive experience to be witness to.

Two dragons came for the phylactery whilst Quinn and I were spending some time recording a sensory stone. Or rather, were about to. Call me barmy, but this is a good thing. A very good thing. It means that moves are being made, that they are coming to us. However, it is not something I can continue to carry on my person whilst in the city. It is not for my own life I fear, but the destruction and slaughter of those whom might fall into a crossfire. For now, it is secured elsewhere until which point it can be scryed.

Brindas has disappeared to gods only know where and I have failed him. If Krystelle is Nero's ward then Brindas is surely mine, in the attempt to aid him in being more than the tool of fiends that he had been all those years. I swear if I ever get my hands on the berk, I'll wring his bloody neck for leaving without a word. If only he could see the importance of what he does, that it's so much bigger and more of a priority than what befalls us as individuals. There are people in need, people he's walked out on. Gods only know how hard I've tried to teach him patience, and share with him a broader viewpoint than what is directly in front of him. I grow weary in knowing that so many whom have come and gone from my life cannot see the value in their own; so quick to discard themselves and others when personal expectations are not met. It vexes me even now.

*An abrupt halt sees a the start of the next paragraph cease at the formation of the first letter, a mark on the page that is paired with a faint pooling of ink*

Do I drive my companions away in my dedication to help others? How many times has it been now, that I've heard it? "You were not there for me". "You don't tell me anything". In everything I do and wish to accomplish, I throw myself so passionately into that it becomes a priority. Sometimes it takes root over eating or sleeping. Other times, neglect. Brindas has vanished. Vyse returns to wearing masks he thinks I do not see. Even Quinn and Dace turned backs following our rescue of Sultra. Yet the Hive beckons me still with it's clatter of chains, steady as a heartbeat. Adimarchus makes his presence known in the ploy for Occipitus. Debris resultant of Illia's destruction still run rampant in their destruction of primes, the Cult of the Wyrmn close in on the phylactery with every day that passes and that says nothing of what Sammaster is to to currently, or if Scar still lives. Investigations into the Auction deaths continue, as does the quiet persistence of Mnemur's scrolls. Krystelle's rehabilitation. Massacres in the infirmary. The parasite that remains on the tree of ash within the grove.

There is not nearly enough hours in the waxing and waning of the cycles to equally distribute my time and energy, and in such... I fail. For what good is any of it, if I cannot be there for the people I care about? Do I simply cut myself free of those connections to do the work I need to do and continue unhindered? The needs of the many over the needs of the one? No. My own words ring in my head; the advice I would give to others - you can only do so much, life is short, take time to revel in freedom and merriment.

But if I don't do it, who will?


*The tome is thrust forward, quill sent skittering over the table to roll onto the floor in a pirouette of splattered ink. Bare fingers thread through the bardess' damp hair in familiar gesture, her lips giving way to a billow of exhaled breath.*


[color=717171]Gods damn it all. When did I get so fokkin' responsible?[/color]

[*Nimiane]

Decay of the Past

“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck.

Night had fallen over the township of Myrefall, blanketing the farmlands in a thick fog that clung to blades of grass bent by chilled winds that weaved through dark trees on the outskirts. It's populace had long since gone to bed, shut themselves within four walls and bolted the doors with several locks that spanned from top to toe. All, save for one. Foreigner. Outcast. A presence noted by the quiet ring of whetstone and steel by the flickering glow of firelight. Hunched over stone and fire-pit alike, solitary figure drew stone to to blade in a slow rhythmic motion. The mercenary feared not the night, but rather - she embraced it. Unlike rays of day, the night did not judge as harshly as it's warmer counterpart. It didn't draw attention to the scars that marred bronzed flesh, nor attract the eye and tongue of wary natives. She couldn't blame them of their suspicions, yet neither did she care.

Blonde locks cascaded about wearied features, stray tresses having fallen from the leather tie of the woman's hair as she worked the blade in hand. Each and every scrape that echoed in the silence of eve was additional reminder of just how alone she had truly become in her search. Once before, she had scoured a prime in search of figure she knew remained; even as the ground shook and cracked beneath her feet with it's dying breaths. Fate, it would seem, had dealt her a cruel hand once again. Hope remained and drove her onward blindly, but it's flickered wane from one day to the next was an irony that was almost laughable. Grasping at straws, even now.

The allure of the tavern's warmth had long since lost it's luster, cogs of the Cage useless in their worth. Even the silver chips of previous prime had no bearing here in forced restart. Odette lifted the blade amidst the light and dancing shadows of the fire, thumbing the pad of a bandaged digit against it's sharpened edge with a frown. A notch had made it's mark in the steel, and drew from the blonde a faint scowl. She would have to do better. In the darkness, emerald hues weaved their way skyward from the linger upon blade's surface, judging the proximity of the world's dual moons with thinned lips. Amidst the purple azure hues of Kelna's night sky, two rounded discs of vermilion clung to the spangled canvas a short distance from one another in slow-motion chase. It was an hour after midnight.

It was the way of the world that people despised what they knew not of, shied away from and outcast. Questions and queries of portals and worlds beyond their own only drew derisive mockery and avoidance, in addition to the wariness of appearance and mannerisms. Feared, lest there be gain to had from she. The flyer that had come to be in her grasp was evidence of such, thrust into blistered hands with derisive shoo that followed shortly after inquiry of work. A number of local persons had wound up on a list of the missing; indiscriminate of men, women or child. The sum was a sizable one, though it hardly mattered. What good would coin do in restoring what was lost to her? It would provide food, that much was true, services, a horse. Yet the 'easy' money was not the sole reason she had turned to mercenary work in her search. If history had anything to say in the matter, all paths would eventually lead to a door and all doors were connected in some way or another. The more unique the job, the more likely it was connected to the supernatural or monstrous, the better the opportunity. Maybe, just maybe, she would find him along the way.

Longsword returned to it's sheath with steely hiss, the mercenary stood abruptly from the stump on whence she sat with the grind of boot-clad heels in the russet earth. It was time. Straps of leather saw the scabbard attached to the woman's hips, already more slender than times past for physical exertion and lack of nutrition. Collecting items discarded about the camping ground, the sellsword made to depart and, shortly after lighting the end of wooden torch pasted with the crimson oils of blood moss, the fire was dampened and snuffed with the a kick of sand. Fastening her belt, drawing shaggy fur mantle tightly about leather-clad shoulders, the woman lofted burning light and set off upon dirt trail rendered faint by moon's light.

The winding road that ran outward from the township was abandoned in favor of a far less traveled trail that wound faintly off the beaten track and through the trees lead her beyond the ruins of stone tower to the village's North and into the marshes of swamp. It was not the first time Odette had walked this path, or one similar to such. Her first thoughts had been that perhaps she would be dealing with one of the Maanvaki of the marshlands, or perhaps even the Will-o'-Wisps of the forest that lured their victims elsewhere. She had found no trace of either, however. Further investigation that yielded result that of most of the missing, the largest portion were men.

With the lift of a few scarred fingers and the muttering of incantation that accompanied the gesture, the woman's humanoid senses were amplified by the arcane as she delved deeper into the undergrowth. The chant itself allowed the details within the dark to become visible, the crunch of underbrush sharper and more easily defined to both ears and eyes. Branches that barred her way were easily pushed aside, the scratches they made on what little bared skin remained unnoticed and she moved onward. There was still no trace of larger prints that perhaps belonged to troll or giant, meaning she was less likely to be exposed to a covey. This was good, yet did not rule out the possibility of singular creature.

The scent of Falsifal plant assaulted her nostrils, the pungent aroma of the rosen-flowered shrub a sign that betrayed her encroaching position upon the marshlands. It did nothing to mask the scent of death and decay that wafted through the thinning trees, however. Therein stood the shack in the middle of the swamp, proving the tales of the village's midwives true despite the exaggerations of their superstition. If there was one thing Odette had learnt over recent months, was that most had some small element of truth in them; be it what was told, or what wasn't. The thought played idly at the back of her mind as she made her approach.

Nudged by the slow press of booted toe to the splintered panels at it's base, the rickety door creaked open slowly. Even before the pale moonlight had bathed the shack's interior in it's eerie vermilion glow, the mercenary was privy to the glow of ruby eyes that darted toward the noise. There, hunched over the bare form of a large male made meal, crouched the gaunt frame of an elderly woman whose long, bony claws were submerged in the wrenched chest cavity of the half-eaten prey. Blistered lips peeled back behind the curtain of green, vine-like hair for sickly sweet smile to display a two rows of yellowed, overlapping teeth drenched in blood and ichor. The room itself was putrid, a sight that sickened the senses of any whom would gaze upon it. Bodies were piled in two corners of the room, or rather what was left of them. Bones stripped of sinew and fat scattered the ground and crunched underfoot for the slow steps that were taken beyond the doorway under the predatory gaze of the hag herself.

"Knew yew would come, yeees." preened the monstrosity in a high-pitched voice garbled by the flesh she feasted upon. Smacking her lips, a decrepit tongue snaked from the woman's lips expectantly. Odette gave no reply, blade at the ready in a two-handed grip.
"This is where they send all those they wish to be rid of, yeees." continued the hag with an excitable screech. "But none like you. No, no. Similar. I can smell it on you. Strange, yeees. Foreign, yeees. Without manflesh, unfortunate... yeees. Drained this one dry..."
A cackle sounded from the sinister lips of the spindly figure. Her meaning needed no explanation, nor was it out of character. The sellsword took another step into the shack, sword poised defensively as she moved to circle the twisted old woman.

Odette's first mistake was taking her attention off the hag herself, emerald-hues faintly aglow in the night's atmosphere turning toward the heaped corpses. That small opening, the distraction, was the trigger for assault, and with an ear-piercing screech the hag leap with a speed unexpected of such brittle bones. The longsword she held in hand was somewhat clumsy and easily batted aside, exposing the blonde fully to the startled lunge that knocked her to the ground. As her blade skittered across the floorboard resultant of the impact that loosened her grip, Odette questioned her prior abandonment of the rapier and the wisdom of such a decision; fleeting as the thought was in the back of her mind.

A heavy-handed punch was delivered to the twisted features of the scrambling hag as it's near-rotting form crawled atop her own, yellowed teeth snapping with the pungent exhale of rotting breath that near closed her throat. The blow, and subsequent screech, allowed the woman enough time to reach for the hunting knife on her hip, the blade plunged into hag's flesh with the upward drive of her arm and body. As the creature reeled back in pain, the sellsword rolled briskly over mildewed floorboards to grasp her blade. Successful, yet not fast enough to avoid the spindly claws that lashed outward to sink and tear through the bronzed flesh of her cheek and nose whilst other made it's claim of shapely thigh. With a gasped curse hissing through her lips, contorted by pain, her steps staggered backward and into the table. The effects were instantaneous. Already she could feel the weakening toxins of the hag's touch working it's way into her blood stream. There wasn't much time.

Lifting her blade, Odette lunged, arcing the sharpened edge in a crescent that caught the shriveled witch as she pried the knife from her skeletal rib cage. Slicing through bone and flesh, the blade carved it's way through her stomach, upward from the hip with crimson spray. Enraged, the haggard woman shrieked anew. The piercing sound was enough to send several scavenger birds cawing through the undergrowth of the marsh as they took startled flight. This time, however, Odette was ready. Singing through the air in the opposite direction, the dying strength of a two handed grip it's life-force, her blade found it's mark beneath the outstretched arms of the pouncing hag. It did not stop there. With a breathless grunt, the blonde followed through on weapon's arc and drove it further upward through armpit, shoulder and neck. There was no sound that accompanied the gurgle of blood and resounding thud of skull that fell and rolled to a stop against the nearby cauldron, save for the mercenary's own ragged breaths that bellowed from her lips and the slump of the creature's lifeless form. Dead.

Forced to stagger as she regained her breath, the effects of the hag's touch continued to sap away at the swordswoman's strength. Gloved fingers reached upward to the wound that cleaved itself a crimson river through her features, noting the smeared blood on her leather-clad digits as she pulled them away with a grimace of pain. Blade sheathed, she turned abruptly on heel and moved unsteadily toward the corpses as though driven by some exterior force that urged her forward. In a manner that could only be described as desperate, Odette began to pull the bodies free one by one; turning them over and casting them aside after brief inspection. One after another followed, along with the scrambled sweep of her hands in gruesome search.

None of them bore anything resembling a tartan ensemble, nor matched parting vision. He wasn't there. Even as she sunk to her knees, the spots in her eyes contorting to ripple outward, frustration and relief both flooded the senses of the sellsword. With the last of her strength spent, wounds fresh and bleeding, her world went dark before she'd even made contact with the ground.