Prologue: The Rest is Silence
The End Comes, Beyond Chaos.
She calls, a silent voice on a motionless wind. Some of them have only heard her voice in youth, a long forgotten memory; some of them have never heard it at all. But instinctively they all know it, as if the memory exists within their blood. And one by one they respond, one by one they come, until all who remain are gathered. All of the old have passed on, beyond the reach of mortal hands, into the embrace of Chaos until the time comes for them to return anew. They are the Remnant. They were to become the First of the New.
But the stars are wrong. And now the End Comes.
Of three came five. Of five came thirteen. Of thirteen came many, but of those seven stood at the center of the grove, in the midst of the host of their ancestors. Four had been chosen as sentinels, the protectors and defenders of the clan's leaders, the final inner circle of steel and storm against those who would call themselves enemies of Chaos, the ultimate defense against the Deceivers and Controllers of the world.
The eldest was Dierdre, the outsider brought in, the Watcher. With her stood Garion, the Guardian; Matthias, the Warden; Draco, the Destroyer. Within this circle of chosen warriors stood the Three.
Megan, Mhácha, Clotho, the Maiden. Though truly little younger than her siblings, her fragile form gave the illusion of eternal youth, never quite becoming fully a woman. Despite her fragile appearance her elaborate garb and the very air about her gave no illusion to the extent of her strength, crackling with power in her mere presence. Wings of ebony spread about her shoulders, creating a cloak of darkness through the air in her wake.
Morghan, Morrigan, Atropos, the Matron. Strength and superiority radiated from her person, establishing without question her position as leader of the Three who led the Whole. Like her sister the wind and sky where she walked reflected the might of her spirit, and like her sister a feathered cloak of deepest darkness spread from her back, drifting through stormy skies with each step she took.
Cecilia, Badhbh, Lachesis, the Seductress. She who had once been a wispy, withered child had grown into a woman fully reflecting the darkness and alluring danger of her fiendish heritage. She stood the tallest of the Three, but where raven black feathers served as a cloak of darkness for her cousins Cecilia's were of shadow and steel, reflective obsidian scales and dark skin and sinew barbed with wicked thorns and vicious claws.
The Three stood within the Four, who stood within the Many. And in the center of all stood the One.
In youth she had been unimportant, simply yet another of a multitude, until Betrayal and Deceit shook the Clan to its core and sent all but she into the waiting embrace of eternity. She alone, the Remnant, had begun the cycle of vengeance and justice, and once that task was complete the cycle of Rebirth and Restoration. In time after her Legacy had been established she too felt the call of the Beyond, and though her life had been one lengthened beyond that most expected it was not for her to see eternity as a mortal.
Chaos had plans for her that her physical body could not accomplish.
Now she stood before the Many, those who from her had descended. The Family she thought she would never have. And now even in death, after all her striving, they all stood before her... and Chaos demanded that she send them away. Or else there would be naught but Silence.
"The End Comes," she said, her voice carrying with the force of the four winds, silence speaking to all despite distance. "Through fire and destruction, through storm and steel, the line of Chaos must be preserved. It cannot be stopped, it cannot be avoided. It can only be prevented."
"What must we do?" Megan inquired, hesitantly. The answer was obvious to all, even her, but it was an answer all dreaded.
"The Grove must be sealed," spoke the One. "The Clan must be scattered to the winds. The Bloodline must be preserved. Go! The time draws near!" The finality was undeniable, and at once the Many set out beyond the Grove, to the surrounding lands, leaving only the Three and the Four just beyond its borders.
Thus began the Sealing. A ritual hidden from all, within the mind of Chaos alone, granted to its faithful only when the time became necessary. Each of the Three had their own tasks to perform in chaotic unison, dissonant and harmonious all at once, both clashing and blending with each motion. The magic and the ancient mystery began to take its hold on the land about the Grove, defying space and nature as air and stone collapsed in upon themselves, reducing a forest and a mountain into a space less than a quarter its previous size. What had once been almost a full forest elaborate enough to serve as a labyrinth of incalculable proportions to all but those who knew the true route to the grand Grove at its center was now nothing more than a rocky protrusion with a cave too small for most intelligent humanoids to claim it as their own. Another moment later and this cave itself was gone as well, reduced to another boulder amongst a small hill of others no different than itself.
At the last it was done, the way was closed and until the time was right not even the Three who had closed it could open it again. Only when the stars were right and Chaos's call went forth once more would the way resurface again. With but a word of farewell the Three and the Four stepped onto the winds, scattering to the far corners of the world, to sanctuaries where Chaos would shield them from the destruction to come; never again would they meet, for Chaos had decreed them scattered until the time was right. As the world shifted and shaped above, it prepared the Grove for the day when it would be opened once more; at its core a forgotten garden became surrounded by endlessly shifting and ever-changing tunnels, a Labyrinth of darkness and shadows ruled by an agent of Chaos, an impenetrable barrier of confusion and disorientation that could only be pierced by those Chaos has chosen.
And deep within that hidden shell she waits, ever watchful, ever awake, until the time is decreed, until the stars are right. Then the Way will open once more and she will venture forth, released for a time from the chains that bind her to seek out those that bear the Bloodline.
And the End Comes, Beyond Chaos.
Glorious Temptation
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*Edge-of-Oblivion
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Lelouch Rothschester often wondered why he ever took sorcerers as students. He was a wizard, he understood well the differences and similarities between them, and truth be told there was little he could actually do for them other than provide a stern but direct guiding hand for their developing powers. Perhaps that's all the parents desired, really, some sort of solace or comfort that their afflicted offspring were in capable hands.
Well, that and the pay.
Most sorcerers straightened themselves out by the late teens - perhaps a little later, if the source of their power was of elven origin. This girl, though, was more trouble than she was worth. Her power was neither elven nor draconic but rather fiendish in nature, and it manifested not only magically but physically. Rothschester had seen her a few times before she became his pupil, her distraught parents shuttling her from temple to temple to diagnose the strange symptoms that seemed to have overcome her fragile infant form. At the last the terrible truth was revealed - somewhere in one of their family trees a fiend, likely a succubus or erinyes, had inserted itself and tainted the bloodline, and the young child had the poor fortune of being born a Tiefling, one in which the taint was visibly apparent.
It was only a few years later that young Sara had started demonstrating unusual supernatural abilities on top of her fiendtouched traits, and at the reccomendation of the priests - completely without his knowledge, let me assure you - they approached "Professor" Rothschester to apprentice the child and teach her to control her budding powers.
If he had known just how much frustration he would go through dealing with this singular girl, he would have not only refused their pleas and their gold but slammed the door in their faces and laid a blasphemy upon each of the temples within two days' ride for good measure (from the safety of behind his locked tower door, of course) and the gods deal with him as they saw fit. But it was too late for that now, and he made quite a point of pride at never going back on a deal, especially one that was already paid for.
Sara was nine, days away from her tenth birthday, and uncontrollably active. Rothschester had often considered the benefits and banes of affixing some sort of harness to her chair, so as to hold her in place until their studies for the day were complete, but had dismissed the idea as impractical; nevertheless it continued to lurk in his mind, popping up generally whenever her ability to get up and move about suddenly became problematic. Such as now, where instead of sitting at her little desk dutifully reading the tome he had given her at the beginning of their studies she had seen fit to climb up onto the wall to get a better view out the window.
"Sara!!" he snapped sharply as he stepped into the room, rapping his rod against the doorframe for emphasis. The girl jumped, startled, then collapsed off the ledge and dropped the next two and a half feet to land in a heap on the ground. Her eyes and jaw clenched, holding back tears; she had learned in the three years she'd been here that crying would garner no sympathy from the Professor, and made as much of an effort as possible to resist. She forced herself to stand and limped back to her seat, gaze drawn firmly to the ground.
"Let that be a lesson to you, young lady," the wizard sighed, dropping his armload of books onto the much larger desk that served as his own study. He made his way over to the window where she had been lurking and lifted it shut, then returned to the desk and took a seat in the high-backed, dark wood chair that Sara thought looked more like some mythical throne. "Now, we will resume our studies where we left off this morning. Have you been practicing the incantations I gave you last week?"
"Uhm...," Sara stammered, trying to find the relevant page in the tome; through a stroke of good fortune she managed to flip to the correct location after only one failed attempt. "Yezzir. I have them right here in the book like you told me."
That didn't really answer the question, but Rothschester decided to let it go for now; this was more cooperation than he was used to getting from her. It didn't help that the girl's fiendish resilience got in the way of his usual forms of "student encouragement" - sharp but nonlethal electric shocks and minor burns seemed to evaporate harmlessly against her skin, and anything powerful enough to breach that resistance would likely deal permanent harm. He couldn't afford that. "Very well. We are going to resume the study on lesser telekinesis." He moved a small statuette - a golden rendering of Azuth, a thank-you gift from one of his most prized former students - to the edge of his desk between himself and the girl. "Lift this, as I showed you, and carry it to your desk. Focus on the statue and recite the incantation. And for the gods' sake, don't drop it, it's valuable." The last came out as almost a sneer.
Sara nodded nervously, then looked down at the tome in front of her. The words were still mostly meaningless to her - she could recite them as Rothschester had instructed her to pronounce them, but for the most part she considered them poetic gibberish without any material meaning. She didn't really understand why mages needed words to work magic. But if she didn't complete this task the Professor might only give her gruel for dinner again, and she hated gruel... and if she failed or screwed up again, he might do worse. The Professor had a tendency to become violent if angered. She began muttering the words over and over, reading the same line time after time after time, branding them in her memory until she was sure she could recite them without looking.
Her attention then turned to the statue. With one outstretched hand she pantomimed wrapping her fingers around its base and lifting it slowly into the air, while reciting the incantation repeatedly and performing the accompanying somatic gestures with the other hand. After a few unsure shakes and rattles the statue at last began to respond properly, hovering slowly up and away from Rothschester's desk and beginning the journey over to Sara's. The girl was surprised by her sudden success, and flung her hands upward in victory.
Which sent the statuette rocketing back the way it had come, to slam directly into Rothschester's forehead.
The window popped back open.
The Professor stared at the offending object, which had dropped unharmed onto its side in the middle of his desk, as a hand slowly rose to the swelling bruise bulging out just below his receding hairline. This was not the first time a magical mishap from this girl had lashed out at him; in fact, the more the spells they practiced gained the potency for harm the more he found himself going home with new wounds. The girl had managed to hurt him with a Light spell, for the gods' sakes! But this... this was the last straw. He could take only so much. It was time things here came to a change. She needed to learn a lesson.
Rothschester rose from his seat in a cold, silent rage, drawing a wand from a drawer in his desk; it was smooth, crafted of a deep yellow wood and tipped with a small emerald. He stalked over to the window and pushed it shut again, this time with his hand, and secured the bolt before turning his full attention to Sara, who was now cowering in her seat, her giggles at the surprise of the incident long since faded into silent terror.
The wand carried a spell that the girl's heritage wouldn't protect her from - a vicious blast of acid. Burns would be healed, but the pain would never be forgotten. Yes, she would learn this time. And the fear of further pain would keep her silent. It wouldn't be the first time his students had held their peace to their parents or caretakers for fear of what Professor Rothschester would do if they spoke.
The window fell open this time. The lock snapped, loudly, and the closed panel crashed to the floor.
Rothschester whirled, pointing the wand towards the opening. A windstorm had kicked up outside, brewing up an overcast sky and whipping trees about at random. The villagers were hurrying to return indoors, but for the moment nothing seemed to suggest impending danger from the weather; just a front, nothing more. Bored Akadi, or fickle Talos. He turned back to Sara.
There was a woman standing behind her.
Rothschester had never seen anything like her. She was obviously undead, that was for sure; no living being except wizards of power beyond even his caliber could give their bodies that sort of transparency and incorporeality. She was Elven or had been before she died, or perhaps Half-Elven, it was hard to tell. He got the impression that her hair in life had been of the darkest black, but her skin unusually pale for one of her race.
And despite the differences - Sara's hair was more of an extremely dark blue than actual black, and if she had any Elf in her it was very little and consumed in the oddness of her Tiefling traits - it was obvious how similar the two were. This spectre, this spirit, this ghost... was somehow connected by blood to this girl.
He could tell one other thing: in life or in death, this woman was immensely dangerous. He raised the wand and began to speak the incantation, and Sara panicked; her hands flew up to shield her face, and the world went black.
In the darkness, Rothschester was left only with his hearing to guide him, and all he could hear was the growing howls of the wind. "Damn you, demon child! Damn you and your haunted blood! Dismiss this darkness immediately!" He began firing the wand at random, sending blasts of acid across the ground and into walls, creating erratic patches of melting stone that filled the air with an acrid, burning stench.
Sara had continued to cower, but had retreated to the back of the room behind a shelf. The one blast of acid that Rothschester was lucky enough to send her way the spirit had deflected, sending it into a nearby chair which collapsed awkwardly as half of its bulk evaporated. She stared at the scene in horrified wonder, watching in a dreamlike trance as the ghostly woman lifted her hand to point at the flailing Professor.
"Your pain, your rage, your suffering... feel them, know them, remember them... and let them give you strength...."
The girl's eyes glazed into recollection, and the air in front of her open palm began to glow as eldritch energy concentrated around her hand, then speared out in a decisive blast deep into the heart of the darkness. Rothschester's body flew out of the other side of the orb of black to collapse against the far wall, a smoking hole in his chest and a look of horror on his face.
Sara stared uncomprehendingly at the destruction before her. This was all a dream, or at least that was the best she could understand it; how could she perform magic like that, much less use it to actually kill the man who had tormented her for the past three years? And who was this ghostly woman who appeared more her mother than the woman who had raised her all her life, before suddenly giving her away to this madman?
"The Cage is open," the banshee suddenly spoke, kneeling before the girl with a gentle, if mischevious, smile on her face. "Will you escape?"
"Who are you?" Sara asked numbly, staring.
"I am called many things," she replied. "But for now you may call me Mother, if you wish. In time you may even call me by my name. Who are you?"
"Sara. Sara Hanin."
The banshee made a tsk sound and shook her head disapprovingly. "No, no, that won't do. You'll be a part of my family now so you'll have my family name, but 'Sara'... no, it's lacking something. Too mundane for one with your potential... and for the first of the Three."
"Three what?" Sara said brightly. She liked this woman, she didn't know why. Maybe it was simply because she didn't get scared because of Sara's strange looks or odd powers, or try to burn her or make her sit in the snow or feed her gruel. She just smiled and laughed and was see-through.
"Three Watchers. Three Leaders. Three Judges." The ghost paused, then smiled gently again. "Three Sisters. Do you have sisters? Or brothers?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Then you will now. First Three, then More. Look at the skies, the stars are right. The way is open. But first the Three must be found... and you will help me find the other two. Would you like that... Schala?"
Sara liked that name. And she liked this strange see-through lady. Somehow, simply being in her presence made her feel... right. In her place. At home. Complete.
"Yes, Mother."
The banshee picked up the young girl - defying every wizard's perception of the laws of incorporeality in the process - and lifted her through the open window as she walked through the wall and out into the storm. "Then let us leave this place, Schala Tentazione... and I will show you your true Home."
******
Wake up my child, hope is here:
With the vengeance, we have no time to bleed.
My only world, filled with fear;
I never saw the sower of the seed.
Where is the world we had?
Who can ever save you and your little lives?
A child guides a child guided child -
A child is never guilty, But you should not run free....
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Time has come for everyone, to think what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream....
Abandoned, pleased, brainwashed, exploited: madness has a reason -
Throw money at the problem and it will remain.
Your life has no value for them, "Violate me and this never ends...
My children will then hate you too!"
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Now, when it seems that we have nothing to believe in,
Maybe we should be waiting for the rock to come?
For our children soon have nothing they should learn....
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Time has come for everyone, to think what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream....
It's time for everyone, to see what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream...!
Well, that and the pay.
Most sorcerers straightened themselves out by the late teens - perhaps a little later, if the source of their power was of elven origin. This girl, though, was more trouble than she was worth. Her power was neither elven nor draconic but rather fiendish in nature, and it manifested not only magically but physically. Rothschester had seen her a few times before she became his pupil, her distraught parents shuttling her from temple to temple to diagnose the strange symptoms that seemed to have overcome her fragile infant form. At the last the terrible truth was revealed - somewhere in one of their family trees a fiend, likely a succubus or erinyes, had inserted itself and tainted the bloodline, and the young child had the poor fortune of being born a Tiefling, one in which the taint was visibly apparent.
It was only a few years later that young Sara had started demonstrating unusual supernatural abilities on top of her fiendtouched traits, and at the reccomendation of the priests - completely without his knowledge, let me assure you - they approached "Professor" Rothschester to apprentice the child and teach her to control her budding powers.
If he had known just how much frustration he would go through dealing with this singular girl, he would have not only refused their pleas and their gold but slammed the door in their faces and laid a blasphemy upon each of the temples within two days' ride for good measure (from the safety of behind his locked tower door, of course) and the gods deal with him as they saw fit. But it was too late for that now, and he made quite a point of pride at never going back on a deal, especially one that was already paid for.
Sara was nine, days away from her tenth birthday, and uncontrollably active. Rothschester had often considered the benefits and banes of affixing some sort of harness to her chair, so as to hold her in place until their studies for the day were complete, but had dismissed the idea as impractical; nevertheless it continued to lurk in his mind, popping up generally whenever her ability to get up and move about suddenly became problematic. Such as now, where instead of sitting at her little desk dutifully reading the tome he had given her at the beginning of their studies she had seen fit to climb up onto the wall to get a better view out the window.
"Sara!!" he snapped sharply as he stepped into the room, rapping his rod against the doorframe for emphasis. The girl jumped, startled, then collapsed off the ledge and dropped the next two and a half feet to land in a heap on the ground. Her eyes and jaw clenched, holding back tears; she had learned in the three years she'd been here that crying would garner no sympathy from the Professor, and made as much of an effort as possible to resist. She forced herself to stand and limped back to her seat, gaze drawn firmly to the ground.
"Let that be a lesson to you, young lady," the wizard sighed, dropping his armload of books onto the much larger desk that served as his own study. He made his way over to the window where she had been lurking and lifted it shut, then returned to the desk and took a seat in the high-backed, dark wood chair that Sara thought looked more like some mythical throne. "Now, we will resume our studies where we left off this morning. Have you been practicing the incantations I gave you last week?"
"Uhm...," Sara stammered, trying to find the relevant page in the tome; through a stroke of good fortune she managed to flip to the correct location after only one failed attempt. "Yezzir. I have them right here in the book like you told me."
That didn't really answer the question, but Rothschester decided to let it go for now; this was more cooperation than he was used to getting from her. It didn't help that the girl's fiendish resilience got in the way of his usual forms of "student encouragement" - sharp but nonlethal electric shocks and minor burns seemed to evaporate harmlessly against her skin, and anything powerful enough to breach that resistance would likely deal permanent harm. He couldn't afford that. "Very well. We are going to resume the study on lesser telekinesis." He moved a small statuette - a golden rendering of Azuth, a thank-you gift from one of his most prized former students - to the edge of his desk between himself and the girl. "Lift this, as I showed you, and carry it to your desk. Focus on the statue and recite the incantation. And for the gods' sake, don't drop it, it's valuable." The last came out as almost a sneer.
Sara nodded nervously, then looked down at the tome in front of her. The words were still mostly meaningless to her - she could recite them as Rothschester had instructed her to pronounce them, but for the most part she considered them poetic gibberish without any material meaning. She didn't really understand why mages needed words to work magic. But if she didn't complete this task the Professor might only give her gruel for dinner again, and she hated gruel... and if she failed or screwed up again, he might do worse. The Professor had a tendency to become violent if angered. She began muttering the words over and over, reading the same line time after time after time, branding them in her memory until she was sure she could recite them without looking.
Her attention then turned to the statue. With one outstretched hand she pantomimed wrapping her fingers around its base and lifting it slowly into the air, while reciting the incantation repeatedly and performing the accompanying somatic gestures with the other hand. After a few unsure shakes and rattles the statue at last began to respond properly, hovering slowly up and away from Rothschester's desk and beginning the journey over to Sara's. The girl was surprised by her sudden success, and flung her hands upward in victory.
Which sent the statuette rocketing back the way it had come, to slam directly into Rothschester's forehead.
The window popped back open.
The Professor stared at the offending object, which had dropped unharmed onto its side in the middle of his desk, as a hand slowly rose to the swelling bruise bulging out just below his receding hairline. This was not the first time a magical mishap from this girl had lashed out at him; in fact, the more the spells they practiced gained the potency for harm the more he found himself going home with new wounds. The girl had managed to hurt him with a Light spell, for the gods' sakes! But this... this was the last straw. He could take only so much. It was time things here came to a change. She needed to learn a lesson.
Rothschester rose from his seat in a cold, silent rage, drawing a wand from a drawer in his desk; it was smooth, crafted of a deep yellow wood and tipped with a small emerald. He stalked over to the window and pushed it shut again, this time with his hand, and secured the bolt before turning his full attention to Sara, who was now cowering in her seat, her giggles at the surprise of the incident long since faded into silent terror.
The wand carried a spell that the girl's heritage wouldn't protect her from - a vicious blast of acid. Burns would be healed, but the pain would never be forgotten. Yes, she would learn this time. And the fear of further pain would keep her silent. It wouldn't be the first time his students had held their peace to their parents or caretakers for fear of what Professor Rothschester would do if they spoke.
The window fell open this time. The lock snapped, loudly, and the closed panel crashed to the floor.
Rothschester whirled, pointing the wand towards the opening. A windstorm had kicked up outside, brewing up an overcast sky and whipping trees about at random. The villagers were hurrying to return indoors, but for the moment nothing seemed to suggest impending danger from the weather; just a front, nothing more. Bored Akadi, or fickle Talos. He turned back to Sara.
There was a woman standing behind her.
Rothschester had never seen anything like her. She was obviously undead, that was for sure; no living being except wizards of power beyond even his caliber could give their bodies that sort of transparency and incorporeality. She was Elven or had been before she died, or perhaps Half-Elven, it was hard to tell. He got the impression that her hair in life had been of the darkest black, but her skin unusually pale for one of her race.
And despite the differences - Sara's hair was more of an extremely dark blue than actual black, and if she had any Elf in her it was very little and consumed in the oddness of her Tiefling traits - it was obvious how similar the two were. This spectre, this spirit, this ghost... was somehow connected by blood to this girl.
He could tell one other thing: in life or in death, this woman was immensely dangerous. He raised the wand and began to speak the incantation, and Sara panicked; her hands flew up to shield her face, and the world went black.
In the darkness, Rothschester was left only with his hearing to guide him, and all he could hear was the growing howls of the wind. "Damn you, demon child! Damn you and your haunted blood! Dismiss this darkness immediately!" He began firing the wand at random, sending blasts of acid across the ground and into walls, creating erratic patches of melting stone that filled the air with an acrid, burning stench.
Sara had continued to cower, but had retreated to the back of the room behind a shelf. The one blast of acid that Rothschester was lucky enough to send her way the spirit had deflected, sending it into a nearby chair which collapsed awkwardly as half of its bulk evaporated. She stared at the scene in horrified wonder, watching in a dreamlike trance as the ghostly woman lifted her hand to point at the flailing Professor.
"Your pain, your rage, your suffering... feel them, know them, remember them... and let them give you strength...."
The girl's eyes glazed into recollection, and the air in front of her open palm began to glow as eldritch energy concentrated around her hand, then speared out in a decisive blast deep into the heart of the darkness. Rothschester's body flew out of the other side of the orb of black to collapse against the far wall, a smoking hole in his chest and a look of horror on his face.
Sara stared uncomprehendingly at the destruction before her. This was all a dream, or at least that was the best she could understand it; how could she perform magic like that, much less use it to actually kill the man who had tormented her for the past three years? And who was this ghostly woman who appeared more her mother than the woman who had raised her all her life, before suddenly giving her away to this madman?
"The Cage is open," the banshee suddenly spoke, kneeling before the girl with a gentle, if mischevious, smile on her face. "Will you escape?"
"Who are you?" Sara asked numbly, staring.
"I am called many things," she replied. "But for now you may call me Mother, if you wish. In time you may even call me by my name. Who are you?"
"Sara. Sara Hanin."
The banshee made a tsk sound and shook her head disapprovingly. "No, no, that won't do. You'll be a part of my family now so you'll have my family name, but 'Sara'... no, it's lacking something. Too mundane for one with your potential... and for the first of the Three."
"Three what?" Sara said brightly. She liked this woman, she didn't know why. Maybe it was simply because she didn't get scared because of Sara's strange looks or odd powers, or try to burn her or make her sit in the snow or feed her gruel. She just smiled and laughed and was see-through.
"Three Watchers. Three Leaders. Three Judges." The ghost paused, then smiled gently again. "Three Sisters. Do you have sisters? Or brothers?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Then you will now. First Three, then More. Look at the skies, the stars are right. The way is open. But first the Three must be found... and you will help me find the other two. Would you like that... Schala?"
Sara liked that name. And she liked this strange see-through lady. Somehow, simply being in her presence made her feel... right. In her place. At home. Complete.
"Yes, Mother."
The banshee picked up the young girl - defying every wizard's perception of the laws of incorporeality in the process - and lifted her through the open window as she walked through the wall and out into the storm. "Then let us leave this place, Schala Tentazione... and I will show you your true Home."
******
Wake up my child, hope is here:
With the vengeance, we have no time to bleed.
My only world, filled with fear;
I never saw the sower of the seed.
Where is the world we had?
Who can ever save you and your little lives?
A child guides a child guided child -
A child is never guilty, But you should not run free....
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Time has come for everyone, to think what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream....
Abandoned, pleased, brainwashed, exploited: madness has a reason -
Throw money at the problem and it will remain.
Your life has no value for them, "Violate me and this never ends...
My children will then hate you too!"
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Now, when it seems that we have nothing to believe in,
Maybe we should be waiting for the rock to come?
For our children soon have nothing they should learn....
The grave is open, let us pray without remorse;
Empty the cradle with fire for them once again.
Why not look through your fingers what they've done?
Your own blood will clean the blood, for now - the glory days are gone....
Time has come for everyone, to think what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream....
It's time for everyone, to see what we have done:
Open your eyes and see, it's not a dream!
You aim for a common goal, you are one with your foe.
If only we could wake up soon and scream...!
-
*Edge-of-Oblivion
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
It was in Dalton Rodger's expert personal opinion that the Girl was simply not worthy of a name. Bastards never were, he thought, and was quite firm in his belief and enforced it as often as he could. Of course he was far from alone in that belief, and the few unfortunate souls who fit that description in the little forest town were reminded of it daily: the poor young girl just out of her teens could get no other employment than a poorly-paid serving girl job at the tavern, and though her birth name was technically Lisa no one in the village - and no travelers, if the villagers had anything to say about it - called her anything but Wench. The same went for the homeless man who would occasionally help with harvest for a few spare coppers, as far as anyone within a tenday's ride could tell he was Bastard and that was all he'd ever been called. Those two at least had the luxury of a nickname, the handful of others of their ilk rarely got better than a "Hey You" or some object thrown in their direction.
So when she'd been born, Dalton had chased out the nurse and spent an hour shouting at his wife, then deemed the child undeserving of a name. She was just Girl from then on.
She denied the accusations, of course. She swore she was true. But the abberations the child showed were more than enough proof otherwise, at least in Dalton's mind. Her skin was stormy grey; her hair an odd blend of black, blue, and white; her eyes... Dalton wasn't even sure there was a color to describe those eyes. But from the skin and hair alone, he could draw enough conclusions: not only had his bride betrayed him, she had betrayed him with the filthy dark elven underworld scum. And now this bastard half-blood was in his house and his responsibility. Well so be it, he would be the responsible one, that was a man's duty after all, but once the child was grown enough that constant care was unnecessary she would become someone else's problem. Maybe the villagers would have enough sense to drive her away, out into the wilderness. Or she could go to Port Myth - that hive of scum and villainy was so full of adventurers and the like that they'd accept anyone, presuming she made the journey across the plains alive. But then again, once it reached that point she was no longer his problem, no longer his worry. And good riddance by all the gods.
In the meantime, he'd made her useful. She served mostly as a housekeeper, caring for the home and the animals and tending to her two elder half-siblings, the ones Dalton was sure were his; the boy, Erich, even had his father's straw-colored hair, and while the other girl Melina's was fiery red Dalton's grandfather had also had hair of the same shade before he went grey. No infidelity to be feared in these two. The blighted bastard was responsible for tending to the family's every need.
And despite the conveniences of having a house slave - even one too small and weak to do all the work herself - Dalton still couldn't get past seeing her as a stain on his reputation. He'd heard the whispers, even if everyone denied them. She spurned him for a rutting elf, and a dark elf at that. Then came back and made him keep her bastard child. Who truly rules Dalton's house? He was a man of principle, and only that had steeled his patience thus far, but now that steel had been worn and rusted thin.
She was twelve. Old enough for Dalton. It was time for her to go.
He was up three hours before dawn the next day, long before even the earliest risers would waken. Most of the cattle would even still be asleep. No one would see. He put on his best traveling boots and his thickest cape; it was autumn, harvest would be over soon, and the cool had already begun to descend from the mountains... the old men were already complaining of the aches that came in the last few weeks before the first snow. He didn't care if she died in the ice, though. Once this was done he would be rid of her, rid of this wretched seed, and never look back.
He tread quietly down into the basement closet where she spent her nights, not to spare her sleep but for the sake of the other three in the house... his wife was still his wife after all, and once this blight had been removed perhaps their marriage could even begin to heal. With the Girl gone he could begin to forgive her. Yes. He was a benevolent man, after all. He shoved the closet door aside and kicked roughly at the bundle of patchwork blankets huddled in the corner inside. "Girl. Up."
That oddly-colored mop of hair poked up from the far side of the blankets, followed by those erratic eyes; just the sight of them sent chills down Dalton's spine. That might just be the odd wind though; the air was always moving around Girl, Dalton didn't know why but he figured it had to do with vile Drow magic. He shuddered and clenched his own shut, then shook his head and kicked her again for good measure, earning a pained yelp in reply. "I said up, damn it! Worthless Girl! Get up and get dressed, we're leaving." He snarled, giving his face a wolfish look, before whirling on his heel and stomping a little louder than before back up the stairs.
Girl struggled free of the blankets and began pulling on what meager clothing served as traveling gear - Dalton would have barely considered it adequate autumn clothing for the rest of his family, but he expected Girl to trek across the farmlands in it during the winter. This was the first time ever that she could remember that he demanded her to accompany him on such a journey, though, and couldn't comprehend what it meant. Normally he just sent her on her own.
She slunk up the stairs and into the den and at last realized why she was still so tired - it was still the middle of the night, long before dawn. The stars still glittered above, though clouds were building on the horizon in all directions, a storm was on the way. Dalton would be angry if they got caught in it, and likely he'd take his anger out on Girl given half a chance. Her poor health and lackluster raising were apparent in her appearance - scars and bruises riddled her misty skin, and she was bitterly frail and thin, looking as if a simple breeze would collapse her in moments. She wrapped herself in a tattered blanket with a hole in one end that served as a cloak when she traveled and waited for Dalton to return.
He did, after a few minutes further; Girl guessed he had gone to wish Mama goodbye and tell her where they were going. Part of her wished he'd tell her too. Part of her would've rather not known. He grunted and shoved her towards the door then picked up his pack and canteen. "Go Girl. Before I throw you."
The two of them marched into the dark night in silence, Girl's gaze occasionally drifting upwards at the growing clouds obscuring the starry sky then quickly snapping back to the road ahead before Dalton could notice and knock her across the head, which he did a few times anyway. The third such attack sent her sprawling to the ground in a dizzy haze, and for a few moments she wasn't even sure she would be able to rise. Then Dalton hauled her up by her collar and shoved her forward, and somehow she managed to stay on her feet after stumbling a few yards and get back to walking.
It wasn't long until they left the path she was used to traveling; Dalton slapped her violently when she tried to follow the road to the south and shoved her off towards the woods to the east. She knew almost nothing of this forest, other than that it was good for hunting; wasn't it late in the year for that, though? Dalton hadn't brought a bow, either, so what was he going to hunt with? She kept her questions and worries to herself though, any attempts to inquire would likely be answered with more attacks.
They kept walking until dawn began to peer through the trees ahead. As soon as the sunrise began Dalton called a halt, shoving Girl to the ground and knocking her down when she attempted to rise again; after that she remained laying and he seemed pleased with that so she didn't try to move again. He watched the sun until the last of its glow had cleared the mountains ahead, then turned his attention down to the miserable child at his feet.
"You live by the Morninglord's grace, and because I am a just and fair man," he growled, tugging his cloak close as the wind built in dawn's dim light; the sun had risen past the mountains only to be swallowed by the clouds above. "Wretched child. A worse man would have killed you as soon as he saw you. Be thankful your hellspawn father stole my wife and not one of a man of lesser character." He spat, missing Girl only by a fraction of an inch; she dared not flinch away, lest he take it as further insult and hit her again. "You're not my trouble anymore. The stain you put on my house ends today. What you do from now on is not my problem. I don't care if you live or die."
She shuddered, cowering. "W-w-what are y-you gonna do...?"
"Nothing," he growled. "Go home. You don't follow, or I'll kill you. Live in the woods. Run to the coast. Curl up in a cave and die. I don't care. You no longer exist, no one cares what happens next." He kicked her once, sending her sprawling into the base of an old oak; satisfied, he turned to go as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared into the rolling thunderheads above.
There was a woman standing behind him, suddenly right in front of him as he turned to leave.
Dalton considered himself an above-average woodsman. His hearing was exceptional for a steadholder, and he often boasted that he could hear better than an elf, in his own domain of course. He knew these woods like his own house. So why hadn't he heard this woman?
A glance downward revealed that her feet didn't quite touch the ground. That would be why.
Then again, he could sort of see straight through her, as if she wasn't completely there. Like a ghost, or something. Dalton's eyes boggled as realization came over him, and in response the strange woman's mouth curved into a dangerous smile.
"W-whaddaya want!?" he yelped, stumbling back away from her.
"Miserable man," the banshee responded. Her voice was musical, but in a dissonant chord that made Dalton's heart race. His chest ached. What was she doing to him!? "Miserable, terrible, wretched, worthless man."
"W-w-w-w-w-whaaaaddaya want!? W-w-w-whoooo a-a-are y-you?? Aaarrrghh...."
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked over at the tree where Girl had landed. She had fled behind the old oak, and barely peeked around the side to watch the strange scene unfolding; when the ghost turned her attention that way she started to flee, but the woman simply shook her head. "No, child, don't leave... just cover your ears." She complied, clenching her little hands over her pointed, elflike ears as tightly as she could; the spirit, satisfied, redirected her gaze back to Dalton.
"W-what're ya d...."
"SILENCE." He froze as her smile vanished, replaced with a glare of pure hatred. "Detestable, disgusting, worthless, wretched MONSTER of a man. You dare call yourself righteous after a decade of torture and pain visited on a helpless child, on your own child. Fool and hypocrite...!!"
"Sh-she ain't m-m-mine!" he howled, sounding more terrified than offended. "Sh-she's just an-nother b-b-bas..."
"ENOUGH!" the banshee roared, and Dalton fell to his knees, clutching at his chest. His heart felt as if it was about to explode. "Your child was born with Chaos's blessing, miserable fool, and you damn her to a life of torment... you, no more righteous than the Holy Ones or the Deceivers. All of you...." Her scowl remained as her smile returned, giving her an even more vengeful appearance as she descended to look Dalton in the eye and placed her hands along the sides of his jaw. "So you have decided your own fate. As you doomed this child to live a life without a father, so have you doomed your other children and your wife to live without a husband."
"B-b-but...!"
"DIE."
And he died. His face clenched in an expression of horror and agony, before he pitched forward and fell into the grass, unmoving. The ghost paid him no further mind, but instead floated over to where Girl had hidden. "It is done... come out," she said calmly, comfortingly, kneeling down to the child's height and gesturing with one hand.
Gingerly, Girl lowered her hands and moved towards the banshee cautiously, a step at a time. "What did you do...?"
"I set you free," she replied with a motherly smile. Girl suddenly felt safe with the strange being, despite being far from home alone save for the still form of her abusive keeper. "That monster... he kept you from ever having a family. I am looking for my children... children like you, lost and forgotten their place in the world."
"Who are you?"
"She calls me Mother," said the spirit, gesturing. Girl turned and another figure jumped out of a nearby tree: another young girl, about the same age or perhaps a little older. Her skin was paler than most people but still darker than Girl's, just without the grey; she also had strange eyes, except hers were silver and had no black dots in their centers. Small black spikes - like a young goat's horn nubs, Girl thought - poked out of her forehead, just below the line of her dark-blue hair, which was tied back in a short tail. "Which means you are Sisters... if you choose to come with us."
"Sister?" Girl had never been allowed to call Melina and Erich as Sister and Brother, even if Mama was the same for all of them; Dalton had seen to that. But this strange woman had shown her a Sister just as strange as herself, and offered to take her away from Dalton and all the pain he caused.
"Sometimes the family we come from is not the family we belong to," the other girl offered with a smile. "Sometimes our true family has to find us first." Girl couldn't resist returning the smile. It felt so right, so natural... so true.
"What is your name, child?" the spirit asked, running a hand gently through Girl's multicolored locks.
"I don't have one."
"Such a shame, a glorious child such as yourself without a name. That won't serve at all. We will have to remedy that... Gloriana." It fit. Somehow, despite never having a name of her own, she knew this was the right one. She smiled wider, and extended a hand to her newfound Mother. "He sends a Storm soon. You'll freeze dressed like that." She gestured back at Dalton's unmoving form. "He'll not need his anymore."
It would be a few days before the villagers found Dalton's corpse, ravaged by wolves in the area far out of their season and burned by some unexplainable source... unless you denied the long-held superstition that Lightning never strikes the same place Twice; if you doubted that, it made perfect sense.
******
I was raised from a broken seed,
I grew up to be an unwanted weed.
Ever faster the time exceeds me,
little harder again to remember... you.
Held a torch for you, when lightning stroke me;
Once again, hope I died for the last time....
Only one I have a thing greater than you -
Little light on the sky every night.
Morning dew on the field where I met you:
I was frozen a year, couldn't get through.
Got a sign, not a scar, on my shoulder,
I am not quite the one you take me for....
Fell in love with the weakness within me,
Tried to force me the Ring and own me.
Guess you found what you'd think would oblige me,
Little version of me to consume you...
I'd give my everything to you,
Follow you through the Garden of Oblivion.
If only I could tell you everything,
The little things you'll never dare to ask me....
Do you really know me? I might be a God!
Show me that you care and have a cry.
How do you see me? ... As the One?
Can you see my blood when I'm bleeding?
How can you love this exile, and how could I desire you?
When my pain is my pain, and yours is too...?
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....
Seven lifes of a man passed before me,
Seven graves - one for every love I've had.
Only once I have broken my so called heart:
Only one made me see why they cry.
Will I learn how to be one of you someday?
Will I still feel the eyes that behold me?
Will I hear what you think, when you see me?
Will it tear me apart if you feel for me...?
I'd give my everything to you,
Follow you through the Garden of Oblivion.
If only I could tell you everything,
The little things you'll never dare to ask me....
Do you really know me? I might be a God!
Show me that you care and have a cry.
How do you see me? ... As the One?
Can you see my blood when I'm bleeding?
How can you love this exile, and how could I desire you?
When my pain is my pain, and yours is too...?
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I....
Little broken, always been;
A part of you belongs to me!
You were never mine to love,
But this all has made it easy for me....
Burning feathers, not an angel:
Heaven's closed, and Hell's sold out!
So I walk on earth, behind the curtains,
Hidden from everyone, until I find a new life to ruin again....
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....
On this deadwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....
So when she'd been born, Dalton had chased out the nurse and spent an hour shouting at his wife, then deemed the child undeserving of a name. She was just Girl from then on.
She denied the accusations, of course. She swore she was true. But the abberations the child showed were more than enough proof otherwise, at least in Dalton's mind. Her skin was stormy grey; her hair an odd blend of black, blue, and white; her eyes... Dalton wasn't even sure there was a color to describe those eyes. But from the skin and hair alone, he could draw enough conclusions: not only had his bride betrayed him, she had betrayed him with the filthy dark elven underworld scum. And now this bastard half-blood was in his house and his responsibility. Well so be it, he would be the responsible one, that was a man's duty after all, but once the child was grown enough that constant care was unnecessary she would become someone else's problem. Maybe the villagers would have enough sense to drive her away, out into the wilderness. Or she could go to Port Myth - that hive of scum and villainy was so full of adventurers and the like that they'd accept anyone, presuming she made the journey across the plains alive. But then again, once it reached that point she was no longer his problem, no longer his worry. And good riddance by all the gods.
In the meantime, he'd made her useful. She served mostly as a housekeeper, caring for the home and the animals and tending to her two elder half-siblings, the ones Dalton was sure were his; the boy, Erich, even had his father's straw-colored hair, and while the other girl Melina's was fiery red Dalton's grandfather had also had hair of the same shade before he went grey. No infidelity to be feared in these two. The blighted bastard was responsible for tending to the family's every need.
And despite the conveniences of having a house slave - even one too small and weak to do all the work herself - Dalton still couldn't get past seeing her as a stain on his reputation. He'd heard the whispers, even if everyone denied them. She spurned him for a rutting elf, and a dark elf at that. Then came back and made him keep her bastard child. Who truly rules Dalton's house? He was a man of principle, and only that had steeled his patience thus far, but now that steel had been worn and rusted thin.
She was twelve. Old enough for Dalton. It was time for her to go.
He was up three hours before dawn the next day, long before even the earliest risers would waken. Most of the cattle would even still be asleep. No one would see. He put on his best traveling boots and his thickest cape; it was autumn, harvest would be over soon, and the cool had already begun to descend from the mountains... the old men were already complaining of the aches that came in the last few weeks before the first snow. He didn't care if she died in the ice, though. Once this was done he would be rid of her, rid of this wretched seed, and never look back.
He tread quietly down into the basement closet where she spent her nights, not to spare her sleep but for the sake of the other three in the house... his wife was still his wife after all, and once this blight had been removed perhaps their marriage could even begin to heal. With the Girl gone he could begin to forgive her. Yes. He was a benevolent man, after all. He shoved the closet door aside and kicked roughly at the bundle of patchwork blankets huddled in the corner inside. "Girl. Up."
That oddly-colored mop of hair poked up from the far side of the blankets, followed by those erratic eyes; just the sight of them sent chills down Dalton's spine. That might just be the odd wind though; the air was always moving around Girl, Dalton didn't know why but he figured it had to do with vile Drow magic. He shuddered and clenched his own shut, then shook his head and kicked her again for good measure, earning a pained yelp in reply. "I said up, damn it! Worthless Girl! Get up and get dressed, we're leaving." He snarled, giving his face a wolfish look, before whirling on his heel and stomping a little louder than before back up the stairs.
Girl struggled free of the blankets and began pulling on what meager clothing served as traveling gear - Dalton would have barely considered it adequate autumn clothing for the rest of his family, but he expected Girl to trek across the farmlands in it during the winter. This was the first time ever that she could remember that he demanded her to accompany him on such a journey, though, and couldn't comprehend what it meant. Normally he just sent her on her own.
She slunk up the stairs and into the den and at last realized why she was still so tired - it was still the middle of the night, long before dawn. The stars still glittered above, though clouds were building on the horizon in all directions, a storm was on the way. Dalton would be angry if they got caught in it, and likely he'd take his anger out on Girl given half a chance. Her poor health and lackluster raising were apparent in her appearance - scars and bruises riddled her misty skin, and she was bitterly frail and thin, looking as if a simple breeze would collapse her in moments. She wrapped herself in a tattered blanket with a hole in one end that served as a cloak when she traveled and waited for Dalton to return.
He did, after a few minutes further; Girl guessed he had gone to wish Mama goodbye and tell her where they were going. Part of her wished he'd tell her too. Part of her would've rather not known. He grunted and shoved her towards the door then picked up his pack and canteen. "Go Girl. Before I throw you."
The two of them marched into the dark night in silence, Girl's gaze occasionally drifting upwards at the growing clouds obscuring the starry sky then quickly snapping back to the road ahead before Dalton could notice and knock her across the head, which he did a few times anyway. The third such attack sent her sprawling to the ground in a dizzy haze, and for a few moments she wasn't even sure she would be able to rise. Then Dalton hauled her up by her collar and shoved her forward, and somehow she managed to stay on her feet after stumbling a few yards and get back to walking.
It wasn't long until they left the path she was used to traveling; Dalton slapped her violently when she tried to follow the road to the south and shoved her off towards the woods to the east. She knew almost nothing of this forest, other than that it was good for hunting; wasn't it late in the year for that, though? Dalton hadn't brought a bow, either, so what was he going to hunt with? She kept her questions and worries to herself though, any attempts to inquire would likely be answered with more attacks.
They kept walking until dawn began to peer through the trees ahead. As soon as the sunrise began Dalton called a halt, shoving Girl to the ground and knocking her down when she attempted to rise again; after that she remained laying and he seemed pleased with that so she didn't try to move again. He watched the sun until the last of its glow had cleared the mountains ahead, then turned his attention down to the miserable child at his feet.
"You live by the Morninglord's grace, and because I am a just and fair man," he growled, tugging his cloak close as the wind built in dawn's dim light; the sun had risen past the mountains only to be swallowed by the clouds above. "Wretched child. A worse man would have killed you as soon as he saw you. Be thankful your hellspawn father stole my wife and not one of a man of lesser character." He spat, missing Girl only by a fraction of an inch; she dared not flinch away, lest he take it as further insult and hit her again. "You're not my trouble anymore. The stain you put on my house ends today. What you do from now on is not my problem. I don't care if you live or die."
She shuddered, cowering. "W-w-what are y-you gonna do...?"
"Nothing," he growled. "Go home. You don't follow, or I'll kill you. Live in the woods. Run to the coast. Curl up in a cave and die. I don't care. You no longer exist, no one cares what happens next." He kicked her once, sending her sprawling into the base of an old oak; satisfied, he turned to go as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared into the rolling thunderheads above.
There was a woman standing behind him, suddenly right in front of him as he turned to leave.
Dalton considered himself an above-average woodsman. His hearing was exceptional for a steadholder, and he often boasted that he could hear better than an elf, in his own domain of course. He knew these woods like his own house. So why hadn't he heard this woman?
A glance downward revealed that her feet didn't quite touch the ground. That would be why.
Then again, he could sort of see straight through her, as if she wasn't completely there. Like a ghost, or something. Dalton's eyes boggled as realization came over him, and in response the strange woman's mouth curved into a dangerous smile.
"W-whaddaya want!?" he yelped, stumbling back away from her.
"Miserable man," the banshee responded. Her voice was musical, but in a dissonant chord that made Dalton's heart race. His chest ached. What was she doing to him!? "Miserable, terrible, wretched, worthless man."
"W-w-w-w-w-whaaaaddaya want!? W-w-w-whoooo a-a-are y-you?? Aaarrrghh...."
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked over at the tree where Girl had landed. She had fled behind the old oak, and barely peeked around the side to watch the strange scene unfolding; when the ghost turned her attention that way she started to flee, but the woman simply shook her head. "No, child, don't leave... just cover your ears." She complied, clenching her little hands over her pointed, elflike ears as tightly as she could; the spirit, satisfied, redirected her gaze back to Dalton.
"W-what're ya d...."
"SILENCE." He froze as her smile vanished, replaced with a glare of pure hatred. "Detestable, disgusting, worthless, wretched MONSTER of a man. You dare call yourself righteous after a decade of torture and pain visited on a helpless child, on your own child. Fool and hypocrite...!!"
"Sh-she ain't m-m-mine!" he howled, sounding more terrified than offended. "Sh-she's just an-nother b-b-bas..."
"ENOUGH!" the banshee roared, and Dalton fell to his knees, clutching at his chest. His heart felt as if it was about to explode. "Your child was born with Chaos's blessing, miserable fool, and you damn her to a life of torment... you, no more righteous than the Holy Ones or the Deceivers. All of you...." Her scowl remained as her smile returned, giving her an even more vengeful appearance as she descended to look Dalton in the eye and placed her hands along the sides of his jaw. "So you have decided your own fate. As you doomed this child to live a life without a father, so have you doomed your other children and your wife to live without a husband."
"B-b-but...!"
"DIE."
And he died. His face clenched in an expression of horror and agony, before he pitched forward and fell into the grass, unmoving. The ghost paid him no further mind, but instead floated over to where Girl had hidden. "It is done... come out," she said calmly, comfortingly, kneeling down to the child's height and gesturing with one hand.
Gingerly, Girl lowered her hands and moved towards the banshee cautiously, a step at a time. "What did you do...?"
"I set you free," she replied with a motherly smile. Girl suddenly felt safe with the strange being, despite being far from home alone save for the still form of her abusive keeper. "That monster... he kept you from ever having a family. I am looking for my children... children like you, lost and forgotten their place in the world."
"Who are you?"
"She calls me Mother," said the spirit, gesturing. Girl turned and another figure jumped out of a nearby tree: another young girl, about the same age or perhaps a little older. Her skin was paler than most people but still darker than Girl's, just without the grey; she also had strange eyes, except hers were silver and had no black dots in their centers. Small black spikes - like a young goat's horn nubs, Girl thought - poked out of her forehead, just below the line of her dark-blue hair, which was tied back in a short tail. "Which means you are Sisters... if you choose to come with us."
"Sister?" Girl had never been allowed to call Melina and Erich as Sister and Brother, even if Mama was the same for all of them; Dalton had seen to that. But this strange woman had shown her a Sister just as strange as herself, and offered to take her away from Dalton and all the pain he caused.
"Sometimes the family we come from is not the family we belong to," the other girl offered with a smile. "Sometimes our true family has to find us first." Girl couldn't resist returning the smile. It felt so right, so natural... so true.
"What is your name, child?" the spirit asked, running a hand gently through Girl's multicolored locks.
"I don't have one."
"Such a shame, a glorious child such as yourself without a name. That won't serve at all. We will have to remedy that... Gloriana." It fit. Somehow, despite never having a name of her own, she knew this was the right one. She smiled wider, and extended a hand to her newfound Mother. "He sends a Storm soon. You'll freeze dressed like that." She gestured back at Dalton's unmoving form. "He'll not need his anymore."
It would be a few days before the villagers found Dalton's corpse, ravaged by wolves in the area far out of their season and burned by some unexplainable source... unless you denied the long-held superstition that Lightning never strikes the same place Twice; if you doubted that, it made perfect sense.
******
I was raised from a broken seed,
I grew up to be an unwanted weed.
Ever faster the time exceeds me,
little harder again to remember... you.
Held a torch for you, when lightning stroke me;
Once again, hope I died for the last time....
Only one I have a thing greater than you -
Little light on the sky every night.
Morning dew on the field where I met you:
I was frozen a year, couldn't get through.
Got a sign, not a scar, on my shoulder,
I am not quite the one you take me for....
Fell in love with the weakness within me,
Tried to force me the Ring and own me.
Guess you found what you'd think would oblige me,
Little version of me to consume you...
I'd give my everything to you,
Follow you through the Garden of Oblivion.
If only I could tell you everything,
The little things you'll never dare to ask me....
Do you really know me? I might be a God!
Show me that you care and have a cry.
How do you see me? ... As the One?
Can you see my blood when I'm bleeding?
How can you love this exile, and how could I desire you?
When my pain is my pain, and yours is too...?
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....
Seven lifes of a man passed before me,
Seven graves - one for every love I've had.
Only once I have broken my so called heart:
Only one made me see why they cry.
Will I learn how to be one of you someday?
Will I still feel the eyes that behold me?
Will I hear what you think, when you see me?
Will it tear me apart if you feel for me...?
I'd give my everything to you,
Follow you through the Garden of Oblivion.
If only I could tell you everything,
The little things you'll never dare to ask me....
Do you really know me? I might be a God!
Show me that you care and have a cry.
How do you see me? ... As the One?
Can you see my blood when I'm bleeding?
How can you love this exile, and how could I desire you?
When my pain is my pain, and yours is too...?
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I....
Little broken, always been;
A part of you belongs to me!
You were never mine to love,
But this all has made it easy for me....
Burning feathers, not an angel:
Heaven's closed, and Hell's sold out!
So I walk on earth, behind the curtains,
Hidden from everyone, until I find a new life to ruin again....
On this darkwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....
On this deadwinter's night, Darkness becomes this child;
Bless this night with a tear, For I have none I fear....