Hunger
by Joseph Bush
Smashwords Edition
She cried as she fed. The tears streaked clean lines down her blood-soaked face. Sobs racked her chest, tight with terror and strange, dark power. Her fingers ached. She let her head hang in shame, blood dripping off of her chin into her dark lap in the moonlight. Her arms were soaked to the elbow in thick, clotting blackness. The blood of a young man pooled in her lap, sticking to her thighs under her shredded skirt.
The scent of fresh flesh stung her nostrils, her hunger rose. Whimpering, she held a morsel before her eyes. The tears rose again, uncontrollable, as she lifted it to her mouth. The hunger was unbearable, like a rift in her belly, threatening to tear her in half.
Her head pounding, roaring like a great dragon, she leaned over his body. She bit off another chunk, its tang sharp and horribly delicious. Her mind raced, trying desperately to reconcile her hunger and her nature. No longer in control, her thoughts drifted and slowed, congealing, as her body took over, feeding.
Everything faded, her sanity slipped. Her vision clouded, the roar growing, drowning out all else. As she faded, a different her rose, older, stronger.
She picked up a cape, standing.
It was heavy in her hand, not fabric but woven metal.
Then, darkness.
Hunger
By Joseph Bush
Days she walked. Nights she slept. Without past or future, she continued on, not stopping too long, walking.
She was following a road that led east. It connected to a road that headed north. She had a vague memory that there were cities near the intersection. She passed caravans of wagons and horsemen but they gave her a wide berth on the road, careful not to trample her. She paid them little attention, closed in upon herself.
She knew only her name and the name of the place she was going to. Dismal thoughts flitted about in her mind, accompanied only by confusion and loneliness. An unexplained sense of loss beckoned her towards despair as she walked, though she knew not why.
Days and nights uncounted passed.
There was a town ahead, little more than a collection of shops and homes on the small stream that fed the farms nearby. The road continued through the town, crossed the river somewhere within the short stone wall surrounding it. She followed it, paying little attention to the people or their community. Dusk was setting as she arrived, and she decided to see about a room to sleep in, and perhaps some food. She was unbearably hungry.
She passed the old rusted gates and shuffled past the children running in the grass. The town seemed largely as unconcerned about her as she about it. She made her way down the broad path between the buildings, watching for an alehouse or inn.
She listened to the people as she walked; her grasp of the language was rusty, but seemed solid enough. She briefly wondered where it was she had come from, that lay at the other end of the road from her destination. Presently, she reached what passed for an inn, more of a boarding house than anything. Farmers and craftsmen were busy talking about trade and the weather, concerned about the heat. The girl hadn’t noticed.
In a quiet voice, she asked the young woman sitting in a chair inside about a room and a meal. She was easily excited and gabbed about the establishment. Apparently, little business was had from travelers here. The girl’s father was more concerned with his new guest, she wore hardly any decent clothes, her skirt was old and worn and thin, almost to transparency, and her shirt looked rather too large for her. Her bag had strange protrusions that struck the older man as either weapons or tools. Since she did not carry herself as a craftsperson from the Silverglades ought, and so he assumed the worse, even as his daughter, bless her heart, prepared her a room and set about making a meal.
The girl paid in strange coins, they looked like ordinary silver, but they had small glimmering jewels in their cut out centers. Perhaps she was a foreigner, the man thought. Or even a thief. He thought it best to notify the constable and the priest, both of whom had traveled for miles, even to the Glades themselves. They would know what to do.
And so, as the stranger sat to a meal of porridge and fresh bread, the man went out. He walked quickly and waved off greetings as he strode towards the town hall. He entered and asked for the constable, and when he arrived, gathered the priest, who had been chatting with the constable’s assistant about some unimportant nonsense about her daughter. The innkeeper explained that the situation was indeed grave and their attention was of the utmost importance.
Meanwhile, the girl in the in was led up to a room on the second floor, where she laid her bag on the only available furniture, the bed. She sat next to it, left alone by the innkeeper’s daughter, and slumped back, her back and legs relaxing. She couldn’t remember how long she had walked, the earliest thing she could think of had been a fire in the night.
The priest, ever more tactful than the constable, suggested that he have a look at the stranger at the evening meal, and that he handle things unless she turned out violent. The innkeeper had said she looked rather thin and underfed, not like proper folk ought to look at all. From this, the priest assumed that she would attend the meal whether she was shy of the townsfolk or not.
Sure enough, as the other sparse boarders gathered in the small dining hall, the priest noted that the girl had indeed been their since before the others. He had a good look at her without her knowing, as well. She was attractive, almost stunningly so, and quite young. She had smooth black hair that had a sheen of red in the light. Her eyes were startling, a warm black again, and when the light shined on them, they reflected a sparkling red. He saw that she wore an expression of hunger, impatience, of fear, but also, one of sapped strength.
Perhaps she was an evacuee from one of the many wars he had heard so much about lately. She was definitely worth his attention, not because of her looks, though those did key him in, but because of the aura she had. When he looked at her, he felt a slight chill; in the astral plane, she radiated a deep red violence.
Being a smart man, he figured he had a reasonable guess about her past. Being a priest of Iain, he was bound by duty and love to keep the town safe from danger. He also felt obligated, as members of his church often do, to help the girl. It was entirely possible that she didn’t even know the extent of her soul’s pollution.
He approached her carefully, quietly, but not stealthily as she greedily lapped up soup. There was something feral about her, but her eyes, past their eerie color, betrayed vulnerability. She only barely looked up at him as he approached. When he sat down next to her, however, she turned her attention to him, an old, instinctive fear kicking in from nowhere. He wore the white and grey robes of a priest and carried with him the words of his god. She knew his kind. He was dangerous, and she was worried. She didn’t yet remember why.
“I am Felswen. How are you, traveler?” he said, his voice smooth and rich, lacking some quality she had expected.
“Are you not a Priest, Felswen?” she inquired, her grasp of the language complete now.
“I am, but I would have thought it obvious.” He smiled, and despite herself, she smiled as well. “What is your name?”
“Psamathe,” she said, the word seeming awkward in her mouth. She hadn’t really thought of it until now, as if she hadn’t really known the name from before.
“And how do you come by our town of Kora, miss Psamathe?”
“I came by the road. I am going to Athon,” she replied, a measure of comfort setting in around her with this Felswen. She decided that he wasn’t as bad as she thought he would be. He was actually rather attractive, with deep green eyes and a kind complexion. Before she had too much time, he startled, apparently at her destination.
“Ah, I see. And where do you hail from then?” he stuttered.
Put off by the question, she evaded by inquiring, “Is something wrong with going to Athon?”
“Well, it is¡K You see, miss Psamathe, Athon lies far north and it is a very dangerous place. It is full of fell magics and frightful beasts. I wonder why you are going there?” Though a man of faith, Felswen was also a man of rationale, and her voyage seemed a fool’s errand for someone so young. He had heard of professional free companies never returning from the lands of Skystone.
“I’m not sure¡K” she said, revealing more with her lack of knowledge than she would have with a simple lie. She was, however, too confused about the whole thing herself to have lied to him.
He considered her for a moment, his analytical mind working on the puzzle. After a few moments of silence, with only the clinking of the cups of other patrons, he decided that she was going to need further help with whatever she was going through. He at least needed to clear her soul of whatever it was she had done. That much was clear.
“Could I invite you to a lunch tomorrow? Before you move on?”
“Well, I, uh¡K I suppose so, but where?”
“I will prepare a basket for us and we will lunch at the park. The flowers are in bloom right now.”
“That sounds lovely,” Psamathe said, confused, intrigued, lonely for company.
Felswen left soon after, deep in thought.
The next morning, she woke hungry. She remembered a dream of eating, a nightmare rather. She was hungry in her dream as well, but nothing she ate ever sated her. Confused, she got up and went to the bakery for some bread. Passing the butcher, she paused, seeing cuts of meat in his shop, drawing a small moan of hunger that no one else heard. She picked up a few pieces of steak and went to the baker. She wondered idly what mister Felswen would come up with for lunch.
The romance of the situation was not lost on her as she left the baker and headed back to her room. She sat and had breakfast, eating everything she had bought. She looked over her belongings. She had a simple bag, a strange cloth made of what looked like wire, a rusted skinning knife greasy and black with use, two pairs of underwear, two shirts, two skirts, a wrapped card paper box, tied neatly with a black bow, and a pouch containing nine or ten more coins. She had given two to the innkeeper, one to the baker, and one to the butcher. She was running out of money. Soon she would need some more if she were to stay here.
There was also the matter of a small black cloth folded into a square in her pouch. It struck her as odd, but she hadn’t yet needed a handkerchief for anything, so she let it be.
Just then, Felswen knocked lightly on the door. Startled and slightly frightened, she shuffled her things back into her bag hurriedly, then attended the door. He stood there, a basket over one arm, clean and friendly in a pair of slacks and a nice shirt. She blushed at him, butterflies in her stomach. She looked at her clothes and compared them to his. She took her purse from the bag.
“Do you know where I could purchase some more decent clothes, mister Felswen?”
“Certainly, how much money do you have? We can talk to the tailor over on the other street,” he said as she emptied the contents into her hand to show him. He staggered backwards, eyes wide. She thought there might have been a bug or mite in her palm and shook it out instinctively, tossing the coins into the hallway. Felswen bent over rapidly to pick them up, almost knocking his head against her chest as she did the same. He paused and she looked him in the eyes, both of them on their knees. She swallowed back a moment of shyness, wanting to be close to him. She leaned towards him, her lips seeking, as he leaned forward on his hands, but at the last moment, Felswen came to his senses, shaking his head. Psamathe was rather confused as well. She tried to clear her mind but she kept seeing his kind eyes every time she closed hers.
“These are¡K ah¡K these coins are very rare. These are worth a thousand gold coins each. Very special,” he was stuttering again, nervous at what had happened and with the coins. He hoped he hadn’t made her loose one. He suddenly realized that she didn’t have the slightest idea how much they were worth, he’d seen her give two to the innkeeper.
“Oh dear. Psamathe, how many of these have you spent?”
“Oh, about four, I think.” He twitched again. He had only ever seen one of these coins in his life. They were reserved for use by wealthy merchants and kings.
“We need to make this right. We’ll go exchange one of these for¡K well, come to think of it, we might not have enough money in the bank to trade you for gold¡K”
“Oh, that’s alright, I have nine more,” she said, impressed that he was so noble. She didn’t really care about the coins, she just wanted to spend the day with him. So that’s what they did.
Psamathe wasn’t sure why she liked Felswen at first. She assumed it was just because he was an attractive young male. He was a vision to her, and when he spoke she felt compelled to listen. Then, around dessert, she started to think it was his charm. He had a way of smiling playfully that she couldn’t resist. After they had lay in the grass for a while, having finished their meal, she wondered if maybe it was something else. Just being around him made her feel better. She couldn’t help the fact that when she looked at him, behind the caring eyes, underneath his witty humor, there was something that made her feel whole. She was rather shaken by it all, but at the same time, she was comforted by him enough not to care.
They spent the entire afternoon on the hill next to the town. They held hands at the end, as dusk grew close, and they watched the sun set. They eventually left the hill and he took her to his small home next to the church of Iain. He had been trying to understand her, to find out what it was that was inside her. He wanted to help her.
Felswen held her as she fell asleep in his bed, her head on his lap as he stroked her shiny and smooth hair. He was beginning to think that he might care for her more than he ought to. He slipped out from underneath her and allowed her to sleep on his bed as he took out some extra blankets from his chest. He laid them out on the floor, preparing to sleep himself.
Looking up only briefly, he glanced at his small and unassuming bookshelf. Something caught his eye, one of his books. At first he thought it was a book of proverbs he owned. He wondered at it for a moment then found the real thing that had grabbed his attention. He lifted a small paper book from the shelf, a brochure really. He had been looking for places to worship a few years back. The pamphlet was from a holy city.
It was from Duronon, Skystone, a city on the way to Athon, the ancient and mysterious capital of the Old Empire.
“I have to go to check some things out,” he told her. He was riding ahead, but he would be back along the path before she even reached Skystone. Duronon was not far into the area.
“But why? Why must you go ahead of me? Why can’t I just go with you?”
“I feel that Iain has given you a path. I cannot interfere with that. I can, however, try to help. I’m sorry, my dear Psamathe. I will not be long in Skystone. Perhaps I will even accompany you to Athon City once I catch up to you again. You won’t be alone. I will return for you. I care about you.”
Her heart swelled. She beamed when he told her his feelings. Perhaps it was acceptance she was looking for. “I will walk then, and follow on that road then, Felswen.”
“Farewell then,” he said, mounting his horse. He had a small pack of belongings and a mace with him, as much for show as for use. He’d met highwaymen before, but his thoughts were far from his own danger.
She smiled up at him, her long hair glistening in the light, her youthful and clean features radiant in the dawn light. She thought about her words carefully. “I love you, Felswen. Please go safely.”
Slightly shocked, he bent down and kissed her forehead. “And I you. I will see you soon.”
With that, he took flight, pausing only to hear news that there had been an animal slaughtered last night, while he slept. He raced at as fast a pace as he could manage over the miles he would have to cover. He was genuinely worried for once, and considering his faith, it was a rare occasion. He rode on, thinking of how to put it to the Holy Men of Duronon that she was not what she seemed. They would look upon her soul and see only violence and anger. They would surely have her hung is she tried to pass their city. He needed to beat her there and make sure the path was safe. He had to protect her.
The sun rose, red as blood.
Young and vibrant, Psamathe reveled in the sun, her coppery skin glistening as she wandered along the dusty path. Her lonely bag of meager possessions slung over one shoulder was only enough weight to warrant a very slight list in her back, causing fellow travelers who passed by to take notice of her slender and lithe form. Her light clothes clung to her but allowed her to soak up the warm light of the afternoon. She walked along, chin high, greeting men and women as she passed, blissfully unaware of the men’s desires and the women’s envy.
Such was her unwitting skill at attracting attention that she had soon developed a modest gathering behind her, talking and jesting, mostly pretending they had other business along her path. Curious eyes watched as she strode north, past the city limits of Old Thaeox, one of the most ancient cities in all the Realm.
She had been walking the road for a week, since Lightsday. She ticked off the days with scratches in the dirt where she stayed, adding one every camp. She skirted the Silverglades as much as she could, trying to avoid too many people, but always in a haze of joy. She remembered him riding away, remembered him stroking her hair, waking her with a gentle kiss. She remembered the wholeness she felt when she was with him.
As little as she wanted to admit it, it was starting to slip. She had stayed near a town the last night, and the townsfolk had been rather curt with her about her bathing in the stream. They were angry because that night, some of their livestock had been brutally slain, and she was the only newcomer to blame. She averted their prying and implications by telling them of her voyage to the Holy City of Duronon.
She expected Felswen to have returned by now. She hoped he would return soon, she was missing him terribly, and she was beginning to feel more and more hungry, something she didn’t remember when she was with him.
She did think a lot about him. She gradually came to realize that there was someone that he reminder her of. Someone important. Someone she missed. Someone she loved very much and taken away from her. She just couldn’t think of whom.
Meanwhile, Felswen wasn’t faring as well as he had hoped. First they asked him why he had come. Then they questioned his motives. Then they questioned his faith. They didn’t stop there. They questioned his identity, trying to determine whether they were being duped into letting a witch into their midst.
Finding him lacking the answers, they held him. He tried to convince them he was innocent, that he had just been trying to keep her safe.
She’d be here in mere days, and he had done nothing except alert them to her presence. He was furious with himself and the church. For the first time in his life, Felswen questioned his faith. In fact, he was beginning to detest it. He found the dogma of continuing the Fiendwar ridiculous after four centuries.
He was beginning to question his charade. Perhaps he should have not chosen to be a priest after all.
There was a scent in the air. It was laden with meaning, symbolic and sensual. It was the scent of love, and it was terribly, frighteningly familiar to Psamathe as she woke. She started, and glanced around for any nearby people. She looked down, prompted by a strange, sticky sensation. Her chest, her hands, even her neck were dark and glistening in the moonlight. She screamed.
As she washed her hands and face desperately in the small, rocky pool nearby, she recalled vague memories of washing by moonlight last night as well. Her stomach lurched and she felt ill. It was too much of a coincidence.
Her fingers ached, her wrists were sore, and there were tiny fragments of bone lodged under her perfect fingernails, but she felt fine. She wasn’t even hungry.
She cried.
When the jailer found the door to the dungeon burst open from the inside, his first thought was that something had exploded from below. Not being a smart man, he wondered idly if someone had let a lamp go too long down by the grain. He was contemplating the cost to repair the thick oak door when a fist hammered into his helmet so hard as to knock him to the floor, unconscious, in one blow. He never knew what hit him, and when he woke in the infirmary, he asked if there had been a second explosion.
Investigators were drawn from lands spread wide. Word was out that a heretic was on the loose inside the Holy City. To save face, and also to cover for their own deceptions, the High Council called for a which hunt, gathering the best they could find.
He hid in the crevasses and between crenellations as they amassed and searched the city. He waited in the shadows, his body glistening with sweat on his hard silvery scales. He could kill all of them if he wanted, but he didn’t want that reputation.
He wondered briefly at how he had gotten himself into this mess. Plenty of trouble had happened to him in four centuries, wars had been fought, the Empire had crumbled, nations had risen and fallen, but he had never, ever, walked into such a trap before. He was wondering what was happening to him in his modest age.
A young assassin came to the call. Impressed, Karnyn watched, unseen even in the High Tower of Duronon. He watched as the High Heirophant gave him orders to eliminate the priest Felswen and his lover, the witch called Psamathe. He’d have to bide his time to escape without being forced to kill a priest. It was the ones at the top who were corrupt, not the clergy. He needn’t blame them. He just needed to get out and after the assassin fast.
Karnyn Sivi contemplated simply flying.
The next morning, she had neither the bliss in her steps, nor the crowd that followed it. She took her bag and walked away from the pool as fast as she could without appearing ridiculous. The hunger was back, gnawing like a beast at her stomach, making her knees weak. She thought about trying to go back to Thaeox for food, but they might be looking for someone by now.
Afraid, lonely, confused, she walked on, her worn shirt still mildly damp. She aired it out while walking, hoping no one would take an interest. She kept a sharp eye out for other travelers as she walked, deeply disturbed by her reflection in that moonlit pond last night. She had looked into her own eyes and had seen only gory joy.
A band of travelers joined her on the road after lunch. One of them was a young man similar looking to her love, Felswen. She watched him trying to understand, and he caught her watching. He rode over as she averted her eyes, acting in the manner of a peasant.
“Why do you bear your eyes down, young one?” he inquired, in a voice smooth as silk and deep like thunder. She was beguiled by it, slightly.
“Because I feel I ought not stare as I did, my lord.”
“And why not? Are we not all on a path that would make most people call us insane?” he asked, in his seductive voice. His words were mundane, but his saying of them held volumes.
“Why should we be called insane for walking into Skystone, my lord?” she asked, still playing at being common folk. In truth, she wasn’t sure what she was. She rationalize that she wasn’t lying that way.
“Because Skystone is full of hazardous magics and horrible monsters. You should take care to watch yourself as we journey to Duronon, lest you lose the group of us. In fact, a lady should never walk when a man has a horse,” he said, sweetly offering his horse to her. She rode, the man leading the animal, for a while of silence before he offered her his hand.
He introduced himself, “I am Ralvered, a knight of the land.” When she looked at him curiously, he explained, “A knight of the land is a knight with no lord. A man with no home. I wander here and there, looking to fix things and protect people.”
“I am Psamathe,” she said simply, hoping to sound uninteresting enough that he would not press her background.
“¡KOf course you are,” he replied, drifting off a bit, forgetting himself. There was something in his words she didn’t like.
He knew something she didn’t.
By the time he had managed to leave the Holy City, Karnyn had left in his wake seven unconscious men, three frightened nurses, a dozen confused guards, and no casualties, except a button he had tossed as a distraction. He was rather pleased with his stealth these days. He had seen the assassin change his guise to look like Felswen, who shared the face of Karnyn, but he had not been able to determine when he left or where he went. He assumed he went south, after the one assured mark, probably planning to have her as bait for the other.
He’d be damned if he harmed her. After almost four centuries, she had finally come back to The Realm, and he had found her. He was not about to loose her to this inadequate fool of a thug hired by a corrupt church official. He’d be speaking to Iain personally about this, when he found time.
He stole across the landscape, aided by spells of great speed, guided by divinations of surging power. He paused only every few hours to check whether or not he was being followed. Many inhabitants of Skystone ought to be interested to see such a sight as a half-dragon of wondrous pedigree stealthily stalking across the open hills of the Land of Fallen Empires. He might lose valuable time if he was forced to dispatch them.
Ralvered was an astounding man. Psamathe had not allowed herself the luxury of trust for many days, and this time, she felt herself slip into it easily. This knight was a man of courage and nobility, that much was sure. Her initial reaction must have been tainted by her fear and worry. She brushed those aside now, allowing him to enthrall her with epic tales of his adventures in Suncloak, freeing slaves and thwarting evil magicians. She lay on her belly in his tent with him as he sat cross legged, a strange habit he picked up in his time in the exotic East, and rested her head in her hands as he spun his yarns.
She listened to his stories of incredible battles, imagining how he might measure against the quiet and honest Felswen. She rather preferred the idea of a man who enjoyed adventures, but she was still desperate to be with Felswen to whom she owed her heart. She missed him so, even listening to Ralvered in his tent. She dare not tell him so, but she imagined Felswen in Ralvered’s place, questing and exploring, whisking her away to countless exotic and dangerous locales.
After a time, she worried that perhaps she was blending the two men together too much. Perhaps she should simply choose. Ralvered was headed west at the next road, and so she would need to decide whether to follow him on his adventures or to continue on to Athon, a place of terrible magics and dangers that would not be so enjoyable to face.
She found herself laying next to Ralvered, his arm across her waist, contemplating. Awkwardly, she maneuvered away from him, still deeply conflicted. He caressed her back and neck gently, speaking of romantic places and passionate, star-crossed lovers. His speech and touch were alluring. He reached around and pulled her close to him, enveloping her small body in his massive shoulders.
Karnyn stood before a great beast, a relic of ages past. When his friend Scripto had created them, the creature standing before him had looked something like a hybrid lion and an angel. Now, centuries later, Scripto’s precious warriors had become twisted arcane abominations that feasted on the magic of travelers in Suncloak. He smirked at the semi-intelligent beast.
Intending to unnerve him, its two companions stalked out of the shadows around him. They had him from all sides. He was trapped. He would have to fight his way out.
Karnyn Sivi smiled at them a cold and terrible smile, a smile he had learned from a lover long ago. He walked calmly towards the one in front of him and raised his hand. Expecting him to begin casting a spell, the beast stalked back and forth, ready to absorb the magic. Instead, he lunghed forward like a clap of silver thunder, the ground below his feet crumbling as he launched himself at his adversary. Before the other two creatures had time to turn their heads to watch, he had the first lifted off of its feet, and he hurled the five-hundred pound animal at its ally in a single swipe. He leapt on the third, crushing its skull from fifteen feet in the air. His smile had not changed.
Irritated, he ran on, concerned about Tisiphone.
It was a roar. No, it was a pulse. There was a distinct rhythmic vibration, long and slow, in amongst the pounding throb. Her eyes were hazy and it was dark. She smelled a sharp tang in the air. It was the same smell as the night before. It was the smell of blood.
She was slowly regaining control of her body. She could feel her limbs moving numbly, as if in molasses or sand. Her fingers were sluggish and her vision was returning¡K
It was a mess inside the tent. She realized what was happening before she had enough control to stop herself. She remembered what happened.
He had tried to touch her. He had brought her close to him, looked down into her eyes as his hands moved around her hips. He had pushed her skirt down and smiled at her right before he had torn away her clothes. She had struggled to get away from him when she saw him for the first time in her own, truest eyes. She looked at him as he tried to pry apart her legs. She saw only food. The red had already taken over by that point. His attack had forced her into a savage fury of unrelenting hunger.
But now that she was cognizant of her actions, she was rife with guilt. He had been a good man. He had not deserved such a death, perhaps he was guilty of attempting to hurt her, but it was not a crime to be punished with death.
She cried as she fed. The tears streaked clean lines down her blood-soaked face. Sobs racked her chest, tight with terror and strange, dark power. Her fingers ached. She let her head hang in shame, blood dripping off of her chin into her dark lap in the moonlight. Her arms were soaked to the elbow in thick, clotting blackness. The blood of a young man pooled in her lap, sticking to her thighs under her shredded skirt.
The scent of fresh flesh stung her nostrils, her hunger rose. Whimpering, she held a morsel before her eyes. The tears rose again, uncontrollable, as she lifted it to her mouth. The hunger was unbearable, like a rift in her belly, threatening to tear her in half.
Her head pounding, roaring like a great dragon, she leaned over his body. She bit off another chunk, its tang sharp and horribly delicious. Her mind raced, trying desperately to reconcile her hunger and her nature. No longer in control, her thoughts drifted and slowed, congealing, as her body took over, feeding.
Everything faded, her sanity slipped. Her vision clouded, the roar growing, drowning out all else. As she faded, a different her rose, older, stronger.
She picked up a cape, standing.
It was heavy in her hand, not fabric but woven metal.
Then, darkness.
It was too late. Far too late by the looks of it. There was blood splattered on the inside of the tent, the candlelight illuminating a shadowy figure bent over what seemed like a corpse. The blood was running down the sides of the tent.
Karnyn strode to the tent flap. He was prepared to rip the assassin’s head from his shoulders. He would enjoy the sensation for once. This man would need to suffer.
There was a whimpering from the tent. Horrified, he lunged around it to rip the tent open when he realized that the crouched figure had just lifted her hand to her mouth.
She was feeding.
He heard her pick up her cape and stand, the plaintiff little sobs muted almost to silence.
The tent flap opened slowly. She turned to the door, her blood-soaked underwear making her look absolutely nude. Her arms were warrior arms, thick talons ended her fingers, and her eyes were huge with fear and excitement.
He looked at her with a mixture of relief and longing. He had slipped too deeply into his persona of Felswen. His love redoubled itself a hundredfold.
She looked at him startled and confused. Her memories came back, out of order and one by one but at a blinding speed¡K
She was standing on the wall, ready to leap upon the hordes of fiends assaulting the gates. She would wait until they had broken through, then she would slay them all. Every last one. The humans she was protecting inside the city would never trust such tactics. But she had fed tonight, and well.
She was lying in a massive bed with a woman, Vorelthrae with her blue and green scales and her dark wings. Aerin and Karnyn were nearby.
She was holding Karnyn, right before Aireon drew her back to the depths. She kissed him deeply.
“Give my love to the girls. I will return.”
She was standing in the mountains, watching Nerles burn. She walked into the mountains, feeding upon the servants of the Insane King as they went about their missions to destroy the kingdom.
She was clinging to a stone spire in the mountains, watching as an attractive man approached. He smelled of dragons, but he held himself as mage of war. They exchanged blows briefly; he tried to get information from her, but she fled instead of slaying him. Later, she had joined his cadre of fiendslayers, to the chagrin of her master Aireon.
She was standing on a stone, lifted from the pits of the abyss itself. Aireon’s mission was clear in her mind: travel to Athon City and meet with those she had once known as lovers.
Karnyn had moved to her and had his arms around her as she shuddered from her flashing strobe light memories. He whispered into her ear in a caring voice, “I’m so glad you’re safe, Tisiphone.”
She regained some control, feeling her killing claws evolve back into normal hands. The irony struck her, finally.
“You think I was in danger from that knight?” she inquired, squeezing close to him, nuzzling into his chest.
“He was actually an assassin. Sent by the church of Iain to kill you. I was afraid he’d get the drop on you and send you back Down. I’ve waited too long to see you again to let him take you away.”
She was touched. “Thank you, Karnyn. I love you. How has your life been? I’ve been away for the most of it.”
“That is true, but I, we, spend every day thinking of you.”
“Aerin and Vorelthrae are still alive?”
“Of course, Aerin is a great and powerful necromancer. She has her own tower.” He smiled, “And Vorelthrae is doing quite well. She’s been quite busy, as have we all. But not a day passed we haven’t missed you.”
“How long has it been, Karnyn?”
“Three centuries and six decades next week.”
A sound brought them apart a little, looking to the side, as Scripto gated in from his high tower in Athon City. He took one look at them, her soaked in blood, him with a girl-shaped imprint on his chest in red.
“I have some visitors who would like to see you two,” their old friend said, his voice smooth with his youthful immortality.
Their eyes lit up together as a woman with blue scales, long green hair and horns stepped through the portal, clothed in a silvery shawl and tight armor. After Vorelthrae followed Aerin in her white dress, her black hair neatly coifed with wrought iron daggers. The newcomers smiled at their lost love who had stars in her eyes.
Scripto chuckled as the four gathered in an embrace. He looked skywards. “Its terribly good to have you back with us, Tisiphone.”
She smiled, warm and safe, clinging to her favorite people in the worlds, and a flood entered her mind, the memories of aeons gone, her past lives, millions of them, all of them hungry. She fainted.
The one once called Psamathe awoke to the pleasant sensation of her stomach being rubbed. The smell of cooked meat and rare vegetables seeped in from the next room. She was warm and comfortable. She looked around slowly, happy to see her friends.
“I remember,” she said.
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