Hunted [open for one female, details within]

[Svenski]

Hunted [closed]

[OOC] With an appreciative nod to Janny Wurts for "To Ride Hell's Chasm"...

The role of the Crown Princess has now been filled, thank you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A light fog covers the harbour quarter, slowly rolls in the shadows between the warehouses and fetters the flickering light from the lanterns on the street. It's always damp and cold in the late autumn but the air is chilled by more than the longer nights and approaching winter.

The Kingdom of Sessalie has been a peaceful place for many years, troubled only by affairs of trade and the squabbles between merchants that frequent her busy port and market. Sessalie is both the name of the Kingdom and her only city, built in three rising tiers backing onto the mountains to the north. To the south and west the sea, the source of so much of Sessalie's trade. To the east, farmland and pasture leading into forest and the only road heading inland. The earth is rich, the cattle fat, and the mountains a source for gold. Sessalie for her diminutive size stands proud and tall, defensible and fiercely independent.

So what threat could bring such a chill to this autumnal evening? No force of arms is at work here but a more insidious menace stalks unseen. Unexpected, unsuspected, an elder demon has marked Sessalie to be its own and dispatched its minions to infiltrate key positions through Sessalie's hierarchy of power and even now they begin to take control.

Between the demon and absolute control stand two obstacles. The first, the aged and frail King of Sessalie. Frail in body but not in mind, the usual bindings will have no effect on him. For him, there is only one option: death. But a demon's dominion is drawn from the ruling line's blood so its attention is all for the heir apparent, the Crown Princess of Sessalie. Young, vibrant, strong but unprepared, she is the link that the demon seeks to rule over this prosperous Kingdom as its own and sink it into an eternal horror.

So it has a trusted minion make a move to draw her out early in this silent invasion and this is where we find ourselves as the Crown Princess makes her way towards the Royal Storehouse where goods freshly brought from overseas wait to be vetted by the palace servants before being brought the winding way up through the city to the palace itself.

A simple letter from her uncle, the King's brother, calls her hastily to the Royal Storehouse this chill evening and bids her to come quietly and come alone. "An urgent matter!" the letter declared, so she came immediately despite the odd time and manner of its summons. Her uncle had been acting a little odd recently but perhaps this would give him chance to explain what might be the matter...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An agony made of a million splinters, a fire running wild through his mind, he sees other places, other times, and knows his path. Driven, almost primal in this need, he follows that path to whatever end. Always riddles, always fragments, his senses lead him to the infernal danger but the darkness on the road ahead threatens to engulf him before he even arrives at his destination.

He goes anyway. He's no hero, no valiant knight to vanquish the monster and save the day. Almost as monstrous as that he hunts, he goes because he must, because that is all there is left for him, and he goes for the hope that he might one day find redemption at the end of this task... or, at least, oblivion.

He has spent many days on the road, the pain of seeing distant places, times that are yet to pass guiding his feet towards the Kingdom of Sessalie. By horse and now by foot, he stalks the streets of this tiny seaport Kingdom and weaves through the darkness in the harbour quarter. His passing is marked only by a wake of fog, masking his footfalls, hiding his approach. A warehouse ahead, torches burning in sconces either side of the iron bound doors. At lazy attention either side of the door, a pair of guards stand in royal livery. There'll be another way in, though, through the hayloft and he stealthily slips through the darkness to find a place to climb.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[OOC]

Setting: Dark Fantasy, with elements of demons, black sorcery and so on. I've drawn some aspects of this from Janny Wurt's "To Ride Hell's Chasm" but intend to deviate quite quickly from her canon into my own take on this setting. Magic is exceptionally rare and usually the province of gifted healers and dark sorcerers. Think knights and princesses and castles on a dark background of a demon realm hidden from most mortals 'til they're almost drawn inside. I like dark; I find it the best canvas to paint heroism on.

Looking For: One female to play the Crown Princess of Sessalie.

I Will Play: Most other major parts, including that of the "hunter" described in the second section.

Requirements: I may be new here but I'm not new to this sort of writing so I'd appreciate a good paragraph or two per post, for the most part, with care and attention -- we all make mistakes but it'd be great if they were the exception.

Direction: Initially, I'd like to play through the meeting with the uncle at the warehouse for which I have an idea for my desired outcome, which is that the Crown Princess and the Hunter flee from the city. How we get there I have thoughts on but I'm happy for that to come out in play. I imagine there'll be some struggle, some fighting, that sort of thing. I don't imagine that'll start particularly sexual but I'd like that to come in later after some character development.

On Sex: I have broad interests that tend towards the kinky (I gravitate towards the BDSM and NC sections here at Literotica). For this story, I imagine that we'll cover lighter stuff, which is just fine with me. This could even turn out to be quite tender, I suppose. Happy to see where it goes.

Thoughts on the Crown Princess: I'd love it if the Crown Princess was capable, intelligent but totally out of her depth when it comes to matters of demons and sorcerers; she might think of them as things of stories from mad hermits from overseas or that they've died out or been banished or whatever. I've deliberately not chosen a name for her as I'm happy for that to be chosen by her player. I've also not described her in specifics but, personally, extra points go to redheads and athletic figures -- I imagine she rides horses, fences, that sort of thing... you call it.

How To Get Involved: Please PM me to say you're interested and please include your description for the Crown Princess and her name. I'll get right back to you. In the event that I get a few responses then I'll look to arrange some alternative stories for those who don't play in this one.

Final Thoughts: I'm not worried if you're an old hand at this or fairly new to writing stories. All I really ask is that you post like you mean it and you let me know if you need to take a break, want to go a different direction or have any other questions or comments. PMs are always good!

Look forward to hearing from you.

 

[_kyrie_]

Daniella (Danni) Elizabeth Nicholas - Crown Princess of Sessalie
22 years old
5 foot 5 inches tall
Petite, Athletic, Strong-Willed, Stubborn, Intelligent,
Funny, Empathetic, Passionate, Slight temper, Articulate
Hair: Burnished auburn - naturally wavy - very long.
Eyes: Almond shaped, brilliant green rimmed with black
Lips: Full, deep raisin red.
Skills: Accomplished horsewoman and horse trainer.
Swordswoman, First Rank
Women’s Fencing Champion of Sessalie - Three years undefeated.

Danni looked down at the note in her hand again, rereading the words written by her Uncle.

“Daniella come quickly and quietly to the Royal Storehouse at once. It is an urgent matter!” The letter was indeed signed by her Uncle and bore his royal seal.

Danni threw her winter cloak over her shoulders, covering the silken layers of her dinner gown. She should be thankful, she had not been looking forward to another State Dinner among stuffy Dignitaries. It was also becoming increasingly tiresome avoiding the constant bombardment of male attention , especially since her father’s health had taken such a down turn. She would not mind it so much she supposed, if but one of them had half a brain and the courage to match.

Sighing quietly to herself, Danni made her way across the gardens quickly. Her strong legs carried her to the rear portion of the outdoor kitchen and then further down the hill until she reached the Royal Storehouse. It had been built below this hill to make use of the huge oak and maple trees which helped to keep it cool and sheltered it from the sun in the Summer.

Born of habit and strict training, Danni glanced around surveying the area before taking the steep stairs leading down to the locked doors of the Storehouse. She was not carrying her sword, which was not unusual while on the inner grounds of her father’s great holding. As always, she kept her smaller blade strapped to the inner thigh of her right leg; a gift from her father at the tender age of 13.

Danni pulled the Storehouse key up from the string of keys she kept tied around her waist. The Storehouse key slipped into the lock and turned easily, it was used more often than any other key she owned.

“Uncle Jobe?” Odd, Danni expected at least one torch if not two or three lit when she arrived. Her Uncle had been terrified of the dark for as long as she could remember. His tales of things unseeable in the dark and even the light of day were always met with fits of laughter by whomever was listening at the time. Danni rarely laughed, instead she would shake her head with sadness, feeling compassion for the brother of her father that suffered with the disease known only to those of advanced years.

Danni heard a muffled sound, much like the one her Uncle made after imbuing a bit too much ale. Sighing inwardly again, Danni feared the emergency was simply that the man had run through their store of good ale and needed her to unlock the deep cellar where the best ale was kept for visiting Dignitaries.

Her mind full of recriminations and questions for her wayward Uncle, she allowed herself the unusual luxury of daydreaming as she scanned the long rows of shelves, periodically calling to him to let him know she was on her way. Her daydreams were always of her beautiful Arabian Stallion, Killian. Killian was her horse, her protector and her friend. Danni had raised him from a foul and their bond was strong. They had fought together in several championships and almost always won. While satisfying, Danni found she enjoyed their private times together the most. Running through the meadows, crossing the large rivers that spanned her father’s territory and generally running free, unhindered by the confines of court, propriety or social stricture.

The large hand shot out of nowhere, catching her in the temple in the darkness of the Storehouse. The metal object it held welded expertly, striking the very point of her skull that sent her slinking to the floor, unconscious. As the deeper blackness enveloped her, Danni felt a rivulet of blood run down her face and girlishly worried about staining her new dinner gown. Agnus, her maid, would have her head for this, she was sure.

 

[Svenski]

Her uncle's voice, "You idiot! I can't have you harming my master's prize. You creatures really have less brains than the guards you replace." His tone is exasperated, more high strung than usual, but still kept at a volume that wouldn't carry beyond the walls of the storehouse.

A light flares and the same voice continues, "Let's have a look at you, my dear." One strong, gloved hand takes Danni's chin firmly and twists her head to get a better view of her temple. "Hmm, no permanent harm." His breath stale, more so than usual, a revolting counterpoint to the sweet scent of well kept leather. Another hand, similarly gloved, wipes away the blood before the other hand releases her and her uncle speaks again to the other occupants, "If it would do any good I'd gut you for good measure but we both know that you'll not feel it so what would be the point? Hmm?" Silence meets his rhetorical questions, an eerie quiet that goes beyond simply holding one's tongue.

Uncle Jobe sighs gustily, an expression quite out of character. "Well don't just stand there. Bind her hands and bring her to the back you lumbering oafs. We have work to do."

As she lies dazed, almost unconscious, her wrists are pulled behind her and bound tightly with coarse twine. The hands that tie her are cold and clammy but still able with the knots. Those hands are joined by another pair and together they lift her limp body under each arm and carry her towards a more brightly lit area at the back of the storehouse by the trap doors that lead down into the locked cellar.

In the light, cast by a pair of oil lanterns, she is set unceremoniously on a wooden armchair with her tied wrists left to dangle over the low back of the chair. There the cold hands leave her, head lolled to one side, and they retreat to the side. Somehow, though, their presence is still noticeable by a sense of chill from where they stand in absolute silence, not even the sound of breath in their chests.

"Oh this is such a bore." Her uncle again but the words sound alien coming from him. He was always such a masculine figure, speaking of drinking and wenching in the same breath as politics and trade. A drunkard, certainly, but a well meaning drunkard with a fondness for his family and a keen eye for profit. His voice, now, seems to have lost its jovial bravado, replaced with... with something more effeminate. "This is your fault, imbecile." He snaps his fingers, "Well, wake her already!" Impatient, perhaps even eager.

A cold hand takes her head and straightens her up and another swats her across the face three times then three times more, not hard but each swat a jolt to her senses. The hand pauses as if to assess her state of wakefulness, then swats her thrice more. The sensation is not unlike being lightly slapped by a slab of cold dry meat and equally revolting.

Across the table from her reeling senses, her uncle sits sipping a deep red wine from a fine crystal goblet, his head cocked in almost quizzical expression if it were not for the callous set to his eyes. One could swear that another looked out from Jobe's familiar features. Flanking her chair, a few steps back on either side, a pair of guards in royal livery, their blank-eyed faces disturbingly lacking signs of humanity or even life yet they stand erect and sure-footed in their mail coats.

Beyond the table, behind her uncle, a space has been cleared, covered over with sackcloth and surrounded by tall candelabra filled by short blood red candles, presently unlit. Certainly, such an arrangement has no place in the storehouse.

Jobe's face cracks into a toothy grin, as callous and uncaring as his eyes, "Are you awake, little Princess, or do you need some further... encouragement?"

 

[_kyrie_]

She thought she could hear her uncle’s voice over the ringing in her ears. Each slap forced her closer to the surface, closer to consciousness and closer to the roaring pain in her head. She had decided to slip back into the comfortable nothingness, when the sharp sting hit her face over and over again. Not only was it annoying and it hurt, but whomever was doing it was getting her very, very angry.

Jobe’s face cracked into a toothy grin, as callous and uncaring as his eyes. “Are you awake little Princess or do you need some further…encouragement?”

“Stop…stop hitting me,” Danni whispered. Struggling to open her eyes and find out who was tormenting her. Raising her head fully her eyes took in the disheveled sight of her uncle.

“Uncle Jobe? What…what’s happening?” Danni could not, would not believe her eyes. It must be the head injury. Danni blinked, clearing the haze from her vision. Uncle Jobe sat across from her, a self-satisfied smile smeared across his face. He was sipping red wine, Uncle Jobe abhorred red wine. Danni had seen him sip it only once before and then he had spat it out on the ground, declaring to all within hearing distance that red wine had been made only for cooking and for whore’s. Of course, at the time, Danni had been much younger and had been rewarded with a very stern reprimand from her father when she had questioned him extensively later that night, about whores.

Something very cold grabbed her chin, Danni shivered at the touch. It’s fingers squeezed tightly, nearly forcing Danni to wince. She could not see who it was within the darkened confines of the cellar, but its smell was distinctive and familiar; yet she could not place it.

The cold hand twisted cruelly in her hair, pulling her head up even further. Danni’s eyes looked to those of her uncle, silently begging him for his assistance.

“Uncle Jobe, please, tell me what is going on?” Danni fought and lost the battle to stop her trembling. Something was very, very wrong with her uncle and whatever it was, she feared would not be good for her either.

 

[Svenski]

His self-satisfied expression deepens and he takes one last sip before setting the goblet down on the table. "Good. Excellent even! It would be such a shame for all this to happen while you were still unconscious."

Jobe gets to his feet, stretches his arms in the fashion of one just waking from a good sleep, then rounds the small table to stand in front of Danni. The cold hands on her hair, in her hair, force her to watch her uncle, to keep her eyes on his face.

"It's a shame," he begins, "A shame that we couldn't have met earlier and had more time to spend together." His right hand reaches out to caress her cheek, not paternally as one might expect from an uncle but more the touch shared between lovers. "Perhaps if your father was a little more... tractable..." he withdraws his hands and makes an open motion as if to say "if only".

His fingers return to Danni's cheek then trace a line down past her jaw, onto her neck where they linger briefly. His eyes follow his fingers and in them is revealed an incredible lust, a wanton desire. Tracing further, he draws fingers down over the material on her left breast and he sighs. "So beautiful, so innocent... the fun we could have had together." His fingers draw a line under the curve of her bosom then reluctantly withdraw. "But it was not to be, little princess Danni. You are promised to another and it is him I must obey."

"You ask what is happening?" His smile malicious, savouring the slow drip of information and her powerless situation before him, "Well, I want you to meet someone. My master, in fact. Do you want to meet him?" He doesn't wait for an answer, he merely taunts. "Well, he very much wants to meet you. Oh, I do love making these sorts of introductions!"

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni’s head ached. Her shoulders burned from being pulled so tightly behind her. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, although her vision was still a bit blurry from the blow to her head. The blood still oozed slowly from the cut to her temple.

Danni forced herself to take stock of her situation; both physically and externally. She did not feel injured anywhere else besides her head and her swollen lip. She would definitely repay her uncle for the slaps that earned her that. She felt her temper rise and battled to keep it in check, knowing a false move could somehow prove fatal in whatever situation she had landed herself in now.

Her wrists were twisted and tied together painfully behind her but they had not been attached to the chair. Neither were her legs and feet tied; a mistake made on the part of her captors. Two of the castle guards stood on each side of her but neither one had made a move or a sound since she awoke in this chair. She assumed whomever now held her prisoner had drugged them somehow. Perhaps that was also what ailed her uncle, she could possibly forgive him that, if that were the case.

His fingers return to Danni's cheek then trace a line down past her jaw, onto her neck where they linger briefly. His eyes follow his fingers and in them is revealed an incredible lust, a wanton desire. Tracing further, he draws fingers down over the material on her left breast and he sighs. "So beautiful, so innocent... the fun we could have had together."


Danni’s blood ran cold, her heart skipping a beat when his fingers pressed against her neck, slipping to her bodice below. She instinctively flinched at his touch, becoming angry at herself for showing fear to her enemies. She had been taught better than that by her father and his knights. Her uncle’s eyes raked her body, while his hand continued to trace circles around and then under her firm breast. Danni’s entire body began to tremble with rage and if she were honest with herself, deep fear.

You ask what is happening? His smile malicious, savoring the slow drip of information and her powerless situation before him, "Well, I want you to meet someone. My master, in fact. Do you want to meet him?" He doesn't wait for an answer, he merely taunts. "Well, he very much wants to meet you. Oh, I do love making these sorts of introductions!"


“The only Master you serve is my father Uncle Jobe; The King of Sessalie and unless that is whom you speak of, I suggest you think twice before continuing with this charade!”

Danni rose both feet high in the hair, using all of her strength, she kicked her uncle full in the chest. Jobe flew backwards, sliding over the table, hitting the wall behind. Using the momentum of the kick, Danni leaned forward, pulling her arms off of the back of the chair.

Both guards came to life, reaching for her at the same time. Danni ducked under the arm of one while ramming her head into the groin of another. That guard went down with a thump, both hands covering his wounded manhood, he curled into a fetal ball at her feet.

The second guard had both hands in her hair, pulling her up from her crouch. Using one foot for balance, she kicked backwards, landing a solid blow to his shin. With the other foot she stomped down as hard as she could with the heel of her foot on the arch of his. His yowl filled the confines of the cellar.

His hand fell from her hair, the brief moment of freedom spurring Danni to bolt for the locked cellar door. A very cold, clammy hand wrapped around her small throat, lifting her from the floor.

Danni 's bound hands hung uselessly behind her while the hands wrapped bruisingly around her neck squeezed the life from her. She kicked and writhed and still he held her as if she weighed nothing, the air choked from within her. Her head fell back, the long, wavy locks of her shimmering hair nearly touching her calves behind her.

She heard it laugh as it carried her thusly towards the space beyond covered with a sackcloth. Danni kicked until she no longer had air left. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall candelabra, fashioned into a form she could not recognize. She thought she could make out small red candles filling each ugly arm of the thing but she knew she would loose consciousness at any moment and spared no more thought to it.

She heard a hiss, as though a snake were speaking to her from within a man’s body. The smell of it was horrendous.

“It’s time for you to meet your Master little princess.” It laughed over and over again with a throaty, hissing sound as it lowered her slowly to the sackcloth.

 

[Svenski]

"A little light!" it says with Jobe's mouth. The Jobe-puppet snaps its fingers and the circle of candelabra spring into life, each red candle topped by a hissing green flame. Beneath her dangling feet, a similar sickly green glow issues up through the sackcloth then the material there instantly incinerates as though made of gun cotton and reveals intricate arcane markings etched into the floor. Along each line, following each character inscribed, a green light weaves back and forth like a family of tiny ephemeral snakes flickering back and forth in some incomprehensible choreography. It almost seems as though the writings within the pattern weave themselves around the floor, spelling out some ancient rhyme in a long forgotten language.

The air is electric and from her uncle's eyes the same green light issues forth. In the background, the two guards remain slumped where they last fell, dolls used and discarded by the powers at play here. In sibilant tones now entirely lacking any resemblance to her uncle's, the Jobe-puppet begins to chant, his arm locked out to suspend Danni over the pattern, within the circle of shifting runes and eerie green light, his vice-like grip unwavering. The candles burn brighter, green sparks rising quickly to the ceiling where they fizz and snap and leave a smell of sulphur. A sound builds in the room, beginning with a whisper from thousands of tiny voices, but slowly building, a crescendo of mouths giving song to infinite pain combined with unimaginable pleasure.

Her uncle's mouth chants ceaselessly, intonations now repeating as in rhyme. From below, in the middle of the circle of lines and runes, a darkness begins to form and the sense of a presence from beyond enters: watching, waiting, dark, malevolent, lustful and horrifyingly lethal.

Without warning, that the door to the cellar explodes inwards, shattered into a hundred pieces in a single deafening thunderclap. The metal of its hinges twists and chars, blackened and shrivelled against the door frame. The chanting abruptly ceases, cut short. For a moment, the grip on Danni's throat wavers, enough for air to flood back into her lungs. Jobe stumbles backwards, his offhand grasping at his throat. The green lights fade, the candles all flicker then splutter out and the presence, that biting darkness in the floor, vanishes without trace.

The Jobe puppet stumbles again, its grip on Danni releasing entirely as it twists sideways. From this aspect, it is apparent that a quarrel from a crossbow has pierced his neck, punched into his throat and that Jobe's fingers claw at the tip of the bolt as if they can somehow remove it.

A large piece of the darkness beyond the door back to the storehouse steps forward down the steps into the cellar dropping a spent crossbow to the side. It strides into the cellar intent on Jobe's body, now on its knees. For a man of Jobe's age it is hard to see how such a strike has not killed him instantly but somehow he (or it?) still lives. Jobe's eyes, filled with hatred, turn to face the approaching figure and for the first time the creature within him shows fear. Jobe's hands move urgently and the previously fallen bodies of the guards lurch back to their feet and flail towards this new arrival, swords drawn.

The figure, heavy set, curses in guttural tones, clearly male. As he moves, it seems as though the darkness moves with him, leaving behind a brief blur of motion; the effect is not unlike being in a drunken stupor and watching someone move very quickly, except that it only applies to this black clad man. From out of the blackness, he draws two wide bladed machettes that glitter in each hand. He steps, weaving swiftly towards the guard on the left, parries a vicious overhand slice while cutting downwards with the other blade into the side of the guard's leg causing him to crumple sideways.

The other guard crashes forward, thrusting his blade into the man's side even as he moves to twist away. A flash of red, the guard's longsword comes away bloodied. Jobe, his hands still weaving in the air as though he is a puppeteer making the guard dance, grins wickedly despite the blood that trickles from his mouth, despite his apparent lack of breath. The second guard draws back to strike again and though the man moves his blades to defend himself the guard he felled but a moment earlier reaches up to grab an arm and foil this motion. Blood welling through his clothes from the ribs under his right arm, his left arm tangled, he parries once, twice, withdrawing a step each time 'til his back is against the wall.

No choice but to free himself, he hacks down with his free arm to take the grasping guard's arm off at the elbow, using the motion to roll forward under the second guard's blade. In doing so he avoids the blade only to earns himself a hilt in the face as he rolls back upwards. Somehow this does not deter him, though, and he forces himself forward, releasing both blades to grapple with the guard, get his hands on the automaton's throat. Together they crash into the far wall, the guard striking his head and shoulders with the pommel as the man tears at the exposed throat like a wild animal.

It all happens so quickly, Danni barely has time to recover at all but in the fray her presence has been lost, forgotten as all forces work against this near feral warrior shrouded in darkness.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni fell to the floor, heaving for breath. The arrow had pierced her uncle’s throat, missing her yet, her uncle still lived! Quickly scooting away from the wounded man, Danni rose to a very low crouch in the darkness, watching.

What manner of battle was this? What dark force had captured her breath, preventing the horrified screams from leaving her throat even as the cold tendrils of that same essence caressed her legs with a heat unlike anything she had ever felt before?

The growing sounds of men battling forced her to her feet. One red candle laying on the floor cast the cellar in an eerie light. The unearthly green glow had nearly disappeared completely. Three figures grappled in the darkness. One being the guard she recognized earlier, although no longer the guard she knew. This is a creature that could not be, blood oozed from its many wounds. Its eyes were the color of white chalk, no noise came from its open mouth yet she could hear it screaming in her head.

The other was her uncle, but not her uncle. The arrow still protruded from the back of his neck, blood soaked his over-coat and pants. His eyes were the same chalky white color as those of the guard.

Danni rolled to the side, turning over to place her wrists against the longsword abandoned on the floor. With only two flicks of her wrists against the sharp steel, the bonds released. She rose with the longsword clutched in both hands, the bindings still hanging from her swollen wrists. It was heavy, heavier than anything she had welded before. Danni reached deep into herself, begging the good spirits for strength. Unnoticed in the foray, she swung two handed with expert precision towards the neck of the incensed guard. The sharp sword hesitated only briefly when it met bone, then cleaved cleanly through the rest of the neck. The sound of spurting blood, squirting from the main arteries nearly made her wretch.

The body fell to the floor, the head following right behind it with a thunk and rolled towards her feet. Danni kicked the filthy thing away from her and turned towards the two men still standing.

Danni slid her hand beneath the long layers of her dress, withdrawing the blessed blade gifted to her so long ago. The thing that used to be her uncle growled as it gnashed at the other man’s throat. From deep within her, a force stronger that she guided her hand. With two deep cutting motions she sliced into her uncle’s back. Later, as she tried to remember the event, she would be unable to say what the ominous symbol was that erupted from within him, following the lines of her blade.

An unearthly shrill spewed from her uncle’s bloody lips, one hand whipped out to catch her in the jaw, sending her crashing into the wall. That one second of distraction was all the warrior needed to move in for the kill.

 

[Svenski]

"Crap!" the warrior curses openly for the lines of power leaking from this old man's back have clear meaning for him. No time to rue the situation, he presses the physical advantage the girl has given him knowing that he must end this quickly. No time to find a blade, no time to make fire, he reaches within and calls on the monster inside. His hand stiffens into a blade and he pulls back to strike. His fingertips gleam as though made of steel and an inky vapour trails weaves around his palm. Driven like a spear, his hand punches into the chest of the raving, clawing form that once was Jobe and punctures his heart. Her uncle's eyes flick wide, flare with green light and his body spasms, arching with sudden shock, then falls limp and still. The Jobe puppet slides off the warrior's hand as if it were a blade, slumps to the floor, dead.

But the warrior does not rest. An evil keening rises from the crumpled body and a icy breeze whips round this room with no windows, no chance of a draught. No, the warrior does not rest. Rapidly, with intent, he advances on Danni where she was sent crashing into an empty rack meant to hold casks of ale. His right hand dripping with her uncle's blood, his side leaking his own through the rough fabric of his coat, and all about him a mist of darkness that makes it hard to focus on him. In the light cast by the single remaining lantern he might seem as fearsome as the creatures Danni has already had harm her at every turn. Is this what death looks like?

Urgent, rough edged, but genuinely imploring, this man who might be a monster speaks to her, "There isn't any time to explain. Please, just trust me and stay still for a moment longer." The black fog about him retreats and lit hard from one side she can see his face for the first time. Heavy brow and jaw, the latter covered by a week's growth of mid-brown stubble the same colour as the wiry unkempt crop atop his head. His face is square set, muddied but a fair complexion beneath. Broad nose, a slight downturn to the edges of his mouth, he's not a handsome man but distinctive, in a rugged, dirty sort of way. Most distinctive of all, his steel blue eyes, brutally sincere and quite obviously human. Again, he entreats, "Please, trust me."

Knowing he has no choice whatever her response, his left hand reaches into the blood at his side and he winces with the pain. He endures, covering his fingers with his own blood. Around them both, the keening rises in intensity as though it draws closer, and the icy wind runs faster, chilling through to the bone. The warrior continues, now murmuring under his breath. Fingers drenched in his own blood, he focuses on her one last time. He does not say it but his eyes beg her to stay still. Locked with her gaze, his bloodied left hand darts to her face and there marks three symbols in his own blood, one on each cheek and one on her forehead. The inscriptions are simple but striking, runic in nature, and deftly done. A moment later, the keening rises to an incredible scream painful to hear then the wind rushes from the cellar and away. In only a heartbeat it is gone and the cellar falls into quiet and stillness.

The warrior releases a breath he was holding and slumps backwards onto his buttocks, both hands dripping in blood. Now he sits there just a man, no shroud about him. Powerfully built, probably just over six feet when he stands, dressed in shabby clothes that once might have been black but now faded to a dull grey. Only his boots show signs of care and the blades that lie discarded on the floor, glinting in the flickering lantern's glow. His breathing is ragged and his eyes distant and turned down as he tries to recover enough to move again.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni lay frozen, unable to move beneath the huge warrior’s touch. She saw not what he placed on her cheeks and forehead, but knew it had something to do with the cold, swirling coldness shrieking throughout the room. At his touch, the coldness had left her legs where clammy tendrils of heat had once again clasped onto her ankles, threatening to pull her down into their inky depths.

The silence in the cellar was deafening. Danni swallowed painfully, her throat raw and sore. A small shaft of light appeared at the top of the stairs, bathing the cellar in a warm glow. Dawn had come, she'd been down in this horrid cellar the entire night.

Still Danni did not move, his command to stay still echoing in her ears. Slowly she became aware of his breathing, and of her own. The light shown brighter, heralding another day. Yet, she was loathe to move. Her own fear kept her frozen in place. The darkness that had nearly taken her had been a living, terrifying entity. Her ankles burned where the heat of the thing had held her tightly. Danni lifted her skirts slightly, looking down at her legs and ankles. The skin had been burned as if fiery hot candle wax had been poured over them. The burn was like nothing she had ever seen before though, nor felt. She was afraid to touch it, afraid to even look at it and quickly slid her long skirts over them, hiding them from view.


Light passed through the doorway, settling on the man sitting near her on the floor. A splotch of bright red blood oozed slowly from his side, his eyes were closed as though he were sleeping. Danni lifted her head further, her jaw and temple ached, her throat bore dark bruises placed there by the thing that had held her over the sackcloth.

Rising very slowly, Danni moved closer to the man. Perhaps he had passed out, perhaps he had died in his attempt to save her. Suddenly Danni couldn’t bear the thought of this great warrior’s death, more so at the cost of saving her own life. Her heart clinched at the thought of this massive warrior laying cold in death. She tentatively reached out to touch his throat, feeling the strong pulse there, she removed her hand from his skin quickly.

Danni ripped a length of her underskirt loose from where it now hung, tattered and ruined beneath her gown. Her dress, hose and slippers were covered in gore and blood. There would be no saving any of the garments. Agnus would have more than her head now. Deftly, Danni pushed the side of the man’s overcoat aside, pulling his shirt loose as carefully as possible from his trousers. The stab wound was severe but had missed his major organs. Danni balled the cloth up and pressed it to the wound, placing pressure on it to staunch the flow of blood. She tucked the ruined shirt back into his trousers. fashioning a make-shift bandage with what she had available.

Laying not far away was a cask of ale, thrown from its shelving when she was knocked into it. Several tin tasting cups sat to the side of the ale, for use by the brewery master when flavoring those casks he deemed ready to be used. Danni could not lift the full cask but manged to roll it, spigot side down in order to drip some of the contents into the cup. She filled it nearly full, taking two sips before sliding back to the man still sitting crouched on the floor, unmoving.

Danni tentatively raised the tin of ale to the man's lips, urging him with her soft voice to take a drink. The warrior jerked awake suddenly at her touch. Danni moved quickly away, determined not to cower in the corner like a child but still, she found herself trembling, crouched in the corner watching him warily.

 

[Svenski]

He sits oblivious to his surroundings, trying to cage that he released in desperation. Each breath drawn in reminds him of his rent side and he imagines his life leaking further away as he exhales as though the act expels both air and blood in one. A whisper in his ear, <I'm not letting you die that easily.> His eyes slide closed. The words are in his mind, just in his mind. <You can't ignore me either. I'm always here.> The voice is smooth, feminine, and it mocks him in a way that no other can hear. <You think your little binding will keep him away for long?> Laughter, musical and, at once, heartless. <No rest for you, my darling Marcus. No rest for you...>

They say that memory and scent are closely linked, that the smell of a person or place can evoke a stronger response than even touch. Through his haze the scent of alcohol touches the back of his nose and he recoils. His eyes snap open and where they earlier shone steel blue they now swirl with a black mist. Something inhuman looks out. He blinks. The mist is gone, replaced with the sadness and humanity that was there earlier.

"No," he croaks, then coughs to clear his throat, "No drink." He glances about, taking stock of his surroundings, urgency returning to his motion. "And no time. Damn." He looks down at his wounded and now loosely bandaged side then up at Danni but does not voice the question that comes to his lips. Instead, "We have to go. Now."

He twists, winces at the pain, but gets his feet under him and propels himself to standing. He moves to gather his things but realises that Danni isn't immediately following suit. He stops himself, realising that just his say-so is unlikely to be enough without at least a little explanation. He pivots back towards her and crouches in front of her, looming large and likely not considering that he cuts a fearsome shape. One might fancy him as a dark, feral bear, both front paws caked in the blood of a recent kill. His voice is not menacing, though, just tired, "You're scared. I get that. Maybe even of me, and I get that too." Tired and sad, "But this isn't over. While you are alive, while you are still human, that creature will hunt you." He reaches, pulls up the hem of her gown and tattered underskirt just an inch to reveal the burns, "You've felt its touch, you know it means you harm. Come with me, away from here, and perhaps we can save you from that harm."

He moves to offer her his hands, then realises that they are caked in drying blood. He does his best to wipe them off on his trouser legs, which serves to clear some of the worst but none would be under any illusion that he had done anything but butcher's work this night. He offers his hands to Danni, the bear to the princess, and waits for her move.

 

[_kyrie_]

It was too much to take in all at once. The beast in front of her crouched down, the black swirling eyes suddenly changed to steel blue. The eyes peering at her now were not the eyes of the beast she saw but a moment earlier but those of a warrior insistent on eliciting her cooperation to do something. Shaking her head, her long auburn hair falling in strings across her shoulders, Danni tried speak. Only a hoarse whisper slipped between her swollen lips. Swallowing deeply then wincing with the pain of it, Danni tried again.

“Wait..wait. Please.” She raised one hand up in front of her, as if to ward off what was coming. “Just wait.” Danni placed her hand over her injured throat.

“Go? Go where?” And then suddenly, as if only just hearing him,

“He reaches, pulls up the hem of her gown and tattered underskirt just an inch to reveal the burns, "You've felt its touch, you know it means you harm. Come with me, away from here, and perhaps we can save you from that harm."

Danni reached down, pushing her skirts even lower than where the warrior laid them. She felt humiliation and embarrassment, although she did not understand why or where these feelings were coming from. What did the marks on her ankles mean and why did they force these uncomfortable feelings to run through her, leaving her cold and hot all at once?

She looked up into his blue eyes, cold but compassionate. The set of his head and the stance of his body told her that no matter her decision, his had been made. She looked deep into herself, again asking the Good Spirits for guidance.

Danni looked from his big hand to hers, both covered in the blood and gore of the things now laying near their feet. Tentatively she placed her hand in his. An electric arc jumped from his hand to her and back again. The soft glow enveloped both their hands for a brief second before dissipating into the bright sunlight streaming down from the shattered cellar door.

Danni rose, a bit unsteadily on her feet to stand beside him. Slowly she nodded her head once, her hand tightening on the strength and security she felt in his.

 

[Svenski]

He feels it too, that jolt, that almost electric contact that passes between them. A sensation stirs within that he cannot name but he blinks the moment from his mind, shakes his head to clear it, then moves with a purpose. He collects and sheaths both blades, brutishly ignoring the wound in his side. The crossbow he slings over one shoulder by a length of leather strap. Though he wastes no time, he absent-mindedly keeps hold of Danni's hand as he moves, not so much dragging her as guiding her after and sweeping her along in his intent.

"Horses," he mutters, leading her up and out of the dim cellar into the lancing light of early morning, shortly after dawn. "We need horses." This last more obviously directed to Danni. It is not said as a question, more given to her as a problem to be solved. From the floor of the storehouse, he retrieves Danni's winter cloak where it fell after she was struck earlier, then throws this round her. "Put the hood up," he instructs, "We don't know who will be watching for you."

<Isn't this so delightfully complicated? How's your poor beleaguered mind holding up with all this... well... thinking you have to do?> The voice taunts him inside, distracting him from his hastily formed plan. Indeed this had all become so complex. He didn't come here for this girl. He hadn't really thought much past killing the demon in the basement, riding on pure gut instinct. All he can think is that they must get clear of all these people before the creature finds someone else to inhabit and has chance to raise the alarm against them.

Get horses, get clear, then... then... what then? <Back to the cabin in the summer pasture, perhaps?> Curse that voice, taunting one moment, helping him the next, never constant, never easy. Why can't things be easy just for once? <Not easy, Marcus, but certainly tasty! Wouldn't you like to taste her?>

Conflicted, he shakes his head clear. His wound, leaking still despite the makeshift bandage, weakens the boundary between the two minds within him. Just needs to get clear, get them both away, then in the quiet he can wrest back control.

Forcing himself back into the now, "Horses. Quickly."

 

[_kyrie_]

“Horses quickly.” His command was softly urgent.

At the top of the cellar stairs, Danni took the lead, never relinquishing her hold on his hand. They ran up and out of the storehouse, allowing the heavy door to bounce closed behind them.

Up and back over the rolling hill she had so gullibly tromped over the night before, they quickly passed the back kitchen entrance. Weaving stealthily through the court yard, she never let go of the warriors hand.

The stables stood a good distance from the castle, she set the pace. Although both were injured, neither allowed the pain to slow their progress. Closer to the stable doors, Danni whistled softly. The distinct whinny of her stallion could be heard in the night.

Were she alone, she would not bother with bits, saddle blankets and saddles; but the man was injured. She knew the few minutes it would take to get the tack together would save them many hours of frustration and inconvenience later, not to mention comfort. Glancing to the man in the morning light, she realized he may not be able to ride without the equestrian accruements most needed to mount a horse, the decision was made.

She pointed to a stall near the back of the stable, motioning with her head towards the massive black Percheron. MIDNIGHT could be temperamental but was dependable in a crisis and she considered whatever was going on right now definitely a crisis.

Whispering so as not to draw attention to the two of them, Danni told the warrior where Midnight’s tack hung, pointing to the largest saddle in the tack closet. The stable boys worked diligently to keep the tack oiled and pliable. The well-worn leather gleamed in the morning light, put away only after having been well worked and cleaned.

Her own tack was stored in a separate area, against her wishes. It was due to the strict confines of those more interested in the propriety of society than in simple horsemanship or convenience that her equipment was set and handled differently from the equipment of others. Danni shook her head at the nonsense of it.

Killian stood ready at his stable door, prancing slightly back and forth. Killian’s mane quivered, picking up on Danni’s urgency as well as smelling the fresh blood on her hands and clothes. Killian never hesitated but left his stall as Danni commanded. The big stallion’s senses urged him to bolt and run, but the woman now placing the bit in his mouth was his friend and his companion. The trust between the two had been forged during years of hard work, hard play and hour upon hour of meticulously grueling training procedures.

Danni led Killian to the end of the barn and looked to the warrior man. He showed no hesitation in saddling Midnight. Midnight responded to his quiet confidence, standing calm beneath the ministrations of the man as he tightened the cinch and set the length of his stirrups. Many a time before Midnight had puffed up his huge lungs fooling the would-be rider into believing the cinch had been pulled as tightly as possible, only to release his air at an inopportune moment, thusly removing said rider from his saddle unceremoniously.

The warrior led Midnight from the barn and mounted without hesitation. Danni touched her forehead to that of Killian’s before easily mounting him as well. She turned to the warrior only to catch an unsettling look in his eye as he watched her mount. Danni felt a brief moment of hesitation and looked back to the castle, back to that which she had known her entire life.

She turned back to the man who’s eyes again held compassion and urgency. She nodded her head once, giving him all the signal he needed. Pressing his strong legs to the flanks of the Percheron he flew from the stable yard; Danni and Killian following close behind.

 

[Svenski]

Not long before the change of the guard, the current shift are tired. The usual suspects quietly patrol the outer wall, commenting on the morning mist rolling in from the sea and the likelihood of snow before the week is out. Sessalie has always been a peaceful place so, to them, the world is at peace; they're just waiting for the single bell strike to sound in the palace watch tower to take them off duty and to their beds.

An eyebrow or two are raised as two horses leave through the main gate, opened to allow early morning traffic to pass but with no alarm sounded, no prior warning, the guards do not intervene. Hazily, one comments to another, "Hey, ain't that the princess' horse?" Both stop on the wall to look out after the departing pair. The other scratches his stubbly chin, squinting in the early morning light, "Yeah, yeah I fink it is. Who's that wi' her?" The first shrugs, "Dunno pal. But they're in a hell of a rush." The horses are obscured in the mist on the road outside the city as the other turns to the first, "Y'know, maybe we should wake up the captain?" They both glance at the sky, gauging the time; their beds call to them but this is their princess they're talking about. "Yeah, yeah we should." Together, they start to make their way to the guard house.

The two riders, Danni and Marcus, turn east along the coast road and follow it as it rises out of the sea mist. It's always misty this time of year around Sessalie's harbour and the mist tends to forecast the upcoming snow. In the fields and pasture around them, peasants are beginning their day. Cowbells clank in discordant harmony. A shepherd holds his herd of goats at the side of the road aided by his young and eager dog, allowing the horses to pass unheeded. He even tips his hat to the passing princess, though he is as befuddled as the guards in the city as to her need for such rush. The aged shepherd smiles over the haste of the young and thinks kindly of them, wishes them well. Sessalie loves their Crown Princess.

Still they press on, even as the morning light is overcast by approaching rain clouds sweeping in from the sea. The wind picks up, chill but natural unlike the icy shrieking gale in the cellar but an hour or two earlier. Blowing down the coast, the wind brings the sound of a bell ringing behind them: the palace bell. One ring is normal, struck at the change of the watch, but this rings repeatedly, ongoing, the sound of alarm. Behind them, the alarm has been raised. As if to add injury to insult, cold rain starts to fall in heavy drops. First a few spatters, then a shower. By the time they make it to the tree line beyond the the lowland fields it is raining freely. In summer, they could ride in such rain and listen to the comforting roar of the downpour on the leaf canopy but so late in the autumn most of the leaves have already fallen.

Not long into the trees, Marcus takes the lead, dropping the pace to a trot as he steers them off the road onto one of the larger goat paths leading upwards into the mountains. He gives a sense of knowing where he is going but he remains silent, alert, watchful to the rear. None yet follow.

The trail wends higher into the mountains. Gradually, the bare deciduous trees give way to the evergreen conifers and in their midst the path becomes harder to follow. Now just walking, the horses pick their way forward steadily through the rain. Higher still they climb and the ground becomes more rocky. They turn to follow the path of a stream, clopping along the pebbled banks. Further up they cross, picking up another trail heading deeper into the mountain. Higher and higher, the trail switches back and forth, passes fallen trees, sheer scree slopes, and crosses water thrice more. In the constant rain, the world seems timeless as though the trail could go on forever. In truth, it is probably around midday. Empty bellies call for attention but still Marcus pushes on, driven. In the cold and wet, his face seems pale though he does not reveal it often or for very long as he stays a few paces ahead and keeps his watch about, above and to the rear.

It must be early afternoon. So long have they ridden with only the rain to provide conversation, its damp contribution a dulling experience, chilling, even through winter garments. It is almost a shame that it ceases, wind carrying the precipitation further inland. Breaks in the trees become more frequent and through the gaps one might just make out the distant grey of the sea though not any sign of fair Sessalie nor of any pursuit. It is here, as the trees give way, that they reach a summer pasture for sheep or goats, now deserted 'til the arrival of spring. A stone cabin, well thatched, windows shuttered against the oncoming winter, nestles against a sheer cliff face using the mountain for shelter. A lean-to wooden structure is also built against the rock to provide a coral for livestock though the wooden gate stands open and no livestock can be seen.

Dripping wet, they dismount. The sight of shelter welcome to them both, they lead the horses into the barn, such as it is, releasing their tackle. It's there, while removing the saddle from the great black Percheron, that Marcus stumbles. The saddle falls to the floor and the horse snorts, backing away a couple of steps, eyeing his recent rider. Dropping to one knee, he reaches inside his overcoat to his wounded ribs and comes away with fresh blood. Weakly, he curses, then looks up to find Danni and fixes her with a stare that brooks no interruption, no complaint, and no deviation from his instructions, "You must stay close to me. Must. They'll be looking... for you." His breath ragged, pain obvious, his pupils narrow to points, "Stay close and they can't find you. Just... stay close..." His pupils suddenly dilate and from his kneeling position he slowly folds forwards into the floor.

<Awww, aren't you a cutie. Thinking about that poor frightened girl. So noble...> That mocking tone again, he has no strength to fight it. <Well, I can't have you just lying there in the mud. Time to put you back together. Another price you owe me, my dear Marcus. Another... favour.> A feminine chuckle fills his ears as he loses consciousness on the barn floor.

 

[_kyrie_]

“Stay close and they can't find you. Just... stay close..."

The big warrior slid to the floor at Midnight’s feet, the big horse prancing in the small enclosed area, wary of stepping on him yet afraid of what may have felled the large man. Danni too looked around quickly and suspiciously, wondering if even now they were being attacked again, so far from her home.

She looked down to find her blade in her hand yet again, not remembering the moment she had drawn it. The events of the past night still vivid in her memory, she looked to the walls, the floor and the ceiling, waiting for the wide, gaping black hole to open and swallow her into its void.

Standing very still, listening to the soft, even shuffling Killian made as he breathed, she realized they were still alone. Sheathing her blade, Danni bent to touch the warrior’s neck again. His pulse was rapid and weak. The blood that had only oozed from his wound earlier now soaked the hay beneath his heavy form.

Danni rolled him onto his back, taking care not to disturb the wound as she did so. Once again pulling the over-coat aside, she covered her mouth in horror when she saw the amount of blood soaked into his clothing. The color of the fabric had disappeared beneath the heavy stains of red leaching from within his body. She had to stop the bleeding quickly or he would die.

Again, a wave of cold panic enveloped her at the thought of his death. Danni leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“I will not allow you to die, do you hear me warrior? You will not die today.”

She buttoned the tattered ruins of his coat to protect him from the cold, before running from the lean-to into the small cottage not far away. The door had been closed but not bolted shut. The owners would be returning soon or they had left in a hurry. Either way, Danni’s need for it was greater than any ownership rights they claimed at the moment. Had it been anyone except Daniela Elizabeth Nicholas, it would probably have occurred to that person that she need not ask permission to make use of one of her countrymen’s possessions. As Crown Princess, all things within Sessalie belong to her completely.

Danni propped the cottage door open, shoving items out of the way as she did so. She judged the man’s weight to be near or over 200 pounds. The distance was not so far, really.

Danni grabbed the man under his arms and budged him a mere inch before releasing his weight carefully back to the floor. Not only was he too heavy for her to move, his groan as she pulled on him let her know she was causing him further pain.

Killian stomped with impatience, still saddled within the lean-to. Quickly and efficiently, Danni unrolled her saddle blanket, stuffing it as much as possible beneath the mans shoulders and head, taking care to gently cross his arms in front of him. Using the rope attached to her saddle bag, Danni carefully wove his chest and arms within a loose cocoon, the saddle blanket held tightly beneath the him. She detested moving him with each turn of the rope, but he was going to die if she did not get him out of the cold.

She crossed the ends of the rope beneath his head, offering a small level of support there and attached the end to her saddle horn. She would still have to brace each side his head with her hands, but at least she would not have to bear the weight of it while guiding Killian to the cottage.

With two soft clicks of her tongue, Killian moved forward slowly. Instinctively taking care not to move to quickly. The ropes held, though they pulled greatly on his arms and ribs, forcing a deep growl from within his chest. There would be marks on him on the morrow, but that would be the least of their worries once she got him properly inside.

The distance, though crossed quickly, took an eternity of time in Danni’s perception. Killian stopped just at the entryway into the small home, waiting patiently. Danni had to let go of the warrior’s head to guide Killian slowly and gently into a turn that would place the man just outside the door itself.

Danni praised Killian over and over again, speaking in her low soft tones. The horse watched her with his dark brown eyes, standing so still he looked to be a statue while she removed the bindings from her saddle.

Pulling with what strength she had left, Danni eventually dragged the warrior man into the cottage. She moved him close to the fireplace, leaving him bound for the moment, choosing to see to the horses since he was now indoors and out of imminent danger of freezing. She threw the saddle blanket over him before leaving to keep him warm in the absence of a fire.

As quickly as her exhausted body would allow, Danni saw to the needs of the horses. Thankfully, a bale of hay still stood to the side of the lean to. She closed the door, quietly telling them she would return shortly to bring them water but that she must see to the man first.

She entered the cottage once again, closed and secured the door before turning to the injured man.

 

[Svenski]

Still and pale, bound carefully in the rope and blankets that help her bring him inside, his breathing is shallow but behind his closed eyelids his eyes flick back and forth as though his unconscious self dreamed vividly and not entirely pleasantly either.

<All too much for you, dearest? There there now. I'll look after you.> Inside, a grin, wicked, lascivious, <And her.> Disappointed, <No response? You sleeping you poor lil' baby?> Frustrated, <Dammit. This is so tedious sitting in here. Nothing to do, no fun to be had. Damn damn damn.> She screams in his ear, <Damn you, Marcus. You hear me? Damn you!>

Silent again (though it was always silent, except in his head), it pouts. She pouts. Glum, the she-demon sighs and sets about patching his side back together, muttering as she goes.

His eyes closed, in a voice that's not quite his voice, Marcus mutters to himself, "Work work work." It's quiet, really only under his breath, but his large frame has a resonance to it so even quiet can carry in this cabin.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni knelt beside the warrior, checking his breathing she found it shallow. Turning, she lifted her skirt to her hips to remove the blade from its sheath and found his eyes had opened. She stilled her movements before quickly dropping her skirts around her ankles.

"You are awake? I am going to cut you loose now, try not to move. I don't want to jostle you anymore than I have to but I know the ropes beneath your back can not be comfortable."

His continued silence made her tense. Though his dark eyes were open, they did not follow her as she moved. She feared he had slipped into the mind sleep that often killed and quickened her task.

Danni rolled him to his side, cutting the ropes deflty from his body. Pushing them aside, she pushed his overcoat aside. The blood had soaked through so much she had no choice but to remove his coat and shirt to get to the bloody wound beneath.

Using her blade, she efficiently sliced his coat and shirt from his body. Turning him only briefly to pull the shreds from beneath his back. His skin felt cold and clammy to the touch, not a good sign.

His soft mutterings stilled her movements yet again, the deep raspiness of his voice sending shivers through her small form. Danni placed her hand to the side of his face, willing her warmth into him.

 

[Svenski]

As she touches him, skin to skin, warm to his chill, there is a shimmering on his chest, a blackening as though welts or bruises suddenly appear merely from the contact. Yet they are too regular for bruises, too dark to be welts. Within a handful of seconds, across his chest, over and around his heart two circles of symbols appear tattooed but unlike a tattoo they shift and dance, fading when the eye tries to follow their shape only to appear renewed elsewhere around the circle. Arcane symbols, runic in cast, twist slowly around his heart, one clockwise, one counter-clockwise. Their like Danni has seen before, though only once and only briefly: in the cellar of the Royal Storehouse, inscribed into the floor in glowing characters.

Marcus' eyes mist black and focus suddenly on the woman beside him. His head does not turn, his body does not otherwise move, but his eyes take on a life of their own. Then his lips, too, forming sounds that should not come from a man of his size and shape, being too soft, too... well too feminine. "Do you like my cage, little girl?" Soft, yes, but cold as well.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni fell back from her kneel near his side, shaking violently. She found her blade where she had dropped it in her fright, holding it in an defensive stance the way she had been taught.

The voice whispered from the chest of the warrior, the symbols those she had seen beneath her feet in the cellar. She had been tricked, fooled into following one of those creatures to this place, alone. How could she have been so gullible? Bile rose in her throat as fear threatened to swamp her.

His big body blocked her exit. Her eyes darted around the small home, searching for another. As she began to rise in terror, one of his big hands shot out to grab her wrist in a painful grasp, pinning her to the floor where she knelt.

 

[Svenski]

"Yes, yes, you should be afraid." His lips curl upwards, a shallow grin, savouring the moment, his hand pulling Danni closer. His whole arm acts as though possessed of its own mind, separate from the rest of his body, but retaining the huge strength of its host. "Afraid," the strange voice that is not him tells her, "But not of poor Marcus here. Not him. He told you to stay here and he meant it. Leave and you leave our protection and without that you will be taken. Do you understand, girl? They will tear your spirit from your body and torture it and rape it 'til there is nothing left but shreds, then they'll make you watch while they destroy everything you ever loved." The words flow quickly, as though rushed, "If I were free, it's what I'd do. But damnable Marcus won't let me and where he goes, I go. So do. As. You're. Told. Girl!"

On his chest, all of a sudden, a line of fire rushes round the twisting symbols, and Marcus' body convulses as though struck by lightning. Fading, the voice curses, "Damnable binding, damnable Marcus, damn you all." The line of fire completes its circuit, entirely encircling the arcane symbols, then settles into his chest as a rippling line, another part of the tattoo.

Marcus collapses back to the floor, sucking in a breath. His eyes clear, just leaving behind their steel blue, a piece of the man once again. On the release, his eyes find Danni and he whispers with as much strength as he has, "I'm sorry." His eyelids droop, his head lolls, and his grip on her wrist releases. A moment's check is all it takes to confirm he is still alive and somehow he seems just a little better than before, his breathing more regular. In a fashion, if it were not for his rent side and the sallow edge to his features one might imagine that he were sleeping.

The symbols on his chest withdraw and fade. In a minute they are gone from sight altogether.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni's green eyes were wide with unhidden fear. She clutched her knife to her chest, willing the thing to leave. Thoughts of sliding her knife into the chest of the huge warrior to cut it out crossed her mind.

As suddenly as it appeared, it left again, leaving but a trace of mist behind. His steel blue eyes focused on hers, his hand never leaving her wrist.

"I'm sorry." The animal laying near her had said. Only, those words were not issued from the depths of an animals throat but those of a man. A wounded man, a man that had saved her life, several times now.

As his breathing became less labored and deeper, his hand slowly released her wrist. Tentatively, she slipped it from within his slack fingers, noting the deep bruises where his fingers had nearly crushed bone with their strength.

Her eyes glanced to the door then back to the sleeping man. Dare she stay and help him and risk loosing her soul to that, that thing that lived within him. No, she would run. She would go as far away from this place as possible.

Danni stood, one foot moved towards the door. The man whispered something in his sleep, her name. He had whispered her name, as soft as a gentle autumn breeze. The sweetness of it stilled her movement. She looked down at him again, a great bear of a man, still bleeding, vulnerable and captive by whatever it was that had tried to capture her.

Sighing outwardly, Danni removed her cloak, placing it on one of two hooks positioned near the heavy door. She moved back to the man, placing a rolled up blanket beneath his head for comfort. The cottage was small but comfortable, if not cold. As his bleeding had slowed, she would take the time to start a fire and search for supplies.

Gathering the ruined clothing into a bundle, she pulled the saddle blanket back up to his stomach. The tattoo on his chest mocked her, laying quiet and still as if she had only imagined the happenings of a moment ago.

Danni laid a small hand upon his chest, thinking to trace the outlines of the strange markings. A heat rose from within him and in her mind she heard a woman's dire warnings, though the words were unfamiliar to Danni, the intent was clear.

She withdrew her hand quickly, covering the markings with the blanket before leaving to forage through the cottage.

 

[Svenski]

Built to survive the harshness of winter, the cottage is well built and sturdy. As is the fashion of many peasant homes it is all made out as a single room but loosely divided into three main areas. The living space, where Marcus lies, takes the largest share of the floor with a stone fireplace and chimney above it forming the centre piece. A low backed bench covered over by hide and fur is faces the fireplace. Around the walls, rickety dressers and benches are mostly empty save for a few odd items: a bowl here, an eating knife there.

On the other side of the room is a low double bed with a mattress stuffed with straw. The bed's frame is fashion of wood from the conifers of the forest below. One large blanket is bundled at the head of the bed but the shepherd must have taken other blankets with him when he left. By the bed is a makeshift wardrobe and hanging within a drab shirt and a pair of well worn breeches, both clearly for a man of slight build. In the bottom of the wardrobe is a pack, clearly at odds with the rest of the content for being made of a thick, tarry material that must keep out the water. Within, more clothes, and some food wrapped in a brown paper: dried meats, some bread, even a couple of carrots and a turnip. The clothes are all dark, once finer but now threadbare, and all in Marcus' size. His clothes, his food, his pack.

Finally, in the back corner nearest the cliff face a stone basin and metal crank handle to pump water. Where exactly the water comes from and how it arrives at the spout isn't entirely clear but water runs clear and is icy cold even if it takes a lot of pumping to get a decent quantity.

By the fire, kindling and logs are already collected, a lumber axe leaning by the front and only door. The windows are all shuttered and they rattle a little with the wind but the room manages to largely avoid being draughty. Good craftsmanship is a quality often found in Sessalie. This cottage is just one good example, built to last.

Quiet now, peaceful after a fashion, Marcus rests by the fireplace head propped on the blanket she so kindly provided.

 

[_kyrie_]

Danni found dry flint and stone kept in a tin on the hearth. Near the back of the home, just outside the door was a sheltered area stacked with dry wood, enough to last the night at least. Kindling had been stacked near the wood, also kept dry by a well thought out shelter. Hauling in the kindling, she returned to pick up several heavy logs. Her adept hands had the fire started within minutes, the smoke from the dry kindling rising through the chimney to disappear into the darkened sky.

At least she wouldn’t have to get up on the roof this night to route small creatures from the chimney, she thought with blessed gratitude. She was not sure she had the strength left to take on that task and would have considered going to sleep without heat if that had happened.

Danni’s strong, but tired arms pumped water from the well, the crystal clear water filling the pan after several dry starts. The fireplace was large, taking up nearly one wall of the lovely cottage. The builder had indeed been mindful of the needs of his family as well as taking care with its craft. One side of the fireplace had been fitted with a large hook for hanging the pot and three short iron rods for holding other items, such as a coffee pot or smaller soup pot, had been set deep into the stone a short distance above the floor of the pit.

The fire burned down to a deep red glow, occasional fingers of flame jumping up from between the logs as pockets of oxygen were released. Danni slipped what food she could find into the water, using a tiny pinch of salt she found in the cupboard for taste. The jerky would add a nice flavor to the otherwise bland stew as well as provide some good nutrients to the injured warrior.

She set the pot high above the flames, expecting it to simmer throughout the night. Should the warrior awake, she could scoop some of the warmest broth from the bottom to keep him satisfied until the morrow when the jerky would be tender enough for his wounded body to take in.

Danni grabbed her cloak from the hook and swung it around her shoulders. It hung stiffly, the blood and gore having dried to a thick cake on its surface. Within the cupboard she had found a pail and with this, she took water to their horses.

She had saved two small carrots to reward each of them for their valiant strength and efforts earlier in the day. As always, Midnight shook his head as if to say, “That’s all?” before taking the carrot from her open palm.

Killian gently nibbled the carrot from her fingers, rubbing his big head up and down her arm while munching contentedly. Killian’s warmth and affection helped ease the knots within Danni’s stomach that had formed there since the night before. Yet, she could not find the serene comfort she usually did from Killian’s presence.

As the minutes passed, Danni’s anxiety grew. Her breathing seemed labored, her hands grew clammy and cold. Small prickles of foreboding stole down her back, making her legs feel weak. The marks on her ankles burned as though the healing had only just begun.

Danni patted Killian’s forehead lovingly and turned quickly to leave the little lean-to. Once back in the cottage, the feeling abated slightly but did not leave her. She rechecked the doors and windows, making sure they were as secure as could be under the circumstances. Taking the bucket back to the pump near the back of the cottage, Danni dropped her ruined gown and under things to the floor. The massive heap of blue and gold silk nothing but ruined rags now.

Shivering as she stood nude at the pump, Danni pulled another swathe of cloth from her chemise to clean the majority of the blood from her skin. Her hair would have to wait. Another rip of her underskirt lent itself as a make-shift towel. After rummanging through the cupboards earlier, Danni had lifted a pair of old pants and shirt and placed them over the back of the rickety chair she now sat on. The shirt hung just past her knees, the cuffs threadbare, falling past the tips of her fingers.

The pants were not quite as bad though way too long for her, that was easily remedied by rolling them until thick cuffs sat upon her slender arches. She was thankful these were shepherds pants and not a Dandie’s. The waist string made adjusting the fit much quicker and easier than had there been buttons and belt loops around the waist. Her feet were chilled but the thought of putting her bloodied stockings back on was unbearable.

Danni’s small body sagged with weariness. She rechecked the stew and the fire, prodding the hot embers to adjust the heat within the home. She bent near the man, Marcus the voice had called him. She bent near, Marcus and checked his breathing and the heat of his body. There was no sign of fever, thankfully. She had thought to sew the wound to bind it against further bleeding, having located a small sewing chest in the cupboard, but the bleeding had stopped completely; the skin had nearly woven itself closed from the inside out.

Too tired to even contemplate the meaning and implications of that, Danni walked slowly towards the fluffy bed at the end of the room. Pulling back the quilt, she lay upon the soft hay but for a brief moment before the anxiety and ominous feeling of emptiness threatened to swamp her again.

Using the excuse that she needed to keep the big warrior … Marcus … warm, she lifted the quilt from the bed and padded back to where he lay in a peaceful sleep near the fire. Hesitating only briefly, not understanding why and too tired to ponder it; she curled into a ball on his right side, falling immediately into a deep, troubled sleep.

 

[Svenski]

As his demon works inside, weaving torn flesh, closing him up, making his body whole once more, Marcus dreams fitfully. He knows this dream but it always starts so sweetly, lures him in, teases him with memories of a better time.

Just flashes, at first, fragments. A scent, a smile, the look in her eye as she looks back over her naked shoulder framed by the spilling dark tresses of her hair. His heart thumps in his chest. He yearns for her. Her hazel eyes smile to him, slide closed, dreamy, innocent...

Then they snap open cold and black and her smile twists into a snarl and a wicked grin that does not belong on her face. He's lying on his back, he cannot move. Outside, lightning breaks the sky lighting her naked body from the side, profiling her small pert breasts. Her hair is wild, flickering in the wind, as she rides him sliding herself up and down his thick shaft with rapturous abandon. Her nails rake his chest, she bites as his neck, and her whisper in his ear is filled with gleeful malice, "And when I'm done with you, dearest Marcus, when you've filled her gorgeous body with your seed I shall take her to other men," she moans in wicked ecstasy, "And they shall fuck her over and over and you, dearest Marcus, you will watch them degrade her every hole." She curls her fingers under her breasts and waves her bosom in his face, taunting him, but he cannot move, can only watch. He wishes he could die.

His eyes snap open and sits up with a start, his heart racing, thundering in his ears. <But you couldn't die, could you? Consider that dream... partial payment for services rendered.> His hands move to his temples as he wrestles with his inner self but the voice inside gives in quickly, <Fine fine. All yours, dearest.> That last said derisively but the voice fades away 'til there is nothing left but his own thoughts again. He draws a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh, then another, noting that his side no longer hurts where the blade tore through it on the previous night.

His hands fall to his lap and he sees the blood caked there, flaking on the rough and calloused skin. "Still not dead, then," he murmurs to himself sadly. "Maybe today will be the day." Around the shutters, the first light of day makes a rosy halo, the fire burning very low now, really just hot cinders, as he sits and contemplates his future.