Delores Francesca Maria Vittorio Vitti de Pasqua
The Student is the tale of Lola - Delores Francesca Maria Vittorio Vitti de Pasqua - a pupil of a legendary Talosian. His legacy, in the form of an enchanted manual, lives on to teach and torment 'little Lola'.
The Student
Savor the Anticipation
The Lessons Begin
The Student
"Delores Francesca Maria Vittorio Vitti de Pasqua"
Something intense lurks under the surface of this young woman's face. She has dark blonde hair cropped just below her chin which is often pulled severely back from her face in a short, thick ponytail. One eye is missing and hidden by a thick leather patch, the other is clear, vivid blue.
She moves with confidence and assurance; her strides long, her body willowy. There is grace and power in every step. At her waist hangs a longsword and strapped to her back is a heavy, greatsword. Though she only stands five feet eight inches, there is a presence about her that gives the illusion of great height and strength.
A stylized bolt of lightening cuts a jagged path down her spine ending an inch above the swell of her backside. It is not a tattoo so much as a branding.
Savor the Anticipation
Long, tapered fingers with nails bitten to the quick fumbled angrily with the lock of a heavy leather-bound book. She grunted, pulling a dagger from its hiding place in her boot and moved to pry it off. There was a backlash of dark energy and she cursed, dropping the knife as it burned her hand.
"F*ck! Why won't it open?!" she shouted, flinging the book across the room. "How in the Nine do I open it?"
An amused chuckle echoed across the room; a familiar laugh that struck a chord deep within her. The voice was deeply masculine, low and rumbling, yet rough at the edges; it was like gravel under a sheet of the finest silk.
"When you are ready, little Lola, you will know."
For seven years she had carried that damned book with her everywhere. It weighed at least twenty pounds and was bulky and awkward, but still she had dragged it from place to place. Occasionally she got frusterated and tried to force the lock open; she still bore the scar on her collarbone from the last attempt. The need to know had not lessened, but as she matured, a certain amount of patience had developed.
Patience is a virtue, He used to say, teasing her when she was awake hours before dawn, so anxious to get moving that she couldn't sleep. Learn to wait, savor the anticipation. Its often better than the thing you so desire, He would continue, tapping the tip of her nose with an affectionate finger.
So far, she had to admit, He had been right. The build up was far more rewarding than the experience itself. And yet, there was immense satisfaction in choosing a path and instantly following it to the end. No planning, no premeditation, no anticipation. Just a choice and an action. Then, naturally, the consequences.
Every morning, no matter where she was or what she was doing, she pulled the book out of her pack and held it on her lap for a long moment. For seven years she had done this, desperate to know the secrets it held, and for seven years, it had remained sealed. So it was a great surprise to her, when upon the morning of her nineteeth birthday, she sat on a hay-filled mattress in a dumpy Inn in the middle of nowhere, pulled the heavy tome out of her bag, and touched the lock.
She gave a start as it glowed beneath her fingertip, a blackish glow that was difficult to describe. The tumblers shifted audibly and the clasp slid open, falling limply into her lap. With shaking hands, she opened the cover and began to read.
There was an inscription on the inside of the front cover and she touched the ink curiously. It shimmered, as if it were alive, and the words took shape before her very eyes. The script was familiar and a strange smile touched her lips.
My Little Lola,
How you've grown. You are a worthy heir to my knowledge, my skills, and my techniques. These pages will reveal to you, as you progress, the secrets you so long to possess. But, my darling, everything has its price. And the power you seek requires a sacrifice of blood. The power is worth the pain.
It was signed with His flourished hand and she frowned, pondering for only a moment what his somewhat ominous words meant. Suddenly the words began to swirl, creating a vortex in the center of the page. They shone with power, black and glittering, then vanished.
For an instant all was still.
Then, with a resounding clash that deafened her temporarily, a flash of light tore up from the page. It was forked and crackling, like dark lightening and it licked at her, singing her hair and burning her cheeks. She did not even have time to react as it pulled away, then dove at her face, the three prongs separating, forming a claw.
With a sick, wet sound her left eye was torn from her very skull, the wound instantly cauterized by the unnatural black electricity that swirled around her. She fell then, and her head made contact with the hardwood frame that supported the straw-ticked mattress. As darkness enveloped her, blood oozed slowly down from the empty socket over the bridge of her nose, blurring the sight of her remaining eye with a haze of red.
The words swirled again, reappearing on the page as the lightening dissipated. The last thing she remembered before sweet oblivion was the throaty laughter echoing through her brain.
The power is worth the pain.
The Lessons Begin
You must remember, my little Lola, people are base. They are animals; like sheep or cattle. He would tell her as they sat before a campfire, dinner roasting; its scent wafting toward her and its drippings sizzling, crackling. They believe they know the true way of things, but show them a little mayhem, and they panic. They are shephardable. You can guide them.
Sometimes she would object, in the early days especially, in defense of people at large.
I am not a priestess, she would mutter. Its not my job to guide anyone.
You are wrong, little Lola, and a frown would settle upon His thick lips, appraising her to see if her objection was true, or if she was merely being difficult and petulant as young girls are prone to do. It is your destiny to guide them.
I am not like you!
“I am not like you!” her voice echoed through the night as she sat bolt upright in her sleeping roll; a cold sweat beading on her forehead and trickling down her chest between her breasts uncomfortably.
She pulled the thin, woolen blanket up to her chin and drew her knees to her chest, trying in vain to catch her breath and calm herself. Dreams about Him always disturbed her - it didn’t matter if they were nightmares or simple memories replaying themselves. With one hand she rubbed her good eye, the other groping around the floor of her low tent for the leather patch. She itched the scarred flesh before covering it and lay back down, dirty blond hair coiled like a snake above her head.
But she was like Him, much as it had galled her to admit it in the past. He was right about so many things, and that aggrivated her as much as anything. Independance was in her blood but He and His opinions were at every turn. Sometimes...she hated Him.
It was not yet morning, but she rolled to her side and pulled the heavy book from her pack. Its lock yielded to her touch with that same, eerie black glow. With a grunt, she adjusted herself, sprawled between the blankets on her stomach, propped upon her elbows, the book before her on the ground. She reread the inscription, its ink still glimmering but no longer malicious; it had gotten all the blood it needed.
The first pages were all history - first of His life, then of those people He deemed worthy of remembering. It was almost like a journal. She had skipped those dull pages at first, wanting to move to the juicy details and instructions as quickly as possible.
That was a mistake.
The magic tasted of bitter anger when it flashed from the pages. It stung her cheek as if He had slapped her and the pages had flipped backward, sealing themselves. She had shrieked her rage and stabbed at the book, but its enchantment was such that she could not harm it.
So, begrudgingly, His amused chuckle reverberating in her mind, she had begun to read. Page by page, from the beginning to the days when He and she walked together, she read it all. She read about His mentor, His friends, allies, and enemies. Great battles, long prayers, days and weeks of meditation. It was all chronicled. At first, as young, impatient people often do, she had resented that even now, when He was gone, He dictated how she learned and when. For try as she might, she could not skip ahead.
The histories were tedious at times, but she slowly began to realize their importance. Learn from my mistakes, little Lola, His soothingly grumbling voice drifted through her consciousness, Your temper is a valuable asset, rage can be harnessed and used, but you must be in control of it. Ah, but you have a tempestuous nature. You will make me proud.
There were only three pages left in the first section when she awoke in the wee hours and lit a candle to read by. The glow set the entire tent aglow though rain pounded down and wind shook the thin canvas walls. A smile was firmly set upon her lips as she read words about herself. He wrote that He was pleased with her progress and then reprimanded her for actions she had taken one day in the small town of Nesmé.
For a moment she lay stunned, uncomprehending. He had been gone for months by the time she reached Nesmé. It was impossible that He had not only seen her interaction with the strange elven woman - discussing the merits of a fountain like idle, civilized people might - but that He had written about it.
Ah, little Lola, the words appeared on the page before her very eyes, the ink glimmering darkly. How little you know about me. But you will learn, darling, you will learn. There is time, truly told, there is ample time. Patience is a virtue, is it not?
She glared as they formed, her blue eye glittering dangerously. His words were condescending, patronizing, and she felt anger building rapidly within her. There was a long pause, then the script began to flow along the page again, filling it and creating magically a new, fresh one beyond it.
I am with you, always, my little Lola. I should think you would have realized that by now. My words are in your mind, my thoughts echo your own with advice or direction. And here, as your deeds follow mine, they will be transcribed. Now, if you are through being angry with me for my clever spell, you may turn the page and begin to learn the things you so desire to know.
Eagerly, she flipped the page and stared at the intricate artwork that assaulted her eyes. The image was of a man (probably Him, she thought with a somewhat bitter chuckle) with bulging, sculpted muscles, long flowing tresses, and an amazingly detailed weapon. The spear crackled with audible power and she gasped in surprise as the image began to move before her. A huge beast ambled out of the shadows at the edge of the page and lunged at the man. He twisted and twirled, the weapon dancing lethally in his skilled hands, and the monster fell in a splash of gore. A voice, His voice, spoke to her again and she smiled, You too, will be so skilled one day, little Lola. Your lessons in combat are about to begin.
The page turned of its own volition and with a hungry eye, she began to read, her own chosen weapon - a two-headed axe, each head double-edged - close at hand. She had much to learn.
You are like me, little Lola.
She chuckled, a strange little smirk curling her lips slightly.
No, her inner voice answered His, I am something different.