Vayne/Aurora/Enigma
Vayne was an experiment in evil, created to play with a friend late one night as an alternative to my sweet, innocent Milla. She was nasty enough originally, but as time came she changed and truly, was unbridled evil. Playing her was always a challenge, it turns out that there are a lot of people who are much, much more twisted than I. Who knew?
Arrival
Unsatisfied Cravings
The Masquerade
Sunrise, Bloody Sunrise
Unchained
Scream My Name
Enigmatic Dreams - by Echo56
Farewell to Darias
A Mere Shadow
Arrival
She gasped, embracing the shore with more relief that she'd ever felt in her life. Dry, stable land...finally. It took all the strength that remained in her weary, water-logged limbs, but she pulled herself onto the bank and managed to sit up, looking around.
"What a dump," the woman muttered and peered around at the thatched rooves and rickety dockwarehouses. In the distance a bell tolled and she could make out a temple's elaborate steeple. The town was more of a hamlet - a village. The streets bustled - she could hear merchants hawking their wares from her seat on the beach - but the place itself seemed remarkably unremarkable.
The woman stared down at her hands; long dexterous fingers on graceful hands. The blood had been washed away by the violent, gritty current of the river.
"Shedara!" She gasped and climbed unsteadily to her feet, her eyes searching the banks then turning to the swirling river. Was she washed downstream? The woman cursed and noticed for the first time that she still wore the tattered rags the slavers had outfitted her in. Absently, one hand lifted and groped the back of her hand - the wound had long since healed but the tenderness remained.
She had been staying in Waterdeep, making her way as she saw fit. A local woman, Shedara Ders, had joined with her and the pair had been working a deal in a darkened alleyway.
The dark didn't hinder her sight much, but after so many successful, easy deals, they had become complacent. Never again, she told herself, rubbing her upper arms to warm herself, never again.
They had been ambushed in the dark, beaten, drugged, and transported to a slave boat; how fortunate that the boat had been stolen from a wealthy merchant and once carried his entire house army. She had awakened, bound and gagged, in the crammed hold. It took two weeks of stomach-turning travel upriver before the two had managed to formulate a plan of escape.
Together they had managed to strange two guards, impale a third on a shard of glass having pushed him through an ornate stained-glass door that had once lead to the officer's quarters. A fourth man found his death when Shedara, a burly but beautiful human woman, snapped his neck with her bare hands. And the fifth? He had fallen to her own hands. In them, slim, delicate elven hands, she had wielded a make-shift dagger fashioned from a broken shackle pounded into a somewhat dull-edged yet effective weapon.
The man's lifeblood at spilled in great, pulsating rivulets ont oher hands, staining the thin cotton rags she wore. There was no remorse or regret; his death had yielded the desired result. A few steps across the deck, a dive into frigid waters, and a desperate struggle against the current later...she was free.
And that she valued above all else - she lived her life as she chose, on her own terms. She always had. It was the reason she had left home so early in her years.
Now she tasted fresh, free air again and wondered why she sought Shedara at all. Perhaps it was best she drown. The woman's presence had dulled her senses. It is 'her' fault that I was captured, she thought angrily.
A sputtering voice caught her sensitive elven ears then and she turned. A dark blonde head bobbed at the surface and two large, strong hands gripped the face of a stone caught in the swift surf.
"Vayne," she rasped, reaching one hand toward the woman, then quickly grasping the rock again as the current buffeted her. "Vayne, give me a hand!"
Vayne hesitated. They were amicable partners; a successful team in fact. It would be a shame to let such a useful tool slip away in the face of a new place like this.
She waded into the river and grit her teeth against the icy water. Hand sought, and found, hand and the large human woman let go of the stone - trusting in her elven companion.
The sense of relief she felt when they collapsed onto the bank again, twined in each other's arms, suprised her. In all of her hundred and three years, she had never called anyone friend. With uncharacteristic tenderness she stroked Shedara's soaked, dirty blonde hair while she slept - exhausted. At great length, she too succumbed to sleep.
Unsatisfied Cravings
Snow pelted the town daily - rarely accumulating more than a foot or two. Somehow she found the snow pleasant. The cold air kept the lesser beings trapped inside and left the more interesting people to wander the streets.
Though she and Shedara still kept company when time permitted, the human had taken to prostitution to pay her way and Vayne turned her nose up at the notion. She amused herself from time to time, and wiled away a rainy afternoon with a faceless traveler or a drifting 'hero' (most of whom were determined to put her in her place or see if there was a soft, squishy female beneath the wiry, blunt-humored bitch they met).
One man, she believed his name was Jackson, had not taken lightly to the derogatory comments she and Shedara made about their probable satisfaction in his bed. He had muttered something and raised her ire. Still, her blades did not leave their sheath at her hips. Instead, she sauntered closer, trailing her hands over her pale, flat stomach showcased between the low-riding trousers and the cropped mesh top she wore.
"Whore? Is that what you called me, dearheart?"
"Yup," he'd replied with a shrug. "Listen to yourself. You two are nothing but whores."
"No sugar," she had smiled in her eminantly bitchy manner,"That's where you're wrong. Whores do it for money. I do it because I like it."
He had not had any response for that, and Vayne chuckled to herself as she leaned against the rough wooden wall, watching the locals move about restlessly. She hadn't seen him in weeks, but she maintained that he was worth a cow and a sheep at most...hardly worth the effort.
Her hands kept drifting to the hilts of her rapiers, recent purchases that she did not quite feel at home with yet for the blades she'd lost when the slavers took her had been her companions for thirty or more years. She itched to use them, and the occasional slaughter of orcs and goblins that lurked on the outskirts of the town looking for merchants and wanderers to pick off, did not satisfy.
It was a new feeling; the power she had discovered as she plunged her rapier into chest of a foe - worthy or no - and feeling the last twitches of a body as it died... She liked it.
"You lookin' at me?" A low, gruff voice barked at her, muffled behind a heavy helm.
She lifted a brow, her eyes trailing across the tall, muscular form of the human male and gave a half-smile. There was an aura drifting off of him and though everything in her brain told her to walk away, she couldn't help herself.
A coy, flippant remark on her part. He replied with a command. She laughed at him, and he seemed impressed that she did not stand down to his obvious strength. A bottle of wine and some time later, she came to know the man known as Raven and her previous partner, Shedara, became a distant memory.
The Masquerade
Vayne sat cloistered in the Inn room she still frequented after several years in Nesmé, sharpening her new blade. It was a fine weapon - delicately etched with acid and featuring a beautifully scrolled hilt. She had never possessed anything so intricate and so expensive...at least nothing that she'd acquired through legitmate means.
It had been a rare and lucky find in the wagon of the smelly local merchant, Vashanu. The wretched peddler had, for once, not known the value of his merchandise and, she felt her lips curl into a smile, she had gotten it for a steal.
She was waiting, somewhat anxiously, to hear from the man she called Master. So far, their partnership had garnered her much. He trained her skills in combat, he used her wits in their various nefarious dealings, and he outfitted her with the finest equipment. That his touch had fouled her body and left her loath to be touched at all, by anyone, was of no consequence. For she had found something infinately more satisfying than even the most acrobatic sex had ever been.
Killing.
Vayne trailed a fingertip over the razorlike edge of her weapon, careful not to inadvertantly cut herself. The weapon was as yet a virgin and she anticipated its first blooding as some maternal females did the birth of a child.
And she knew precisely whose blood would first feed the weapon. That redheaded bitch who swept through town as if she owned it. She had interfered one time too many and the Master would be pleased to find her smug little head upon his pillow one night.
Not the pathetic, simpering drunk called 'Crow', nor his cowed, dark-skinned bride Willy. Not the foolish fop who had wanted to break her, and not the whining blue boy who had tasted Raven's wrath once before. No, she thought, it will be Marinanna. And this fine new blade will drink its fill of her sweet young blood.
All such pleasant thoughts ended abruptly as the door burst open and a hand, disembodied by possessed of an iron grip, closed around her upper arm.
"Vayne," her master's voice growled as he stepped out of the protective sphere. "Get your gear. We must go."
It did not even occur to her to question him. She immediately grabbed her pack from the chair it had been slung into, slipped her blades into their sheaths at her belt, and stood.
"I am ready."
* * * * * * *
The raced, unseen thanks to an effective sanctuary spell, out of Nesmé and into the hills to the north. They were beyond the Lurkwood when he finally dropped the pace and gave her a moment to breathe.
"We've been fingered," he said flatly, though she had not asked.
"How? Who?" she spat, because though her nature and bitchery was the stuff of local legend, he had carefully cultivated a repuation as nothing more dangerous than a big, dumb, brute.
"That little sorceress bitch, I know it was she. Her and the blue boy who follows her like a mewing kitten."
"How could they have-"
"The trailed me to the Coven's lair."
And it was at that moment that she realized two things. One, her Master was nothing more than a devious, but flawed human. And two, that she had blindly followed his strength and allowed him to compromise her own goals. Once again, she was trapped.
"What now?" she hissed, pacing the clearing angrily. None of the crimes they were accused of had been perpetrated by her. She was smarter than that. But the slaughter in the Shield, the murder of Nautilus (in town, in broad daylight, only half a block from the Riders' barracks) ... he had commited many blatant crimes and as his consort, she would be guilty by association.
"We go into hiding," he replied curtly and stripped out of his trademark suit of chainmail. It was black with yellow and blue leather strapping, accented by a bits of bright red steel. "Alter it."
They set up camp not far from the road and her deft elven fingers worked through the night.
When he awoke, he fondled the freshly enameled armor and nodded, pleased.
"By Torm," he smirked, "We will masquerade as Tormites, and stay mostly in the desert. It is a safe enough disguise. I shall be... Maximus. And you..."
A strange little half-smile curled the corner of her lips. "Chastity."
He grinned, a terrifying expression, and nodded. "Yes. We will keep a low profile until the storm of controversy passes."
She stood, slipping a pristine white robe over her head, and watched a peasant approaching with a bushel of newly picked apples.
"So we must be good all the time?" She asked, strapping her belt around her slender waist. Curtly, she nodded to the man, who had waved, coming even closer.
"No," he turned, one acid-dripping scimitary whirling through the air. "Not always."
The peasant's head rolled toward her and came to rest under her boot, his blood spraying up and staining her new, white robes.
"Not always."
Sunrise, Bloody Sunrise
A legendary beast; the head and body of a massive desert lion, coupled with enormous angelic wings and a great intelligent brain. They had a penchant for riddles and were known only to attack to protect their own. A flock of them guarded their Queen's cave deep in the Gate. But for all their mythical spells and love for cryptic word games - the sphinxes were mortal. In her fury, the woman now known as Chastity soaked the arid sand of the Anaurochs with their blood.
"Do this. Go here. Kill him. Obey." she growled in angry mimickry of her Master. "Train there. Get these."
It was an unending cycle of petty orders and meaningless tasks. She became more toady and less compatriot with each passing day. She abhorred the harsh rays of the desert sun and her delicate moon elf complexion was ravaged by hot, dry winds. She hated the necessary disguise and she despised acting against her blunt, witty nature. She hated his lack of concern and the absense of any attempt to return to Nesmé after five years in hiding.
All of these things compounded in her brain until she felt she may explode and impale herself upon his acid-etched scimitars just to be free once again.
As she watched the thick blood pooling below the hem of her bright, white robes, a feeling of peace overcame her. The rage emptied itself into her weapon, giving its already deadly edge venom.
Chastity- Vayne- ...
She bent to pry a strange rod from the talons of the beast and recalled that he had bid her gather more of them. The familiar fury at being relegated to slave bubbled up inside her like a cauldron seething hate.
And so she raced across the sands, laying waste to all she crossed - man or beast - until she reached the vast chasm that divided the sandy waste from an ancient Asabi fortress. She had only basic mastery of slinking in the shadows and felt no great need to learn the art of stealth. She had little use for common sneak thieves or shadow-dancing assassins. Brute, blunt force were the weapons of a well-disciplined mind and body and the taut, wiry condition of her lean body proclaimed its power.
Still, she slunk into the shadows and crept aroudn the walls, entering the camp not through the gates, but over a low wall in the northeastern corner. With silent grace, she began to feed her blade. It thirsted for death, as did she, though she did not share a taste for blood as he did.
One by one, the hissing, viscious Lizardfolk fell to her weapon and before she knew it she was screaming in a primative frenzy born of bloodlust and hatred. Her robes turned red, then a dark brown as the sun's heat dried Asabi blood upon her.
Eventually, spent physically and emotionally, Vayne made her way to a small freshwater pool a few miles from the great Oasis of Tears. She knew the small wildlike owuld alert her to anyone's approach and slowly pulled the reinforced robe over her head.
She waded into the cool water naked and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the moon which was just appearing as twilight set over the desert. The clear pool became mottled with blood as it washed from her pale flesh and with it, the frusterations of her predicament.
A string of dark words slipped off her tongue as she sat, nude and drying, upon the shore. Of all he had taught her, and given her, she valued these foreign sounds most for they were the language of her Lord.
Faith had always been a waste of time in her eyes. But he had introduced her to his deity and instantly a sense of - not relief for that was not His way - but of focus and purpose filled her. Is there irony here? she pondered, reclining on her elbows. I masquerade as a devout of Torm, but I give all I am to the God of Murder? Bhaal's temple had become her second home in the past five years. The longer she spent swearing by Torm in public, the deeper into the loosely woven 'church' of Bhaal she dove. At its local center was Raven, but a small group of like-minded individuals had begun to assemble in the lair that had once been inhabited by the vampire Coven that had been their undoing. Occasionally, in moments of ridiculous hope she loathed herself for succumbing to, she wondered if this slowly growing ministry meant that their day of re-emergance was nearing. Then he would don his Tormite armor and - though he rarely walked around unhooded anyway - helm and say in his low, devious voice.
"Tonight, we worship."
A woman of faith spends a lot of time on her knees, she thought, and gave a soft, throaty chuckle at the double entendré. The sound disturbed the pleasant silence and she gave a start.
Mm, she thought pensively, climbing gracefully to her feet and slipping the bloodstained robes over her head. The dried blood had caked and cracked as she bathed and she bent low to retrieve her blades. Perhaps I have learned all I can from this man... Mm... Yes, I am through with the desert, and I am through being Chastity. There is much I wish to do and being bound to this man, and this damned town, has done nothing but waste years of my life.
The woman known as Vayne, and lately Chastity, dropped suddenly to one knee, rooting through her considerable pack. There was little in it that was not necessary to survival in the sunbleached land, but in it she carried a few things that reminded her of whom she once was. She passed over the small silver locket without even pausing to look at it, and tossed aside the black and yellow armor she had once worn because it pleased him to see her in matching chainmail. At the bottom of the pack was the cropped black top she had so loved when first she came to Nesmé, with its low slung trousers. They would do, she decided, moving them to the top her pack. Then she stood, still nude, and trailed her fingertips across her hard, toned stomach pensively.
But first... she laughed quietly as she gathered her belongings again. The woman turned to face the icy mountains of the North, where His temple lay in a frozen wasteland. A little sacrifice so that He will guide my way.
Her feet crunched through the sand as she headed purposefully across the desert. She ignored the stares and questions of the beduin as she stormed through their territory. Vayne made her way back to the Evermoors, and with each step that brought her closer to Nesmé the smile on her lips grew.
The people of the town offered concern for her dreadful appearance, but she kept walking, intent on her purpose. A right turn in the square brought her to Rolling Coin lane and she smothered the urge to spit upon the steps of the Waukeenite temple which sat, smug and fat, beside the well-traveled road. Crossing the 'bridge of heros', she saw at last her prey.
She was a young elven woman, looking somewhat lost and indecisive as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other upon the footbridge just North of town. Vayne glanced around, but saw only a few Orc scouts gnawing upon the carcass of an unfortunate adventurer; they were alone.
The blade slipped from its sheath with a soft hiss and guided her hand, seeking to sate itself on the woman's lifeblood. But death was not her aim - yet. She lifted her arm, approaching the elf with quick, quiet footsteps, and brought it down, the grip of her blade connecting with the woman's skull.
She crumpled to the underbrush in a heap, and groaned, rolling to her side.
"Mani? Ya naa lle?" her eyes were wide, panicked.
Vayne stood over her, not exactly towering for she was slight as most of her kind, and pulled the pale blue helm off; tossing aside a symbol of her false faith in Torm. The elf, she was hardly more than a girl, tried to scramble away, but caught the tip of Vayne's sharply pointed boot in her gut.
"A! Tanya awra... " the girl gasped, doubling over. "Mani uma lle merna? Mani naa lle umien? Sut ka-" Her voice rose with each musical syllable, and then she squealed as Vayne swept her rapier down, the tip pressing against her throat. For a long moment, the only sounds audible in the forest were the gentle breeze and the frightened, sobbing breaths of the elven girl.
"Di'naa," she commanded, then withdrew her blade and flashed a wide smile at the girl.
For an instant, the tension left her young face and she managed a brief, relieved smile. Perhaps it was all just misunderstanding. Then a small, pale fist came hurtling at her face and all she knew was darkness.
She awoke some time later, prostrate on the freezing stone floor of a darkened chamber. Her sensitive nose twitched as she inhaled and the putrid stench of death sent panick coursing through her again.
"Ah, you are awake, young one." A throat female voice purred from the shadows. The woman stuck a tindertwig, lighting a single, red candle. The light cast by the flame was eerie as it flickered and the girl pressed herself back against the wall behind her, cowering away from the woman. Her features were sharpened by the darkness as it shifted and the smile on her face was no longer even the slightest bit reassuring. It was, in fact, singularily terrifying.
The girl pushed back a bit further, jostling the stone altar in her haste. Something wet and heavy squealched to the ground beside her. In the dim, dancing light of the candle, she glanced down. It was a decaying, severed head.
She opened her mouth to shriek, and in that instant, the candle was snuffed out as it hit the ground. Barely a squeak managed to escape before a mouthful of bright elven blood bubbled forth and the girl shuddered, twitched, and then died.
Vayne withdrew her blade and slid her index finger along it, collecting a stray drop of young blood. She lifted it to her lips, as she had seen him do, and closed her eyes.
"Hear me, Lord, for I am Your servant." She called to Him, and began to chant in the black tongue. It was a simple prayer, for she had no use for excess, and sincere in every syllable. She hacked the girl's head from the corpse and held it up for a moment, tenderly stroking the soft black curls as one might a beloved pet. Then she brutally kicked the body aside and stepped up to the altar.
The girl's head was discarded, dropped to the floor with a moist, sloppy thud as Vayne sheathed her rapier and reached to her belt. In a simple, plain leather scabbard resided an elaborate, ornate dagger. Its edge was waved and serpentine, but surgically sharp. The hilt was narrow, but engraved with a series of elegant runic markings. Mi'Naith. Orio'Ur. Tha'lui. Uri'Thair. Their meanings twisted and shaded, but it was a suitable weapon for an elf who swore fielty to a God of the human pantheon.
She lit two more candles, one on each side of the altar, and slipped the dagger from her belt. Her left hand, she held out over the altar; in her right she wielded the blade. Swiftly, curvy knife split her flesh and a trickle of warm, pulsating blood squeezed between her fingers as she clenched her fist around the wound.
"My own blood is my oath to You," her voice rang out in the silent chamber. "My first sacrifice is my own. And this..." She lifted the elf's head, setting it gingerly at the center of the altar. "May this please You, Lord. Guide my blade as I travel, seeking to do Your will."
A slow, icy chill crept up her spine and her pulse quickened in fear. Had she displeased him? Has she done something wrong? The terror gripped her and for several minutes she stood motionless, her mind racing. Without warning, as quickly as it appeared, the frozen fingers crept out of her blood and subsided.
Her steps were lighter as she departed the temple, dressed in the riding leathers of a dead elven girl, with her own bloodied weapons swinging at her hips. A new path lay ahead of her, whatever name she chose this time, and she anticipated the future and the bloody swath she would cut through it. Vayne smiled inwardly, pulling a hood up over her head, for He had answered and she knew her decision to abandon the man called Raven was the right one.
The sun was rising in the distance. A glorious, bloody sunrise over the frozen mountains and she laughed. It was a good omen.
Unchained
She sat stoically on a large, flat stone half-buried in the rich, woody soil. A cool spring breeze caressed her face and a genuine smile crossed her lips for the first time in... she hesitated, then decided not to count. Innumerable days, weeks, months... by the Nine, it had been years since she could lift her face freely and feel the night's breath against her flesh. Slowly she peeled off the heavy armor, none the worse for extensive use, and then the thin silk tunic beneath.
The darkness enveloped her, broken only by the thin light of the stars, and she reclined upon the rock. The heat of the day had long since dissipated and the granite was unpleasantly cold against her bare skin. Still, she had always preferred the cold. Perhaps it was conditioning left over from her youth, though there was not much of that woman remaining. She chuckled inwardly as she reflected on the chilly sensation, then frowned recalling years spent in the sun-baked desert. Honing her skills, refining her own techniques, developing the faith that would come to define her. The bloodlust had been awakened there, the insatiable need she now felt had found its roots in the parched sands beyond the Oasis.
When his orders had frusterated her beyond obediance, she turned to the killing. When she grew weary of the holy pretenses she had cast off the pure white robes and walked into the barren desert to sate herself, reveling in the havoc she wreaked among creatures and people alike. When terror of his wrath, or worse - His, gripped her, she had gone there and allowed the fear to become rage. Her fury had been unleashed in almost every corner of that forsaken region.
There had been a hole inside of her. The murder, the killing almost filled it.
Almost.
Long, graceful fingers trailed over her naked torso, riding the gnarled flesh delicately. The scars were disfiguring but she found a certain pride in them. She had served her Master well, chosen correctly, given her life at His bidding, and been rewarded. The darkness He had poured into her very soul, spilling forth from her eyes - once an unusual amber-green, but now a pulsing, bloody crimson - had, for a time at least, completed her. She was not like his other minions, sleek and sneaky. She had no affinity for the shadows, and they had no control over her. But He did,
and His wretched, throbbing evil gave her deadly grace direction, reason.
And in the stead of all others, she had embraced Him as a lover.
A woman of faith; her offerings came covered in blood, her prayers whispered in His dark tongue. And slowly, the woman she had once been, began to wither, began to die. Impenetrable darkness enveloped her, shrouded her; and she liked it.
She shook her head head, her hair fluttering across her eyes. It was unchanged in all the years she'd spent in the region; a little longer perhaps, but still the same gold-streaked brown hanging low over one eye and neatly tucked behind the other ear. She raised her hand, idly stroking one elongated elven ear.
Maximus. The psuedonym had fit him perfectly, his ego knew no bounds. And their partnership had been mutually beneficial for quite some time. She closed her eyes, smirking a bit as she recalled her own identity during those hidden years. Chastity. It had been an ironic joke at the time. She was the last woman anyone would call chaste; men had always been an
amusing past time. It was, however, an appropriate moniker now.
She had always been in control of herself in the past. Until she'd met him. In fact, control was the one thing she always insisted upon - it was her life, her choice, her body, her destiny. And then came the hooded man. And in exchange for what he offered, she only had to give her obediance. It wasn't such a difficult choice. Money, power, fear. The killing came naturally to her, though back then... it was a last resort. She glanced over at the rapier she'd discarded with her armor. Now, the corners of her lips raised, it was a matter of preference.
He had exposed her to his God, and because of his guidance, she had come to serve Him. Many of His orders had come to her ears via his mouth, and she had never once objected. Name the task, and it shall be done. Probably enjoyed, maybe even savored.
Now that time had passed. She had destroyed beauty, desicrated the holy, and killed the innocent. Perhaps she had fallen from His favor when she failed to kill the Selunite. Perhaps she had not fallen at all, but merely...stopped listening. It had been some twenty
years since first she walked into that god-forsaken bordertown. A lifetime, for a human; she would have been past her prime by now. An aging, doddering, slow wreck, barely recognizible as the once agile, murderous woman... if she were human. But she was elf, through and through, and these decades, though amusing, had been but a footnote upon her years.
It was time to move on.
With a dismissive shrug, a woman who had oft been called a Bitch and still more often been called much worse, stood, naked in the dark of night. With the same non-chalance as one might toss off a worn cloak, Vayne shook off the shackles of her previous identity.
She sang out to the Gods, for whomever would claim her would have a loyal and fervent servant.
After a time, the stars waned.
The sun began to rise.
And when the morning's soft rays caressed her pale flesh, she trembled and cried out. In pain, in ecstasy.
At dawn, the woman once known as Vayne, was reborn.
Scream My Name
The large, flat stone had become a familiar respite in recent years, and once again she climbed the hill to seek refuge on its cool surface. It was twilight, and quickly growing darker, as she reached the peak and stepped onto the rock. She shed her hood, that damnable golden hood, and tossed her weapon aside haphazardly.
Deft fingers opened clasps and in a matter of moments the heavy mail tunic slid to the ground; a shimmering, metallic twinkle as it pooled at her feet. She kicked it aside and lifted hre face to the moon. She rarely felt a kinship with it, or the elves wh bore her and raised her; but he had made reference to her accent.
How ironic, he had said, that a moon elf had come to server Lathander. How ironic.
The woman spat on the ground, trailing fingertips over her scarred torso; her pale flesh shimmering slight in the silvery moonlight. No one had seen the puckered, angry flesh that not even Lathander's light had been able to mend since... she frowned, remembering. Since she had revealed it to 'him' some twenty-five years ago.
It was ironic perhaps, but poetic. Of all the Gods on all the planes, why had He been the one to hear her call? Why had the Lord of the damned morning, with his great fiery orb been the one to call her back?
None had recognized her - but then, she hadn't expected them to, for even when she frequented the town, she kept her face hidden and her profile low. Her eyes, though they were no longer seething red orbs of hate, were still sensitive to daylight and she wore a hood.
When she had seen the familiar - though savaged by time and circumstance - form leaning so casually against the wall of the Shield, she could not resist. She had been good long enough. It drove her mad, a little bit at a time, all the bowing and scraping and offering her hand in aid (even if it was often accompanied by a slap for stupidity).
Once she had been feared, maybe even hated; but when she walked with 'him' her name as much as his - perhaps more as her own intentions were never hidden or secretive - caused the locals to shutter their windows and drag their children indoors. As if that would have stopped the pure, frenzy of rage that she could become if they had in fact been her target.
The corner of her lips raised, remembering how she'd taunted him with no regard for her new identity. If they run.... she had paused deliberately, her tongue savoring the words, stranger... it is likely your odor not your manner that offends. Their relationship had always been a battle of words and wits; his rosy-cheeked nymphet with the temper of a lion and the brains of a bird and he throwing barbs back and forth with her around that very same well. It amused her at first, and even when his blade found the tender flesh beneath her chin, the game was enjoyable.
He had grown so angry when she maligned his 'bitch bride', pressing the tip of the blade harder against her chin, drawing a thick drop of blood. But even then, he did not remember her. As her own dagger twirled in her fingers and found his throat, he did not know who she had been.
She narrowed her eyes at the moon, then reclined upon her elbows, her hands idly moving over her bare flesh as she revisited the last words she had spoken to him. Next we meet, I will hear you scream my name. In whatever manner suits. She had meant it, although - as she reflected, what name could he really call. None he knew were truly hers, and the one that was, she no longer remembered...
Vayne.
Chastity.
Aurora.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps that one suited her best. She always had been an...
Enigma.
Her soft, cold laughter echoed across the peaceful hilltop, dappled by the gentle moonlight, and the elf - once a moon elf, once a slave, once a companion of Shedara, once a servant of the God of Murder, once an elf filled with that very Gods dark essence, once a servant of the Morning Lord - smiled.
Enigmatic Dreams
by Echo56
Darias grunted and he hit the ground. A wild scream behind him sounded as he just had time to turn over onto his back to catch his assailants arm before she brought the dagger down on his head.
The woman screamed in rage as Darias easily turned over pinning her under him. She was fast on her feet, far faster then even he was; but, she had made a mistake by taking him to the ground, a mistake that would prove fatal for her. Her struggle stopped as she realized her predicament and her features softened.
“Darias…” her features changed slowly. The scaring on her chest and stomach faded revealing soft and supple skin. “Darias, what the hells are you doing? Get off me!”
Darias paused a moment in confusion. The woman was…now she was not.
“Darias…by Lathandar, get off of me! Stop this now!” she demanded. Again Darias was stuck by utter confusion. He loosened his grip on her wrist enough for her to snatch it away.
“You…what is happening?” Darias asked.
“You tell me Darias. You attacked me for no reason. Now get OFF of me”.
Darias frowned and placed his hands on the ground to push off of her and rise when he felt a cold and deep pain in his stomach. A sharp intake of breath was the only indication that something was wrong. He brought his hands to his stomach feeling the warmth spread over him.
He looked down to Enigma, question in his eyes. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move as he teetered on his knees above her. Enigma’s smile widened as she watched Darias mouth silent words. She tilted her head to the side in mock concern from her prone position.
“What is it Darias? You don’t look so well.” She smiled almost pleasantly and brought the now crimson dagger to her lips still watching Darias as he swayed holding his stomach. He features changed again. The scaring crept across her skin revealing her previous form. Her soft look of fake compassion turned cold.
Darias fell over her, hands still to his stomach with shallow breaths. He could feel Enigma breathing under him and was surprised at his thought that she took it for granted how easy it was to breathe as he struggled for each breath.
“Darias…I don’t forget insult. You and your rosy-cheeked nymphet thought I would forget...” she said calmly and placed her face against his neck. She bit his neck lightly. “No… -He- taught me –never- to forget.”
Darias could hear her; but, she grew farther away and his vision narrowed….
************
Darias jumped from the bed in a wild swing. His blade was in his hand without thought, a mere reaction to a perceived threat. He spun circle two times before he realized he was alone. His breath was ragged as if running some great distance. He looked down to his stomach seeing nothing. No mortal wound, no blood.
He sat on the edge of the bed and jammed the blade back into the wooden headboard. Dropping his head to his hands he craved a drink. It had been two days without the poison and his dreams were becoming more and more vivid.
He reached onto the nightstand taking the last of his rolled cigarettes, one vice he would not give up. He leaned forward to light it in the dim oil lamp next to him. Why was Enigma in his dreams? What did she know? He took a drag, his mind racing to play back the conversation.
She had spoken of Mari indirectly. Her veiled insults played over in his mind. What had he called her? He tried to remember.
“A rosy-cheeked nymphet?” He asked himself “Where have I heard that…I know I have heard it before.” He froze suddenly, holding in his last draw of smoke. Terror crept over him slowly. “Vayne…..” he hissed. “…of course…Vayne.”
In his mind he heard her cold laugh outside in the night air.
Farewell to Darias
She strode down Rolling Coin lane, and yet again had to stop herself from spitting upon the temple as it sat, sucking money from locals and travellers alike. Her keen elven eyes sought the customary spot and she placed a hand on one hip, preparing herself for a battle of words and wits.
There was a moment of surprise to find the western wall of the Shield unoccupied, but she shrugged, insulted a wayward peddlar who jostled her, and found a seat near the waterfall. She busied herself, polishing the fine etched blades, and waited.
Early afternoon grew long, and soon the Riders emerged to light the torchposts. Crickets chirped and the toads in the swamps to the east began their nightly songs. Yet, she found reasons to wander the streets of Nesmé, making purchases and idle chatter with the few passers-by she found vaguely amusing.
Dusk had long since settled into twilight and the moon was a full, lonely pearl amongst glittering diamonds when finally she gathered herself and her belongings. There was an aura of disappointment around her as she began the long hike back to the Moonwood - for she had never learned to swim and did not relish trips by boat.
She had never called him friend. She would never have called him master. And if the truth were told, she'd sooner have killed him than take him to bed. Still, the woman who had gone by many names - though none so appropriate as the one he'd given her - was strangely sad to know he was gone.
The moon stared down at her, eternally lonesome in its wistful orbit, and she sighed. Perhaps like she, it and he, were destined to walk alone. Kindred spirits, perhaps, but creatures of solitude...
Farewell, sugar. She allowed herself a genuine smile and pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. Remembering fondly their acrimonious meetings, she shook her head and doubted that she would ever find another to wield venonmous words with.
Goodbye, Darias.
A Mere Shadow
Bested by a beast like that...Dragonblood! She cursed inwardly, storming in circles - her heavy rose-colored boots leaving muddy tracks across the polished marble floors. Impossible! Absolutely impossible!
Her hood had fallen back and her gold-streaked brown locks billowed behind her in a haphazard cloud as she stalked across the room and then back. A local farmer approached her by clearing his throat softly and she growled, thrusting past him. The force of her shove knocked him into a wall and a sweet-smelling torch clattered from its bracket, snuffing out on the cool stone floor.
It was true, surely, that she had become complacent in the past two years. Without the constant need for improvement and the pressure of death for the slightest slip-up, she had allowed her reflexes to slow and her stance to grow lax. And all it took was a moment of over-confidence to send her spiralling into a situation of abject humiliation and, though she scarcely even felt it, incredible pain.
Distracted by that wine-guzzling ghost, her internal voice was venomous as she pushed through the heavy, guilded double doors and back into the cursed sunlight. I never thought to see his ridiculous face again... last I saw him.. She chuckled inwardly, he was still as a stone in the Moonwood.. Her eyes, amber-flecked hazel, sparkled at the memory. She had recruited the Crow to help her desecrate the shrine of Selune - primarily so that when the crime was discovered and investigated, there was a scapegoat on which to blame it.
The woman yanked her hood back up, smoothing her hair beneath it, and began hiking away from the Chapel. She turned back for a moment and watched the ruddy morning rays sparkle upon the freshly laid stones; for just an instant she reflected on its beauty - how the marble shimmered with a mauve glow as the early light caressed it.
Angrily she shook her head whirled around, each hurried step taking her further from the newest House of her Lord. The Light had made her lazy; she needed conflict, she craved the bloodshed, and she wanted - above all else - to redeem herself in her own mind's eye.
Worse than losing to that smarmy nobleman was the knowledge that she had broken her word. But a day and a night in His service? She laughed audibly, the sound harsh in the quiet morning. Tossing the golden rapier to the ground in a fit of disgust, she continued walking. The Light had done this to her; she was a mere shadow of her former self.
A wry smile crossed her thin, bitter lips and she abruptly changed course... A shadow. Mm... Yes. A shadow indeed.