User:Michael Bard/Into the Darkness
Into the Depths
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October, 707 CR
Yvarra was miserable.
Nearly a month. A month of murder. A month of killing her soul night by night. She was afraid of everything now. Never going to inns or taverns, scrounging through the garbage for what she could get, sneaking nibbles of rooftop gardens between her endless search.
She'd tried eating food in the houses of those she-- she--
No! She would not sugar coat the facts.
The houses of those she'd murdered. She'd subsisted off food there, until the cult began poisoning it. Likely not all of it, but it took more energy to heal herself from the poison than she'd gain trying to find out if any was poisoned.
If they had let anything other than meat uncontaminated.
Her stomachs grumbled and the Sword of Songs hummed against her back, offering what support it could.
So, here she was. Wet, coated in mud from the rain that had fallen on and off over the last three days. Cold, hungry, miserable.
But, what could she do?
So much of her just wanted to leave. To walk out through the town gates, leave Metamor and never come back.
Only two things kept her here though. Two. Her word -- though that was wearing thin -- and the little girl-- Ansela. Her trusting face, her utter belief that tomorrow would be warm and sunny and safe. That every day that was to come would be warm and sunny and safe.
The trust and hope in her eyes were all that kept Yvarra going.
It was late afternoon, the sun had found a crack between the buildings and into the alley she was hiding in the back of, sleeping during the day, hidden in garbage and abandoned refuse.
The only place she found safe anymore.
As she began stretching, she went through her daily string of curses. Cursing the cult. Cursing what they made her do. Cursing the nameless evil she was supposedly going to stop, though she wasn't doing very well at that yet. And cursing the so-called Lady Tarathana that had started her on this doomed quest.
It was getting to the point that, if she ever did succeed, she'd join a monastery and devote the rest of her life to quiet contemplation of the innocent, and far far away from the chaos and horror of the world.
Yawning, she unswallowed and chewed on a bit of dry stringy cud -- all that she had yesterday. Tonight-- tonight she'd finally have to devote herself to stealing lots of good safe food. She couldn't go on without anymore.
Maybe tonight she wouldn't have to k--
" In the name of the Euper Watch, and the Duke of Metamor, you are ordered to surrender to his most blessed and fair justice!"
Head whipping around, Yvarra stared. The sunlight that had found its way to her was gone, blocked by standing figures crowding the edge of the alley, and piling back into the muddy street. How in the Nine Hells--
But-- Duke of Metamor? They weren't the cult-- Weren't they?"
Licking her nostrils, she sniffed. She shoved past the mud and rain and garbage, seeking what information her nose could find. Sweat, leather, oil, a veritable menagerie of animals.
"Stand slowly. Make no sudden moves."
How in Klepnos' name had they snuck up on her. Was she that tired. Or--
She resumed cursing under her breath. The damn sword had always warned her. But, not this time. Why not this time? Why--
They were the thrice-damned watch.
But-- what could they want with her? She'd left no evidence, her alicorn had cloaked her from magic, she'd been certain no one had seen her--
Take things one step at a time. Keeping her hands in front of her, she slowly stood as a trio of guard approached. One, the leader, was a goat, the other two-- one was a woman, though built like a man, and the other was feline of some sort. Yvarra couldn't tell their colouration as the sun was behind them.
Staying still, except for her breathing, she watched, sucking air in through her nostrils, sorting through scents in the hope of finding something, anything. More and more silhouettes moved into the alley from the street outside.
How damn many watch had they set on her?
She just needed a moment. Just-- In the bathhouse her alicorn had flashed so bright it had momentarily blinded the cultists. But, she hadn't done it! Yet-- Closing her eyes, she ransacked her memories, pulling up that moment. Pulling up exactly what it had felt like--
The goat began speaking. "In the name of the Duke of Metamor, you are under arrest for mass murder. If you move, you will be killed. If--"
She had it!
Focusing only on that memory, on the memory of the sensation, she shoved her magic out and into her alicorn. And then-- it happened! Eye-searing light filled the alley, and the watch screamed, grabbing their eyes. Yvarra hoped they'd be all right, she didn't want to kill them, didn't want to kill anybody. The cultists had forced her hand, but the watch was just doing their job. She respected them.
But, she had to get out of her!
Leaping up out of the mud, her hooves scrabbled as her hands scratched, and she got a grip on the worn wood. Like a cat-- or more likely a mountain goat-- she was up the wall and on the roofs.
"Where the hells did--" "Everybody all right?" "Where is she?" "On the roof!"
Yvarra didn't have time to hear more, and instead just ran, her hooves clopping loudly on the tiles as she ran for her life. Bolts started hissing up from the ground. They weren't aimed, and their force was somewhat expended, but there were a lot of them.
She leapt across an alley, turning towards the river. Or river tributary-- she'd never been able to find out for sure.
"She's going to the docks!"
Yes, she was. And-- Nine Hells! Somehow she'd gotten trapped, maybe herded, onto a long row of buildings that led straight to the water, a street on either side. Yvarra was trapped.
She concentrated on running, on keeping her balance on the canted roof. On landing safely when she leapt over another alley. Her breath was coming short and sharp, a pain blossomed in her chest. Her diet was catching up to her, and--
She grabbed her hat to keep it from blowing off.
And-- Could she surrender? Give herself into the Watch's custody? And then be taken to jail, if not tried and executed immediately. Trapped in a locked cell for the Cult to find her and kill her, or poison her, or knock her out -- whatever they wanted.
Maybe the cult had set out evidence for the Watch. Set things up to screw her. But-- She'd used daggers, hadn't been able to recover them. It could be any of those. Great-- just great--
She tripped over a missing shingle and fell on her chest and chin, having learned from bitter experience to raise her head to keep her alicorn from getting caught. The calls of the watch were falling behind, but it didn't matter. She could see a crowd gathering, probably betting on whether or not she'd escape. Blood pounding in her ears, heart pounding to burst out of her chest, she staggered back onto her hooves. There wasn't much further to go. And then--
What?
The goat's voice called out from behind: "Surrender! You won't-- be harmed-- if you surrender-- peacefully." He was gasping for breath too.
Surrender-- an opportunity to rest. It seemed like such a pleasant dream-- No! She'd never been caught. It-- it was a matter of pride. And-- safety. Yea, safety.
She reached the end and fell over backwards stopping herself from going over. If the stench of the harbour hadn't been so bad, hadn't been a wall of foulness, she'd not have had enough warning to stop.
But-- what else could she do? Fight? No! She refused to kill innocents. Her soul was already blackened enough.
Life had been so much simpler before Lady Tarathana had drafted her, when she'd only herself to look out for. Now--
Ansela's face drifted in front of her eyes.
No! She would not let the child down!
It was all the honour she had left.
What to do? What to do?
She forced herself back to her hooves. The Watch wasn't firing -- though she could see they had their crossbows. They could wait her out. After all, where could she go? Where--?
Before her was the harbour, silted, dirty, the water black and oily. It was so bad she almost couldn't smell the runoff from the tanneries. A handful of barges were tied up, loaders had stopped and were looking at her, pointing. Gulls swooped and drifted along the shore, diving down for scraps of fish. A group of-- of otters, human otters, were upstream-- fishing?
Something echoed from behind her and she turned her head enough to see -- more watch, on the roof behind her. The goat leading. His entire front was covered in mud -- he must have fallen. Yvarra did have to admire his dedication though.
What to do-- what to--?
There was only one choice -- the harbour. She didn't know how to swim, had never learned. But-- Surrendering was signing her death warrant. Given how the Eli-damned cult had tracked her, harassed her, they had to have infiltrated the guard. Arrange to have the right people guarding her cell, and then enough bolts that even she couldn't heal.
Klepnos but she was hungry!
The goat and the men-- well, the animals-- all arboreal-- a pair of squirrels, a raccoon, the feline. No wonder they'd been able to climb up so well. Must have let down a rope for the captain. If he had needed it.
"Hold-- hold your-- fire!" the goat shouted down before turning to face her. "If you come-- come now-- you will be tried-- in the Duke's court. Just will be done!" the goat called out.
If she lived that long.
She backed up, slowly turning to face her accusers. Her hands itched for the daggers she had left, but she refused. She would not kill an innocent. If the Watch were innocent-- The Sword of Songs was silent.
The Watch tensed.
She let herself slump, controlling it more to keep from collapsing completely than to make it look good. How she'd stay afloat she had no clue. But-- it was better than death. And-- and maybe the last shard of her self respect would stay with her. Never captured, even unto death.
Yvarra took a few steps away from the edge of the roof. Who knew how deep the river was, or what kind of sludge she would dive into--
It would be so easy to just surrender.
Easy to give up.
That's right. Give up. Betray your task. Let Ansela die.
He knees shook, her legs shook, and she fought to breathe.
Which was better? Surrender and rest?
No! That had never been her way.
Right or wrong, she knew then that her decision had been made.
"Why?" the goat asked. "Why kill so-- so many?"
She stared at him. He didn't know. She'd have to go soon. Just a moment longer to catch her breath. Just a moment. "Because-- because if I-- I don't, they'll-- they'll kill us all--"
"Who?"
"Ask-- library--"
Forcing out the last of her strength, Yvarra spun around and ran, ran with all the breath she had left. Which wasn't much. Ran to the edge of the roof and dove off, hands in front of her, tumbling and falling. Sun, cloud, water, building. Crossbow bolts hissed past her, one shoved itself into her back, scrapping off a rib. Grain-- a barge of grain-- down-- down river--
And then she hit the water.
It was like a stone wall, the last of her breath was shoved out of her, she could feel ribs breaking. Without thinking she sucked in another breath, pulling the far liquid into her lungs. Coughing, fighting, her alicorn glowing, her body burning, she sank into the blackness.
Her last act was to grab onto her hat--
Yvarra sank, her body hot with fear and terror. But, most of all, over whelming failure. Beaten by the Watch! It was a good thing that she was dead so that she wouldn't have to live it down.
Her hooves sank into the thick slimey ooze at the bottom, and her body sank after it. The mud slid past her, oozing through her fur, her clothes, through the hand still holding her hat. Turning over, she coughed, a last few bubbles of air slowly rising to the surface as the thick liquid settled in her lungs.
Klepnos, forgive me--
Maybe she should have tossed the Sword of Songs on the roof before she'd leapt. Given it to somebody else so that they could fight the damn cult.
She was so very very tired--
At least she'd gone out in an epic fashion!
Though--
Um--
By the Seven Hells, why wasn't she dead?
For a moment she drifted there, gently pushed along, her hooves and legs sliding through the fine silt. She could feel a coolness all around, over her body, deep insider her. She could feel the water pressing against her. And-- and--
She could feel the warmth trickle from her alicorn into her body.
She wasn't comfortable, but she wasn't in pain either.
Like-- like-- when she'd been in the dye! No tightness in her chest--
That brought up the immediate question: how long could she last like this? Not long, given her fatigue level, and lack of food.
Her stomachs grumbled angrily in agreement.
She coughed. A bit of thin slimy cud worked its way up and into her mouth where she chewed it.
Yvarra couldn't have long. So-- what now? Swim? How? And where?
As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, the Sword of Songs gently thrummed behind her as the -- current? -- gently pushed her along. The tone wasn't a song, or a warning. It was more an-- an envelopment of sound. A tone all around her. But-- was it stronger in one direction? Yes!
Without any skill she paddled, dragged, hopped, staggered, fell and drifted along with the current. She felt the pressure of time, she felt coldness claiming more and more of her body as her final reserves of strength began to fail. The sword's tone rose, higher, stronger; she followed it like a dog blindly following a scent. She shivered, her teeth chattered. The direct changed, the sword focussed above. Above-- There were-- were-- rocks, something. Mindless she climbed, climbed up into the darkness and chill.
Like a drowned rat she used her last strength to drag herself onto the cold slimy rock. Her body shook, exploded as she coughed and gagged out the water and mud and slime. With a rough, desperate gurgle, she sucked in air. Blessed, sweet, air--
Time passed. And endless time of darkness and desperation. Yvarra didn't think, she just shuffled around in the blackness, her nose, or her need, finding bits of fungi, subterranean mosses and mushrooms that she gulped down, desperately filling her empty stomachs. For water, she kept to the iron-rich drops that fell from the ceiling in steady rhythm, that being the only measure of time. She wandered deeper and deeper, aimless, needy. Once she passed a carved wooden door, half open, shelves of books beyond, but she ignored it for none would satisfy her need. Another time she passed an echoing hall, carved, smooth, covered in dust and stained in water, but it was ignored too.
Feeling and sensing her way by the echoes of her hooves, her ears swivelling to try and do what they could, but more often her scratched and dirty hands finding the wall she almost hit, or her hooves the edge she almost walked over. Finding only the bare minimums that she needed, and maybe a little bit more to allow a bit of healing. Away from the streams, away into the blackness.
Days and days and days later, she saw light.
It was a dim light, faint, yellow, yet painful to her long adjusted dark vision, even though there was never anything to see. In her mindless hunger she didn't ask, just crept further and further into the light. Sulphurous fumes from deep beneath the earth crept along the ground at her hooves, smelling of age, of anger, of mystery. There was a woman-- human-- old beyond old.
And there was food. Somehow there were sacks of grain down here in the forgotten stygian depths. That which controlled her body ran forward, and shoved her muzzle into the open sack, and gorged. Gorged on the rich energy filled grain that the body so very desperately needed.
And then, full, she slept a deep, restful, healing sleep.
A voice spoke, old beyond imagining, ancient beyond history:
The One who sleeps,
who needed long
Now doth awake.
Yvarra leapt behind a stalagmite, drawing a dagger ready to throw even before she realized who was speaking. The Sword of Songs was silent, and that alone kept Yvarra from throwing towards the sound.
Silence.
Fear not thou who art foretold
The food is for your, our need
Cud shoved its way up into Yvarra's dry mouth, and she chewed quickly, far faster than she should. But her other stomachs rumbled angrily, greedily. A dagger at the ready, she looked around.
It was a large chamber, unshaped by human hands. A jagged crack opened up into the depths, a dim red glow illuminating the yellow and green fumes that bubbled out of it like heavy nightmare from a cursed cauldron. From a thin crack in the wall, a greenish-orange flame burned, wavering and hissing, fed by some gas generated somewhere far, far below. A pool of bubbling mud and clay, stained red and orange and yellow from the rocks all around hissed and gurgled, its stench fading beneath that coming from the volcanic vent, even though it smelled so sweet in comparison.
And, crouched there, looking at her through pale white blind orbs, was a woman. Human. Her skin was wrinkled, ancient leather dusty and cracked with age. Her hair, streaked and stained with mud, both dried and wet, tumbled from her head, over her shoulders, covering her back and front. On her body the mud had dried, cracking into a kaleidoscope of scales, like those of a snake. It could have been the pattern of a master artist glistening and gleaming as jewels, but it was a random pattern of mud that dried and cracked and oozed. The woman's nails were yellow, long and jagged, and she crouched on bare feet, watching her through the blind eyes.
"Who are you? How--?"
Does the Sibyl know?
She knows all that was
She knows all to come
She knows you, the one
The chosen to save
To save all the world
From that which sleeps here
Yvarra stepped out, unswallowing more cud and chewing as the woman watched. She swallowed, her stomachs going to work greedily. "Are you the Sibyl? What is the Sibyl?"
The Sibyl that is
Is that which she was
That which she will be
I am here for you
Here for the others
Who have all been here
Who have yet to be
I know what has been
I know what can be
I know what must be
First The One that is
Must feed her need here
With that she grinned, a toothless ancient grin, and pointed at the bag of grain. If Yvarra hadn't been so desperate she would have asked more. Her body screamed with need, and she had little choice left. Creeping forward, her hooves clicking on the rock as the mud bubbled, she shoved her muzzle into the grain and gorged more until she was again full. Stuffed, she turned and looked at the woman, at this Sibyl that had not moved. The mud that caked her glistening in the light like jewels, like a snake that watched, stared, hungered.
"Sibyl--" Yvarra licked her lips. "How long have you been here. Who put you here. What-- what am I fighting and-- and what must I do."
I have always been
I will always be
But your time is short
The pawns are in play
He is now awake
For all he hungers
To the gate you go
Your destiny meet
Alicorn it will
Close the shining gate
The gate that opens
The way that is willed
The horn it must stay
It's fated to be
Hacked from your forehead
Left eternal lock
The other pawn comes
Destiny arrives
Now go from here, go!
"But how do you know! And, if you know, how do you know I will succeed?"
I do not know that
It is but one dream
One dream of many
Most of which are hell
Take the grain that's here
The grain that's for you
The grain that waited
And go from here, now!
The Sibyl's voice rose to a scream, her jagged hand pointed. Below the vent forced rumbled, the flame flickered and grew high, high, towards the ceiling dimly seen in the darkness. The eyes gleamed red, snakes coiled along her skin, or seemed to, hissing at her in rage, in anger.
This was power, old, ancient. Power that filled Yvarra with a terror she'd now known. But, somehow, she knew it was a neutral power. Servant of neither side of law or chaos, but something that just was.
Sheathing her dagger, she grabbed the sack, half empty now, and fled. Her hooves clicked on the stone, and her alicorn glowed a soft warmth to light her way into the darkness. She'd ran only a few hundred steps when the ground shook, rock groaned. Still running, she turned her head to see what was behind her.
A naked wall, wet with moisture.
She stopped, turned, stared. A part of her wanted to search the wall, find its secrets.
But, the sane part of her turned her around, and she started walking through the darkness.
As she walked, she spoke, her voice thin, full of dark terrors, and feeble hopes. "Sword, you know where to go. I don't. And you better show me, because I get the feeling neither of us want to be here."
The Sword of Songs was silent.
Yvarra snorted, slowed to a walk, and kept going the way she'd chosen.
After all, any way was as good as any other.
| Preceded by: CSI: Euper |
This story is part of a series | Succeeded by: None |
