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Sincerity in Muteness
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Description
It's a warped sense of salvation he finds in the sway of her hips and the flutter of her flute. Curious little creatures mortals were, tiresome at their best. Yet with her Fane cannot help but confess, there may be more to his elf than meets the eye, even to that of the Godwoken. Mute in voice, spritely in dance, it is surprising to find such a spirit alive in such a terrible world. Only the tragedy is she is not alive, not truly, and is something altogether wicked that may keep Fane from the brink of insanity. Or cause it.
~~o~~
Chapter One: Masquerade
It would soon be the hour to dance, the elf mused by candlelight, all will see me sway.
The Lady of the evening had become very much accustomed to her late hour routine. Such was necessary for one who showcased traditional elven burlesque, or so her landlord had often claimed. As her landlord had once been a showgirl for the stage many years ago. One painted in soft pastel pinks, luxorious swirls and fabulously drawn watercolours on a theatre's inner walls. For in the height of a city wintered, where carriages swept through icy fog and streetlamps glimpsed shaded nobility cortèges, what to many other cities would have been a coldly bare night was the soul flurry of little Maigneux's eastward boulevard by the prairie.
Full in acts of flowing regalia; china masks strewn with frayed lanceolate leaves, river tulips; flaxen complexions and strawberry rouge lips, the Proud Spire was an emporium-designed theatre enthralled in flute, piano and clarinet crescendos. Music gleaned off three-story windows, bounced from tile roves slick with rain, while hecklers coaxed peasants in through back doorways.
In Maigneux the Proud Spire was truly the pinnacle of the previous hundred years, or so the Lady herself believed. She begun her routine as any other night, kneading a ringed bauble into her pointed left ear. In the flick of the neck it jingled against her neck, glinting in silvery ivory.
From there her fingers drifted into her hair, to weave small strands of silver-grey into braids forming a circlet along the height of her crown; soft, featherlight. A bridal wreath. That was the inspiration of the night.
Her fingers curled split ends, brushed the remainder of her locks from her long neck, which allowed the stray threads to flow from her shoulders like a flurry of winter snow, smooth and silken.
Her smile was equally soft as rosy lips parted to a flutter of cream. The Lady lastly plucked a flower from her dressing table and smoothed it so it was primply ready for its pluck, as local tradition dictated in the peeling of jasmine bulbs before a performance.
However, as the final petal came undone into an opened display, a thorn instantly nipped her finger.
The Lady did not flinch. The Lady did not cry as others would have done. Instead, she watched the wound pool with no fear, for it was only one hole of many against the freckles along her skin. Or so people believed were freckles, instead of lasting scars. In the following moment the jasmine drooped from her ringed ear prettily, while also glinting in dewy red beads.
Beyond her loft of silken curtains and tinted rosewood, the housing of her stage, the Proud Spire, lay quilted in a serene hush, with the gentle strums of a well tuned harp purring through the heated gaze of a mesmerised audience.
The Lady imagined the pastel sea before her; felt the tantalising warmth of enraptured breaths flurrying to her from the finest of suitors. From pristine doublets to ragged tunics, from tainted crowns to hacked sickles. From far and wide they sought her performance. It was not only adoration, but also love.
She would curtsy to her men, press a hand to her heaving bosom and blow kisses to those who cheered the merriest. And in the late turn of the eve she would find a suitor parading across her hall who demanded her bed, but whom she would whisk away in a hearty farewell, for no man could solly the fire of her passion for the dance.
Neither landlord, fate, nor even the Gods themselves could deny such a spirit. And so she danced the night away, for coin and joy.
"Masella," she heard the outside chant when a hand braced along her door. "Isabelle's performance is nearly done. You're on next, dear."
Her hand stilled on an uncorked decanter, as the scent of lavender oil seeping into the air. She swept her hand into a pallet of pale powder and padded the sponge across her cheeks, her neck and collarbones. She then raised a single candlestick to her walled mirror, where lilac flames licked at shadows from a jaded, cracked glass.
The Lady leaned in. The radiance blushed subtle blues into her soft reflection.
To mortals her facade was near perfection: supple flesh, red-blossomed lips, an opal-shaded gaze that inspired an innocent observance to the world.
Though like many tomes, stories and tales she had read since she was a young child, there were times when natural beauty hid a deeper horror. In her tale it was simple. Her reflection was a lie.
Beauty was only skin deep, after all, and beyond masks… well, there was much to be said about tissues and bone. None were a compliment or of a pleasant experience.
Her fingers rose to a chain draped between her breasts. To an amulet of ashen silver encrusted in tattered frills. There was a moonstone in its centre, a small coin worth more than its weight in silver.
The Lady shaded the moon from the candlelight so that it was solely a half-crescent. And when she did so, the reflection in the mirror also shaded. On one side there was the face she had come to love, unmarred despite the centuries of an eternity. By her left, however, was a pallet of darkness stricken by tarnished flint.
When she tilted her head, the hair over her left shoulder faded in a curtain of ash. The brown eyes once so soft vanquished into sullen sockets, and her skin became hollowed poceline, scratched along the jaw, grey along the marrow.
A boned face with no beauty.
The lips of her other half thinned wryly. She took the decanter from her dressing table that in the withered reflection of the mirror had become a decomposed flask, bubbling in vile green liquid. The scent of lavender was no longer present. Only the crackling spoil of poison.
The Lady grimaced, and wondered briefly if a stomach she did not possess could curl at such a foul smell. Still, in a quick sip the contents was gone. The decanter discarded. In a flurry of pink skirts she parted from her mirror as the flesh over her half face newly reformed.
Lithe legs padded through the Proud Spire just as they had done many a night before, knowing the passing panes of frost and tiny spinnerettes twisting webs into nooks just as well. Down a spiral stairway and tattered carpet, to wood-wormed boards and puddled ale. Finally, when she rounded the last staircase and swept through her last door, she was welcomed to the sight of a tanned maiden bowing on her stage, a harp curled possessively to her chest.
Madame Florianne, a maiden fare in age, tanned of flesh, ample in body and strong of will. A local favourite. A performer with a tongue as sweet as her dance. She slipped from the stage just as chants and cries begun to grow, uncaring of the audience so long as coin rattled behind her.
Instead of honouring their beck and call, Madame Florianne chose instead to welcome Masella with a kiss, slipping a hand around her waist. "A full house we have this night. Strangely, is it not, to find so many men in our quaint little city? But of course that means more for our wage."
Madame Florianne patted the purse along her thigh, relenting in a tired sigh, though her eyes were glinting in the shrouded shadow of the theatre. "Warmed them up for you, love. Be careful now, the men are more than lively."
Masella pursed her lips and peeked through a frayed curtain behind her friend. Serving maids intertwined within the ruckus that gradually begun to die; tables so few and distant had four to five patrons huddled around them while coin rained across the stage with many purses left deflated.
The souls of the wicked and the damned, and here I am to pay them joy. How positively delightful!
The Lady smiled in excitement, though the appearance of one such man gave it pause, even though he was seated as far from the stage as one could be. Her chest fluttered upon his sight, though in the most unnerving way.
There was a longsword draped lazily across his thighs, silver and pommelled in an ornate eagle head, while a cowl cloaked his face like a crooked talon, truly appearing suspicious when settled over a somber sanguine robe trimmed with ermine. Only a bristled jaw stuck out. Still, she bayed her friend farewell, gliding upon the stage with her small, slender feet amid a prance.
The Lady kept her gaze to the floor, counting the steps to her mark. One-two-three, one-two-three. When she reached the centre, she unhooked a flute from her waist-belt and moistened her lips with her tongue. She cleared her throat before playing. From her flute a soft sound taling of adventure, storms and leaves gradually flittered across the theatre like a faint wind carring sweet honeysuckle. Her patrons leapt at every note with open mutt tongues.
And as the flute begun to hasten in rhythm, build in tempo, her feet begun to dance, shifting across the stage while her skirts flowed along in her tilts, turns, frolicks and spirals. She closed her eyes, imagining a brook and fields and rivers. She then imagined a sea, smiling as her fingers frisked over hollow holes as fingertips tingled in the sensation of panted breath.
From the depths of her being she allowed the brevity of her Source to channel through her flute. The gathering below her soon arose, hushed yet alive, the heated auras of memory and awe, the very blending of their souls with her magical essence inspiring her with renewed vigour. Her steps became more frantic, more joyful, her pirouettes spritely, her curtsies euphoric.
Just as she nearly reached the crescendo of her performance, her entire world had come undone. Her Source, as soon as it was built was wretched from her chest in one long, harsh tug. The elf gasped. Her knees folded to the floor. Her flute clattered along the stage in an ear-piercing shatter.
Th colours from her mind sank to black. She fanned her chest, raked a nail into her flesh, clutched her neck, felt her voice throb in a raspy sob.
When she dared to look towards the crowd she saw that many of the men were glancing to one another, wide-eyed and uncertain. That was when she reaslised. Her spell had been broken. Yet a select few still came to her aid, dashing towards the stage just as Madame Florianne caught her shoulders and aided in her friend's shaky rise.
"Gods above, Masella, did you injure your leg?" she asked, tightening her hold on the elf's shoulders. "Blast. Was it the drudanae? I told you never to take too much before a performance, love! You never listen…"
She parted the suitors from the stage, holding Masella's waist and ushering her away from the theatre.
Masella's hand fell from her neck to grasp a passing pillar. Her lips trembled. Her head hung low, her legs stood shaky, yet she gathered the strength to peek up beneath her tousled hair, out towards the remainder of the Proud Spire. From the far corner, away from candlelight, the same cowled man now stood beyond the gathering with a necklace firmed in a gloved fist.
Wisps of energy swirled around him, too faint for the non sourcerers to see, but enough for her to sense the warmness of her Source, the familiarity that was her conjure, be devoured by him. Her Source was drawn to him like a bee to nectar. His hooded form glimmered in a doused green, like her spirit itself had been fastened into his own ethereal armour.
Her hand dug deep into the pillar. A Magister?
Madame Florianne continued to usher her aside, but all she saw was the whisk of Magister cloak strolling out towards the front door ajar from its mooring. The theatre hissed in introduction of the night, and the flames of the hearth shivered from his departure. Masella drew in a deep breath and limped up a stairway towards her loft.
Madame Florianne attempted to cater to her but was left outside, while the latch of the elf's bedchamber was hastily fastened. Masella then drew herself over to her window, unlatched panes and thrust the creaking frames out into the night. Leant over a fractured windowsill, she spied many things: the heaven bathed in the twinkle of a thousand-thousand stars; the glitter of moonlight playing upon ice-sleet rooves; the winding roads of a quiet town, cobbled in glinting flagstone.
The roads were near-bare. Only rats dared to scurry within the deepest darkness. Until she saw Him. Still he shone in lustre, broad shoulders braced against the cold in a thick woollen mantle, boots of leather hastily crackling through icy puddles.
Her following movements were swift, precise. Movements she had not donned for over a decade yet still rung true to her body. Her fingers plucked garments from her wardrobe, potions from her apothecary, snatched twin blades from her pillowcases and a bow, carved in the ornate angles of tusks and bone, from her weaponrack. As soon as she was dressed she leapt out of the window, snatched the windowsill with one hand and begun to slowly climb down the theatre with her other.
Branches crackled under her feet. The very lattice snapped in frozen leaves and snagged thorns. Her arms shook against the weight of her pack baring her shoulders down and her bow clinked against the heel of her boot on every second step. The firelight of the Proud Spire passed on her way down, and when her feet met solid stone, she dashed into the city without a single glance back to her home.
The essence of her Source left a bitter-sweat taste in the air. The heavy stature of such a Magister greedily left muddied tracks along the flagstone. It did not take long for her to pick up his trail. And so she sought him out, amongst the natter of rats and the clues from owls that with eyes so bright could see everything. He had no escape.
At the end of the road, he swiftly leapt into an alley with a wisp of black feathers. Built between two homes, it was a shielded nook to the world, long and narrow. There were hay bales, carts of foul lettuce and discarded market stalls left to await a new morn.
Though flickers of an armorsmith undulated before her. The scene so materialistic, so real, that she could smell the tanned leather and smoked iron, hear the hammer of tongs and anvils, feel delight in the heightened imagery of ancient war. Her head tilted around the scene in awe, her hand daring to reach out to touch it.
But then she felt the warmth of her Source and shook her head of the past. She strode forth through the memory, raised her bow from her chest and clipped an arrow into the string.
Masella trimmed the feathers with a forefinger; her ears quivering beneath her veil. Rats scurried by the drains. Ice crackled under gutters. Hounds howled distantly, but there was no scent of soggy earth or perfumed robes. No scent of an old, lordly man whom she had come to expect from her Source thief.
The Lady traced the earth with a finger, tasted the tang of metal and ash on her tongue. She dared to draw further into the disquiet, her bow raised and the feathered arrow prickling her cheek.
Behind a cart there was a momentary slip in the shadows. A breath clouding the air before her.
Masella faltered, tilting her head innocently to a sudden, curious melody that was Source. It twinkled like chained bells. Mesmerised her. Hypnotised her. Dispelled the world around except for one black figure striding out of the dark.
In an instant she sunk to her knees. Ice cracked beneath her and the very breath of winter seeped deeply into her lower skirts. Barely breathing, barely listening, all she could do was stare into the puddle ahead reflecting the sky, only to linger on the thief rippling in the reflection, masked as a black terror. In his hand swirled the familiarity that was her Source, snuffed and contained into a very thick collar, clenched in an iron fist.
The Magister swept his mantle back from his thigh, then slowly descended to one knee. He brushed her chin with a forefinger, yet it was the ring of a ruby that caught her wandering eye. "My, my dear girl. I am so very delighted to make your acquaintance at long last. It has been sometime since I met one with your particular gifts, though I must admit, I have never snared a widow in it's web before. You truly are a temptress, aren't you? Playing the fools to the slaughter. So elegant. So poetic. It's just so…"
He licked his lips, leaning in to trace the scent of lavender from her neck. "Delicious."
The Magister clasped Masella's hand, bringing it up to his lips in a kiss. The elf murmured low, though he only grinned, smoothing the swollen plump over her bitten lip with his thumb, and following the bob in her throat to the necklace nestled over faded finery at the base.
She wished to tear the face from his skull in that heartbeat, only for her bubbling ire to remain constrained within a body that could not be commanded, not by her.
The Magister chuckled, a hoarse cackle like wilted leaves in a drought. "My, my, do we have a taste for the finer. Whom did you take this from, I wonder? Laced cursed words into a lording's ear? Coaxed drugged wine into a fine knight's delicate pallet?" He grasped her throat, softening the skin with his thumb. "But, where are my manners? What must you think of me? You may call me the Saviour. Of your soul, hmm? From this…" he tsked, "den of iniquity. The Voidwoken could paint this place in so many pretty colours."
His hand left her skin in a rush of cold, only returning when a clank of iron snapped below her ears. Leashed to a collar, bound to a slaver. He tore the hood from her shoulders, smeared the essence of drudanae across her lips.
The elf grimaced, spat. Attempted to flee. Only her knees remained locked to the ground, as if she was a puppet waiting for her master to play her strings.
It was not long before the deep blues and greys of the world faded into essences of black. Her mind became hazy, and soon she found her body sagging into the Magister's arms. The warmth of his robed chest lulled her shoulders to ease. His forcing hand tugged her cheek to his shoulder as she was lifted, yet even the gentle swing of his shoulders as he walked away from Maigneux caused her eyes to flutter. There was only one reason possible. His feathered robe was enchanted, for surely it was impossible for someone to be so soft.
That night, Masella slept in the arms of a murderer. Ironic, it was, how it was far more peaceful than even the grave should have been.
She did not wake until five days later.
When unsteady tides rocked a boat she clung to on a northernly course, she saw through a slit the silouhette of a figurehead tipping into a crisp red sky. Gulls flocked to the horizon, where from the sea an island crowned the waves in pearls of sandy dunes. It was in that moment that her heart fell into the ocean, for she knew she would forever be lost to the fear of the lower desks. The fear of the island's Fort Joy.
~~o~~