Vestige of Fire

(*Insert random authors note here)

Annoying. That was the word that rang through her mind every time she saw him. Any normal undead would have keeled over and died by now, gone hollow due to the weak constitution all humans possessed. But he was quite different from the rest, now wasn't he?

Of course, he was, Quelaag thought to herself. He was the only undead she knew that carried that amount of the black sprites she sought with fervour. And every time he entered; she could just manage to count the exact number within him before their duet of death would begin again.

In all honesty, she should be glad he returned with such frequency. Nowadays the number of humanity that traitorous Knight of Thorns brought back home every so often was beginning to grow lesser and lesser. But the foolish undead never seemed to lose a single one of those wondrous sprites. It was curious. Not enough to garner her attention, but still curious. He wasn't nearly as important enough for her to waste a second thinking about, anyways.

However, she would admit that she admired his stubbornness – or perhaps it was just foolishness hidden behind a black hood?

He had come here for a total of fifty-seven times. She had only kept count because Eingyi badgered her about his presence ad infinitum, filling her head with useless thoughts. Why would she even consider allowing him into a covenant with her ailing sister?

What made the hunch-back even remotely think that the undead was worthy to step foot in her domain in the first place? Was it because he had survived the stench that was Blighttown? Her perfect features creased into an amused scoff. He wouldn't be worthy of the title "Chosen Undead" if he couldn't manage a paltry atmosphere like that.

Quelaag scowled as she remembered just who she was thinking about before turning around within the collapsed bell tower. Her fiery eyes locked onto the object of her rage: The Bell of Awakening.

That was the reason he always returned. That was why he continued to pester her cursed existence. All to ring a bell that was more trouble than necessary. How far Gwyn's wisdom had fallen. To rely on the humans to save the world when they were the ones currently corrupting it.

Even so, she had to give the masked undead some credit. Each time he came into her domain, he came closer and closer to being able to properly wound her. Granted, his tactics were dirtier than the savages living in the swamp outside, but they had their merits. Who else would have thought to poison her lower half first before attempting to attack? And those arrows he was so fond of using had arrived with a new twist to them the last time he was here. She would have never thought he would have purposefully rigged the arrowheads to break off from the shaft as soon as they struck her. Perhaps that ingenuity of his was why he had almost cleaved her head from her shoulders. Almost.

His blade had met its mark, she could respect that. But the blade itself was just as pathetic as his sense of confidence. She may seem dainty on her upper half, but her skin was anything but fragile. It would take much, much more than a simple piece of blunted metal to cut her.

That phantom's butcher knife would have done the trick. It was gigantic, sharp, and had quite the weight to it. When that tribal woman in rags had slammed into her like a stone pillar, Quelaag had felt the air rush out of her, and the wail her spider-half had uttered proved just how painful a blow from that weapon could be.

Then again… it wasn't like the puny undead could wield such a weapon anyways. He may have favoured thicker clothing, but his armaments were always the same. He preferred quick attacks, moves that did not waste a single ounce of energy. Skirmishes weren't his forte, nor his ideal scenario. Which was why her red lips curled into a smirk whenever she saw him again.

"You're smiling." Kirk interrupted her thoughts and she turned her head towards him.

"Yes, what of it?" She asked in reply, glare daring him to point out why.

The barbed Knight merely continued to stare at her from his position against the opposite wall, looking less than tense even with how intense Quelaag's gaze was on his smaller form.

"It's… different."

She frowned at his answer. What exactly did he mean by that? And why did he think he could talk to her like they were old friends? She had already made it known to him that the only reason she permitted his existence in her domain was because he brought her sister the medicine she required. The medicine that was suddenly beginning to come in smaller doses.

"Your collection of humanity has remained in a state of depreciation thus far," she warned. "If you think you can steal from m-"

"Steal from who exactly?" Kirk cut her off.

Quelaag narrowed her eyes at him.

"The bundles of humanity I return with are the property of none but myself." He said firmly before pushing off from the wall to stand directly in front of her.

The Chaos Witch bared her white teeth at him as her lower half growled dangerously, lava dribbling out from its maw in veins of burning orange.

He was taking chances even speaking back to her like that. If she so desired, that annoying bucket-helm of his would be nothing but melting iron in the jaws of her spider-half. He knew that to be true, yet even as he looked up at her in defiance, she felt no resistance from him, nor a single strand of tension within his being. It was almost as if he knew she wouldn't attack him because of his value to her cause. She was almost tempted to prove him wrong.

"But as to who I choose to give them to, the answer will always be Quelaan." Kirk said finally before taking a step back and turning toward the stairs.

Quelaag's gaze burned a hole into his back as he retreated from her.

"I'll return with more soon." He said when he had reached the foot of the stairs before crushing the orb in his hand. Instantly, his body took on a crimson hue as the black of his armour mixed in with the magic he allowed to warp his being, turning him into a red phantom as he leapt into yet another dimension.

She allowed a breath to escape her lips as she petted the head of her arachnid-half. He was just as worried as she was, even if he never displayed his emotions. The sudden halt of quality humanity had been a growing issue with them as of late, so much so that even Eingyi had taken to asking the other subordinates for all the sprites they could scratch up. He was a dutiful one, Eingyi. One Quelaag hoped would never lose hope in one day healing her sister. She hoped he never lost hope in believing in the impossible, because she had already done so eons ago.

Before another thought on the matter could fill her mind, she heard something in the distance. It was feint, yet her enhanced hearing picked up on it with ease. It came in drips and drabs at first as the fog abated from the being: the sound of footsteps, the steady thud of their heart beat, the time they took to exhale between breaths… she received that and so much more before her a switch was flicked in her mind and her lips curved into a cruel smile for the umpteenth time.

He had come earlier than expected.

With a simple thought, her lower half began to crawl forward, climbing down the dusty stairs four at a time. She reached behind her with a practiced hand and drew her weapon of choice: a fury sword dressed in a cacophony of jagged blades and shells tainted black, whilst a membrane of chaos fire lingered around the edge of the blades.

Her gaze lit up as she caught his small but toned form. He was tall for a human, no… for an undead. His hair wasn't anything special since it was always covered by that black cowl of his, yet from time to time she did glimpse the odd strand of raven hair fling itself against the cloth of his facemask. His build was just right in her opinion, most likely due to how he had chosen to hone his skills with that bow and scimitar. And those steel-grey eyes of his were quite difficult to miss, even if the expression on them never did change. He was a Hunter, after all. Why would they change when he assumed she was his prey?

His yellow accomplice was there as well, a buxom woman scantily dressed, a dirty sack over her head. Her monstrous sword rested against her equally monstrous muscles. Quelaag wasn't exactly worried about her all that much, though. Despite the fact that the tribal woman possessed a strong resistance to fire, her flimsy wooden shield was no match for her blade. It would take less than a few swings to make her phantasmic form dissipate completely, and then she and the huntsman could finally be alone together.

The thought itself was enough to send shivers down her back as she approached them. He drew his signature bow from his shoulder before knocking an arrow in and aiming at her. Again, Quelaag's face seemed to brighten as she felt the familiar swirl of humanity within him. How exciting it was to play around with her daily supply of 'medicine'.

Her lower half snarled loudly before it conjured up a mouthful of lava. She wondered what the undead had in store for her today? She still hadn't pulled out the last few poisoned arrowheads nestled snuggly within her body the last time he was here. Would he offer to pull them out if she asked him nicely enough?

A throaty chuckle left her as he began to fire at her, his phantom ally rushing forward to cleave her in two. Unconsciously, her free hand drifted to her long hair before twirling an auburn lock around her pale finger. Oh, she was going to have fun today.

"Don't dare brave something leagues above you."

That was what the throaty knight in gold had said the first time Wiess had met him. Thinking back on the encounter, the chuckling fellow – did he say his name was Lothric – should have probably taken his own advice before offering it to others. After all… it wasn't Weiss who was stuck in that cell, whistling in boredom.

Come to think of it, there had been a myriad of people who had offered him their advice in the past. First, it was that resigned knight in chainmail. Weiss hadn't minded his words much due to the fact that the crestfallen warrior simply didn't give a continental what happened to him after he had explained that there were actually two Bells of Awakening.

He could respect that in a man. Knowing not to pry was a skill the undead believed most should strive to achieve, and even more should fight to learn. Lest they figure out why exactly curiosity always kills the cat.

The next one had been that peculiar fellow with the smiling sun on his shield and tunic. Wiess hadn't said anything simply for the fact that he had nothing to say at the time. Besides, it would do him no good to associate himself with the insane, even if the jolly knight had offered his services to him when he was in need. 'Jolly Co-operation' was what he had called it back then. After witnessing just how jolly that aid could be when he had faced off against those gargoyles upon the belfry… he had quickly changed his mind regarding revoking the man's help. That being said, he still wouldn't choose to associate with someone obviously in a delusion over the sun in the sky.

The others after the happy knight – Solaire if he remembered correctly – were less than noteworthy. A merchant with a few screws loose, a cowardly mage in search of his master, a jumpy pyromancer that was nearly eaten alive and a Cheshire cat that could actually speak.

They had all crossed paths with Weiss at one point or another. Had all given him their unwanted opinions and advice regarding this land 'brimming with hollows'. He hadn't chosen to ignore their supposedly wise words – although he most likely should have – and had instead listened in silence. For what need was there to waste his energy replying when he already knew his course, already understood his journey, and had already realised his goal.

For what kind of Chosen Undead would he be if he had not a sliver, an inkling of understanding as to why he was in the Land of Ancient Lords in the first place?

Oscar. That was how it had all started. He had been in deep slumber when the Astorian had dropped that corpse into his cell with a key to unlock his front door. After that, it had been more of a goal to navigate through the asylum he was still trapped in so that he could thank the elite knight. But after he had dodged a boulder and walked into a room slowly flooding with filthy water to see his saviour dying before him, his meaningless existence as something near-hollow had taken a turn. Whether for the best or worst, he still couldn't tell, but all he knew after Oscar had died in his arms was that he was now indebted to accomplish the man's failed task.

That was how he had reawakened his senses after so many decades of imprisonment. That was how he had found his voice again after an eternity of silence…

That was how he had re-established his connection with his element. By becoming the being his human life had failed to reach: the true Hunter.

He had acknowledged that he had possessed a superiority complex the moment he had arrived in Lordran. Yet, it had not been his undoing. Rather, it had spurred him on to become faster, stronger, smarter. It was because of the way he looked down his nose at the things around him that he had been able to do what so many had seen as impossible. In essence, the only real reason why he was still living was due to the perception he retained of the world around him: a community of inferior souls.

And he wasn't wrong in his assumption. With each sane – and insane – being he had met, more and more of their insecurity arose to further repulse his observation. From the holy man that bided his time trying to convert lost souls to some hypocritical faith, blinding everyone with his fake sense of morality when what lurked behind those blue eyes were the lecherous glare of a murderer. The Easterner with the murakumo had been no better. Although Weiss had grown up within the Great Swamp frolicking amongst the so-called 'heretics', he had grown accustomed to the ulterior motives of more than a few masquerades. he knew betrayal when he saw it. After all, it was a trick of the trade to see through the lies when your birthplace was the grand merchant district of Zena.

Perhaps one of the reasons he had chosen to follow the path of the Hunter was due to this uncanny ability? It would make sense after his hometown had changed from dilapidated buildings of degrading stone to mud huts shrouded by sickly green trees. Besides, after his parents had both bit the dust simultaneously, what else was he to do at the ripe age of fifteen? Go play around with the local pyromancers in training? That had sounded rather pleasing at the time. Perhaps that was why his proficiency in the art was so spectacular despite him not possessing a burning glove on his person.

But that was enough of his century-old reveries, Weiss thought to himself as he peered up at the familiar white mound of sludge guarded by half a dozen obese lizards holding boulders like trophies.

Honestly, it was a wonder how no one had managed to reach this level of Lordran until he had arrived. Call him cocky but traversing through waist-high excrement that poisoned the skin and felling mutated creatures that spat chaos fire hadn't exactly been that much of a difficulty for him. Moving through the rickety planks above had posed as the singular annoyance. And those pale-skinned tribal folk using the spinal cords of their brethren as swords were amusing… and yet, for some unfathomable reason, he felt compelled to return to this cesspool.

He assumed it was due to the cavern he was walking through for nearly the sixtieth time. It couldn't be helped either, she was just too fascinating to leave to her lonesome.

Weiss passed the usual pair of praying prostrates kneeling a few feet away from the fog door. He didn't need them to get up. He doubted they could.

The same soap sign glowed an inch away from her domain and he smiled. It was still here, it seemed.

Mildred. Another enigma he would rather not jump into for the simple fact that the Deprived cannibal was just too much of an annoyance to get into. She had arrived in Blighttown whilst he had been busy gutting a nearby inhabitant. Back then, her phantasmic skin had dripped with crimson and onyx as she tried to cleave his head from his shoulders. She had almost been successful that one time, too. It was just a shame she wore nothing but simple undergarments and a sack. Oh, how quickly she had burned with that black firebomb of his.

Shortly after her defeat, when he had first reached the end of his current path, her summon sign had rested just before the door of that enchantress. The shock on her face – or rather mask – after he had unceremoniously stomped down on that glowing line of runes had been priceless. Talk about ironic.

Perhaps she would appreciate him not pulling her away from whatever grotesque feast she was currently having today. He knew she was pals with those silent hags in the Depths that resembled deformed men. It was even more of a reason not to touch her sign.

And besides, it was about time he dropped the third wheel. She was never pleased when he brought company along. Come to think of it, she was never pleased whenever he came along either. Was she just ignorant to her feelings? No, he was just getting ahead of himself. She wasn't boring enough to fall for him just yet.

With a quick pat down, Weiss ensured his weaponry was ready for action before closing his eyes and reaching into himself. He felt the warm swirling of the allotted shards of humanity flit about his soul like lost remnants. It was the same amount as always. Never any more, and certainly never any less. She would at least be happy he had come with that.

The idea of where and when their daily routine of foreplay had begun was unknown to Weiss. All he knew was that after the second time he had died by her dainty-looking hand, he had felt an unquenchable urge to return again and again.

The funniest part was that now he couldn't really care less about that golden bell most likely situated behind whatever home she possessed within that crumbling tower. In fact, if he had really wanted to, he could have reached it many times before whilst his strong-muscled phantom aide had the strange and enchanting half-demon's attention. But to entertain whatever satisfaction entered into those crimson eyes of hers whenever she impaled him, he had chosen to continue their playful game of tag.

It amazed him to no end. He had honestly never seen that mesmerising smile of hers grow so wide unless his guts were in the jaws of her terrifying lower half. For the sake of whatever fancy he took toward that smile, he had never failed to return again and again.

Then again, his interest in her wasn't the only reason his feet automatically made their way back to Blighttown after he recouped his lost souls and saddled up on enough humanity to feed that golden-armoured bastards' greed. It was also partly because he had never actually beaten her in their continuous battles. True, she never held anything back when she fought and he was grateful for it, but he had never actually managed to score a winning blow on her since the day they had met.

The reason this was so shocking was because in any other scenario, Weiss was untouchable. He was a trained master of the forests, yes, but also the true embodiment of the wilderness. Solaire had said so himself.

His skills were far greater than meritorious, and his ferocity had been displayed many a time when in battle. He was feared as the Chosen Undead not just because of his title, but due to how much he could back that statement up. If he remembered correctly, even the otherworldly wraiths that paid him a visit every once in a while had to halt in deep thought before even considering a deathmatch with him – which was fitting since they were nothing more than the bottom feeders of this already cursed slab of rock. And yet, some nude women who was half arachnid had the ability to kill him nearly a hundred times with a few strokes of that gruesome sword and the dripping lava of that growling spider that served as her legs.

It enraged him. Infuriated his mind that a superior huma- no… a superior undead like himself could be so easily disposed of. It made him want to rip his own hair out of his intelligent head, but moreover, it sparked this sick sense of joy within his chest, made him ecstatic on the inside whenever he stopped before that opening that guaranteed more torture and pain.

Once a thought crossed by his mind that he was simply masochistic for looking forward to being killed by her yet again. The more rational – and decidedly more insane – part of himself had simply corrected that strand of thinking, stating that he was just adventurous.

Weiss shook his head before calmly walking through the fog gate.

Whether either one or both were true about him, the only real certainty was that he was happy to see her again, the Chaos Witch known as Quelaag.

"Ah, back so soon?" the Crestfallen Warrior lifted a lazy eyebrow in his direction as Weiss sighed out in euphoria. Their little bout had been like poison to his veins. And although it singed his nerves and ruptured his organs, he needed more. He wanted more. After all… who could resist that untameable expression of malice, those crazed demonic eyes, and let him not forget the way in which she had fought against him. The way she played around with that specific lock of hair on her head as if she were enjoying herself. It was breath taking, yet equally amusing.

He thought about the recent turn of events as he climbed to his feet and began his routine over from scratch, a wide smile stuck on his perfect features as the uncaring undead to his right simply sighed out at how troublesome he was.

He didn't mind the complaints of the chainmail knight. He was too busy gushing over what had occurred less than a few minutes ago. It was inconceivable yet it had still happened. Impossible yet he had still done it. Shocking, yet at the same time… overwhelmingly pleasurable.

She had gotten sloppy since he was last there. And it had caused quite the interesting turn of events. How fascinating…

"Argh!" Quelaag screamed as her sharp, obsidian nails raked across the wall next to her, tearing through the dusty stone and turning it to rubble.

Kirk observed her quietly as the Chaos Witch paced from one side of the room to the next, carving a path of destruction with those five-inch claws that surprisingly had a nice sheen to them. He knew she barely ever consumed anything besides humanity for the Fair Lady but her body still had this glow about it that had never been present before.

As she continued to piledrive through a wall and punch a hole into one of the bricks that were jutting out, a small part of him wondered whether her unusual break in personality was all due to the efforts of that undead she was currently raging about.

The Chosen Undead, or Weiss as many had come to know him as, was a different sort of crazy. The Knight of Thorns had clashed blades with him many times before, nearly bested him in a fight, yet had not managed to kill him due to how crafty the huntsman was. It had been a shock to him the first time he had stepped on a firebomb planted into the ground purposefully before he had burst into flames. During the second encounter, the undead had rigged four large crossbows to impale him when he had crossed a certain threshold within Darkroot Forest. By the third time, Kirk had just given up on attempting to kill the sneaky undead. It wasn't worth the effort anyway since Quelaag was far more entertained by his antics than he.

That brought him back to their current moment in time. Quelaag was in a fit, tossing pyromancies around, scoring claw marks into her domain like some creature out of a horror story, and he didn't forget to mention the screaming. Yes, the screaming… and he wondered how Quelaan managed to sleep through it all.

To be fair, the reason the red-haired woman was so irate was actually quite plausible. She had actually been pleased when Weiss had landed that debatably fatal wound upon her waist with a near-melted scimitar. However, what she had not felt satisfied about was what he had done after his lucky shot.

And what was it he had done to deserve an enraged Daughter of Chaos? It was simple: he had groped her.

Coped a feel, massaged a mound, kneaded some dough; it didn't matter how he explained it. What mattered was that Weiss, the Chosen Undead, a being of untold potential and clearly bountiful luck, had managed to infiltrate the bubble of the Chaos Witch, climb upon her spider-half, score a solid hit upon her pale flesh… and then proceed to cup her bosom with his free hand. Honestly, Kirk didn't know whether to laugh at his predicament or applaud his gutsiness.

"That does it! It doesn't matter how many times he comes here or how many sprites of humanity he possesses! If he dares come into my domain again, I swear I'll destroy him." Quelaag growled dangerously, gnashing her teeth as her face took on a barely noticeable hue of red.

It was simply unacceptable, a deplorable act from a seemingly honourable undead! She had thought that such a skilled being would possess more than a simple rush of lust within his unreadable head, but obviously she had been wrong.

She knew her form was nothing for members of the opposite sex to observe lecherously after she had been turned into this atrocity but was she not still even partly a woman in her own way?! And if so, did that not mean she deserved respect from other beings of lower standing? It didn't matter that her original half was completely nude, it did not give him the right to touch what he wanted when he wanted to!

Even if it had been an accident on his part after she had jerked her body backward, forcing him to crash into her and his left hand to land squarely on her right breast; it was still a gross infringement on her personal space that she would by no means tolerate!

Then again, even after the awkward silence they kept for quite a few seconds, he had not recoiled in disgust like she had assumed he would. In fact, if she remembered correctly – she had actually burned that moment into her mind forever – his first reaction towards her had been to drop his sword, look into her eyes and then rotate his fingers on her flesh. And as if the sudden feeling of a foreign limb stimulating her body hadn't been enough to make her normally sound mind shut down completely, he had uttered the embarrassing words 'soft' and 'bouncy' to himself before her lower half had shaken its head, causing him to tumble to the ground before biting his face off.

The red in her face grew as she lingered on the feeling of his rough hand. Even after he had been killed and Kirk had returned from sprite gathering hours later, she could still feel the warmth of his hand over her chest. It was utterly frustrating because she couldn't understand why his reaction secretly made her heart flutter.

Perhaps the fact that he saw her as a woman was what excited her, to be seen as something other than a monster. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was him that had done such a perverted thing to her? After all, she had grown quite close to him. It had reached a point in their relationship whereby she would deliver quicker deaths to him instead of usually dragging out his punishment.

Her face contorted into a frown. Okay, whilst that wasn't the best way to describe what they had, the point she was trying to make was that they were on a generally close level of communication, even if all she normally said to him was 'argh', 'grr', and 'hah'.

Come to think of it, had she said anything to him at all after he had returned countless times with oodles of humanity?

"Do you want me to deal with him?" Kirk interrupted her from finishing that thought. She turned around to face him, her neat brows once again furrowing as she attempted to understand what he was saying.

"Why would you do something like that?"

The Knight shrugged his shoulders, arms folded and leaning against the adjacent wall as if it were the most natural thing to do.

"I am a knight." He said.

"One that once followed the Darkwraith's before your hasty betrayal."

Kirk offered another non-committal shrug before flicking an imaginary piece of dust from the barbs on his gauntlet. "Man's gotta live at the end of the day."

Quelaag rolled her eyes at him. If he was still this brazen to speak to her like his equal, then it meant his offer was sincere enough to warrant some thought. That being said, the issue was why he bothered to offer it in the first place.

She knew of him well enough to know that he wasn't one to freely do things for others, so why was he being so kind when all he was known for was malice and relentless fury?

"Don't look at me like I have an ulterior motive, I'm simply offering to drain the undead that nearly ruined your chastity."

Her head snapped away from him as more colour rose to her cheeks. It was blasphemous what he was implying. A lowly undead? Defiling her of all people? How inconceivable, how crass. Utterly ridiculous!

And yet, if it were true, would he be fine with someone like her? She was half demon, after all… would he find her form pleasing? It had certainly seemed that way with how firmly he had felt her up. What of her maternal status? Could she even bear a child with half her body mutated as it was? Well, technically it was only her legs that had bonded to her arachnid-half. She still retained her human form up till her knees, her body just sunk into the spider below her, obscuring the more private parts of her. Wait a moment… would he even be able to enter her? Her body did course with chaos fire…

Quelaag's mind immediately snapped back into reality before she abruptly forced such thoughts into the deepest, darkest corners of her already fuzzy mind. What in the world was she thinking?! There was no attraction between the two of them. He was a simple-minded undead after that damnable bell. She was a surviving Daughter of Chaos. That was it.

Although, she would be lying if a part of her didn't long for said undead to look at her with the same passion he seemed to possess for that annoyingly oversized hunk of metal…

"Leave him be." She sighed out, making her way down a flight of broken steps. Now was not the time to think about skilled hunters that luck favoured enough to let them touch what wasn't meant to be touched. With the number of humanity she had gleaned from that foolish undead, and Kirk's favourable haul, they could alleviate her sisters growing discomfort. She needed it after the previous few days of unending pain and fevers. Honestly, by this point, Quelaag was beginning to wonder whether the medicine they brought her was even helping. Quelaan hadn't even possessed the strength to speak the last time she had administered the black and white wisps that numbed her pain.

"What will you do when he returns?" the deadly knight asked as he followed her, a hand placed casually on the hilt of his sword. "It's been a while. He's bound to return. Why not allow me to finish him off in your stead whilst you tend to the Fair Lady?"

The Chaos Witch mulled it over. It was a good idea. The Chosen Undead would most likely come back sooner than expected. Whatever he had been doing to grow stronger had also shortened the time he took to reach her domain. If she estimated the time of his return correctly, it would be in the middle of her time spent feeding her sister the humanity they had gathered for the day. And if that was the case, then Kirk would be the perfect one to serve as her substitute.

Her eyes suddenly lost their glow as she looked down.

However…

Did she really want to return to her sister's side right now? Did she really want to upset herself with the fact that despite the humanity they gather to drown a city, it did nothing but delay the inevitable? She loved her sister more than anything in the world. She wept daily for her mother who had acted in good faith only to destroy what sense of peace she had created. She wept most especially for her other sisters who were not as lucky escaping Izalith with their lives.

With all that going on in her mind, shouldn't she allow herself to be distracted just a little more? Didn't she deserve that much after all she had done thus far? She knew Quelaan wouldn't object, in fact, she would force her to leave and pursue this enigmatic feeling she felt swirling around within her chest. So, wouldn't it be best to act on such an opportunity when it presented itself?

"You could not hope to best him as he is now." Quelaag sighed as she made up her mind. Kirk drew to a halt, halfway down the stairway as the Daughter of Chaos turned around before placing a bundle of writhing humanity into his hands. He looked up at her only to see the pensive stare of an uncertain, and anxious woman.

"Go down to my sister's side. Complete the daily transfusion. I will remain here to deal with the usual pest."

Kirk observed her for a few agonising moments before he shrugged and walked past her. He wouldn't assume to know what was best for her or tell her what she should do. She was a strong woman, one responsible for her own life. All he would do was honour her wishes. It wasn't like he could object in the first place. The only person she listen to was Quelaan. Why would she bother heeding anything he said? That being said, it didn't mean he couldn't say anything about her predicament.

"Try establishing more dominance this time. It's off-putting to see a slave driver like you weak-kneed during such simple strokes of affection."

Quelaag coughed into her hand awkwardly as Kirk continued to descend into the sanctuary below. Whilst he was wise in what he spoke, it was not amusing to be teased so casually. Besides that, he acted as if he were giving advice to his sibling when he was no better. If he really wanted to do this right now, then she would play along.

She cleared her throat before replying smugly. "And you should attempt to do more than stare at my sister. If you didn't already know, she looks forward to the day you'll finally open your mouth and speak to her. If you don't act fast, Eingyi might end up stealing her affection from under your feet."

She heard him stumble on the last few steps and a grin broke out across her face. Men were always the same. Dangle the threat of competition in their faces and they take the bait like moths to a flame.

Speaking of men, she breathed out deeply as the familiar form of the Chosen Undead crossed through her fog wall. Her red eyes locked onto him from the other end of the room as he rolled his shoulders and drew his sword.

Despite what she refused to acknowledge bubbling within her chest whenever she saw him, she would still not be giving him the satisfaction of walking away without enduring some form of punishment for defiling her with his touch.

Accident or no, she would still seek her revenge. And if by chance his limbs were still functional by the time they were done here, perhaps she would entertain the idea of whatever was sparking between the two of them.

This was originally meant to be a one-shot. However, I think I'll make it a two-shot just for fun ;)

Shoutout to Grandpa Jesse for helping me form this idea. After three drafts, a whole lot of theorising and good-humoured conversation, we finally have a winner. Thanks for all your help, mate!

This a/n seems a bit too short so I'll just enter this paragraph that means absolutely nothing so that the word count can land on exactly 6, 600 words because I've suddenly decided to end on an even number for once.

Oh, what's this? The word count is only 6, 510? Now it's 6, 511… 6, 512… going for 6, 513 …

Bloody hell.