Once again, I offer thanks to annbe11 for help and inspiration. I've ended up drawing some more cues from High Priestess Marci once again, if only to compensate for my lack of DOTA knowledge, and because it does make quite a bit of sense for this story. Again, if you haven't read High Priestess Marci, give it a try and a nice review.
I'd also like to thank annbe11 for helping me to come up with a name for the capital of the Helio Imperium, which, as far as we can tell, is never actually named in the series. Per annbe11's suggestions, I opted to go for a name based on the Latin and Egyptian words for "sun".
Chapter Six
Theft and Failure
She had planned this carefully.
Luck could only take one so far, and she was going to need all the luck she could find tonight. To improve her chances of escaping alive, she had planned this carefully.
Fymryn waited until a cloud drifted across the moon before climbing over the wall. Although Mene's Temple did not appear to be heavily guarded, it was a dangerous place to trespass. She had counted at least twenty sentries concealed in the trees outside on her way in. They were both well hidden and well armed.
They were also complacent. Who would dare to rob the Temple of Mene? Well, the Temple of Selemene. For now.
With her cloak wrapped around her body and her hood up, Fymryn stole across the paths dividing the pools containing the sacred lotuses.
The strange person who had given her the means to infiltrate this divine place had been very specific about which lotuses to take and when they should be taken. Why, she was not sure, but his information had gotten her this far—further than anybody else.
Fymryn stopped close to the imposing spire that formed the Temple of Selemene, the peak crowned by a crescent moon. She knelt and surreptitiously reached for one of the beautiful lotuses.
A soft trill made her freeze. Not a bird. A person.
Fymryn turned her head slowly. Sitting on the steps leading to the Temple was a young woman. She was simply dressed, not wearing the robes of the usurper's priestesses. Her auburn hair was teased back in a tufty tail at the back of her head.
Out of the shadows padded a night-beast, cat-like with grey and white fur. It stopped before the young woman and sat, allowing her to stroke its head.
Fymryn turned away and reached for a lotus. It trembled in her hands as she lifted it from the water. Or maybe it was her hands trembling instead.
At last! She had done what nobody else had dared to try!
Fymryn carefully stowed the lotus in her bag, glanced over shoulder, and reached for another.
Marci stood when the doors of the Temple opened. Mirana strode out, clearly in a bad mood. Her hands were balled into fists, and her brows contracted with indignance. Her robes swished as she flounced down the steps.
Marci caught her eye and lifted one eyebrow.
'It's nothing, Marci.' Mirana should have known better. She could read Marci's face like an open book, and Marci could read her too. They had spent over a decade in each other's company. There were scant few secrets between them, and less that they could hide from one another.
Marci fell into step behind her, waiting. Any moment now...
Sure enough, Mirana could not keep her annoyance contained. 'The new acolytes have no respect for their peers.' She tutted at the thought. 'They expect to be granted Selemene's favour just for saying a few prayers for one moon phase.'
Marci tried not to give anything away. She was not as devoted to Selemene as Mirana had become. She had not come here to pledge herself to a goddess, she was here for Mirana's sake.
'They all think that Selemene should take them into Her confidence just for being here.' Mirana continued, sounding disgusted. 'I mean, I know my place. Why can't they?'
This elicited a sigh from Marci.
Mirana stopped and regarded her handmaiden. 'What? I do know my place.'
Marci grinned at her and arched an eyebrow. She distinctly remembered Mirana putting on airs as soon as they had arrived. So did Mirana now.
If she had been anybody else, Mirana would have grown angry. But Marci was always an exception.
Slowly, a little smile grew on Mirana's face. She chuckled quietly. 'You do know that teasing one of Selemene's clergy is blasphemy, don't you? She'll strike you down if you laugh at me.'
Marci pulled a ridiculous face and stuck out her tongue. Mirana swatted her shoulder playfully and started to laugh. Marci felt her own sides convulse as the mirth overtook her.
It was nice to see her laugh again. It was nice to laugh with her again.
It had been so long.
Mirana did not laugh often these days. Marci could not blame her. The pain still lingered for her too, and she was determined not to let it control her.
There had been times when she had awoken and wondered why she carried on. Every time she had, she had reminded herself that she was here for Mirana. She owed the Princess her life.
To stave off the despair, Marci had tried to keep herself as busy as possible. Whilst Mirana worshipped and served Selemene, Marci spent her time honing the skills she would need to defend Mirana. She had no doubt that the Emperor—now "God Emperor", that was what the treasonous, murderous bastard called himself—would one day track them down.
She continued to practice the martial arts she had been taught back home, learned how to throw knives, hunt, set snares, navigate by the sun, stars and moon, spent time training Sagan to respond to her commands, kept herself in peak condition and tried to learn more about her own innate power.
So far, none of the clergy here had unveiled anything new about Marci's strange physical strength and fortitude. It remained a mystery, albeit a useful one.
Mirana was distracted sooner than Marci would have liked. One of Selemene's acolytes called her over for a discussion. Marci did not partake, and the other acolytes generally ignored her. Mirana had quickly taken the place of Princess of the Moon, effectively becoming High Priestess, very quickly. Selemene apparently favoured her, and Mirana spent much of her time communing with Her.
Marci had never seen this done herself. Each communion was private.
It was very odd to see the results. Mirana would emerge as if in a daze, her pupils dilated until they very nearly filled her irises, stumbling and weaving around like a drunkard. Marci was always on hand to guide her back to her chambers, for she always needed to rest immediately after speaking with Selemene.
Mirana must have enjoyed it. She always desired more time in Selemene's presence, and had once admitted to Marci that the goddess' company was "intoxicating".
Marci had been jealous at first. For years, she and Mirana had been practically inseparable. She had felt lost at first, stuck in the Temple grounds without Mirana with only Sagan for company on occasion. The Nightsilver Woods were calm and quiet compared to Rasolir and they had been completely alien to her. In some ways they still were. City life had been as familiar to her as breathing and she missed the bustle, the noise, the pace, the sense of never being truly alone. This was another reason why she had kept herself so busy, though it did not completely stifle the pangs of sadness and regret she felt.
It had taken Marci a while to fully acknowledge how deeply she missed their old life. She had done for some time, but she had refused to dwell on it. Ever since the coup, every happy memory seemed to have been tainted—corrupted by the simple truth that they could never reclaim their old lives or the futures they would have shared.
She was mourning what could have been. They had both lost so much.
Marci supposed that if serving Selemene kept Mirana happy, it was not her place to object. It wasn't as if Mirana no longer wanted to know her either. They still spent more time together than apart. She supposed that she ought to be grateful for a break and a little time to herself.
Marci slipped away quietly as Mirana and the cleric spoke and walked down to one of the pools. Though she was not a fervent believer, and she still missed Rasolir, she had found that she appreciated the quiet here.
She sat and listened to the lapping water, letting the sound soothe her. She remembered the old life again. A summer's day this time, maybe a little less than a year after she had first met Mirana.
Marci felt a little flush of embarrassment in her face as she recalled her old fear of the water. Poor slum girls like her were rarely taught how to swim. Why would she need to learn? If she had not been in the habit of finding trouble and getting into fights, she would have likely ended up becoming the wife of a labourer and spent her days cooking and cleaning for him.
It had been Mirana who had taught her how to swim. Marci could remember being terrified, but with Mirana's help she had overcome her fear and dared to try.
She had stopped being helpless, thanks to Mirana. She had not needed to waste time helping Marci, yet she had done so anyway. It had not been the only time she had made the effort to help Marci, or the first, and Marci had a feeling that there would be many more opportunities for Mirana to aid her. Whenever Mirana encouraged her to take the first steps, she found that her fears were diminished and her doubts eroded.
It was just as well that she had let Mirana help her. Running had been fraught with peril and more than a few rivers.
Losing her voice had been a terrible thing, yet it had led Marci to a life of contentment with Mirana. She had never forgotten the slums she had come from, even as she had been uplifted from a life with only the slimmest chance of happiness to one in which she'd had a brighter future as Mirana's handmaiden. Marci had always felt grateful to Mirana for changing her life.
Some might not have seen serving as the handmaiden of a Princess, and later an Empress, as that much of a fulfilling future, but Marci would have been more than happy with such a life.
Handmaiden.
Had she ever really been one? Maybe in name only.
She had been more of a friend than a servant, as much as that had annoyed Mirana's parents on occasion. Yes, she had served as a handmaiden. She had helped Mirana to dress, combed her hair, fetched things for her, though Mirana had been considerate enough to never ask her to empty the chamberpots, but she had never felt like a servant—certainly not a slave.
She had done it all out of love for Mirana. Not a romantic love. It was something more akin to the love between sisters—or at least sisters who got along more often than not.
All of that had been taken from her too. It had been taken from both of them.
There was always a price to pay.
At least they still had each other, though that too had come with at a cost. It was one which still haunted Marci, and would continue to haunt her until the end of her days. She still saw them in her dreams, and she still wept when she thought of them. Mirana felt guilty about it, so Marci tried not to think about them to avoid openly crying, which just made her feel worse instead.
It was not Mirana's fault. Marci had made her choice and suffered the consequences. It was her fault.
Marci sighed and tried to clear her mind again, letting the gentle sounds of the night breeze and the pools of lotuses fill her ears. It was at that moment she noticed the stranger.
Fymryn had not moved since the auburn-haired woman had sat down on the steps close to her. She had remained motionless for some time. It felt like hours for Fymryn, who was tense and nervous.
They were both of a similar stature, build and weight. They might not have been far apart in terms of age either, though it was hard to tell with humans.
Fymryn had noticed the dagger the woman was carrying. She too was armed, but she had not come here to kill anybody.
The woman seemed to be in a melancholy mood. Her pale brown eyes were open, but they were far away and vague.
She was quite pretty, Fymryn observed, maybe not possessed of the same beauty as her dark-haired friend, but she was attractive all the same. For some reason, Fymryn felt a little pang of sympathy for her. The acolyte who was now quietly speaking with the tall priestess had not even noticed her.
It was as if she had been invisible.
Was that why she was sad? Fymryn was not very familiar with humans, yet she had the impression that the auburn-haired woman was reminiscing. Perhaps they were bittersweet memories.
She knew that she had to move, but she was afraid of attracting attention. The glamour she was using would conceal her true appearance whilst she was still, but abrupt movement would disrupt it. It also did not hide the bag glowing with amethyst light, which she had put under her cloak.
Fymryn quickly looked away as the woman glanced in her direction. Her lack of knowledge when it came to humans meant that she became confused, and even more fearful, when the woman whistled softly. Fymryn ignored her at first, hoping that she was just whistling to herself. But it came again, a little more insistently this time. Why did humans have to be so strange?
She turned her head slowly so as not to affect the glamour. The woman was staring at her inquisitively. Her expression was not unfriendly. She was just curious. Fymryn felt her heart pulsing quickly under her shift as the strange woman indicated her, then gestured at the Temple, her eyebrows rising a little.
'Erm...' Fymryn tried to suppress her accent. 'I don't understand.'
The woman pointed at her and then made the symbol of Selemene with her fingers. This was holy ground, maybe she had taken a vow of silence. Or was she deaf? No, she had heard Fymryn's words, she was sure of that. For whatever reason, the woman did not speak.
Outstanding. Fymryn was stuck with an armed human who did not even speak a language she knew.
The woman repeated the gestures again, a little frown creasing her forehead.
'Oh! Yes, I am here to worship Her.' Fymryn deliberately avoided saying the usurper's name. How was she going to get away? Could she make a run for it?
Fymryn forced herself to calm down as subtly as she could, taking a deep breath. The woman was watching her intently, her expression less open and more wary now. She was becoming suspicious.
'I have to go now.' Fymryn announced, getting to her feet. 'It was nice to meet you.'
The woman's frown intensified. Her gaze was fixed on Fymryn's ear.
The glamour! She had moved too quickly and it had flickered, briefly revealing a pointed ear.
The auburn-haired woman's eyes flicked to the pool, the space close to Fymryn conspicuously devoid of lotuses, and then to the bag.
There was no mistaking the glow bleeding through the fabric.
Her eyes widened with shock, then narrowed. She jumped to her feet and issued a loud, piercing whistle which cut through the quiet like a scythe through wheat.
The priestess turned away from the acolyte as the auburn-haired woman leapt at Fymryn.
With a yelp of terror, Fymryn leapt away clumsily. By chance, her foot happened to catch the auburn-haired woman's shin and she lost her balance. Arms spinning like windmills caught in a hurricane, she toppled and fell face-first into the sacred pool.
Fymryn dithered for a precious moment. She might not have been fond of humans, but she had not wanted to hurt anybody.
She quickly turned on her heel and ran for her life when the woman emerged, spluttering, her pretty face twisted with anger.
Despite the theft, Marci was more embarrassed than angry. If Selemene was watching, She was either outraged that Marci was floundering in Her sacred pool or She was having a fit of hysterical laughter.
Marci spat out a mouthful of cool, flowery water and whistled for Sagan. The night-beast bounded over obediently and she leapt onto his saddle.
The elven thief had a head start. But as quick as she was she could not hope to outrun Sagan. Marci whistled the command to run, nudging Sagan's flanks with her heels. The big cat grunted and pelted towards the elf.
Fymryn wished that she had not looked back.
The creature chasing her was huge and equipped with long fangs meant for rending flesh, claws suited for tearing skin open. It was also much faster than she was.
She had no choice.
Fymryn uttered a prayer to Mene and closed her eyes.
Marci drew her dagger. She did not intend to kill the thief, just stop her or slow her down. The dagger was not as finely balanced as the knives she had been learning to throw. She would have to get close for an accurate throw.
She crossed her arm over her chest, ready for a sidearm throw.
A shadowy mass enveloped the elf for a heartbeat, and then there was another one. Before Marci's staring eyes more and more duplicates of the elf appeared out of thin air. Some sort of arcane power was at work here, something she did not understand. Something innate? Like her strength?
Marci decided on the one to attack. Perhaps the elf had not actually moved and was still the one in front of her.
She had to risk it even though her chances were slim. She also did not know that Fymryn had swapped her position with that of one of her shadowy illusions.
Marci threw the dagger and her face twisted with frustration. Selemene was going to be angry with her a second time tonight, now there was a dagger in Her sacred pool.
She heard the whistle over Sagan's paws smacking the ground and glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Mirana aim her bow at the moon above.
She loosed a single arrow. It did not return.
Instead, a rain of silver darts fell from the heavens above. They hit most of the shadows, dissipating them. Selemene would not hate Mirana, the celestial arrows left no marks on the stonework and did not disturb the sacred pools.
Marci did not halt Sagan, or worry about the falling silver missiles. Mirana was too good a shot for that.
She saw the elf leaping up the wall, agile as a squirrel darting up a tree. She whistled and pointed.
A single arrow whizzed over her shoulder, the flights stabilising it and partially negating the wobbling motion arrows suffered after being launched. Marci saw it fly overhead and thought that it had hit the elf in the shoulder. Rather than jump from the wall, she tumbled and Marci heard a yell of pain.
Marci spurred Sagan to leap over the wall. All was shadow beyond, dappled with patches of moonlight between the trees.
Mirana's arrow protruded from a tree just ahead. The shaft and flights were lightly streaked with blood. A glancing strike then, not a direct hit.
Marci slowed Sagan down and peered around. Sagan's ears twitched and he sniffed at the air. He would probably detect the elf before she did.
Once again, her logic was sound. But she did not understand the strange powers the elf had at her command.
Fymryn let the shadows fade as the mute woman rode past. She had wondered if her ability would fool the night-beast. Happily, it had surpassed her expectations.
She thanked Mene for her gift. Without it, she would likely be dead or worse.
Dropping silently from the tree, Fymryn watched the night-beast and its rider stalk westwards. She went east as silently and as quickly as she could.
Mene would be pleased with her tonight.
Displeasing Selemene was not what bothered Marci. She had failed Mirana, that hurt worse than the ire of the goddess her friend served.
It was her fault. If she had noticed the elf's disguise and purpose sooner... if she had been faster...
'Marci? Marci? Marci! Wake up, Marci!'
Marci snapped awake, her mind miles away in the Nightsilver Woods, reliving her failure.
A pair of blue eyes hovered close to her face, filling her vision. Marci tilted her head back, or tried to. Something solid and hard pressed against the back of her head.
Mirana leaned back, her sigh of relief wafting across Marci's face and fluttering her fringe.
She did not deserve the Princess' concern. It was her fault that they were here. She had let Mirana down.
'Don't do that, Marci!' Mirana whispered shakily. 'You scared me.'
Marci felt an ache in her shoulder and a faint stinging in her upper back. She noticed an arrow on the ground at her side, its tip dirtied with dried blood. It was not one of Mirana's. Her shoulder throbbed harder, as if the arrow was still embedded in her flesh. The stinging patch on her back also felt sticky and tight. Mirana had obviously washed it, sewn it up and applied a poultice.
She remembered the battle, if it could be called that, outside the gates of Haupstadt. Everything else was a blur at the moment, her perception of time distorted by the rush of adrenaline and fear.
Marci vaguely recalled hanging on to something warm and smooth, her arms around something broad. The movement beneath her had been urgent and bumpy. Had they been riding?
Marci looked past Mirana and noticed Davion hunched against another tree, wrapped up in one of their cloaks. Sagan was sat on his haunches, still panting hard, his flanks heaving.
Mirana mopped her brow with her hand, managing only to smear more sweat and blood across her skin. Marci tried to give her a look which was both reassuring and apologetic. She managed to look tired, because Mirana said: 'Stay still. I'll sort out some food for you. Just take it easy.'
Marci remained in place, remembering their flight from Haupstadt more clearly now. She had clung to Davion's waist, too preoccupied with escaping to worry about the position of her hands on the taut, bare skin of his stomach.
Despite everything, Marci felt colour rise in her face at the thought of her hands on Davion's body.
Mirana stood and ran her hands over her face, making it grimier. Marci felt her her insides squirm with guilt again and she whistled to get Mirana's attention.
It was not easy for her to articulate her admission of failure again, not because she lacked the means or because Mirana did not understand, but because of the shame she felt. She even told Mirana that at first she had been glad to leave the Nightsilver Woods. The Temple had been peaceful, yes, but she had also found it stifling. It had felt like an adventure, the sort of thing they had dreamed about when they were younger—more innocent.
At the end of it, she felt her chin quiver. Marci fought hard to keep the tears away, blinking rapidly.
Mirana's face creased with pity and she whispered, 'Oh, Marci!' She approached and knelt in front of her. She wiped her hand on her leggings and caressed Marci's cheek. 'You have never let me down. Never. Don't ever think that. If it wasn't for you, I would have died years ago.'
Marci felt a tear trickle down her face. Mirana brushed it away with her thumb. 'We're still alive, Marci. We'll make it through this. And I meant what I said: I'm glad that you're here.'
Once again, it had been Marci's stubbornness and desire to defend others which had caused them to save Davion again. She had seen the bandits advancing on him, many more than she had expected. Even a Dragon Knight as skilled as Davion could not have taken them all down. Even if he had been fully armoured they would have overwhelmed him.
Marci had made it clear that she wanted to help. She needed to help.
Mirana had known that her handmaiden's mind was made up. Marci would have followed her if she had turned away and insisted on leaving, but she had to admit that she had not wanted Davion to die any more than Marci did.
She had said one thing before they climbed onto Sagan's saddle: 'I swear that you're going to be the death of me one day.'
She had not entirely meant it, but the words had struck Marci's heart all the same.
'You were right, Marci.' Mirana was saying now. 'We were right to go back.'
'Are you sure about that?'
They both looked to Davion, still hunched against the tree. He had the grim, resigned yet fearful look of a man condemned.
'You saw what happened.' Davion reminded them gravely. 'I would have killed you, Mirana, if Marci hadn't... Marci... I almost killed you. You were hurt trying to save me.'
Marci shook her head at him. She remembered now that she had nearly fainted as they had run from the city. The exertion combined with the loss of blood had taken a toll on her. She would have fallen from the saddle if Davion had not noticed her hands slipping from his abdomen and held her in place. At that speed, she would have broken a few bones—maybe even snapped her neck or cracked her skull open.
She tried to thank Davion, struggling to manage her expression due to her fatigue.
'Can you control whatever that was?' Mirana demanded.
Davion lowered his head and exhaled heavily. 'I don't know.'
'Would it be better if I tied you to that tree?'
'Maybe.'
Marci tapped Mirana's arm and shook her head, then made a tearing motion with her hands.
Mirana thought for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, you're right, Marci.'
'What was that?'
'Marci said that tying you up is pointless. You'd just break the ropes if you... changed.' Marci could see the conflict in her face. What she wanted to do was hunt. Marci had pushed herself hard, and she needed sustenance to restore her strength. However, Mirana did not want to risk leaving Marci alone with Davion. As much as Marci might have trusted him, he was potentially dangerous. In her weakened state, Marci would struggle to escape his wrath if he changed again.
Marci's stomach rumbled loudly. She knew that they had no food left. If only they had thought to buy some food before leaving Haupstadt.
'Any chance of some food?' Davion asked.
Mirana sighed. 'I have no arrows.'
Marci held up the single arrow Mirana had pulled from her shoulder, her smile crooked.
'Fine, we have one arrow. But that doesn't mean that you should run around turning yourself into a pincushion.'
'And you're worried that I'll do that thing I did outside Haupstadt and murder Marci if you leave me alone with her.' Davion said listlessly. 'I understand.'
Marci thought about their options. Mirana could have left Sagan with her. If the worst happened—not that she thought it would—she could try to flee on his back and regroup with Mirana somewhere safe.
No, that was no good. Sagan was too tired for another run so soon, and sending Mirana off to hunt alone was asking for trouble.
Their best option was the snares. The problem was that Marci was the most proficient with them.
Or so she thought.
Davion approached Sagan and had a look in the saddlebags. He withdrew the loops of wire Marci used to make snares. 'You can both stay here, with Sagan. I'll catch some dinner.'
'Do you know how to use those?' Mirana asked dubiously.
'I caught my share of rabbits back on the farm.'
Farm? Marci hadn't expected that. Then again, few people looked at her and thought that she had been born a slum-rat.
'Can I borrow this?' Davion plucked the hunting spear from Sagan's harness. Mirana nodded and he set off into the trees, unconcerned by his bare feet.
'If he's going to stick with us, I hope he doesn't transform often.' Mirana said. 'We'll spend all of our coin on clothes if he does, and I'm getting tired of him being constantly naked.'
Marci felt her lips twitch into a little smile. That did not sound so terrible to her.
Dyfed was worried about Fymryn, she had been gone for far too long.
Adara and Idwal watched him as he sat there, his hands clasped together. This was not the first time Fymryn had gone off on some vague quest. They had their suspicions, the girl had a fascination with Mene which went beyond the devotion of the rest of the clan.
Fymryn was clever and quick, but also eager and impulsive. For her to be gone for over a week was unusual. Poor Dyfed was worried sick.
They all heard the rustling in the trees. Dyfed looked up hopefully. Adara was just as eager to see Fymryn again, but she also reached for a knife—one could never be too careful in these woods.
A young elven woman emerged from the trees, clad in green like her friends. Her pale flaxen hair was bound in twin plaits, the end of one speckled with dried blood. Her lively sky-blue eyes danced between them and a big grin spread across her narrow face.
Dyfed sprang to his feet, also grinning, and hastily embraced Fymryn. 'You've been gone for so long! Don't do that to us, Fymryn!'
'Careful!' Fymryn warned, half-amused, half-exasperated. 'I did leave a note, Dyfed.'
'Fymryn, you're hurt!' Idwal pointed at her shoulder, his face turning pale. Sometimes it surprised Adara that he could see through the thick dark fringe covering his eyes.
'It's just a scratch,' Fymryn assured them. She had ripped a piece of fabric from her tunic and bound it about the wound. There was a thin trail of dried blood running down her pale arm. Mirana's arrow had torn a furrow in her upper arm and it had bled for longer than she had expected. At least it had not become infected. In her eager haste, Fymryn had not thought to bring anything for treating wounds.
'What happened?' Dyfed demanded. 'Do you need—'
'I'm fine, Dyfed.' Fymrym interrupted firmly. She stood on tip-toes and planted a kiss on his lips. 'Don't fret, my love. Here,' she lifted her cloak to reveal a simple sack. A faint indigo light peeped through the material. 'I've come back, and I'm not empty handed.'
Fymryn could not help but grin as her three friends' eyes widened and their jaws dropped.
Mene would be pleased.
The ground was still soaked with blood when he arrived. The militia was still busy going about the grisly task of gathering up the shattered, broken, hacked, mauled and punctured bodies, as well as the various limbs strewn around the battlefield.
If this had been Davion's handiwork then Terrorblade's assumptions about the man—if he could be called that now—were beyond his wildest expectations.
Still wearing the body of Captain Frühling, Terrorblade crossed the crimson ground, not concerned that it was soaked with vital fluids. It had long gone dry now, but he could still sense the pain and the fear lingering in the air.
With Frühling's armour, gambeson and burns hidden by a cloak and hood, Terrorblade approached the nearest guardsman. The tip of his scabbard, still carrying Frühling's longsword, was just visible, poking out from under the hem of his cloak. The guard would likely assume that he was a sell-sword if he saw it. If he did not, it would not affect his plans greatly. A new vessel would not go amiss. 'What happened?'
The guardsman did not look up from his macabre task. 'Bloody massacre, that's what.'
Terrorblade would have to coax it out of him. 'I have heard that a renegade knight killed a dozen men out here.'
'Try two dozen. Two dozen and counting.' The guardsman groaned as he chucked a severed arm onto the fly-stricken pile of ragged errant limbs. 'The rumour is that some Dragon Knight went mad. Tore up and ate a bunch of bandits outside the city. Their friends took issue with it and came here to settle the score. He and some friends killed the lot of them.'
Now Terrorblade felt a little less certain. 'Friends?'
'Two women, and some sort of beast. The Sergeant reckons that they also cleared out an underground hideaway. A bunch of criminals all turned up dead on the same day—left lots of whores and slaves for us to find shelter for, as well as a load of stolen and smuggled goods.'
'Tell me more, my good man.'
'Not much to tell.' The guard barely glanced at him. 'The gang attacked the knight. He killed several of them before they injured him.' He paused, recalling the battle. 'I was on the wall when it happened. It was... well, strange. The two women must have left the city and come back. One of them was picking the gang off with a bow, the other... she must have studied some of these foreign fighting arts—you know the sort, the punching and kicking stuff. Must have been incredibly strong too. She was dropping them easily, often with one hit.' He paused again and licked his dry lips. 'She got injured, and then the man turned into this... thing. I don't know how to describe it, it was... big and red. It tore men in half, ripped their heads off,' he pointed at the foul pile of body parts, 'this is its handiwork.'
Excellent.
Slyrak's soul was still ready to be claimed. Davion's body would also make a useful vessel, but that was less important.
Terrorblade had time. Even if Slyrak's soul merged with Davion's, it would still be worth claiming.
A cruel smile crossed the face of Captain Frühling. Time was on Terrorblade's side.
If Slyrak's soul did become one with the soul of Davion the Dragon Knight, the power Terrorblade would claim would be nigh insurmountable.
I know that I'm making a lot of assumptions when it comes to the characters and the world they inhabit. Given that this is an alternative to the series, I ask you to forgive any inconsistences and assumptions I make. Personally, I feel that Marci in particular could have had much more of a backstory considering what an interesting character she is. I know that I am not alone in this regard, so I hope you can put up with me making stuff up for her and other characters which never appeared in the series. I'm sure that the bias will end up with Marci since she is obviously my favourite.
I also apologise if/when this gets a little deep at times, particularly during character interactions. It seems to be a habit of mine whenever I write such scenes. I've realised that my own battles with anxiety and depression often make themselves manifest in my writing, but writing focuses my mind and helps a great deal so don't worry about me.
