SCENE 5 – Lurk
The twin doors behind her slam deafeningly shut, echoing through the devoid chamber.
The faint pink through the glazed windows provides little light for Clare to see the macabre scene of the main hall – it outlines everything in a dark, purple silhouette. Her rushed breaths brush out in bursts amidst the rotting stink.
This giant, oversized greatsword in her shaking hands is nothing better than an empty reassurance with nothing tangible to hit.
And even then, the looming eyes of the monsters on frescoes oppress. Any glances up.. and they will look back to her always in empty, yet threatening stares. If they do breathe air.. They're real enough to her, especially unnerving as they are.
Clare scours the place. The black shadows of the corners, where the darkness would hold haven to the daemonic being. Up high, where the darkened balconies lie.
She takes little, slightly steps on the stone floor. Her foot would take careful taps of the heel, and lay down her toes so slowly as to not make the distinct clacking her boots make. It would hear her.
Or maybe it is just in plain sight as an extension of the silhouettes. Spot it. Make sure that whatever lies seen, unmoving, is just because it isn't alive. What would be a child's leisurely game is now the basis for Clare's raison d'etre.
How in the hell does one thing travel so fast.. kill those guards by the edges of the village, then kill everyone else here like that? It had taken her so much effort just to rush so fast around.. and it just..
Step by step. Her heart is knocking hard enough to shake her chest and arms.
It just.. it had.. there is no way could anything move so fast. Nothing could do that, so far as Clare knows. There was Janet back then at training; Clare had seen her flash down the flat extending plains, and back again in a deafening boom. To this very moment, that was the fastest Clare had seen anybody move. But it left Janet lying in excruciating recovery. There was the dripping spittle down her mouth, and she would gasp for breaths, spent and trying to regain control over her fluctuating yoki.
Here, the Yoma left the braveheart guards pulverized from afar, managed to get past Clare on the way, come in here and do this. Come in here.. and break the oak barrier-
Her foot softly bumps onto something
it hurts
making a gurgle. There is the face contorted in a permanent pain, and half its body missing away, torn out from the fleshy stump. It's being digested. Clare lets out an utterance- no. I must keep still, keep silent.
It had to have help. Maybe, there had to be more than one; one to kill the guards from afar (and distract Clare), and one other, here.
Still here.
The eyes of the immobile monsters stare on always.
Clare makes sure a wall provides support from behind.
Her eyes are rapidly juggling between the all-concealing shadows.. the balcony.. silhouettes.. and the people who lay now lifeless on the floor, once alive, who laughed some and loved some.
The spaulders mounted on her shoulders scuff softly the wall behind her. She nears an entryway leading to a sheer blackness.
Through her bouts of panicked breathing, Clare hears rustling at the very edge of her hearing. Or maybe it's just her imagination taking on the semblance of sound.
She is now straining to see the outlines of what were once silhouettes - all that is there is the low, blue glow of the glazen windows in the black, and even that is fading away as dusk gives its way. Then there will be nothing.
Now the shelter of the wall behind is gone; Clare is looming upon the entryway. There seems to be nothing inside.
The darkness is dizzying – she loses grip on her sense of place and direction. Need to touch something.. edge of the wall.
What do I do? Wait here? Wait forever? Maybe.. maybe it's gone. I can't see. Stop. Listen. Stop and listen.
The greatsword is feeling more and more weighty, wavering in her wet hands. It tips over to the left, going the verge of clattering to the ground. She focuses but a bit on the falling blade. Something stirs in the deep beyond her focus-
It lunges – right to her.
Clare tries to pull herself out the way- it manages to slam, hard, obliquely against her right arm, pushing her aghast and over to the ground.
Her sword rushes away from her grip, clattering onto the ground.
As she whirls, she catches the dark blur flashing by her, ebbing against the ground to stop – sending laying bodies off and away in its midst.
She lands hard on her back – the sheath pokes onto her spine uncomfortably. Her head tinges. She pulls herself up, facing where the Yoma is on the other end, already rushing back-
The sword's purple silhouette nearby, Clare rushes - diving for the weapon, keeping the blur rushing to her in sight. As Clare goes to grasp the sword, she sees the blur stopping, slowing its lunge.
She hefts the sword up, a barrier between herself and it. There's something in its grasp, rising up, overhead- Clare raises the sword up to block. It slams against her sword, sending her tumbling back. She tries getting her footing back, slipping, and finally holding onto the wall beside to steady herself.
And she sees what she deals with, a face barely illuminated by the moonlight.
There is the form of Rodrik, his longsword in hand, and all of his hardened and hairy body showing. His face is inhumanly contorted, strained indecisively between utter anguish and sheer joy, twitching between the two. Tears glisten from his cheeks. He cries. It laughs.
Clare grasps hard onto her sword, poised to strike. Rodrik's body in turn assumes a defensive, riposte posture, bringing Rodrik's sword up to match her's.
He- it stands surprisingly assertive, an experienced fighter.
It is the Yoma's sick joke playing out on her. Along with taking on the physical form of a person, the Yoma could also take on the person's memories, traits, skills. It could have taken many fighting techniques and experience from many different people, and it has the added benefit of its superhuman physicality. After coming off with everyone before, it chose to be Rodrik to Clare. It's asking her to come. What is it waiting for?
Clare grips the smooth finished handle of her greatsword, intimidated. She hesitates for a moment, feeling something is very wrong, before deciding to throw aside the doubt and going in to kill.
She throws her sword around to its head- it clashes away her blow and gracefully repoises.
Clare recovers herself. Deep within her, is that hate, welling, bringing a savage energy to her, impelling her to make it suffer like she had suffered.
Harder.
Clare lunges at its head, throwing her sword overhead. It meets not the head, but the longsword, miraculously appearing just short of scratching him. Their blades tinge against each other in resistance – Clare's rage against its will.
It makes Rodrik's face contort to a hideous smile.
Then it thrusts the longsword forward, shoving Clare backward, landing on her back.
Clare half-expects a coup de grace (and end it all), before she pulls herself back standing en guarde. There it is, standing, with the longsword almost sticking into her face.
Gaining some respect for the Yoma's finesse, this time she cautiously approaches the Yoma with slow, unprovoking steps forward. It steps backward, matching her.
Clare throws a provoking gesture with her sword. It steps back.
Another gesture. It steps back.
Clare studies the Yoma for a moment, in disbelief. She could not help but notice the little thing dangling between its legs in the shadow, imagining half-heartedly it managing to bear children, before taking this moment to try a forceful swing by the side, hoping to make a scratch on this proud thing. Her sword lands itself in the wall with a deafening clash, sending pieces of stone flying off.
The Yoma takes a thrust over- Clare rips out the caught sword from the wall, managing to catch its blow, just barely. The blades meet loudly, crossing, meeting close to her slight breasts, moving all so closer..
And there, their eyes meet for what seems an endless moment.