The Long Walk.

[Carnath-Emory]

It doesn't quite go as the fairy tales describe: she does not rise at dawn's first light, does not pad quietly to his door with hope in her heart, and dreams in her head. Not quite...

The hours had passed in a slow delirium. Hands which had wanted most of all to seal her lips closed, so that not a single word more could escape them (treacherous language, betraying her yet again), had turned instead to a more delicate art. She'd managed three unsteady words before the first sheet of parchment was crumpled into ruin; managed another page, another yet, before the force of her grip snapped the quill in two. Impossible words. With no other viable alternative, her hands had worked their vengeance on the walls of her room instead.

The skin broke, here and there. By morning, she could count them: a bruise for every regret.

But time and exhaustion had worked their curious magic, alchemising furious pain into a cold, quiet burn. She'd drawn herself together, as sunlight began to filter through her windows' shutters; had bathed and dressed with some care. Another corridor ghost, she'd made her quiet way to the room scant feet from her own, and to her credit, the heart hadn't begun to truly pound within her chest until she'd found the door swinging open at her first touch.

In less than a minute, she'd returned to her chambers and strapped the sword-belt about her hips. In less than three, she was on the road to Myrkentown.


She does not climb the stairs to his rooms with a carefree heart and a head filled with a young girl's fancies. There are no spring daisies in her hair; there are no ribbons for her wrists.

Her fear is of Avel, and of other things less easily defined. She takes the stairs slowly and with care, on legs that an hour's walking have left uncertain and unsteady. What arrives at his door is no lovely thing: she has hollows for cheeks, a pale eye sunken deep in shadows and red about the edges. There's dust in her butchered hair, dirt in the creases of her throat.

She knocks gently, but doesn't much expect an answer.

[Altias_Bromn]

A knocking upon his door. Strange, he had sent Bran away hours earlier, and Avel had not been seen in the Meeting House for days now. Besides the fact that Avel would not bother to knock.

A shoeless, shirtless, governor would stalk to the door throwing it wide. There she stood, looking a bit worse for wear. He could tell by the dust upon her, her flushed cheeks, and the way she quaked as she stood at the doorway; despite her best efforts, that she had walked this entire way.

"Ariane."

A simple reply, as he turned from the doorway, a casual motion for her to come in if she wished to do so.

The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled closed, as they often were. Flickering light from a dozen candles threw shadows around the room, gentle light dancing here and there over shades of burgundy and black. A soft smoke, smelling vaguely of lavendar and vanilla wafted about the room.

The governor seated himself on the well made bed, smoothing the burgundy coverlet with one bare hand. Turning his gaze once more toward Ari, he smiled faintly.

"Come in. Close the door. I would assume you have come with purpose. I doubt you walked all this way for entertainment."

[Carnath-Emory]

A door flung wide, to emit very little indeed: she'd mopped the clammy sweat from her face, but was otherwise scarcely fit for human eyes. The sight which greets her, on the other hand, fits her imaginings of 'opulence'. It could as easily be a chapel as a bedroom, incense drifting through its candlelit darkness; it is the very antithesis of the attic she'd once called her home, the barracks in which she'd lived out so many of her years.

It sparks defiance in her, an unwillingness to be put aside by what is simply beyond her, in both means and scope. Here is a stiffening to her spine, a lifting of her pointed chin, as she takes the two steps necessary to cross the threshold and into his domain. There is some reluctance, in the hand which swings closed his door.

"You cannot stay here."

Not an auspicious way to begin a conversation. Certainly not a polite one, however softly-spoken it is. A palm clings to that closed door behind her, for balance of more than just the physical sort; her pale gaze avoids him for what brief time it can -- oh, damned if she'll stand here eyeing the ground like a guilty lout, but still, still...

"And yes, I have 'purpose'." The word is troubling. The subject she must broach is worse. "I wished to apologise. My behaviour last night was," a shake of the head; a twitch of thin lips, "terrible. I should not have said what I did. I should not have done as I did."

Apologies do not come easily to the woman, if her pallour is anything to judge by. She is a stiff thing, awkward amongst luxury, and a man who she scarcely recognises. Cold, cold Governor. As the circumstances surely warrant.

"My intent," she swallows tightly, moistens dry lips, "was not to wound or wrong you. But believe that or no, you cannot stay here. Not so near to that creature."

That much, at least, costs her less to speak aloud -- and what a strange world it is, in which so potent a threat as Avel seems less horrifying than the voicing of a simple apology.

[Altias_Bromn]

Oh, it was difficult to continue the facade of arrogance, of disregard, but he did try. Lazyily he draped himself over the bed, as he had a hundred times before, for effect. Once long tresses of sanguine silk shimmered a deadly color in the dim light.

"Your apology, while unnecessary, is accepted. There was no more wrong doing in what you did, in fact less so, than in what I did to you. I was callous. I disregarded your feelings, or in this case lack thereof, when I kissed you. It was rude, and simply uncalled for."

Rising once more, he slowly padded toward the censer that rested atop a stone plate on his desk. A pinch of power taken from the vessel that sat beside it, sprinkled over the red hot coal glowing in the center of the burner. A turn, to face her, one hand trailing over the desk.

"Is this how you expect me to be....Ari?"

How cool a color those amethyst eyes, usually so vivid and bright. It took a great deal of control to continue the ruse.

"The sultry little fop, waiting to bed the next available pretty man who crosses his threshold? Or perhaps the timid little governor afraid of his own shadow? Oh, I can play that part too, if it makes you happy."

And suddenly the feminine drawl is dropped away, the serpentine movements of his body giving way to a common, easy stance. Violet orbs warm, sparkle in the candle light.

"I had hoped this last week had driven those misconceptions from you. Or perhaps, it has, and that is what brings the fear to you."

Again he is crossing the small room, to sit on his bed. The velvet coverlet stroked gently, such a departure to the cotton and wool blankets of the inn.

"I've shown you something, Ari. A side of me most people don't know. A part of me that most would never believe. Yes, I loved Alexander, and Nathan too. But that is not the whole of who I am. I had hoped you would want to know that. To understand who I really am. "

"If I have forced your hand, made you uncomfortable, then it is I who should be sorry. I put you in a bad place last night, and I was wrong."

"I know I cannot stay here, but I cannot, no...I will not, remain at the inn and continue to bring you discomfort."

So many words. Each word he speaks feels to him like a thousand that she does not. Suddenly there is a silence in the room. Only the lapping of the candles, the sparking of the charcoal and their breath to break it.

[Carnath-Emory]

The discomfort is keen, and there is no hair to hide behind, no sister to speak the necessary words in her place. Cowardly. Oh, she knows that well. So she must stand awkwardly before that door, until the sting becomes too great and pride surges to reassert itself: here is a little arrogance to match his own, a straightening of the spine, a shift of her thin body into the fencer's stance that it can barely support, and kher's'nim -- to hell! -- with the weakness of her flesh. Her left shoulder towards him; the right hand hovering at its narrow hip. There's reassurance to be found in that: it is a way to make the small space she occupies into her own, a pocket of resistance amidst the lush chill of his room.

"My 'feelings'. Now it is you who assumes. You have not asked; I have not told. So now I do: my regard was for decorum." It is more than she'd cared to say; it is also absolutely necessary. By nature a straightforward creature, if not a forthcoming one, she has suffered for lack of honesty here.

But oh, he is every inch the image of the arrogant noble's son, sprawling upon that burgundy as if he were born to such leisure. Which he surely was. A hundred gleaming candles could not drive the chill from this room. His words light a flush high in her cheeks, twin spots of hectic colour that burn livid as he continues, on and on, until to remain is all but intolerable --

"No." As if she could defy every aspect of this moment with just the single word. "Not you. This is what I would expect from any other member of the Judiciary, this is what I would expect from any other noble-born: pretty and graceful and useless. And what of you?" There is a spark of challenge in her grey eye, brief but potent. "Do you think that I would speak with them so? Do you think that I would trade my life willingly for theirs?"

But then his facade is discarded like a tattered cloak, and while she stands a little easier, there's defiance still written in the clean lines of her posture, the necessary lift of her chin. "You have explained a great deal; this is true. And I have been glad to know all you were willing to share, else I'd have turned it aside a week ago and been done with," a wave of her hand, "all of this. I have been glad to understand, and there is much that you do not; you see discomfort where there is none, and miss it when it's present and -- "

As abruptly as that, she has a palm to the handle of the door; it gives a *click* as she twists. Egress. Escape! ... of a sort.

"And this is no time for such talk. You cannot remain here. Gather what you require. Take your room at the Inn, or another far from mine, or another in the town, if that will please you. But not here.

Not with that thing."

[Altias_Bromn]

"As you wish, Ari."

Came the gentle, simple, reply. Her words had stung him, certainly. But there had been much truth in them. He had assumed much, and listened less. Satisfied to hear the crow of his own voice, to listen to his own feelings. There would have been much to learn from her, had he been silent.

One by one the candles were extinguished, the final one used to light twin oil lamps upon his desk. Suddenly the room was far less that of an arrogant nobleman, and far more the study of the governor. The censor still smouldered, leaving its distinct scent in the room. If one noticed such things, this is why the governor smelled of lavender. This was a scent of comfort for him.

He busied himself with packing once more, though there was little care in it. Silk shirts torn from the alcove, pants of suedes and silks, to be tossed in a ratty knapsack, one Ari might well recognize, as it also contained all of his herbs. The trunk, gone from his room at the inn, was waiting downstairs, as yet still packed.

A package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string was plucked from beneath his desk. It was the size of perhaps two large books sat one atop the other.

"I had these brought from my tailor. I sent for them a few days ago, when first the Flux left us."

The package was extended toward her, then set on the table beside the door instead.

"Green suits you."

Back to packing then, for a time, as he adds violet candles to the bag, the censor still too hot to pack. The vessel containing the incense is packed.

"I am glad you do not see me as you do the others. I would hate for you to think me just another noble born brat. I am that...but it is not all I am. I am sorry I have not understood you better."

The bag is shouldered, a sad smile on his lips.

"Lead on...I follow."

[Carnath-Emory]

She had led. He had followed. And this was just another strangeness amidst the rest, a reversal of roles that sat as poorly with her as the sight of that opulent den which he'd called his home.

'Den', yes. He'd sprawled like a predator on those sheets.

But they'd left that behind them, had not fled -- for she was in any case incapable of such haste -- but had walked with lifted chins and measured strides and, when she'd had the breath for it, they'd talked. And talked. And talked, for he'd had questions, and she'd owed him a debt of answers. Bromn had admitted much, these last weeks, and confesssed yet more than that; his own forthrightness had demanded the same in return.

Or something near to it. A poor and unwilling liar, not a single falsehood had passed her lips, but half-truths, yes: in quantity. One cannot possibly describe a single life in but an hour, not even one so short as her own -- and this was what he'd questioned her upon. What has brought you to Myrken Wood? And How did you learn to wield that sword? And it was understood between them, perhaps, that these weren't the real questions at all, but just simple means which might lead to a more troubling end. The true question at the heart of it all might more accurately have been:

Why are you like this?

Or so she'd suspected. Thank the man, then, for questions that are more easily answered. Thank him for evidencing no distaste, on hearing some of those answers: I have no pleasant tales to tell, she'd warned him, and it was true. But this is how the hour has passed: quiet conversation, difficult conversation, and every step weakening her flesh a little further. There is a thin gleam of sweat to her brow, at the half-way point. There is the stubborn, sinking awareness that there will be no opportunity to rest.

[Brother Prime]

Glittering eyes peered from the darkness of the underbrush. Brother Prime had said they would come. Brother Prime was never wrong.

The carnage of the past weeks had not been lost on the Order. First the Flux and then the Sword. Many had died, many offerings lost. The Brothers and Sisters had been scattered to the corners of Myrken to deal with the loss. Strangely, not a single family member of the Order had been harmed in all of this.

Prime had ordered her out to find a sacrifice that would sooth Him, appease Him. He promised her great rewards if she returned with a prize they had coveted for some time.

The two walked slowly, still damaged from their own battle with the Flux. The woman seemed more weak than the man. It would be logical to strike her first, the man was known to be a coward, he would be easier to fall.

Crashing through the underbrush, no need for silence now, Jeziah flew from her hiding place, club raised. The first swing aimed itself for the back of Ariane's head. Should it find its mark, it would no doubt bring the woman to her knees.

A turn of her head, the look of shock, then anger, before the club fell, it took so little effort. Ariane's body crumpling to the dirt before Altias even had time to register what was happening.

Features were obscured by the deep cowl of platinum silk, the club raised again to slash at the governor who foolishly tried to draw a dagger from his pack. The hand was struck first, knocking the dagger to the ground, a quick second strike had him swaying forward, before blood trickled from his nose and he too fell.

Jeziah knelt over the woman first, turning her nose up as she realized only one eye remained. This would not please Him . Her attentions turned to the governor, with his lovely eyes of amethyst. These, these would please Him greatly. The Sister straddled the governor's body, a slim silver dagger drawn from within her cloak.

[N`Ylim Fath`ir]

Jeziah's knife struck downwards, sharp steel angling towards an eye protected only by the soft flesh of an eyelid, and came to an abrupt halt just short of it with a scrape of metal on metal. The dagger skidded leftward on an angle, its tip leaving a shallow cut on Altias Bromn's right temple. A band of curved steel hovered an inch above the governor's face, bisecting his face like a blank, polished visor, the edge bowed towards his hairline showed ripples like frozen flames, misty-white curling into the reflective body of the blade. Jeziah could see herself in it, her own startled eyes caught within it like the offering she'd sought.

And she could see the stern, scar-striped visage of the man just behind her left shoulder.

A powerful grip clamped itself to the column of her neck, and she was lifted bodily from the prone form of Governor Bromn, robes swirling about her legs, the fingers of the man behind her like iron pincers. Then the fingers were gone and she was airborne, flying, robes trailing behind her, a tattered comet's tail marking her short arc through the air before she slammed back to the ground. The man now stood between her and her unconscious prey; tall, angular, long black hair swept back over broad shoulders and falling to his waist. One hand held a short, curved, single-edged blade with a chisel-like point, the empty scabbard for it rode on his left hip, through the belt holding up a skirtlike garment of leather reinforced with heavier overlapping plates. But his face, the horror, it held her gaze like the lidless gaze of a serpent. His cold, steel-grey eyes were surrounded by vertical scars, three above and one below, like the marks of talons, talons that clawed into his harsh face for the soft jelly of his eyes. His eyes had been taken. Taken, and yet he had them still. She had not heard him, not seen him until he'd saved the governor's sight and tore her from her prize. What nightmare was this, this sightless seeing man? Had she failed the Order, failed Him somehow, and now this was her punishment?

N`Ylim Fath`ir, servant of the Hunter of Skulls, sheathed the wakizashii in his right hand with a brief flourish that was more unconscious art than conscious showing-off. "You've troubled friends of mine and my Master, good woman. I trust you have an explanation for your behavior?"

[Brother Prime]

His eyes....it was not possible. One does not lose the eyes and yet have them still. It was blasphemy! Up she came from the place her body had landed so abruptly. There would be time for pain later. Now was the time for the punishment of the blasphemer.

Bird-thin legs pumped quickly against the earth, carrying her toward her prey. The offerings forgotten for a time. The dagger, amazingly still clenched in her bony fist, raised high. The cry of a crazed woman errupting from her throat, shrill and nearly joyful.

"DIIIIIIEEEE!!!"

Shimmering robes trailed behind her as she leapt into the air, the shoulders slipping back revealing crude cuttings in either shoulder. Eyes. Eyes hacked into pale flesh, still fresh it seemed for they shone from the whiteness of her skin like the last reds of the sunset.

Impact was brutal, her entire body slamming into the heretic with all the force her speed and weight would allow. He stood, stone solid, almost as if he had allowed her this far. Legs would wrap around him, one hand gripping his throat. The knife raised, turning down, to take back the eyes that should never have been his.

[N`Ylim Fath`ir]

N`Ylim sighed inwardly. This fanatic would offer no information of value, other than what she all ready had. The eyes carved into her flesh were proof enough, proof of her allegiance to the twisted souls that worshipped the rogue creature that had plagued Myrken in the recent past. The Baie.

Her nearly-emaciated form, although powered by the implacable strength of the religiously insane, might as well have slammed into one of the trees standing nearby. His left hand reached up and caught the wrist of Jeziah's knife hand, almost casually, and twisted. Bone splintered, the knife fell from splayed fingers and her legs unwound from about his waist. N`Ylim slid his left leg back, sliding in the dirt, his right hand reached across, found the hilt of his sword, drew it. There was a sound, bright and clear and sudden over Jeziah's screaming and howling, and then the screaming ceased, a sound of steel parting meat and bone. Her body collapsed backwards, bonelessly, hands clenching and unclenching, digging at the ground. Her head thudded to earth behind it with a heavy thump. Her mad eyes blinked, her pupils dialated, then fixed, as the light went out of them. N`Ylim held the sword out for a moment, then rolled his wrist and flicked blood from the blade before resheathing it. A quick, clean death was all he could offer her, and it was gladly given. N`Ylim Fath`ir turned from the cooling corpse towards the still figures of Governor Bromn and his female companion. Perhaps they could shed more light on the insanity that currently seemed to be gripping Myrken; the insanity that so concerned his Lord.

[Carnath-Emory]

A din of shattering undergrowth. A glitter of crazed eyes. Then the club: her vision had sparked with a single, blinding flash; sickeningly, she'd heard the dull thud of something striking her skull with a particular vigour. And that had been the end of it: she'd crumpled with a last, chilling glimpse of the ragged creature leaping for the Governor.

The schiavona hadn't been even three inches out of its sheath.

Blackest calm was her world for those long moments, and were it not for Fath'ir's intervention, they'd surely not have survived the madwoman's attack. She'd called herself the Governor's guard, long ago; all things considered, the eyeless N'Ylim has done a better job of that than she has. But the clubbing hasn't left her completely witless. As the world falls silent once more, her eye inches open to a thin slit of vision, narrow body kept cautiously still upon the ground. That vision is an uncertain thing, blurred and dizzy, but she can make out this much: a dark figure which has turned upon the Governor's unmoving form, dark and armoured.

Given the circumstances, she might be forgiven for finding little comfort in the sheathing of his blade.

There's a stagger to her, as she pushes herself up from the dusty trail, but her hand is true in its aim: the schiavona's fine hilt is in that palm in an instant, although it takes some struggling to draw it free of the scabbard. There's a tremble to the silk-clad arm, as it lifts that slender blade, but her intent is clear, and she advances two swaying steps, blinking sharply as if that might clear the blur from her eye.

"Away." Her voice is a ruined gasp of sound. "Step away." Pitiful threat, things being what they are. Why, she's even sweating.

It glitters on her skin like silver.

[Altias_Bromn]

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

A steady, soothing rhythm slowly brought him back to the waking world. Behind closed eyes the sound become pain, consisting of the same rhythmic flow. A slow groan, one hand rising to the lump on his head, realizing only then that he was flat on his back, the dirt beneath him hard and cold.

Eyes would slowly open, the world swimming in muted colors. Fear struck through him, just as he became aware of the blood dripping down his face. His thoughts flew to Ariane. Where was she? If he had been struck down it could only mean that she had fallen before him. Nothing, no weakness, no sickness, would have stopped her from trying to save him. She had proven that enough times.

A slow movement, attempt to rise, to find Ariane. The ground spun, as if it would fall away from him and leave him falling into emptiness. Still he pressed forward. Finally rising. Nothing was clear, not even the two figures standing not far from him. One much larger than the other.

"Away. Step Away"

Even through the rasping, broken pattern of the speech, it was Ariane, and she was alive. Though someone much larger than she loomed before her. Ari's sword was drawn, he could see the light catching the blade as it quaked in her hand.

"Sto...op. Do not... hurt her. Ta..ake Me. Take...me...and spa...re her."

[Altias_Bromn]

N`Ylim was unsurprised by this sudden, combined display of aggression and self-sacrifice by Governor Bromn and his companion. They were likely still dazed, possibly both in need of some kind of medical attention; he'd seen the ugly, knotted club they'd been struck with and considered it miraculous they were both still alive at all.

N`Ylim stepped backwards, one step, two, his skin tingling as if in sympathy with the woman's own flesh. He could percieve something protective that seemed woven into her very skin. A somewhat unusual magick, to be sure. N`Ylim was not without his own defenses, but there was no call for them here. He held his hands out, palms up, and slowly sunk to the ground until he sat cross-legged, still with hands empty and extended.

"I mean you and the Governor no harm, my Lady. Your assailant is... ...no longer a threat, but I fear you may need assistance after recieving such vicious blows. I will remain as I am here for as long as you like, but you both should seek the attentions of a healer very soon, I think."

[N`Ylim Fath`ir]

N`Ylim was unsurprised by this sudden, combined display of aggression and self-sacrifice by Governor Bromn and his companion. They were likely still dazed, possibly both in need of some kind of medical attention; he'd seen the ugly, knotted club they'd been struck with and considered it miraculous they were both still alive at all.

N`Ylim stepped backwards, one step, two, his skin tingling as if in sympathy with the woman's own flesh. He could percieve something protective that seemed woven into her very skin. A somewhat unusual magick, to be sure. N`Ylim was not without his own defenses, but there was no call for them here. He held his hands out, palms up, and slowly sunk to the ground until he sat cross-legged, still with hands empty and extended.

"I mean you and the Governor no harm, my Lady. Your assailant is... ...no longer a threat, but I fear you may need assistance after recieving such vicious blows. I will remain as I am here for as long as you like, but you both should seek the attentions of a healer very soon, I think."