Seeking Answers (Vala)

[Ulric]

47th of Spring, 511 AV Ulric strode the length of the corridor, heavy boots echoing against the rough stones with grim purpose. He didn’t know whether it was very late at night, or early in the morning. He didn’t care, either. There was no other place for him to go. The truths he sought were jealously guarded, but perhaps he might find some clues concealed in the pages of musty tomes. He suspected the children in the library would not be pleased with his presence, but that was their problem, not his. They could shout as much as they wanted. They could deny him entry, but fact remained that he was coming in whether they liked it or not. He glanced at the gasvik, beckoning the creature to his side. “Desank, we do not desire any untimely interruptions,” he cautioned. “For the time being, you must keep the children away from us. Do what you must. If any of them make too much noise, burn them with their own candles.” Without any eagles to watch the gasvik, he was invisible to the fleshy things that existed here, his strange language and shifting, bluish visage only discerned by his master. “Jsaon abdu qon abd and oanfn qbfo, nadodf bfudu ondb u on adbu bcux oasn.” spoke the gasvik, in a tone somewhere in the midst of confusion and understanding. He was sporting a pair of stubby horns today, yet his face was long and angular, set with tiny, musket-ball eyes. Ulric took the response for accord. The gasvik had been around for over two thousand years, but despite his wealth of knowledge, his kind was meant to serve. “Do your own seeking,” Ulric ordered, his lips curling into a scowl. “You must know what we seek, so you must carry any scrolls you find to me, to see if we can learn anything about ourself, and the one you served. And find the others,” he spoke brusquely. Ulric reached for his knife, taking solace in the solidity of the curving hilt under his fingers. He felt calmer than usual. The slaughter of the wolves was fresh in his mind, but even so, he lusted for more blood. He wanted to pulp faces with his bare hands, or strangle his foes with their own guts. That was no more than they deserved. The shroud of their offenses was choking. There were so many for him to slay, and that wasn’t even counting mortals. The gods would receive the worst of his wrath. With a chuckle, he entered the cavernous library, dark eyes regarding the chamber with a seething disdain. How dare these children hoard the works of their betters. They were savages with delusions of grandeur. They did not see the past, and for that, he would not permit them to have a future. There was a desk in his way, a bulwark of wood that he wished he could have reduced to splinters. He watched the gasvik clear it with a single bound. There was only a woman at the desk, young by the look of her. He hated her already. He strode up to the desk, exulting in the sheer presence of his huge, scarred body, and stared into the depths of her eyes. His face was cold and hard. “We have come for its books,” he growled, not caring enough to specify. The nature of the tomes was his concern. “It must let us through, or we shall get upset.”

[Vala]

Today was like every other day at the Enclave. Quiet, still, and dull - mind numbingly dull. It was almost as if Vala could feel her brain melting out of her skull from boredom. Even her assignment for the day was no different than what she had been dealing with the past season. It didn't take long, not long at all for calligraphic copying of simple texts to get old. Vala gripped the wooden stylus with a loose yet firm grip. Unlike when she had first started, Vala had learned the hard way that by trying to control a pen with a super tight grip was helpful in getting those really tiny and meticulous frills, but it was also a great way to get hand cramps in under five chimes. Looking over her master sheet of all the characters she would need in the font Kirna had chosen for the project, Vala made her first downward stroke. She had pressed too hard into the clay which wasn't too big of a deal since the font was heavy set anyway, but ever the perfectionist, Vala smudged the mark out with her thumb until it was a clean slate again. With the memory of the first stroke still fresh in her mind, Vala tried again, much lighter this time. It came out nearly perfect, just a mite too short, but still easily fixed. The particular character Vala was working on was a six stroke process, not including frills. It took Vala several attempts, and five chimes before she could do each step perfectly. Once she was absolutely sure she wouldn’t make a mistake, she scooted to the stool one over to where her copying station was. Checking the original tome one last time, Vala took two chimes to meticulously compose the character in solid black ink, gilded in glittering gold. Vala smiled at her handiwork before turning to the next page in the original text. It was a simpler character, one with only three strokes, but strokes that required far more dexterity. Scooting back to the other stool with her clay tablet, Vala sighed; she was preparing herself for another two tedious hours of mindless copying… Flicking her wrist, to accentuate the last flourish of the character, Vala looked up with a dead pan stare. A shadow loomed over her work, preventing her from continuing. Who in Mizahar was bothering her now? She didn’t know what came over her. Vala wanted to growl at the man. The best show she could muster was a muted sneer of disgust. She could even smell the brute from over the counter. It was not at all pleasant. Still barely exposed to the whole auristics deal, Vala shivered. Her head whipped around; the hair on her arms and neck rising, skin pricking. She was nowhere near being able to know that the other, hostile being was in her presence, but she was still able to feel unsettled. Gripping her stylus tight, Vala tried not to cringe into herself, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with the man. He didn’t look like a traditional Endal or an Avora. He was obviously an outsider. Other than the expensive, yet dirty, trappings to mark him otherwise, Vala would have presumed him to be a Dek. “I’m sorry sir.” She tried to keep the disdain out of her voice, but it was harder in a different language. She silently gave a prayer of thanks to Val for having her practice Common, even though so many of her race scorned the time wasted learning a language rarely used in their community, when hunting could be done. ”We do not allow weapons in the Enclave. You will have to leave your weapons here, at the desk. Vala gulped, wondering if she really should have been sticking to her principals with the mammoth of a man before her. In any other instance, she would have backed down; her face, and especially her safety, was far more important than books…Blinking away a tear of fear, Vala tried to continue. She allowed herself to ask like a coward, without any of the accompanying shame. ”What caste are you sir?" She asked sweetly, forcing herself to act like she was asking just a regular, casual question to a regular, casual patron, and not to an obvious homicidal killer, especially one that looked like he was ready to rip her head off. Technically Dek were not allowed in the Enclave, but even if he was an Endal by some sick twist of fate, she still would have felt uncomfortable letting him wander the precious stacks full of her city’s hard earned knowledge. Where was Kirna? Vala was so paralyzed by the man’s piercing gaze that she couldn’t look around for her boss. She was afraid if she looked away, he would just pummel her into the ground and leave her bleeding to death. But even through the fear, Vala still felt a spark of defiance. Her culture, her pride, gnawed at her, giving her the worst of survival advice, whispering to her to stand up to the brute. She hated him. She hated the darkness in his eyes. The darkness she sometimes saw reflected in her own. She was sick of backing down to bullies like him. Vala was torn between the need to survive and the need to support her self worth…

[Ulric]

That was the wrong thing to say. Ulric savored the look in her eyes, the spark of defiance that lasted for a long, tense moment before dying. How typical. He stared at a girl, a wretched, sniveling thing that faintly reminded him of specters from his once-future. They were all the same. The swell of soft breasts could not conceal their viperous hearts. These cruel, unfeeling things, these women, would be purged. The right thing to say was nothing. Grinning crookedly, his hand shot over the desk, fingers encircling her slender neck and crushing as though he sought to choke the life from her body. He didn’t care if he broke anything. The only thing he cared about was the look in those blue eyes. They were cold, but he could not plumb their depths. He roughly yanked her over the desk, as though her body was a sack of grain, and threw her upon the ground. He kept his grip on her neck. This one was different, but he didn’t understand why. Taking a quick glance around, and seeing only his gasvik headed for the stacks, he knelt on the girl’s thighs so she wouldn’t flop as would a landed trout. Ha, the bird becomes a fish, he thought with a sneer, unrepentant. He kept his head up, meaning to avoid any clawing fingers, while his grip slackened. Having endured a strangling, he figured scant air was better than none. “It does not speak back a god. It obeys, or it gets punished.” His eyes widened, shining fever-bright. He was excited by this rush of power. His hand began to shake, and his voice was a tremulous whisper, equal parts dark and husky, as though he was speaking to a lover. “It reminds me of her,” he growled, using his other hand to stroke her cheek, then trace the ridge of her brow. He could do whatever he wanted, so long as he didn’t do any harm. The hair, though, he wanted to hack it away, for those flaming tresses were shared by the ones that hurt him so badly. This one would as well, given the chance. He could feel it in his bones. “Such a pretty bird,” he stifled a disquieting giggle. “Such soft, pale skin. So supple, so warm. Why does it look so upset? That sour look, it makes it so very ugly to us,” he laughed again, running his tongue slowly across cracked lips. “Go ahead, give us a smile. The bird must sing ever so sweetly. They sing so very badly when they disappoint us, and we wouldn’t want to do that, now would we?” He drew a finger across her abdomen, showing her exactly what he meant. “Did it know, there isn’t much blood? The guts come out in thick ropes, blue and gray and covered with slime, while the reek of burst bowels is everywhere. That is death, a smear of brown and crimson, though the dying itself takes a long, long time. They seek to cut their throats, but never have the courage. They take up knives, but always miss their black hearts. The only mercy is swift, as so.” He drew a finger under her chin. Ulric did not enjoy having his wishes defied, but this time, for some reason, he didn’t have an urge to beat her face to a pulp. “Now, my sweet morsel, what does it prefer? Birds have clipped wings, and naughty girls get spanked. Both sing sweetly enough. But there is a third choice. To sing, and smile, and be pretty. That is what good girls do. That is what it could do, but we are thinking it is not a good girl. There is a dirty secret in its eyes, eluding us. Does it spread its legs for the unworthy? Does it bear than mark of a god? There are ways of find out, but the bird will not enjoy them.” He giggled again, easing the hold on her neck so she could speak. “There is another choice, but how sweetly would the bird sing for power?”

[Vala]

Before he reached over she saw a gleam in his cold eyes, just a second too late. Her lithe hands reached up to claw him off her, only stopping, falling limp at her sides once she hit the ground. He was smart to kneel on her thighs, to prevent her from moving. It had been so long since she had been abused so, doing all in her power to avoid situations like this. And now, to be so brutally attacked in the one place she believed herself to be truly safe, always surrounded by her constant, silent companions, well, it was just absolutely crushing. She didn’t even bother trying to pry him off her now. He was giving her enough room to breathe; she was in danger of passing out, but not death, no yet. She unballed her fists, trying to conserve her waning strength. The fear pulsing, racing through her veins gave her unprecedented mental clarity. As the stench emanating from his body, so closely pressed to her, faded from her thoughts, his visage was gradually replaced by the haggard Reimancer who had assaulted her all those many years ago. It was hard to listen to him as her blood pumped desperately in her ears. It was even harder as he spoke in Common, just barely understanding god. Though she couldn’t help but believe she had misheard him. He couldn’t be a god. That was impossible. He was human just like her. No god would debase himself to such a weak form. No god would be asking for books at a library, especially the dinky one at Wind Reach. There was no doubt about it. He was bat shit insane. He didn’t possess that, Vala couldn’t think of a proper word, but he didn’t possess the same quality she felt from magic users. What she did feel from him was what she innately sensed from those who had received blessed gnosis, but it was different in him, stronger yet more fragmented. She tried not to flinch, forcing herself to face him as he stroked her cheek, his voice almost seductive in its unhurried cruelty. Vala almost scoffed, she would have if she had the air, at the realization they shared something in common – they both reminded each other of someone. Vala’s cold heart wished with all its might that his memory brought him as much pain, if not more, than what she felt from hers. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought she at least had that small power over him. It was only passing, as she wiped it from her face, as not to seem impudent and get choked out faster. She was strong, but now was not the time to challenge him. His touch made her gag. She could feel bitter bile threatening to rise up from her churning stomach. She couldn’t let it. In her supine, vulnerable position, it was her own body that was threatening to kill her off even before Ulric could. Pushing against the emotional pain he was inflicting upon her, she focused on the physical pain. His words also served as another distraction, as she tried to decipher their obscure meaning. She was no one’s pretty bird, but he was definitely his prisoner. Vala was proud, but before that, she was practical. She had survived quite a few close calls in her life, always managing to get away with her body mostly intact, her mind probably taking most of the beatings. There was no way she was going to allow herself to succumb to the dirty maniac before her. She would fight for survival, even if that meant fighting against her self worth. Dignity means nothing in death. Still unsure of what he wanted, her mind growing too hazy to comprehend his common, Vala could only understand that he wanted her to show submissiveness. If that was all that he wanted from her, by goddess she would give it to him. Her already wide eyes, dilated further, watering until they glistened in the dim light. She smiled, curving her the ends of her supple pink lips up, pushing through the pain and lightheadedness, until her cheeks puffed as only a youth’s could. Unfortunately her childish mask was ruined by her rosy color fast draining, only to be replaced by a ghastly sallow tone. She was trying to appear as innocent and meek as possible, hoping that would appease him long enough until her supervisor or at least another patron caught this probably illegal act. Her sharp nails grated against the cold stone floor as she suddenly remembered she had never caught his caste – if he was an Avora or Endal than this was perfectly legal, and would only be frowned upon due to his choice of location. Vala shivered as a cold wave ran down the length of her spine, her fragile, bird like chest beginning to heave from her desperate and shallow breaths.

[Ulric]

Ulric didn’t bother to conceal his disdain. He stared into those eyes, perplexed by what he saw in them. The curves of her body were soft under his hands, but he hadn’t thrown a woman to the ground. Not truly. He was tormenting a child. He shut his eyes, and suddenly he was back in the cellar, his left leg a mess of torn flesh and crushed bones, watching the torturers work on the red, pulpy thing dangling from a meat hook. He felt rough fingers prying his eyes open, the man’s breath warm and moist on the back of his neck, rope chafing his wrists. And the music… it was everywhere. He opened his eyes. The rapturous strains began to fade in the back of his mind, faint echoes of what might have come to pass. They wanted him. No, not him. Never him. They wanted his power, but he would not give it to them. He’d escaped for now, and later, perhaps hundreds if years from this moment, he would come for them. And yet, how did you slay a god? There was no balance. They were drunk on power, intervening not when needed, but simply because they could. How many more would die? Krysus lusted for murder, and Vayt for the spread of pestilence. Rhysol only wished to sow discord. Ivak was the worst, for his wrath knew no bounds. They meant to destroy the world. Ulric wouldn’t let that happen. He dared stand up to them so that he might end suffering forever, and restore harmony to the world. And for that, they wanted him dead. Not only the gods, but men as well. They did not want harmony. They only wanted power, and for that, they would perish. As he stared at the girl, he prayed it was not too late for her to change her ways. The righteous path beckoned. “What, does it fear for the treasure between its legs?” Ulric gave a hoarse laugh. “As if we’d ever let such a bauble tempt us.” He let his hands slip from her throat, yet didn’t bother to get off her thighs. Truth be told, they were rather comfortable. “Does it see the chains? We could wring its neck, or take our pleasure, but we do not. We can do many things simply because we are stronger, but that does not make them right. There are many takers in this world, but givers? They are few.” “Udaon adbf asb aodfn, adbfa Eywaat, aeinfn adnfn dabf adfnd. Odnfin wwen annda fadunfndo.” The gasvik sprang onto the desk, casting a disapproving glance at the girl. Ulric scowled. “Eywaat? Who cares about Eywaat? he snarled. “See if they have anything on Vayt. And try to keep the others away from her, eh? Upset a few shelves. Knock over a brazier. Just don’t do any lasting damage.” “Yasnd adonf audbfda.” Desank gave a curt nod, then sprang over the desk again. Ulric heaved a sigh. This was a waste. And yet, what about these eyes? He did not understand what he saw, yet he knew that was not like the others. Her pain was palpable. Is she a broken thing? he wondered, finally accepting that she was a person, not merely a wicked thing whose dying would hasten the return of harmony. “They have hurt you,” he whispered sadly, drawing his knife. He set it gently between her breasts, handle pointed at her chin, then cocked his head and waited. The choice was entirely hers.

[Vala]

A knife? A knife! Vala’s breath hitched in her throat. It was one thing to be throttled, but a knife… those things scared. And if he hadn’t killed her yet, well that could only mean one thing: he wanted to play with her. She knew people like that. She was one of them - the ones that played with their prey. She never killed: that would be a waste, no, she made sure the Dek suffered in other ways. Now that she was facing the pointy end, tears began to well up at the corner of her eyes. Her façade began to fall apart. She was too young, too pretty, for this. She didn’t deserve this. She looked up at him, cool blue eyes rimmed by angry red veins. She opened her mouth to beg, to shamefully plead for mercy from the man who still had her pinned. Nothing came out. Her voice was paralyzed, leaving her powerless. Even her arms lay limp, as heavy as lead weights. She shut her eyes, trying to close herself off to the pain and fear, embodied in the man looming above her. One tear dripped, running down the side of her temple, to the cold hard ground. She abruptly faded out of consciousness. Still as a corpse, her breathing stopped for a chime. She was jolted back into consciousness when she heard a crashing, followed by yelling. Her chest heaved, air rushing back into her lungs, upsetting the knife balanced on her breast. The blade was sharp, just nicking her flesh. A drop of ruby red life welled up. Vala looked down, her face stony. The pain and fear had dissipated, replaced by… nothing. Ulric had pushed her to the threshold, nudging her just over the edge. She was not at peace; she was empty. Her mind sang with numbing clarity. She would not die. Not now. Not ever. Her right hand shot up. In one swift motion she wrapped her lithe fingers around the body warm handle, and tried to stab Ulric in the throat…

[Ulric]

Ulric could’ve jerked away from the knife. He could’ve caught her wrist, shattered it like kindling in his hands. And yet, he didn’t even try to move away. He gave a slight twitch, allowing the point to scrape upon his sternum, carving a furrow through the taut, banded muscles of his chest. The pain… was only pain. He wrung the knife from her hand, hearing it clatter to the ground behind his back, and stared into her eyes. “Good,” he said with a grin. “You are learning.” The warm blood trickled down his chest, puddling in the hollow. Hands fumbled with the laces of his tunic, yanking the faded garment over his head. He let his fingers slide through the skeins of crimson, daubing his entire chest. However, that didn’t conceal his scars. They were everywhere, a chaos of sinuous streaks that wended their way across his belly, his chest, his shoulders and bulging arms. Some were old and faded, others puckered and purple. His upper chest was a hedge of scarified tissue, with two nipples poking from bare patches of flesh. The scars were like chains. They formed a cracked pattern, squares and oblong shapes often bearing the wraiths of older wounds, which marred whatever beauty he’d once had. Around his neck, there was a faint crease where they’d sought to cut his throat. Ulric stared into the girl’s eyes, unperturbed by crimson that spread to his trousers, and onto the warm body on the ground. His own eyes glinted. If she looked closely, they would reveal profound regret and a depth of sorrow, scantly masked by a smoldering rage. “We wanted to be a fisherman,” he mumbled, “But they came with their swords, and they came with our axes, and they wouldn’t leave us in peace. And then, when we were so close to being with our lady love, they forced us to murder her – with that knife.” He bowed his head as a solitary tear leapt unbidden to his cheek. “This would be our justice, but we must first mend the world, and do what he cannot. Now, we only seek to destroy the gods that burden us with such malice.” He regarded her curiously. “To destroy malice, you must know its face. To save yourself, you must fight.” "Why does the bird not sing, and dream its way through life? It would be safer."

[Vala]

Vala missed. She frowned at her failure. It didn't even faze him. She didn't bother fighting as he wrenched the knife from her hands. The sharp echo of the metal against the stone rang in her ears, almost musically. She let her hand drop back to her side as she awaited the fate he would doll out upon her. If he didn't kill her from that, she didn't know what would incite him. At least the knife was gone she thought. And he had stopped trying to hurt her, well physically that is. She wasn't sure if pinning her down and baring his gag worthy mess of a chest counted as emotional torture. Maybe it was part of his 'lesson', or whatever sick plot he was trying to get her to 'learn'. Vala threw up a few more mental guards, trying to prepare herself for whatever sick business he had in store for her. She wouldn't let him win. Her tongue slipped from her lips, only to taste the metallic blood that had sprayed onto her from his stabbing. She looked him in the eye as she lapped up the wine dark blood. Vala fought the urge to let her eyes travel down from his grinning face to the mutilated flesh of his chest. The sight disgusted her, but not nearly as much as the proximity. By now her sensitive nose had grown numb to his invading, musky smell - the scent of a man. In a society that lauded physical perfection, youth and beauty, the man embodied everything that she had grown to hate with unquestioning passion. It didn't take long before the clarity of her empty soul began to swirl, cloud with hate. Her mind tinted red with thoughts of cruelty. Misplaced thoughts of righteous superiority fueled her with imprudent confidence. Her cold eyes burned with blue fire. He adjusted his stance; her gaze flitted down before she could stop herself, catching sight of a horrible scar straight across his neck. There was no fear in her eyes, yet she still unconsciously reached for her own neck with her left hand. The faint, pink line right above her collarbone was almost completely invisible, yet the shadow of the memory still occasionally haunted her many nightmares. Her red rimmed calm quavered with the thought they shared more in common... He was a brute. She was a productive member of society. The blood was really starting to drip down his chest, wetting his clothes and hers. Vala's mind took a moment to cloud with thoughts of annoyance - she didn't have another pair of clothes if he ruined these. She was brought back when he started talking again. She looked away from the trail of blood, focusing on his face. While her common was not quite yet fluent, his basic sentence structure was easy enough to follow. It was hard for her to see, the edges of her vision blurring as if the world was in vignette. With what will she had, she mustered the energy to pay attention to as many facial cues as she could. Her mind screamed in pretentious rage at his improper use of the word We. Even with Common as a second language, she still knew that he was using improper grammar, or so she thought, in her ignorance of the other being in Ulric's life. But while she was already resigned to classifying Ulric as a brute, she had enough presence of mind to know he was not stupid. The rage building behind his piercing gaze was enough to make her look away to his lips. She let herself get lost in the waves of gray in his rough beard; facial hair was rarer for men in her culture. He truly was a broken man; Vala's gaze flinched at the sight of his off set nose. Vala's brows furrowed when in the midst of his life story, the stoic wall of a man, shed a tear. Her eyes followed the glistening droplet as it made its way down his cheek, only to be lost in the hairs of his heavy beard. She squirmed, for the first time in her supine state, when he mentioned the pain that made him the way he was. Too much. Vala was hearing too much. She didn't want to hear anymore. Her hands twitched, itching to clamp her ears shut. She forced herself not to let the weakness overwhelm her. He spoke of destroying gods... that was not their place! She was still too weak. To weak to fight back... not yet... no... she would bide her time. She was still too weak. Vala was so weak. Something welled up in her throat, writhing up until it burst from her lips, like poison. It was her curiosity, almost childish in its simple naivety. Her voice was scratchy, her throat raw, but she managed to ask without hate or pain lacing her words. "What do you mean? What bird? Am I the bird?" OOC : Vala was caught torturing a Dek last winter. An Endal tried to teach her a lesson, accidentally cutting her neck. The cut should be barely visible.