#bound by blood | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mumms-the-word · 1 month ago

Text

Bound by Blood - Ch. 6

Ch. 6 - Morrigan

Characters: Alistair, fem!Surana, Zevran, fem!Tabris, and basically the rest of the DAO crew Plot: Seventeen-year-old Nyssa Surana never expected to find herself a Grey Warden - let alone one of three surviving Wardens, one of which is her own cousin, Velle Tabris. She's the last person anyone would ever choose to save the world. Young, inexperienced, deeply anxious, and only just out of the Circle Tower for the first time in a decade, she's convinced she's as unlikely a hero as unlikely heroes come. But someone has to save Ferelden from the Fifth Blight...and keep her cousin out of trouble...and try not to fall in love with the charming Alistair Theirin, all at the same time. Three impossible tasks, but she's determined to succeed, even with the odds stacked against her. A/N: Nyssa finally obtains the darkspawn blood she's supposed to gather, and the team meets a mysterious Witch of the Wilds.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | My Fic Masterlist | Read on AO3

Nyssa slipped out from under Alistair’s hand and stumbled toward some nearby bushes, hoping to disappear around them before she embarrassed herself completely. She managed to duck behind a sparse-looking shrub before she retched, her body heaving despite almost nothing coming up. Her stomach was as hollow as a cave, without even the small breakfast she'd eaten hours ago to lose.

She sank to her knees, panting, trying to force her stomach to settle through sheer force of will. The attempt only made her feel worse. She retched again, eyes watering as her throat and nose burned.

“Oh, charming,” Daveth said nearby.

“Quiet, you,” Jory responded. “We can’t all be so cavalier about these beasts.”

“I don’t see you emptying your guts, ser knight.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Velle snapped. Nyssa heard her coming, stomping through the swamp brush, before she felt her hand on her back. “Hey, it’s okay. Let it out. You’ll feel better.”

Nyssa pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, her skin feverishly hot. The icy cold that still lingered on her palm from that last ice spell was only a small relief. She called more ice magic to her palm and pressed her hand to the back of her neck.

Maker’s breath. She was pathetic.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll…I’ll be okay in a second.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Velle said, rubbing her back. “You were awesome out there. The way you just crushed that guy? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Nyssa’s stomach lurched again and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Velle, please. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay, sorry.”

Beyond the brush, Alistair cleared his throat. “Uh, Jory, Daveth, why don’t you…scout around a bit? Make sure there aren’t any lingering darkspawn waiting to jump us. We can meet up by the bridge in a few minutes.”

Eyes still closed, she heard the two of them drawing away, Daveth muttering something under his breath, and then the sound of armored footsteps coming closer. She sat up and opened her eyes just as Alistair crouched near her, unhooking a flask from his belt and opening it.

“Here.” He offered it to her with a small, friendly smile. “Don’t worry, it’s just water. I’m not trying to trick you or anything.”

After a second's hesitation, she took the flask gratefully, raising it to her lips for a few tentative sips while Alistair fussed with another small pack on his belt. The water didn’t do much to settle her stomach, but it at least washed away some of the acidic taste of bile from her mouth.

“Feeling any better?” Velle asked, kneeling beside her now.

Not really. But she nodded instead. “A little.”

“I have some army rations,” Alistair said, pulling out a small bundle from his pack. He took something like a dry tea biscuit from the bundle and snapped it in half, holding out part of it to her. “It might help, I don’t know.”

“Thank you.” She took the biscuit from him and nibbled on one corner. It was dry and tasteless and almost too hard to bite into, but the thought of eating anything more adventurous than half a stale biscuit seemed like a bad idea anyway. And bite by tiny little bite, it did seem to help.

She cleared her throat gently, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Sorry that I’m so…you know.”

Weak. Ridiculous. Stupid. Slow. Any of those could apply, she supposed.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Velle said. “These things are creepy as hell. And you splattered that one like a bug.”

Nyssa winced. “Not helping.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“She’s right, though,” Alistair said, giving Nyssa the other half of the biscuit as she finished the first half. “No need to be sorry. I remember when I fought my first darkspawn. I screamed like a little girl and nearly fell on my arse trying to stab it. I think it probably died of laughter before I even hit it.”

She couldn’t tell whether his story was true or if he was merely trying to make her feel better, but either way, it helped. She bit her lip to stop a smile from showing. “Did you feel sick afterward?”

“Well, no,” he said, shrugging, “but I did nearly soil my drawers, if that helps.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly but couldn’t help a small laugh. “Maybe a little.”

“Only a little? Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.” He smiled as she giggled again. “Feeling better now?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Alistair.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, standing. “I know what it’s like to be the new guy. Or—I guess you would be the new girl. Girls,” he added, glancing at Velle, who stood and crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow at him. “Point is, I get it. And it does get easier. Fighting darkspawn, I mean. You sort of get used to them.”

Nyssa doubted she would ever get used to fighting darkspawn, but she kept those thoughts to herself as she ate the rest of the biscuit Alistair had given her and stood. She took one last sip of water and then, a little self-conscious, cleaned the mouth of the flask with her sleeve before closing it and handing it back to Alistair. “So what now?”

“Now you collect your vial of darkspawn blood, same as the others.” He reached into a different pack on his belt and produced a small crystal vial with a cork stopper, holding it up for her to see.

“Oh…” Right…she had forgotten that part. She took a deep breath. “Well let’s get that part over with, then.”

Velle put a hand on her shoulder. “Nyssa, I can—”

“No, no. I should do it.” If she couldn’t do this, then what was the point of all the dramatics? Besides, she did feel better now, with a little water and food in her. She nodded, mostly to herself, steeling her nerves. “I can do this.”

She took the vial from Alistair and returned to the path, making her way over to the darkspawn that she had killed with her magic. It was still a gruesome sight, with the darkspawn’s broken body in a mangled heap among the shattered wood and bones. She forced herself to study it, looking for places where blood still flowed freely from its body.

Think scientifically. This is a specimen, like in textbooks. Nothing more, nothing less.

She took a careful breath and crouched beside the debris.

Ugh, Maker, the stench…

She thought she had gotten used to it. They had fought and stepped over the dead bodies of plenty of darkspawn already. But to crouch so close, the pungent scent of wet, rotting decay, and foul, corrupted blood so near her nose, her stomach threatened to rebel all over again. This time, however, she swallowed down the nausea and held the vial beneath a dripping wound on the darkspawn’s arm.

Black, thick blood dripped steadily down into the vial, slowly turning the transparent crystal black, as if she were filling it with pitch or tar. As she watched, waiting for the little flask to fill, the words of one of the army sergeants lingered in her mind, something she had overheard as she was helping the other mages cast protective spells on the soldiers before they headed into the Wilds.

Careful with the darkspawn. Their blood is as black as sin and poisonous. Don’t even touch it. You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

Unbidden, the image of the soldier from that morning came to her mind. The way he writhed on his cot, mumbling feverish, half-mad nonsense, the veins standing out stark and black beneath his skin.

She clenched her teeth together. Why was there no cure? And if there was, why did only the Grey Wardens know about it? Three Wilds flower blooms lay gathered in her bag right this moment, with enough potential to cure a mabari sick from darkspawn blood. Yet for men and women, the blood was a death sentence.

She held up the vial to the light, letting the early afternoon sun try to shine through the crystal. But the blood inside was so black and thick, she might as well have asked the sun to shine through stone.

This small crystal flask now held the thing all the soldiers in Ostagar feared. The thing that had corrupted the soldier in the clinic and caused him days of suffering.

You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

More than the claws or weapons of the darkspawn, more than the chill of the mountain air or wounds from the battle itself, it was this blackened blood that could taint and kill them. This little vial, only half-filled with darkspawn blood, would make the entire army camp quake if they knew she carried it with her.

So much fear, and so much trouble, for such a small measure of blood. And she didn’t even know what she needed it for.

She stood and stoppered the vial closed, careful not to get any of the blood on her hands. Then she slipped it into her bag alongside the Wilds flowers she had collected. Corruption and cure, side by side.

“Now what?” she asked, turning back to Alistair and Velle, who had already wandered over.

“Now we find those treaties that Duncan wants,” Alistair said. “Come on, let’s regroup with the others. The sooner we find the treaties, the sooner we can all return to camp for a bit of downtime.”

Nyssa wasn’t sure if they just had bad luck or if it was normal for nothing to go right for Grey Wardens, but of course, the treaties they were looking for were not in the ruin that Duncan had directed them to.

What waited for them instead was a witch.

“Well, well, what have we here?” a voice crooned nearby. Nyssa turned from where she and the others had gathered around a broken stone chest to see a woman descending the steps of the ruin. Dark-haired and with strange, gold-colored eyes, she smirked at the group of them and crossed her arms loosely in front of her. “Are you vultures, I wonder? Scavengers poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into this darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

Around Nyssa, the others reached for their weapons, either to stand ready or, as Daveth and Velle did, to completely unsheathe their blades, each of them on high alert. But Nyssa only stared. The woman looked to be around the same age as her and Velle, yet she stood with an air of proud confidence that neither of them could match. Her clothing was a patchwork assortment of black-dyed leather, raven feathers, and a worn, purple drape of fabric that barely covered the curve of her pale breasts. Despite that most of her upper body was exposed to the chill of the mountain air, she seemed as unbothered by the cold as she wasby the wary stares and drawn blades directed at her.

Nyssa knew she ought to be wary, but something in the air crackled with energy, something she recognized instantly. Magic.

This girl was a mage. The staff she carried on her back, twisted black wood topped with some kind of curling horn, only confirmed Nyssa’s suspicions. A hedge mage, perhaps. A mage outside of the Circle, certainly.

An apostate.

At their silence, the woman tilted her head. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Velle scoffed. “And who made you lord over these wilds, huh?”

The girl arched an eyebrow, amused. “No one. But I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair muttered under his breath. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The girl laughed. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair’s frown switched easily into a dry-humored expression. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Swooping is bad.”

“Stop talking to her,” Daveth hissed. For once in their entire adventure out in these swamps, he looked nervous, even scared. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She’ll turn us into toads!”

“Quiet, Daveth,” Jory whispered back. “Don’t give her any ideas.”

…toads? Nyssa tried to ignore a flicker of annoyance. Was that all people thought about when it came to magic? That it could turn people into frogs and toads? They had bigger things to worry about, if this girl truly was a Witch of the Wilds.

Nyssa had read a few stories of them in the Circle library. Stories of women practicing dark magics in far away corners of the world, swamps and forests to the north and south, from as distant as the jungle marshes of Rivain to the tangled forests of the Arbor Wilds in Orlais. They were either myth and legend, women selling their souls to demons in exchange for extended lifespans or more magical power, or they were simply hedge witches, apostates who were more danger to local villagers than power-hungry abominations.

It was hard to say which narrative fit this girl. She didn’t seem to align with anything Nyssa knew about these supposed witches.

“Witch of the Wilds,” the girl repeated slowly, sounding amused. “Such idle fancies you have, to believe such tales.”

Her gold-eyed gaze swept over to Nyssa and lingered. She uncrossed her arms and gestured to her, as if beckoning her to speak. “You there. You have not spoken yet, and elves do not frighten like these little boys do. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

The weight and attention of four other gazes suddenly settled on Nyssa, watching her. She knew she ought to be wary, even frightened of this girl, but instead, she was simply curious. The aura of her magic was unlike anything Nyssa had felt in the Circle. The girl carried fragments of wild, untamed magic about her, as though she’d never cleansed her staff or her clothing of residual energies even once in her entire life. It was so different than magic in the Circle, where the Templars were constantly doing mana cleanses and dispelling lingering magical effects whenever possible.

Something within her was drawn in like a magnet to steel, like a moth to a flame, even as another part of her whispered that she ought to be wary. This girl was an apostate, a rogue mage separated from both Circle and Chantry. The priests and Templars would call her a maleficar merely for existing and practicing unregulated magic. She was everything the Circle and the Templars had taught Nyssa to avoid. She was dangerous.

Yet Nyssa was not afraid.

“Nyssa,” she answered the girl. “My name is Nyssa Surana.”

The girl smiled, as if pleased. “You may call me Morrigan. And if you wish to retrieve what was so poorly hidden in that chest there, then I suggest you follow me. I can take you to the one who currently has them.”

“It’s a trap,” Daveth hissed, at the same time that Jory said, “I dislike this. We cannot trust her.”

“Who has them?” Nyssa asked, ignoring them.

“My mother,” was Morrigan’s mild reply.

Alistair scoffed. “Your mother?”

She cut her eyes toward him with open disdain. “Yes, my mother. Did you assume I spawned from a log?”

“A thieving, weird-talking log, perhaps,” Alistair muttered.

“Why does she have them?” Nyssa asked. They needed to stay on track. And, she had to admit, she wanted to know. How did Grey Warden treaties end up in the hands of a young apostate and her mother living out in the Wilds?

Morrigan shrugged. “I know not, but you may ask her yourself, if you please. I daresay she is curious enough about you to indulge you.”

The others shifted uncertainly. No one seemed eager to make a decision. Not even Alistair, who had more or less been leading their group around from place to place. Morrigan’s offer to take them to her mother still stood, however.

Velle stepped closer to Nyssa, lowering her voice to a near-silent murmur. “She’s weird, but I don’t think she’s trying to trick us. What do you think? Do you believe her?”

Nyssa considered for a moment before nodding. They didn’t have much of a choice if Morrigan’s mother had the treaties they needed. They had to get them back somehow. And if this was a trap, why would Morrigan lure them away to a different location? This ruin was secluded, and she was a mage. It wouldn’t take much for her to cast a spell to incapacitate them all and then call for others to kill them, if that was her plan.

Perhaps she was just being naive. But she believed that Morrigan was telling the truth about where the treaties were. Even so…

“Do you promise that you will do no harm to us while we retrieve those treaties?” Nyssa asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair shoot her a look, eyebrows raised, but she kept her eyes trained on Morrigan. She wasn’t expecting much of a promise, but maybe it would soothe the others’ nervousness to hear the “witch” agree.

If she agreed.

Morrigan smirked, amusement glittering in her strange-colored eyes. “Of course. You have stirred my curiosity, so you have my promise. Does that suffice?” She flicked her gaze to the others.

Daveth grumbled something under his breath, but there were no open complaints. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of response, Morrigan stepped over to a path, little more than a thin worn line through the swamps, and beckoned to them all.

“Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”

The five of them were relatively quiet as they followed Morrigan through the swamps. She was a sure-footed among the wetlands, navigating with ease down paths Nyssa couldn’t see even when she was walking along them. The rest of them crashed clumsily along behind her, with Nyssa once more at the back, quietly pondering the mystery that was this Morrigan of the Wilds.

Who was she? What was she doing out here in the Korcari Wilds? What was her mother like? More importantly, was Morrigan just a simple hedge mage, a relatively harmless sort of apostate, or were there darker things at play here?

Of course, Nyssa had answers to exactly none of these questions by the time they reached Morrigan’s mother. But she pondered them nonetheless.

The moment they stepped into the clearing where Morrigan’s home stood in the distance, the air shifted around them. None of the others seemed to notice, trudging along behind Morrigan, but Nyssa paused at the edge of the clearing.

Strange…the air felt thinner here, in a way that she had only felt in Kinloch Hold or at the main camp at Ostagar. Not colder, but as though the barrier between this world and the Fade, the Veil, was worn thin by time and magic. Curious, she called magic to her hand, drawing on the energies of the Fade. The energy came easily to her, dancing across her fingers with green and blue light, more easily than in the midst of the Wilds where it had taken more concentration to shape magical energy into spells.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. Perhaps this place was simply old. She frowned, but dispelled the magical energy with a quick wave of her hand, then hurried to catch up to the others as they moved toward the building in the clearing and the woman who stood outside.

Morrigan’s mother, she presumed.

She waited outside of a hut that looked as though it had been patched together two centuries ago and was only standing now through sheer force of will. Around the hut, more ruins lay crumbling, half-sunken in marshy pools, the stones bleached white by ages in the sun. It was difficult to say what was older, the ruins or the hut…or to which era Morrigan’s mother belonged.

She stood, arms folded, watching them approach as though they were late to an event she was hosting. Like her daughter, her eyes were a strange gold color, dimmed slightly by age, but there, much of the similarity ended. Whereas Morrigan was dark-haired, pale, and youthful, her features accentuated by the dark stain she had added to her lips and her eyes, her mother was wizened, her nose slightly crooked, her gray hair rough-cut and swept back out of her face. She narrowed her eyes at them as they drew nearer.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan said breezily. “I bring before you five Grey Wardens who—”

Her mother cut in with a brusque, “I see them, girl.” She tapped her chin as she studied them, her eyes trailing slowly from one person to the next. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” she said, a cynical smile suddenly on her lips. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool.”

Nyssa and Velle glanced at one another. What? Velle mouthed. Nyssa could only shrug.

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth said, his voice low and urgent. He looked even more nervous now than he had been before. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Jory elbowed him hard in the side. “Quiet, Daveth! If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

The old woman chuckled. “There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will about me.”

Jory’s eyebrows drew together at the woman’s strange proclamation. Daveth, meanwhile, tightened his grip on the hilts of his daggers, which he kept unsheathed but at his sides. Alistair continued to look wary, but not necessarily threatened. It was difficult to tell what was going on in his mind, beyond the obvious distrust he harbored for both of the women before them.

But the old woman didn’t wait to hear what the men thought. She turned and appraised Velle and Nyssa with interest.

“But what about the two of you?” she asked. “Do your elven minds offer any insight? A different perspective for what you believe?”

Velle took a step back and shook her head. “I think you’re both crazy,” she said, pointing to the woman and Morrigan. “A pair of batty shems having too much fun with mud and magic. Leave me out of this.”

The woman snorted. “Is that all? And you?” she asked, her gaze now on Nyssa. “Is that also what you think?”

A whisper of warning brushed featherlight against her mind. It was a simple question, asked without a hint of serious weight in its tone, yet it felt like a trap. Or perhaps a test. Something in this old woman was familiar, her gaze too sharp for someone who pretended to be merely a madwoman, even a mad mage woman.

A chill worked its way down Nyssa’s spine as she realized what was so familiar about her. Her stare, the coy smirk on her lips, the stillness with which she waited for Nyssa’s answer—it was as though she was facing the pride demon she’d encountered during her Harrowing all over again.

Keep your wits about you, mage, he had whispered to her. True tests never end.

Just who was this woman?

Outwardly, she appeared little more than an old woman in patchwork clothing. Yet Nyssa couldn’t deny what she felt when they had first approached the hut. It went beyond the Veil being thin in this place. Something about this old woman herself suggested magic, older and deeper than anything Nyssa had encountered in the Circle, as though she herself carried ancient magic within her rather than drawing it from the Fade.

Maleficar. Demon. Abomination. The words came easily to mind, bringing with them a nervous trepidation that sank like a stone in Nyssa’s stomach. But she didn’t know whether any of those labels were necessarily true or accurate. The old woman seemed all of those things and none of them at the same time.

Whatever she was, it must be something very old, very powerful, and very dangerous. Morrigan was a curiosity. Her mother, however, was something unknowable.

“I…I don’t know what to believe,” she said at last. “Yet.”

The woman broke into a crackling laugh like a crow’s cackle. “A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies! An open mind, not yet made of mush. Or am I merely complimenting you? We shall see.”

She tilted her head and tapped her chin, examining Nyssa, then Velle, then Alistair, and back to Nyssa with narrowed eyes and a cat-like smile. “Hmm, yes. So much about you three is uncertain, and yet…I believe.” She paused briefly and then, as if to herself, or to someone within herself, “Do I? Why—it seems I do!”

“Wow,” Alistair said. “So this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds, huh?”

And just like that, Morrigan’s mother was back to being a strange, slightly batty old woman. Another laugh cackled from her throat. “Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances—”

“Mother,” Morrigan cut her off. “They did not come for your wild tales.”

“Ah, true, true. They came for their treaties, yes?” She turned and retrieved several scrolls from within the satchel at her waist. They were smaller than Nyssa expected, curled tightly around smooth wooden rollers, wrapped with thin leather coverings to protect the parchment, and tied closed with cords. She handed these to Alistair. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal protecting them wore off long ago. I have protected them since then.”

Alistair blinked, staring down at the scrolls he now cradled in his hands. “You—protected them?”

“And why not,” she said, shrugging. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

Again that lingering feeling of this woman being more than she appeared—a demon, an abomination, a maleficar—needled Nyssa’s mind. One moment she was rambling nonsense, and the next she seemed to predict the future. Maybe it was all nonsense, but…it made Nyssa nervous, nonetheless.

“How…do you know all this?” she asked.

Another mysterious smile crossed the old woman’s lips. “Do I? Perhaps I am simply an old woman with a penchant for moldy parchments.”

Nyssa very much doubted that, but she kept silent. The woman merely chuckled.

“Oh, do not mind me,” she said. “You have what you came for. Morrigan?”

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, very well. Come with me then, and I shall return you to your camp.”

As the others turned to follow after her, Nyssa lingered, hesitant. “Thank you,” she said, directing her words to the old woman. It seemed like the polite thing to say.

But the woman merely arched an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. “Do not thank me yet, girl. We will see one another again soon, perhaps. Then you may think about whether you wish to thank me.”

With those words serving as her farewell, the woman turned away and returned to the hut. Nyssa swallowed the questions burning on her tongue and hurried to catch up to the others before she got left behind. Morrigan and her mother puzzled her, but she had no desire to linger any longer than she had to.

#yeah I'm still writing this lol #might as well #dragon age #dragon age origins #dao #my fic #bound by blood #da fic #dao fic #alistair theirin #my warden #nyssa surana

7 notes · View notes

chkwritings · 1 month ago

Text

Bound By Blood - Prologue

January 17th, 2019

New York City

The snow, coating the city in a soft blanket, does little to quiet the bustle of the people living their lives. As overloaded as New York is, the city is at peace this evening. A man braves the biting winter winds, calling out at potential customers walking by in hopes of attracting business. People scurry by, fighting the cold by trying to get to their destinations in typical New York fashion.

Above the oblivious people below, the bright grey sky turns a sickly stain of red. A few of the more conscious people begin to notice the worrying change taking place. Still, most of those people on the streets ignore the murmur of panic slowly creeping through the crowds. That is until the first tremor jostles the streets. No more than a passing thought of a possible subway accident or collapsed tunnel would. The second tremor is not as kind as it rears its ugly head, seemingly determined to have people notice it. The violent convulsions cause people to lose their balance and crash into each other and surrounding objects.

The confusion that once was a quiet mumbling is now becoming outright hysteria as people take notice of the ominous black clouds covering the molten-red sky. The tremors hit harder, coming in waves, each faster than the one before, causing cracks to rupture in the streets. Buildings groan from the stress of attempting to stay upright. Lightning tinged a toxic shade of purple rips through the sky above pursued by a deafening clap of thunder. Screams echo between the crumbling buildings and the sickening crunch of the ground. The wailing screams are ultimately muted by the continuous roars of thunder.

A young woman is thrown onto her hands and knees, causing little beads of blood to spill from the scraps on her skin. She wheezes to catch her breath; as panic bubbles from her stomach lodging itself in her throat. The soft snow did nothing to cushion her impact. She tears up, in part from the fear and from the pain in her hands and knees. Her vision blurs as the hot tears fall from her frozen face, melting the snow as they land.

Plip. Plip. Plip. Plip.

She sucks in a breath as she notices one of the teardrops is .... Red? Did she hit her head on the ground when she fell and did not notice it until now? She gingerly lifts her gloved hand to her face, scared of what she might touch until she sees a second red teardrop, then a third, then a fourth.

She looks up, as people scream and shove pass her, some cursing her as they trip over her.

"You dumb bitch, why are you laying right there?!," a pudgy man screams at her while he scrambles back up and blends into the running crowd. The woman's eyes widen as she takes in the dark rain, falling from the sky. Sparse drops hit the ground surrounding her, dying the landscape red. Quickly, the rain comes down harder, nearly blinding her but she does not look away. She cannot look away as a streak of lightning rips a hole through the sky. Petrified, the woman stares at the pulsating hole, fear wrapping its icy cold hands around her throat. The sounds of panic are drowned out by the pounding of blood in her ears. Her body shakes from her shallow breaths, hot tears pouring from her eyes, blending in with the bloody rain drenching her. That is until the first hand reaches out of the hole.

The hand is quickly followed by another hand, then quickly more hands reach out from all over the hole. Shadowy limbs trail behind the hands, giving way to bodies. The first shadowy figure to fully emerge seemingly looks around at the chaos underneath. Until its focus seems to fall solely on the woman, still on the ground. The humanoid shadow has no discernible features at this distance, but she can feel its eyes locked onto hers. The figure jumps, falling right towards her.

Finally fighting its way out since this horror show started, a scream ripped through the young woman's throat. Stretching out its hand, the shadowy figure seems to offer the woman help. Alarm bells scream inside her head as every instinct screams at her, telling her not to touch it, to run away as fast as she can. She glances up at tear in the sky, more shadows, both human and animal, descend into the hellish chaos erupting on the ground. Her eyes quickly dart back to the creature in front of her. It is cautiously moving towards her, like a predator stalking its prey. Any wrong move, and the prey will get startled and run.

Panics claws wrap tightly around her throat, choking any sob trying to escape her lips. A subtle hissing noise comes from the shadow as it encroaches on her, the blood evaporating at its touch. Instinctual fear jumpstarts her body, forcing her to scurry back on all fours while keeping her eyes on the figure. Curious, the shadow stops and cock its head to the side, staring down at the woman. This action alone sends her fear response into overdrive, pushing her limbs to move faster. Scrambling, the woman tries standing, still facing off with the beast in front of her.

Even though the shadow has no distinguishable features, the woman felt a wick grin split open on its face. The command to run overrode every other thought she had until this point. If she did not escape, she was going to die. As if on autopilot, she turns, and her body broke out into a sprint. Frigid air burns her lungs and stings her open wounds. Her feet slip on patches of ice, but she remains upright, running with all of her strength. She hears nothing but her heavy breathing and footsteps. Nothing else indicts she is still being chased, but she refuses to turn around.

Deep down, she knows if she slows down or loses focus even a little bit, she won't make it. A swarm of people rush past her, panic and fear weighing down the air around them. Taking her chance, she dives into the crowd, hoping to melt in with them. Using their momentum, she spins around and runs in the same direction. The plan is to use the bodies around her as a shield, protecting her from being a target. If this was any other day, she would be disgusted with herself for being so willing to use other people as a living shield. Not today. Today was about making sure she lived, even at the cost of others.

Warmth from running and the bodies pressing in around her made her feel like she was starting to overheat. Sweat dripped down her face, chest, and back, making the inside of her jacket feel like a sauna. Pants rapidly turn to gasps as she moves with the swarm. Screams ring out around her as the crowd splits down the middle. People swerve to avoid a body laying face down in the snow, crushed and covered in blood. She sees the body too late, tripping over it and landing directly on top of it with a thud. No one from the crowd stops to help her, just as content to use her as bait as she was of them.

Slipping on the cooling blood, she fumbles trying the stand to no avail. Determined to live, she crawls on her stomach to hide behind an overturned food cart. Shrinking herself as much as possible, she cowers underneath the umbrella which provides enough coverage to hide her. Barely hidden, she catches her breath, each inhale sending searing pain through her lungs and chest. Deafened by the blood pounding in her ears, she almost does not hear the hissing noise coming from the body.

Spurred on by morbid curiosity, she peeks out from behind her cover. Her blood freezes in her veins as a shadow figure leans over the body. The blood surrounding it evaporates, seemingly being sucked into the figure. Every fiber in her being was entirely sure that it was the same figure that landed in front of her. So sure, she would have bet money on it, if she was a gambling person. She sits in horror as the scene unfold in front of her. The shadowy figure became less transparent as the seconds tick by, looking more and more human.

The seconds passing by feel like an eternity until the shadowy figure morphs into a fully grown man. A naked, fully grown man, but a man none the less. She watches, petrified by fear as the newly formed man strips the body of its clothes. Gentle humming floats through the air, caressing her ears, as the man removes the last of the clothes. Gracefully and with precise movements, he dresses himself. A hum of disappointment escapes him as he tries to smooth out the wrinkled clothes.

Sighing with defeat, the man turns towards the overturned cart hiding the woman. Hurriedly, she darts back fully under her cover, praying the man did not see her. She sits with an absolute stillness, too scared to even breathe. Sounds of approaching footsteps and crunching snow send bile up her throat, into her mouth. She tries not to gag as she swallows the acid back down. Her heart is hammering in her chest so loud; she is sure the man can hear it.

"Now, now little rabbit, how long do you plan to try and hide from me in your burrow?" A silky voice breaks the silence.

A fear so potent, one she could never think to imagine, completely ensnares her. She trembles, as her body's fight or flight response shuts down. This is the end. This is how she dies, in fear, cold, and alone. She closes her eyes and waits for the embrace of death to claim her. Oh god, she hopes it is painless, she has never been good with pain. The sting from her palms and knees, combined with her fear cause tears to leak from her eyes again. Her eyes open as the food cart she was using as cover is lifted into the air above her. Looking up, she locks eyes with the bronzy orange eyes staring back at her.

"Come now little rabbit, there is not need to be scared," the man throws the cart across the street, "I promise not to hurt you if you give me your blood."

"Wh-what?" the woman's voice comes out in a squeak, barely more than a whisper.

"Your blood, dear. If you get it to me, I will not let any harm come to you, from me or otherwise. I won't take a lot from you, I swear," A charming smile spreads across his face. She sucks in a breath as she takes in his face. Earthy brown curls cover his forehead, ever so slightly covering the top of his eyes. His tall nose, and bare face add to his boyish charm. A warmth spreads over her face as she realizes this man was just her type, and she had a weakness for men like this.

"Will it hurt?" she gazes up at him, her voice floaty in the air.

"It will sting a bit, but significantly less that dying, I can ensure you. I am sorry if I scared you little rabbit, I just could not hold myself back. I have wanted to taste you since I saw, so please forgive me," His voice squeezes around her fluttering heart, instantly disarming her.

"Do you promise it won't hurt?" she hesitates before slowing extending her hand towards the man. Her body screams to her to stop, but she ignores it, enchanted by the handsome man before her.

" I promise I will make it as painless as I can. I won't need too much of your blood, so it won't be too bad," His smile is kind and warm as he grabs her hand. A warm tingle itches her palm as the blood on her skin disappears on the man's skin.

"Oh, it really doesn't hurt. You were right," She stares at their hands, mesmerized by what she sees.

"I'm glad you find this part amusing," he chuckles, "This is the part that is going to hurt. I apologize in advance, little rabbit." Searing pain shoots through her hand as blood pours out of the scrapes on her palm. Screams rip out of her throat as the pain becomes blinding, burning her skin. The man grabs her, pulling her face into his chest. Holding her hand in one of his, and brushing her hair with the other, he coos, "Shh, it will be okay. It is almost over. You will be okay. I won't let anything else hurt you after this." He holds her, comforting her as she cries into his chest.

The pain fades, just as quickly as it started. The man lets go of her hand and pulls her fully into his lap, wrapping her in a soothing embrace. Gently he rocks her back and forth, whispering encouraging words into her ear. With tears still trailing down her cheeks, she moves her head to look at her left palm. A garish burn mark is seared into her, bright red flesh surrounds charred markings that decorate the skin in an intricate design.

"What does this mean?" she holds her hand up towards the man's face, looking up at him quizzingly.

"That is my name. It now means that no one else can touch you or claim you. You are mine, and mine alone." He simply states.

"Oh." She was her only reply. Still curled up in his arms, she thinks of more questions. "What would have happened if someone else did this to me?" He stiffens at the question.

"I doubt anyone would have been as gentle as me. They would have either taken more blood than needed, or would have simply killed you," his voice is stern while he speaks, "You truly did luck out with me." A shiver of fear runs down her voice as he says this.

"What are you exactly?" She squirms as she asks this, just realizing that even though he looks like it, he was clearly not a human.

"What do you think I am?" He gives an amused smile as she squirms against his tight embrace. Pondering everything she knows; she thinks hard on the question. The thought hits her like a train. Years of religious schooling and church rush to the forefront of her thoughts, freezing her in place.

"You're a demon," her voice comes out robotic, slightly trembling. A smile cuts across the mans face, turning his boyish features demonic.

"If that is what you think I am, then so be it. But remember little rabbit, you now belong to this demon." He laughs.

Fear surges forward once again as she looked at her branded palm. His warped laughter echoes through the city as she thinks.

Oh god, what have I done?

#authors #prologue #indie author #Bound by Blood #writing #fantasy

4 notes · View notes