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benmiff · 7 years ago

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The Flame And The Worm - Part One

This one turned into working out as a three parter as I wrote. (Parts two and three are still being written.)

The Flame And The Worm - Part One

Celine

It had been a particularly warm summer, and the fashion amongst those in the know had shifted to demand lighter fabrics and airy ensembles; weighty furs were only being seen as light trims or bags and hats, much to the chagrin of those families bearing such heavyset animals as their symbols. Other families, though, were making the very most of things; hose bearing light colours wore them proudly, and the others who catered for enchantments of frost and air embraced the new trends and skyrocketing demand. The markets were bustling as usual with traders arguing the quality of their wares and exasperating servants searching in vain for the latest strange item their master or mistress ‘had to have’ as a result of the latest passing trends. Meanwhile, the harbour was busier than it had ever been, an increase of shipments of myriad shapes and sizes passing through now that the recent blockade of Agliton had concluded with the spectacular burning and ransacking of their main harbour in a clandestine night raid of great risk but now provably greater reward. The increase in industry across the entire dock front meant the days were filled with the harried shouting of salt worn sailors and the scraping of wood and stone as crates were levered off of great cargo barges and ships, and a number of the less resilient nobles had found blatantly transparent excuses to travel to their summer homes further inland in private forests or on sweeping ancestral vistas to get away from it all. For those that remained due to business necessities or lack of means, scented necklaces or finely woven coverings for the nose and mouth were effectively mandatory; those that could afford such things or had the good graces to either receive them as gifts or already possess them as heirlooms elected to use permanent enchantments that gave off fragrances such as fields of innumerable flowers of a dizzying variety all in full bloom despite the impossibility of the them ever sharing the same season or exotic markets piled high with many different pungent spices. Such things were rare and few had them, however, and so most were settling for copious amounts of perfumes despite their steady and ever surging increase in price as supplies repeatedly failed to be fully replenished after sale, the traders and sailors unable to keep up with the constant growth in consumption.

The new trend was certainly a convenient way for me to be able to identify anyone with even the slightest importance (or at least anyone with the slightest wealth, and given how often the two went hand in hand there was not a great difference between the two). I saw many people who seemed familiar enough to my memory that they must have been frequent guests to my neighbourhood each of whom had some scented item or another and who until that point had been another face in the crowd, never revealing they were related to some distant noble family or another. A little light investigation followed as I noted their appearances and names, and in short order (and a few polite chats amongst the tea rooms and boulevards) I had found most were only important enough to be commanding some small token of their station; still, knowing that they existed and had inroads to their families could always prove useful in the future. None of the people of Pelhure could hardly be blamed for the insistent fashion, of course; the harbour stank of tar and decaying produce and a hundred other vile offenses to the nose, and when the wind blew in from the ocean as it did the vast majority of the time the salt it carried with it was not sufficient to mask the stench underneath as it swept over the city and settled into its fabrics and stones.

Despite the new fashion, my business had been relatively quiet for the past couple of weeks. We were not completely without work, of course, but there were no clients demanding that Elena and I work above our usual comfortable capacity in order to fulfil some fabricated emergency or cater to some last minute soiree, and no need to refuse any meetings due to an excessive backlog of far more important people (or those otherwise more dangerous to offend). I had of course had experience of such quiet periods before and was not overly worried as business always picked back up after a month or two and by then I would have a surfeit of new designs and wondrous ensembles to offer; the shifting tides of fashion were always fickle given just how many things they were at the beck and call of, and so one would find your particular specialties out of the current zeitgeist until some event or shift in people’s whimsies sparked them back into vogue. In truth, the calm was proving useful – the surge of interest that I had following the last Winter’s Ball meant that Elena’s apprenticeship had been somewhat neglected in order to satisfy the sheer volume of requests for new dresses and suits and myriad other pretty things (all edged with an appropriate light twist of danger) and so both of us were focused on the work rather than on teaching and the little frequent lessons throughout the day that were our normal style. I had spent the last day guiding Elena as she worked on our latest piece, with the particular difficulty being the sheer amount of translucent and exceptionally delicate lace demanded by the brief; while there were diamond shaped panels of frosted glass edged in silver glitter to blunt the otherwise razor sharp points that were placed strategically to avoid exposing flesh usually reserved for much more private dalliances the dress was still exceptionally scandalous and misjudging the location of any of the panels by even a half inch would take the dress across the line from its current outrageous state into full indecency. (The brief was most certainly one of the more outlandish ones I have had in a while, interesting despite the sheer brazen naivety of it all; the client already has a well-earned reputation for pushing the boundaries of good taste, and her husband has apparently been looking at one of the serving girls in their employ more often and more closely than she would prefer. As such, she was looking to “shock him” back into looking at her and only her that way again without needing to resort to more extreme measures that would no doubt ruin the poor girls’ life if it didn’t end it completely). The dress was almost complete by the time evening had rolled around, there only being the embellishments such as the trim and the light-weaving remaining to do before it would be ready to present. I trusted that Elena could finish it off without me despite only recently learning to enchant things with the light-weaving; I had given her a simple enough personal enchantment kit as a gift recently to commemorate the anniversary of the start of her apprenticeship and she had picked up a good number of the principles with impressive speed. The recent quiet had perhaps set me on edge a little more than I was willing to admit, and I had certain old friends I needed to check in with to settle my fleeting worries who were only readily available during the hours of darkness. (I didn’t have any reason to believe that anything was actually unusual or out of place, but I had been in Pelhure long enough to know that keeping a regular check on current affairs and thus the situation amongst the major houses was wise; no doubt growing up in Mezzabareen had left some lingering influence, some wariness or paranoia that I had brought with me.)

The storehouses lining the harbour were never as busy during the evening; while simple light spells lit up the main streets with a pale blue glare, access alleyways and storage spaces were deep with inky shadow and the various dockworkers, ship hands and sailors were either asleep in whatever berths they rented or were provisioned with or in one of the many pubs and alehouses and brothels that catered to them and their coin (for such establishments were less choosy about which cities’ coin they accepted, unlike many of the classier establishments further into Pelhure). I chose to wear something a lot less conspicuous than my usual styling given that I was heading for less affluent districts of the city, but I could not entirely forego a certain level of appearance and risk being seen in such a basic ensemble; heavy tan trousers with sections of light iron box chain hanging across the waistline in loops and a thin cream loose knit cotton jumper with a high neckline complemented the leather shoulder bag patterned with elaborate tessellations in thick dark thread without screaming of wealth or being an easy opportunity for more desperate or unsavoury elements (be they criminal or otherwise). I still, of course, attracted a few sideway glances from the odd passer-by or lurker in the shadows (and would have been offended if I hadn’t), but I was confident that if anyone was foolish enough to attempt to accost me the chains on my waist would defend me long enough to allow for a retreat to a better lit area where the assailants would be unlikely to follow; a casual observer would not have known to identify the animating magic within them or the curved inch-long moon blades at each end tucked into the fabric of the waistband. I was looking for Mille-Tamlin, who could usually be found at one of the many hidden ports around Pelhure that mostly remained hidden by the grace of vested parties who favoured having such alternatives to the more well-known supply routes; I believed he was working out of Nyssa’s Tower tonight which was an old stone tower on the western edges of the harbour that nearly everyone fastidiously avoiding thanks to its cursed reputation. People said that things spoiled faster near it and that people fell incurably ill thanks to its influence, and there was some truth to the reputation; a plague had started there a few years back with some poor wretch trapped in a barrel after trying to smuggle himself across an ocean only to fall deathly ill during a long journey tormented by violent storms. The had barrel ended up in the tower for storage thanks to the original buyer no longer wanting the shipment thanks to the delays, and the poor fool died there too weak to prize the lid off and escape; such a long and unpleasant death made for a particularly vengeful ghost who spread death and decay for a good few weeks before an expert in such affairs hired by Mille-Tamlin communed with it, settling it down and forging an alliance to keep people away from one of the exits to one of his smuggling tunnels in the process.

I crossed the harbour to Nyssa’s Tower without any trouble as I knew I would, and slipped in through a rent in the stone near the side. The ghost’s presence would not attack as I had met Mille-Tamlin here previously and so it did not see me as an intruder, though I would rather avoid getting too close to it still; it exuded a foul miasma that would go straight through my scented mouth veil and would stain all my clothes permanently with a thick oiliness. The whole area was unlit except for the flickering glow coming from the trapdoor in the back of the room, wide open and behind a large rotting wine rack that had gouged tracks in the floor as it had been dragged forward from its usual position. I crept down, keeping to the shadows cast by the torches on the walls, listening intently to ensure the tunnels were in use by Mille-Tamlin and not some other smuggler that night, and had made my way a good few dozen feet down the tunnel before I found a short blade at my throat. The chains at my waist quivered, ready to lash out in reaction to my surprise before I quelled the instinct, and slowly raised by hands in a gesture of supplication, sure that whoever this was would be able to cut me open before the chains managed a disabling blow.

“Celine? What’re you doing creepin’ around?” said a recognisable voice, the characteristic rasp of a habitual merique stick addict followed by the smell of ash and burnt plant oils on his breath. The blade was withdrawn and firm rough hands grasped me by my shoulders and spun me around, the worn face of Pharlan grinning at me. “Nearly ‘ad yer throat-fountainin’; yer really should’ve let us know aforehand.”

I smiled back, clapping him on the shoulder; Pharlan had been Mille-Tamlin’s second for four years now (and was by far the best of the many seconds I had known at it; previous seconds had lasted less than a year most of the time, the longest I knew about previously managing almost three years before being caught by a coralback shark unloading cargo in some poorly chosen shallows off the coast of Carthon and dying horribly to the concoction of poisons in its spines.) At least some of his success was likely a result of his stature – a heavy set orc, he towered over near everyone else and was the equal of two normal sailors in a fight, but the muscles hid a sharp mind that had an almost empathic relationship with the sea and the various beasts that lived within and on it. I was pretty certain that I had seen him when he thought no-one could see him under the waves swimming with a shoal of bomb fish once and I still wonder just who or what granted him those talents (and what possible price he was paying for them). I knew he had eyes for Elena, but the poor love blind idiot had yet to even speak to her (which I put down to nerves – he could face down smugglers and pirates and sea monsters without fear, sure, but talking to a woman? That really scared him). I couldn’t really see him ever having much of a chance with Elena anyway – she was far too focused on her work and her future right now, and his career dragged him all over the seas and meant they would spend too little time together for there to be much hope of success; nonetheless, he treated me well where he could in the hope I might put in a good word for him and I certainly did not dislike his good graces. “I’m looking for Mille-Tamlin. I take it she’s further in?”

Pharlan nodded, pointing further down the tunnels with his middle finger (the index finger being missing, likely lost during a boarding action or in some brawl or another). “She’s unloadin’ right now – stuff’s right particular volatile, but you and yer lot will drink the mos’ dangerous things.” He rummaged in one of his many pockets with the other hand, pulled out a rough wooden token with a carved glyph of orcish curves and spikes and pinned it to my jumper, mishandling the weave with heavy hands. “That’ll let ‘em know I saw you and yer allowed in. Go on ahead; I need to stay ‘ere, jump any other buggers dumb enough to stick out their ‘eds.”

The carved tunnel soon opened up into more natural cave tunnels, and as I picked my way down the rough stone tunnels (eroded a long time ago where the ocean broke through a weak seam of stone and still flooded in places from where the tide had gone out) I soon found my way into a large coastal cave with a number of heavy set men hauling large crates of brandy out of a shallow boat and onto a gently hovering cart humming gently with the occasional squeal as the levitation glyphs compensated for the sudden changes in weight. Mille-Tamlin was in the middle, directing them to be careful with her cargo with a mixture of small corrections and outright threats to their take of the profits of the venture. Despite being half the size of her men (and twice as wide – the dwarven constitution being what it is), she made it obvious that she was in command and any casual observer could see that her men would obey damn near any order by their immediate reactions to her every word; she no doubt paid them well but such loyalty was more a result of preferring to use and trust the same people whenever she could, cultivating a wide network of such friends and allies wherever she went. We had hit it off a little poorly to begin with, an error with a shipping manifest that she had arranged to be altered causing my fine silks to end up in her possession and her blood wines to end up in mine and the pair of us both accusing the other of theft and ill intents; my proclamations were fancy and did not directly accuse her of skulduggery, but rather just insinuated it heavily, and hers were direct and blunt, but the general message at the heart of our communications were the same in both instances. However, we had resolved the issue over a very long night of drinking that started with each of us trying to outdrink the other to besmirch them in front of their peers; that was the last night we tried and failed to exact revenge on each other after which we found we had both grown tired of the feud as we both sobered up in the same gutter. The night had led to a long and quite beneficial arrangement as we had talked between ourselves as we sobered up, finding a shared fondness for creative mockery that we both bonded over, and her contacts had proved useful in knowing what was going on and occasionally acquiring items that were perhaps not entirely legal. On my part, I looked the other way when there was an extra fastidiously sealed crate of fabric or metals in my shipments (always sensitive to the air or to the light or just to people looking at it so I could demand it arrive unopened); I also occasionally procured or provided speciality items related to my fields of expertise on request (such as the hilt-work on her boarding axe to ensure that it gripped on to her hand and didn’t slip free during a frenetic brine-soaked battle.) My bag held the last thing she had requested when she was last in port but it had taken a while to make, the enchantments needing to be carefully layered on top of each other and demanding its collection wait until the next month; quite why she needed nightclothes with such a well hidden smuggling pouch I did not know (though them being in her size at least gave some suggestions), but as was our custom I did not intend to pry and was instead content that she would surely share should it lead to an amusing tale. She had not seen me enter from the back of the cave, and I was nearly upon her and her men before I spoke thanks to how very engrossed were they were in their labours.

“Darling, we really must stop meeting like this,” I said, causing a small commotion as Mille-Tamlin’s hand went to her axe before realising there was no threat. “Celine,” she said, her expression showing a little wry irritation but mostly relief I was not a Pelhurian guard or rival smuggler; no doubt she would get me back with some small surprise or prank at a later date. “It’s alright, lads – she’s a friend. Of sorts. You can carry on loading while we talk shop.” A grin erupted onto her face as she leapt down from the high rock she was standing on to oversee the work and splashed through the shallows to come over to me, slamming a hand into mine in a firm handshake. “I take it you have the latest item?”

“In the bag. Fine work, though given it’s my own that was always a given,” I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out the nightgown neatly wrapped in waxed paper so that it was protected from the elements and then handing it over. “That should serve nicely for whatever you want it for. Been in the city long?” I asked, knowing full well she had already been around for almost a week (and that she was leaving come the next day, this being one of her last shipments in before heading out with a particularly expensive cargo; I usually would have met her earlier for a night out but had heard the smuggling window was much tighter this time around thanks to more patrols put on to keep the returning Agliton soldiers bust and out of too much trouble.) She nodded, gestured to head further in the tunnel to get some distance between us and her crew before our conversation grew to more sensitive matters outside of their preview, and I followed. “You know, I’ve heard some interesting chatter,” she said as we walked.

“Mmm. I was hoping so.” The amount of things that Mille-Tamlin heard was impressive, but then she had a lot of sailors and servants who she talked to regularly as well as people in the major cities to talk to them when she was not there; noting everything in books filled with nearly organised coded text she was able to find anything she had recorded easily. It was the secret to how she knew so many interesting things. The people she heard so many things about couldn’t help it, of course – the upper classes barely noticed their staff even when they were stood right in front of them, after all, and would talk freely about all manner of ill-chosen subjects without ever considering who else might be listening unless they thought someone of importance might be nearby.

“Thought you might’ve been. Lots of the usual, this lord feuding with that lady and the like, but there’s something much more pertinent to you this time. You’re still based in the Brightline District, right?”

I was, and confirmed as such.

“I’ve heard something’s about to go down, see. Don’t know who – they didn’t say. Don’t know the target either. Very hush hush, but someone in the area’s seriously pissed off House Almaz. We’re talking an instructional, here. They’re looking at doing it sometime in the week following the next. Might want to prepare some fall backs in case you need to get out for a bit.” The Brightline District was officially independent, but it had grown up around the main road that House Almaz had used to ship jewels from their small mines in the Cavelight mountains into the city before the mines dried up and became little more than caves and tunnels kept out of a sense of history. (There had always been rumours that they had been repurposed to some nefarious end thanks to their remote location, of course, but nothing had ever been proven.) As such, there was still an unofficial sense that the district was more theirs than anyone else’s, and so they were able to operate more freely than the other houses there without risking a diplomatic upset, especially with their current status as a result of riding high from their successful campaigns around Agliton.

“I’ve got places, sure. Might double check them and make sure they’re stocked up well, though. Thanks for the heads up. Anything else?”

We passed another good hour and a half discussing all the various scraps of information and whispered rumours she had collected, but nothing else Mille-Tamlin had was as pertinent or useful to me as that first report; that is not to say that it was useless information (as if there is any such a thing), but merely that matters closer to home will always loom larger in one’s attention. With our discussions complete (and myself forewarned there was another trio of crates to come in my next shipment of hessian that would be an unmarked special to keep back until they came to collect when they came into Pelhure next month), we parted ways and I went back to my shop ready for a bath and then sleep, leaving the smugglers (now with their brandy fully unloaded) to their business.

- - -

I spent much of the next week checking over my fail safes and fall backs, leaving much of the day to day stitch work and purchasing to Elena and her more than capable hands. She, of course, did not disappoint, even managing to secure several bolts of Arbareth tree cotton despite the recent blight it had been suffering; I was going to have to promote her to some more challenging tasks soon before the threat of boredom set in. The stockpiles I checked were a little lower than I would have liked, but it was an error that was soon rectified. I made sure to move anything that could reasonably be moved out of the shop without disrupting business to other locations as well rather than risk them being caught in a potential crossfire given that mages carrying out instructionals tended to be poor at limiting collateral damage; mostly these were spare pieces of tailoring equipment not currently in use and excess stockpiles of fabric and other such supplies, but I made sure that Aine’s dress was moved as well despite its value on the shop floor as an advertisement – it would just have to tolerate being out of the limelight for a couple of weeks. (It did flex its ribbons at me as I carried it out to one of the storehouses, but I knew there was a passing student of outsider craftwork due to visit Pelhure in a couple of weeks’ time who would leap at the chance to study such a dress and would fawn over it to such an extent that any lingering malign intent would be soothed away by the attention and adulation, and I knew that it would not do anything too cruel until then.) I briefly entertained the idea of moving out of the shop for a short while myself as well, but quashed this idea without needing to give it too much thought; if I was seen to be fleeing a threat that was likely not even pointed at me would only encourage opportunists to strike at me. I did not feel I had much to worry about anyway, as should they move to harm me I am more than capable of self-defence and would extract my own pound of flesh in return; anyway, I had slept in that bed for a good many years and did not feel much like being driven from it. I did briefly suggest Elena might want to be off on some educational trip or supply run for that week, but I suspect that by remaining it told her the threat was not one to be considered all that seriously, and so she remained as well, clearly preferring the benefits of the more hands on teaching she was currently receiving from me.

Mille-Tamlin’s information was good, I have to give her that, though in retrospect I really do wish that it would have been a bit more specific or at the very least had more accurately conveyed the urgent danger that it represented. It was twelve days after her warning and the dead of night, and I received very little warning before it was abundantly clear that we were under attack. A small metallic sphere smashed through the window into my bedroom, sending small fragments of glass scattering across the floor as it rolled to a stop on the deep rug at the end of my bed, and I rose blearily from my sleep to see what it was. It ignited suddenly in a burst of white glare, and as the rug began to burn I leapt out of bed in my nightclothes (light and fortunately not in any way restrictive of movement), grabbed the dagger I had kept on my bedside table just in case and fled towards the back of the shop and Elena’s small bedroom; as I threw open the door out of my room the flaming sphere flashed again and sprayed fluorescent burning streamers around the room in all directions, igniting the curtains and bed and walls and any other soft furnishings they reached as they landed.

“Elena! We’re under attack! Get up!”

As I burst into Elena’s bedroom (a small, narrow space in the back of the house barely big enough for her bed and clothes) I could see that she was much more prepared for an attack than I had been. Open books of myriad sizes and age were strewn around the room, filled with text explaining various principles of fashion or historic trends of famous icons, and there were great reams of paper covered in her own designs that I had never seen before; meanwhile, Elena was dressed and armed and had already opened the small window out to the back so that we could escape. I can only assume she had not yet slept and had been carrying out additional studies of her own during the night when I slept; a row of empty vials on a small shelf above the headboard suggested she had been indulging in some form of elixir or enchantment to remove her need for sleep as she did so despite knowing full well that I would have never condoned such an action – long term use of such things destroyed one’s mind and a couturier needs her creativity, after all. Still, I had no time to be angry or to admonish her – that would have to come later once we were safe and clear from present dangers. Elena went out of the window first, landing gracefully with only a light clattering of her shoes on the cobbles below despite leaping from the upper floor of our shop. I was not as graceful, dropping down to hang from the window sill from my hands before letting go so as to reduce the distance I needed to fall rather than risk a twisted ankle, but I reached the cobbles without injury and turned, thinking which way was best to retreat from the unknown assailants.

It was a split second decision, and as I decided to flee to the east (taking us directly away from the front of the shop as fast as was possible). We had gotten barely two paces away before we pulled up short, however, as eight shadowy figures melted out from wherever they were hiding, each armed with a short wooden club. They were rough, possibly part of the Usoen navy but most certainly off duty at the current time if they were, and dressed in hideous boiled leather armours that while likely functional enough had no grace or presence. Elena went for them first, launching herself with surprising quickness at the nearest figure as her brass knuckles sparked with lightning; swept under the swing of his club, and drove her fist deep into his chest launching him back as the storm bound within the weapon boomed with a mighty thunderclap. I hung back as the edges of my dagger splintered into a many feathered spike, the blade splitting into numerous tiny steel shards as it released a cloud of needles that rushed forth to pincushion the first figure to run towards me; while they were unable to pierce the leather armour, his face was uncovered and he went to the ground screaming as the needles filled his eyes and blinded him. The rest of them did not hold back as one would hope when seeing their compatriots go down at such speed and in such a painful manner, however, and rushed us in unison, three going for each of us. Elena was closer to them and went down first, one of the three catching her from behind on the back of her head with a heavy crunching blow as she focused a driving punch through the other man in front of her and shattered his arm at the shoulder; as she slumped to the ground, unconscious, the other two turned their attention to me and joined my side of the fray. I had just about been managing to keep the others away from me when there were only three of them, maintaining distance with bursts of needles from the dagger and forcing them to dodge and evade and leap behind cover rather than advancing on me, but the additional two assailants tipped the odds and were too much for me to keep away. I of course continued the fight, trying to manoeuvre over to Elena to check on her more closely (though even at a distance I could see she was still breathing which at least brought me some small relief), but they soon grabbed me and threw the dagger away; the only small grace before I was overwhelmed was that I at least got another one of them up close, punching the dagger through a seam in the armour between his legs and filling his groin with hundreds of sliver-thin razors.)

Disarmed, and held roughly by the arms by two men behind me, the leader of the shadowy figures looked me over sternly. “Nothing personal, lass, though I suspect my fellows might be a bit more sour about how this all went. You just pissed off the wrong people. Don’t worry about your friend, there; she’s not part of the contract. Need her sleeping, though I reckon she’ll be fine following a bit of rest; as for you, though, we can’t have anyone interfering with what’s coming. Just need to hold tight – the boss will be round in a minute.”

I struggled, of course, but without any of my enchantments to hand I did not have the strength or offensive firepower to break free from them. For their part, they just looked supremely bored – they had clearly done this before, and this was nothing out of the ordinary for them. A much smaller figure flanked by another two thugs came to us from the front of my shop fairly soon, the growing fire behind her lighting up both her and the alley; my shop was now fully ablaze and scraps of half burnt fabric and paper floated off into the moonless sky on currents of warm air as it consumed everything of value. She was small – halfling or gnome I couldn’t be sure – and bedecked with the regalia of a potent war mage, the sword at her side clearly well-oiled and glimmering with poison and her frame adorned with well-cut leather armour that was fitted together perfectly and studded with yellow cat’s eye gems that glimmered in the light. Unlike the nameless thugs holding me, she wore intricate crystalline gauntlets that glimmered with trapped power and a crystal mask that hid her features and yet moved with her lips as she spoke; there were no holes in the crystal for breathing or for the eyes to peer out of and yet she seemed to know exactly where she was going and what she was doing as if the mask were no hindrance at all.

“Apologies for the somewhat uncouth way we are doing this, my dear Celine, but I don’t believe you would have responded to a formal request. I’m afraid you have very much brought this upon yourself, though; an appropriate punishment must be levied for your deeds.”

My mind searched for any possible escape, a way to persuade this lady to release me, but nothing came to me – I had enough enemies that I could not even hazard a reasonable guess which of them was the one going to such extremes. I needed more information – and only this strange crystal woman could likely give me the answer, and so I asked, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

“What deeds? What could possibly justify all of this?”

The crystal mask seemed saddened. “If you don’t know, then I’m not at liberty to tell you. You really should know already – it’s obvious if you consider what you’ve done. Nevertheless, I need to carry this particular process out either way. There are others who need to know about this too, need to see what happens when you harm my Lord and Lady. In truth, it’s more for them than it is for you – you’re not going to matter to anyone once we finish here. First, though…” She reached into a side pouch on her belt, pulled out a small black diamond studded hairclip, and slipped it into my hair; pulled out another, and slipped that on to, and continued to adorn my head with jewels in a pattern known only to her.

“Wait… what are you doing?” I struggled more as she slipped the hairclips onto my head; I could sense they were enchanted, but I couldn’t place the spell that was on them; regardless, even without knowing I knew that their effect was not going to be a positive one for me. The not really knowing meant that my imagination went into overdrive, and I thought of mind wipes and grotesquery’s that might be inflicted; for her part, the woman in the crystal mask just ignored me, continuing her work, and only spoke once she was done. “There we are. I apologise for the poor fit with the rest of your ensemble – that particular indignity is not intended as part of the punishment. Nevertheless, those clips are necessary; we can’t have you passing out as we work, now. You do need to know exactly what we are doing, after all.”

The woman in the crystal mask paused, waiting for these words to sink in, and my mind spiralled as to why they would want such a thing; clearly she saw some comprehension in my expression as she indicated to the men holding me that they should hold my hands out in front of me. I resisted, of course, but could not really stop them. The woman in the crystal mask reached into yet another pocket, pulled out a pair of thin wire bracelets studded with more tiny gems (sapphire this time) and slipped them over my hands, one apiece. “To prevent unwanted spread,” she explained without really revealing anything, and then she pulled out a small vial of some foul smelling oil and painted my fingers and the back and front of my hands evenly before pausing once more. “Celine… are you ready to begin?”

“What?! No!” She seemed to think that I would accept what was about to happen! That I would go along with it! The very nerve! The very-

“Shame. It’s always easier when the condemned accepts their punishment. Well, we need to begin anyway,” the woman in the crystal mask said, cutting off my train of thought as she conjured a spark of flame on the finger tip of each of her crystal gauntlets before touching them to the back of my hands at the same time.

Even though it only took a moment, that fragment of time seemed to hang in the air, my mind trapped in it staring in disbelief that this was truly happening. There was almost a dreamlike sense to it, as if none of this was actually real, just a bizarrely awful nightmare, and then the moment ended. Those tiny fires that were so small on her finger tips became a blaze, rushing across the oil on my hands before halting at the sapphire bracelets, and my hands were a conflagration. The pain came rushing in after the fire, excruciating, and I felt myself fall into unconsciousness, or I would have, for as soon as I was going to pass out the hairclips sparked in my mind and brought me all the way back to freshly reawakened torment. I stared at my hands; I couldn’t look away despite desperately not wanting to see this. Fat melted, dripping to the ground, and all I could think was that it needed to stop, that the agony needed to stop, that I would do anything to make it stop, and yet none of my mental pleading was to any avail. The burning plunged deep into flesh, charred it black, fragments burning away and drifting off and curling in the flames, and it still did not stop. And then the flames reached bone, began to char them black as well, the sound of finger bones cracking in the intense heat drowned out by nothing but the screaming I had not even realised was coming from me. And then – and then – the woman in the crystal mask spoke further.

“Celine? Celine? Can you hear me?” I could, only barely in the background, but there was no way for me to tell her – all my attention, all my focus, was on my hands, on the pure white convulsions in the ashen remnants of my nerves, and I could not express anything but raw torment erupting from my throat, but she didn’t care, and continued regardless. “Celine. You need to listen. This,” she said, holding up another vial, “will put out the flames. But it will also conclude our business here. This fluid is very rare, you understand, very illegal, but we got it just for you. Your hands will never heal, Celine. Never. This poison ensures it. This only needs to happen once, you understand. It will stop any normal healing, but if you seek any magical healing, this will happen again, Celine. Your hands will ignite again, Celine. They’ll burn again, Celine. So don’t do that to yourself. I’m going to apply this now, Celine.” Her voice sounded almost concerned, as if what had happened was an unhappy circumstance she had no control over, but I do not believe she got no satisfaction from this, for why else would she do this? Regardless, she had said what she wanted, and so took out the stopper, poured the thick contents of the vial onto my hands, and it glowed as the flames died down, setting into what charred scraps of flesh were left along with the burnt bone and cartilage, and the pain lessened, a little, only a little, still agonizing, but less now.

“We’re done here, Celine.” The woman in the crystal mask looked up, clearly at the men who no longer needed to hold me back now I had fallen to my knees. “Take the clips out.” Rough hands on my hair pulled the clips out with little care not to rip out strands of hair with them, and the enchantment in my mind still sparking constantly to keep me tethered there left with them, and finally, at last, I slumped to the cobbles in darkness as blessed unconsciousness came.

#dressverse #part one #fire #writing #author:benmiff #character: the woman in the crystal mask #character:mille-tamlin #character:celine #character:elena #character:pharlan

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