Completed Justice for the Three

[Ania]

“So, this old man killed three dreadlords so that he could run off with Anirian property?” the dreadlord questioned.

Carlisle, steward of Weiroon corrected, “yes, he ran off with a dreadlord candidate.”

“Right. State property. Seems like a lot of trouble just so you can date a girl half your age.” Ania smirked, “And now you seem to think they’re in Alliria?”

The gentleman nodded in the affirmative. “An agent of ours marked them, we think it’d be good for Weiroon, politically speaking, if one of our own brought them back. Alive, please. If necessary we can deal with a few fractures or a collapsed lung but they need to be able to breath on their own.”

Ania leaned back in the leather seat within Carlisle’s study. His decanter of scotch sat half filled with the alluring substance. An array of books alphabetically arranged behind him. She’d only been allowed in here a few times. Whatever this job was must’ve been serious.

“You’re not telling me the whole story,” Ania stated, brow raising.

Carlisle was a thin man. Neatly trimmed mustache, dark brown hair always kept tidy, and the nicest formal attire Weiroon’s deep pockets could afford. His inviting outfit fully contrasted with the scowl he made at the pale woman’s statement and his tone let her know it. “We don’t know the exact nature or extent of the girl’s magical abilities and we don’t know how that common soldier killed three dreadlords,” his speech became more methodical as he continued, “but we do know they’re dangerous.”

He poured himself a glass of liquor, taking in a long sip. The steward made certain to never stare directly at Ania, anyone of substance within Weiroon worked under the same guidelines.

“We’re sending you, Ania,” he clarified, “because if we sent a detachment of dreadlords our fugitives would run or our agents would be detained. We have no authority in some lawless shithole like Alliria. But,” a knowing smile appeared on his face, “you could use that ‘gift’ of yours to convince them to return. Voluntarily.”

Boring. She would’ve preferred to return with their scalps than try to weave some fantasy of deception.

Ania emerged through the gates of Alliria, her dark hair tied into a taut bun. She wore a simple white shirt with a tan overcoat and chestnut slacks. Her Anirian estoc replaced by a mass manufactured rapier. It would do her no favors to be recognized as a citizen of Vel Anir, much less a dreadlord.

Azure eyes scanned the crowded streets of the city, the sooner she found these treasonous vermin the sooner she could leave this wretched place. The elves, dwarves, and humans intermingling like rodents skittering around some disgusting grotto. Her unique abilities meant that she had spent time before on intelligence gathering, kidnapping, and disappearing jobs. They weren’t as fun as wanton destruction but the proud Anirian had learned that taverns were generally a good place to gather intel.

She spotted a little dive on the corner, it looked rough around the edges. Just the kind of place you go for information. Between every drunk and lowlife there’d be some criminal scum willing to weave a good story for a bit of free booze. When she sat at the nearest empty bar stool the blonde haired bartender asked for her drink order.

“An ale I guess, I’m looking for someone. Ugly fellow named Thorne, early forties. He’s probably paling around with a blonde gal, much younger than him.”

Thorne

 

[Thorne]

Rain pattered softly on the cobblestone street as Thorne trekked down it. Another stereotypically shitty day in Alliria, another series of sketchy packages that needed delivering to shady recipients. It was a mind-numbing job to be sure, but it paid to keep the roof over his and Autumn's heads and, more importantly, it put him in close contact with the right people. People that had information on Vel Anir. People that knew the whereabouts of their nobles...of their agents...

Thorne had just finished meeting with one such rat. The man had claimed that a certain member of House Virak was coming into town to discuss matters of trade with some local merchants. His assertion seemed nothing less than outlandish given what Thorne remembered about the Viraks. It also made little sense that the noble house would send a blood member to deal with something so trivial. Any lead was better than no lead, however.

As the old soldier moved through the old streets of this section of Allirian slum he tugged on the hood of his cloak. Wet, cold, unpleasant. This miserable weather was truly getting tiring. A creaking wooden sign hanging from a building just a few blocks up caught his eye. The Soggy Barrel Tavern.
Hello old friend...

A pint of ale and a plate of mutton sounded like just the thing Thorne needed after a long, sopping day. Little distractions often proved therapeutic. Maybe he could collect a little intel while he rested as well.

. . .
​

"Who wants ta' know?"
The barkeep regarded the woman, an inquisitive eye scanning her up and down as he poured her drink. The ale looked and smelled approximately like frothy horse piss; nothing a connoisseur would intentionally seek out, but it had a certain rustic charm to it. Plus, it was cheap and it got you drunk, which happened to be exactly what the average clientele here was looking for.

The man sniffed dismissively and passed her a tankard.
"Usually when folk come askin' fer other folk, I either knows 'em first or they offer coin. You ain't done neither, luv."

 

[Ania]

Murmurs in the crowded bar mostly drowned out the constant grating of the light rain. As the barkeep slammed the large tankard of swill in front of her Ania gave it a gingerly sip before a look of repulsion overtook her face. Allirians cared so little for the opinions of others that they couldn’t even be bothered to craft a decent brew.

Now when it came to the price of information there were two avenues for attack. Let him know you have the gold in case he’s motivated by financial wealth. But, stack the deck, feed him your sob story in case he values himself an ‘honest man.’

“Well, I do have the coin to pay for it if that’s necessary,” she said, her cobalt eyes filled with concern and innocence. “We have a mutual friend, the girl’s mother. Thorne absconded with her daughter some time ago and I’m just trying to bring her back a bit of good news. Let her know that her daughter is healthy, alive.”

Lying had become a second nature of sorts. Ania could do it on command and it was difficult to tell if she were being honest or deceitful in even the most mundane of questions. Still, she knew that even the most convincing of performances didn’t always fool folks and went you couldn’t pull a man by his heart strings you had to tug on his purse strings.

She plopped a small sack of gold onto the bar top. Fluttering her eyelashes and suffering another sip of what this city called ale.

“If you insist on payment to help me take your trinkets. I’m just trying to make sure she’s safe.”

 

[Thorne]

"None o' my business whose gone an' run off with who." The bartender grumbled across the counter, focus directed onto a mug he had decided to clean. The familiar sound of coin hitting the wooden counter top, however, got his attention. He looked up from his mug and grabbed hold of the sack, sliding it back behind the bar.
"Aye, Thorne's a regular 'round here. Nice fella. Always pays his tab. Stay long enough and you'll prob'ly bump into 'im."

. . .​

Thorne continued pushing his way through the crowded street until he had reached the front door of the Soggy Barrel. The familiar scent of cheap liquor wafted from the windows and under the crack of the door. He placed a hand on the wet wood of the door and pushed his way inside. The din of the street was immediately replaced by the much softer melody of a busy tavern. Thorne scanned the room as he entered. Plenty of familiar faces, a few new ones. The bartender gave Thorne a friendly wave, and the ex-soldier returned his greeting with a nod.

A raven haired young woman, probably no older than Autumn, sat across from the barkeep looking disgusted with whatever swill she had been served. Not an unusual response to Poor Man's Ale. She seemed a bit out of place in a dive like this, but Thorne's weary mind and body decided that food and drink were more important than scrutinizing every single patron in the room.

"Evening, Schmidt. I'll take the usual, if you don't mind." He spoke politely and concisely. In spite of all this time in Alliria, the Vel Anir accent was something that never totally left him. He moved past the bar and retreated to a quiet booth in the corner, not too far from the hearth. Most folks seemed to quietly respect that that was his spot here.

 

[Ania]

A regular? If she were lucky this man would be a drunkard. She had no qualms around taking advantage of someone's vices and it was rather lucky that the hovel she'd walked into had been his watering hole of choice. No, not luck, the will of Vel Anir.

When the voice came from behind her she recognized the Anirian accent instantly. Her ears perked at the manner in which he enunciated, far smoother than the offensive Allirian accent. She looked at the barkeep quizzically and he issued a simple nod.

"Very well, Schmidt, let me cover his tab and deliver his 'usual' order," she said as she retrieved a few additional silver pieces from her coin pouch.

Moments later Ania was making her way towards the peaceful little booth near the hearth, plate of mutton and an ale in hand. She sat both in front of Thorne and without waiting for him to say anything she slid herself into the cheaply cushioned seat opposite of him. Her face was warm, freckles reddening, and illuminated by a friendly grin.

"Hope you don't mind if I join you. I'm quite alone in this city, was here with a merchant caravan and now I'm just sort of stranded here," she made an effort to fidget with her fingers, twist her hair with an offhand, and speak as softly as she could muster. There was an art to seeming helpless. The pale woman stared at Thorne, attempting to make eye contact. She'd save her illusions for now but she wanted to ensure the connection was made in case it was needed later. For now, she just wanted a real conversation.

After all, she still didn't know where the girl he had ran off to was. She parted her lips again to inform Thorne, "you're from Vel Anir, yes? I could tell by how you spoke. I am just, so very desperate to return home. How long have you been here? Aren't you homesick as well?"

Her grin widened into outright elation. She was certainly a good actress but making people uncomfortable was far too enjoyable.

 

[Thorne]

Thorne had only just settled in to his booth when he saw the young woman from the bar approaching with his food and drink. His mind hadn't been racing before, but now it was. Had Schmidt gotten a new employee? No, if that was the case she probably wouldn't have been in front of the bar with her own drink. Which meant she was about to...yep. Thorne glared coldly at his plate as Ania set it down, then up at the woman as she sat across from him.

"Hope you don't mind if I join you. I'm quite alone in this city, was here with a merchant caravan and now I'm just sort of stranded here,"

Anirian accent. That boded poorly. It wasn't uncommon for trade caravans from the neighboring nation to stop through, but he ex-soldier was never one to assume someone was being genuine, especially Anirians. This woman clearly wanted something, the question was simply "what?" Money, most likely. Her body language was quite practiced. She had a charm about her that would've gotten any drunk in this bar tossing coin her way. Yet...she chose the patron who'd just walked in the door. A pit began to form in Thorne's gut.

"you're from Vel Anir, yes? I could tell by how you spoke. I am just, so very desperate to return home. How long have you been here? Aren't you homesick as well?"

Shit.

Thorne's glare twisted into a grimace. He watched as the young woman's expression turned into one of sadistic glee. So...she knew who he was, then. Would this perhaps be the fifth?
This was a public place, far outside of Vel Anir's reach, however. While Thorne quietly gripped a length of his chain under the table, he wasn't certain that he'd have to use it. He wasn't certain he wanted to have to. A mess here would likely mean another move for Autumn and him, and he didn't want to have to uproot her again.

"What the fuck do you want, girl?" The question came calmly, quietly. There was a glacial malice in his voice, hidden under the typical smattering of Anirian disdain. This night just got a lot more bewildering.

 

[Ania]

Ania's lips pursed into a pout at the man's obscenity. She crossed her legs and placed both hands onto the table. It didn't need to come to violence, at least not yet. There'd be plenty of time to break this man's fingers after he and the little blonde girl he escaped with were in chains.

"That isn't a very nice way to speak with one of your fellow Anirians," she said coyly. "I was just hoping we could hold a pleasant little conversation. Perhaps you could show me around this foreign city. Let me crash at your place for the evening. Introduce me to your family. I'm certain you have a nice little family here, do'nt you?"

She'd read the dossier on this traitor. He had a wife once, the analysis speculated that it was his wife's death that had set him over the edge. Seemed foolish to let something as trivial as primal lust interfere with one's loyalty to the great state of Vel Anir. But, such was life. And Ania knew that once this situation began to turn south the most likely way to harm this man was to show him his wife again. Bloodied and screaming.

Her left hand gestured towards Thorne's plate as she said, "you've barely touched your food. Please, don't allow my intrusion to interfere with your meal. Go on. Eat." Her pout transformed into a smirk effortlessly.

"What I want is to speak with you for a bit. Get to know you. It's so very rare to find a loyal and proud son of Vel Anir in a shithole like Alliria, wouldn't you agree?" Ania winked at this treasonous filth and added, "surely you won't deny a destitute young woman like myself a simple conversation?"

 

[Thorne]

Thorne's eyes narrowed at the mention of "family." This woman clearly knew quite a bit about him, but he wasn't yet certain whether or not she knew the details. Neither was he certain if this was in fact the fifth that the Vel Anir nobles had sent to capture him. He'd play this little game for now...at least this one had the decency to talk to him before attacking.

"My family is either dead or back in Vel Anir. If you're looking for a tour guide, there's an office a few districts away."

Ania's little gesture at the food suddenly made him lose his appetite. Odds were that she'd dropped something foul onto the meat or into the ale before she sat down. The girl's smirk was both telling and frustrating. Thorne shoved the plate away from him and grunted.

"You want to talk? Fine. I don't get to chat much these days." Thorne said flatly, ignoring her snide remarks about loyalty. That was a concept long dead to him. She was right about one thing, though: Alliria was a shithole.
"You've been asking all the questions thus far, so indulge me. Which house sent you, girl?"

 

[Ania]

As Thorne pushed his food and drink aside a rush of satisfaction washed over Ania. She was beginning to hit a nerve she thought, best to push that little further.

"Which house? I don't quite understand, as I said I came here with a merchant caravan," she was fine with letting this little charade continue for a bit longer. "Tragic about your deceased family members, deepest condolences truly. Perhaps you'd accompany me back to Vel Anir anyways though. I'm sure you're from an upstanding family and the surviving members would be ecstatic to see you again."

Her mouth formed a circular shape as she feigned a sudden revelation, "wait one second! Your friend, Schmidt," she gestured with her thumb back towards the bar, "he mentioned that you were living here with your daughter. We shouldn't leave her behind for our little homecoming. Why don't we go and fetch her?"

Once the knife was inserted most people would pull it out to strike again. Ania preferred to twist it deeper.

"I'm sure she's just dying to get back home as well. She's probably more homesick than either of us, don't you think?"

 

[Thorne]

This waves of attitude rolling off this woman were downright oppressive. No mere agent of Vel Anir would be this impish or...eccentric. She was like a cat that had cornered her prey and had chosen to play with it rather than strike. That practically sealed it in his mind: this was dreadlord number five.

Thorne rested his left arm on the table casually, keeping his right tucked beneath and within his cloak. It had been some time since he really got to speak his mind to a dreadlord, and if she wanted to exchange cutting words instead of blows, Thorne would oblige.

"Quaint," Thorne began, his face shifting into an unimpressed smirk. "But I find your thinly veiled threats neither clever nor imposing, dreadlord."

He wondered how quickly he could get the young woman to lose her temper and drop the charade. She wasn't the only one who could push buttons.

"Perhaps you're a House Virak dog, hmm? I heard that little whore Elise was in town on business. I had been considering paying her a visit..."
If there was one thing spending over a decade in Alliria did for Thorne, it was teaching him how to be vulgar.

 

[Ania]

"Hm? I bet you know a lot about whores, running off with a pre-pubescent girl. Rather sickening if you ask me," she said in a taunting tone. "Though perhaps it's to be expected... after your wife died so violently."

From there the dreadlord of Weiroon did not delay. She had already made eye contact with the wretch and now that he was calling her a dreadlord in a public tavern she saw little reason to keep up the act. If he wouldn't lead her to the child from House Whispergrove willingly then she'd break his spirit and use the buffoon as bait to find the girl.

Thorne's wife appeared beside their booth. Covered in blood, fear evident across her face. But every detail and line was precisely as the man would've recalled her. This was the true beauty of Ania's gift, the ability to use someone's mind to paint for them exactly what they wished to see. Or, more often, create a living nightmare for them.

The mirage of his deceased wife looked at him, crying out, "Thorne? How could you let me die. You failed me, I'm dead because you couldn't protect me. They tortured me for hours before you arrived."

Ania's face glowed in satisfaction as she reached her hand across the table. Grabbing his mug of ale and taking a sip of the swill before setting it back down. "I can make it stop, but first, you'll need to take me the girl you absconded with."

 

[Thorne]

The sudden shift of focus and wave of magic bearing down on Thorne's mind was jarring. It was like he had suddenly been hit with a migraine headache, a pounding pressure welling behind his eyes. Then he saw her face. Heard her voice. That crushing taunt of untold pain and suffering. Gideon Thorne dropped his chain and raised a hand to his face, obscuring his eyes.

"I can make it stop, but first, you'll need to take me the girl you absconded with."

His shoulders started to shake silently. He lowered his head. Perhaps Ania believed this to be the man's breaking point...until she heard the quiet chuckling. The chuckling ascended to laughter, which in turn became uproarious as he threw his head back and slapped his hand on the table.

"You, poor, naive little girl! They really didn't tell you anything about me, did they?" Volatile energy began to crackle and dance about on the man's fingers as he spoke, the digits dancing across the table merrily. "Did you mean to break me? With that sorry display? My dear, I have replayed that scene in my mind so many thousands of times. Seeing her bloodied face, hearing her broken voice, these things no longer sadden me..." Quicker than perhaps the girl might've expected, Thorn's hand shot across the table and grabbed Ania by the wrist. Intensity and fell negative magic burned in the man's eyes and a twisted smirk marked his face. "They INSPIRE me!"

 

[Ania]

Dreadlord Academy
11 Years Ago

Proctor Norris was an average man. Aside from his protruding beer belly gut and the fact that he was a decorated dreadlord in his youth. Now, he was a distinguished proctor at the dreadlord academy. His ability to reflect magic back at pupils made him one of the most valuable proctors and also one of the most despised by the students.

For the past several months Norris had found himself working on a special project of sorts. A certain young trainee had revealed herself as having an incredible magic to alter perceptions. Her abilities could cause people to taste, hear, see, or smell things that weren’t there. She could inflict grievous pain onto others though she was increasingly reluctant to do so despite direct orders. None of that would do and not wanting such a rare talent to go to waste the headmaster of the academy had approached Norris with a proposition. Could he use his reflecting magic on the pupil?

And so, every day began the same. Norris would cast a sigil of reflection, the girl would be ordered to create a delirium in which Vel Anir was righteous and just in all things. A reality in which questions were heresy, critical thinking was blasphemous, and reality was whatever her superiors commanded. If she refused she was beaten violently and a healer would come to mend her wounds. As the trials were finishing up they had noted that she was now building this into a reflex. Sometimes Norris wouldn’t even need to cast a reflection spell, the girl was putting herself into a delusion the moment she awoke in the morning.

“What is your name?” Norris questioned.

“Charity,” replied the girl.

The proctor looked frustrated, sleep deprived, he raised a finger and lightning sprang forth from Proctor Tobias’ fingers into the girl’s spine. She was still resisting the delirium but Norris would ensure that she’d succumb eventually.

---

The Soggy Barrel Tavern, Alliria
Right Now

“Unhand me worm,” Ania demanded of the traitor.

The voices in her head began to subside, the dancers in the corner pirouetting vanished, phantom pains that typically danced up and down her spine ceased.

Fear was displayed on the freckled dreadlord’s face, “w-what foul magic are you using? Cease this at once or I swear I’ll,” she’d what? Sweat was beading on her cheeks and her breathing accelerated as she struggled to comprehend what was happening around her.

Having her magic ceased brought back the memories of the last time she wasn’t engrossed in a delirium of her own creation. Survival instincts were willing her to resume the dream-state. For nearly a year she endured daily torture if she didn’t put up the barrier of a self imposed hallucination. But she wasn’t comprehending this, to her this had to be some sort of evil magic devised by a treasonous lunatic like Thorne.

“Undo it immediately,” she insisted once more.

 

[Thorne]

For the first time, the young dreadlord's face displayed uncertainty and trepidation. Her air of snide contempt and confidence was gone the moment Thorne started channeling the poison that was his ability into Ania's body. Red-orange bolts arced between the pair's arms, snapping and popping violently.

"'Undo?' My dear, that's precisely my intention." Thorne felt his blood pumping hot in his temples. He hardly even cared about the excruciating pain in his wrists when he drastically increased the flow of negative energy into the girl's wrist. "Did your masters not tell you what I am? What they made me? How many others have come before you?"

After nearly a minute of this, he was sure the woman would be sealed off from her magic for at least a day. He slammed her wrist into the table and leaned forward menacingly.

"Cham Lancaster. Taron Falkner. Minerva Cromwell. Braxton Law. Do you know what these names have in common, my dear? Are they perhaps familiar?"

He paused, waiting for a response. The ex-soldier was totally oblivious to the mental turmoil Ania was in. He simply saw weakness and capitalized one it.

 

[Ania]

Displeasure ran up Ania’s arm even after the betrayer had relinquished his grip. None of this made any sense. Normally she felt the connection with other beings under her spell. She felt their oddities, their pain, and they shared illusions she wished for them to see. But it had all gone away. She was certain the connection hadn’t been severed.

Her cerulean eyes glared into his as she tried to get back into his mind. Nothing was happening. What was worse was that her body was trying to place her back into a hallucination. Trying and failing. Triggering her to panic even further.

“I don’t know, did you, who are… are you silencing my magic?” she questioned in a dazed tone. “You can’t do that. Give it back. If I don’t have my magic I’ll be, you could be,” she whipped her head towards the door then darted her vision to various patrons, “they’ll hurt us. Me.”

He was throwing names around now as her hands rushed to cover her ears. “Too loud.” She slapped herself, she needed to regain control. Remember why she was here.

“I knew Minerva. She vanished. Now, return my magic whelp,” Ania’s eyes fluttered, “this isn’t up for discussion.”

 

[Thorne]

The woman before him was positively floundering. Thorne could see the panic setting into her. But this was more than just anxiety at the loss of her ability...it was like all of her conditioning was unravelling as well. Like two different people were fighting to control her body. Meeting the girl's gaze again he found the fire he had just moments ago was wavering. This was almost...sad. He found his own sadistic streak settling back into his usual stony calm.

“they’ll hurt us. Me.”

All too familiar. Thorne felt the sting of Validus Ordo's tortuous rituals upon his flesh every time he used his ability. He was well aware what the price of failure would be for the young dreadlord.

"Not silencing. Cutting it off. And giving you back a shred of your humanity, apparently."
She looked like she was about to pass out at any moment. The fight was totally gone from her, even as she desperately tried to cling to her arrogant persona. He decided to drop his ensuing rant about the girl's predecessors.

"You're wrong about her vanishing, but you're right about the second part: this isn't up for discussion. You have nothing to bargain on and I couldn't restore you even if I wanted to." Thorne began to stand up from the table as if to leave, but hesitated.
"You might find it hard to stand. I can drag you out, if you'd like."

 

[Ania]

"Cut it back on," she demanded again until horror swept over her face. He couldn't restore her? How long would she be in this state?

The colors were so much more vivid, clarity was restored to her mind, and she was suddenly much more inquisitive about everything. Why had Vel Anir told her that Minerva vanished if this man killed her? Were there always bubbles rising to the top of beer? Were the voices in her head not actually real?

A hand rushed under the table towards the hilt of the foreign rapier as Thorne began to move. She wasn't clear on much but she wasn't about to let this man attack her. Or run. She still had a job to finish here. "You will drag me no where, you are never to touch me again," she spat in disgust.

Her skin was normally pale but now it was whiter than the clouds on a clear day. Fury was an emotion she still felt despite this and she felt it apt to inform this criminal of her hatred. "I'm not through with you yet, traitor. I don't know what you are doing to me but I will find you and the girl. You'll be taken into Vel Anir in chains. I want to be the last thing you see before your execution."

 

[Thorne]

He looked down at the young woman and felt nothing but pity. Here was a girl that couldn't have been much older than Autumn, but who had suffered the fate that his goddaughter was meant for. If it were anyone else he probably would've dragged them outside, slit their throat, and left them for dead in an alley somewhere, but...

"It doesn't work that way," Thorne paused to consider Ania's words. "And I am no traitor."
Once hand to a dreadlord himself, Thorne couldn't help but wonder if that wretched organization had begun applying Ordo's techniques to their initiates these days. His negation shouldn't have been having this level of apparent mental wear on someone. Panic was to be expected, certainly, but this was something different.

"Perhaps your conditioning is based in some sort of enchantment...you're waking up, aren't you?
He peered about the tavern. The duo was located in the far corner, true, but there were still other patrons in the room and he couldn't help but feel that this was not the best place to be having this conversation. He offered his hand to the young dreadlord.

"Come on. You can drag me back to Vel Anir later."

 

[Ania]

"Conditioning? Waking up? Speak sense," the fury in her eyes wavered a bit. There was a shift in this man's demeanor. Where before he seemed just as eager to kill her as she was to end him there was something else now. Pity maybe? Pity for what reason?

The room wasn't spinning, in fact, it was perfectly stable which was far more disorienting than it should've been. As Thorne raised and outstretched his hand Ania drummed her fingers onto the table. Moments earlier she would've known precisely what to do. Right now though very little made sense to her. Would the old Ania draw her blade and stab? Would the old Ania follow this man out of the tavern? Would the old Ania try to run away?

All of those options made sense to her. Perhaps he was offering to lead her to the girl. He did mention that she could take him back to Vel Anir. Maybe he had realized he stood no chance against her?

With the grace of a drunken moose she attempted to stand of her own according while insisting, "I don't need you help." After nearly slamming her face into the wooden booth's table she glanced up towards Thorne. With a mild disgust she hesitantly reached out to take ahold of his hand and said, "very well, I do not know what's come over me."

 

[Thorne]

This girl really didn't seem to realize she had been programmed. It was as though she was living in her own little fantasy world. Perhaps she had been, given the nature of her magic.
"I'll explain once we're somewhere more private. You don't have to like me, just play along."

Thorne watched the woman nearly knock herself out, then took her hand and pulled her up from the booth, putting her arm over his shoulders to support her. Again, this loss of motor control read as the expiry of an enchantment spell more than the side-effects of his own negation.

"Drunk again already?! You really need to learn how to hold your alcohol!" He announced a bit too loudly for the benefit of those present within the tavern.
"Come on, let's get you home!"

With that, Thorne began to shuffle towards the exit and out of the tavern, supporting a very wobbly Ania. Once the pair were free and clear of the bar, Thorne began to elaborate quietly, using the bustle of the street and the patter of rain to mask his words from passersby.

"Conditioning, girl. What they do to all of you dreadlords while they train you. They beat you. They break you. Turn you into a loyal little puppet to dance at the whims of the nobles. Dreadlord Validus Ordo did the same thing to me, once upon a time."
Thorne was leading them to something of a safehouse. It wasn't the epitome of comfort, by any means, but it would be a safe place for the two to talk.
"I broke that conditioning. And I think you're starting to, as well."

 

[Ania]

What was supposed to be a graceful rise aided only slightly by the treasonous man before her quickly descended into a sloppy and embarrassing collapse. Had Thorne not been ready to brace her up she would've collapsed into a heap on the floor. His excuse of Ania being too intoxicated required no pretending on her part.

As they walked down the causeways of Alliria the rain began to run down the dreadlord's face. "I'm getting wet, it's raining," she said in a mush of words. The moisture on her face brought back memories of the waterboarding at the academy. The duo's feet were deliberate on the stone of Alliria as they pressed forward, each individual they passed helping Ania to re-grasp the reality around her. She didn't hear whispers or voices that were typical in large crowds. Just the rain and the voices of actual speech.

She said nothing as the Anirian turncoat spoke of conditioning, being broken, and his own personal tragedy. Where were they heading? Towards the girl, Auburn Whiskergown? No, that wasn't the girl's name. But she was close, it definitely rhymed.

He was right about one thing. The beatings were something she did not have pleasant memories of. She hadn't really thought about them in years until just now though. That was odd.

"I will not betray my home. Do not try and confuse me with your vile tricks," she informed him as they approached whatever rundown shack he was taking them to. "I just need to get my bearings straight and... then you'll see."

 

[Thorne]

It took several minutes of labored trudging through Alliria's rainy byways, but Thorne eventually led the duo to an abandoned storefront. It was humble and unassuming, but not an insecure shed either. He fumbled with a pouch on his belt for a moment and produced a key ring, then flipped through the keys with his free hand. Seconds later they were both inside the meager building, safe and out of the rain.

Thorne set Ania down gently in a nearby chair. Once he made sure she wasn't going to keel over onto the floor he moved about the room lighting lanterns. He brushed a few cobwebs out of the way as he did so. This particular safehouse hadn't seen use in some while.

"If you get your bearings straight you might realize that your home has already betrayed you. Your king, your 'noble' house..." The ex-soldier removed his gauntlets and wraps as he went on, revealing the grotesque, malefic, and clearly patterned scarring beneath, and held his forearms in front of Ania for her to examine. "Even your fellow Dreadlords mean only to take advantage of you, to step on you."

Almost on queue, bits of negative energy arced about the ritual scars, causing Thorne to wince.
"I am living proof of that. Validus Ordo made me to kill his comrades, your kin. I would have been his loyal dog had he not betrayed me." Thorne's eyes narrowed on Ania. "We're the same, you and I. You just haven't figured it out yet."

 

[Ania]

Thorne sat her onto a chair within some dingy little shack. The wood of the floorboards and walls looked splintered and warped. A cockroach skittered from one corner to another as the graying ex-Anirian battled with cobwebs. Ania’s gaze focused down towards her lap as she tried to concentrate on what had happened to her.

She realized quickly that the girl she was after wasn’t here. Then, the traitor spoke up.

He removed scraps of cloth on his arms that had shielded deep scarring. Briefly the dreadlord thought it must’ve been from battle, or an extremely horrific accident. Then the patterns stood out more clearly to her. Someone had done this to the man.

“Competition breeds strength and it is the strong that survive,” Ania’s words were hollow. Rehearsed even. There was a part of her that felt something… was it sympathy?

She looked at Thorne with trepidation and in a hushed voice said, “we’re not the same. I’m a proud servant of Vel Anir and you’re… you.” Her face broke eye contact halfway through the sentence. Whether it was discomfort of the unknown or something else the pale woman hated feeling like this.

“I was two when my parents gave me away. My first memory is of the dreadlord academy. Why am I thinking about this, why am I telling you this?”

It didn’t make any kind of sense. She would have preferred to be on their way towards the runaway girl and then meeting up with the escort outside. On their way back home. Instead she was conversing with this ruffian as if they were old friends?

 

[Thorne]

Ania's voice was wavering, her conviction faltering. Thorne could feel himself starting to get worked up. Could Autumn have been right all this time? Could even a dreadlord be redeemed?

"That is little more than drivel that your masters beat into you to devalue your life. To dehumanize you. A life has worth, even if another's is stronger." Thorne put his hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Your life has worth."

When Ania looked away, he knelt down and changed his tone again. He became unusually serene and compassionate, a far cry from the exterior he had grown used to showing those he dealt with. Some part of him deep within that had stopped relying on the gods long ago now prayed. Prayed that he was getting through to her. Prayed that in some small way this was working.

"I was once a proud and loyal Anirian servant, too...until I woke up. The memories that are coming back to you now, these thoughts and feelings? You're waking up as well."

Gently, like a caring father, Thorne placed his hand beneath the young woman's chin and guided her back to eye contact. There was something he wanted to know...
"Tell me," He began. Perhaps one of the most humanizing things he could think to ask, a simple question, yet one that truly helped encapsulate one's sense of self.

"What is your name?"​

 

[Ania]

An hour ago the world made a lot more sense. There was a distinct line dividing truth from falsehoods. A clear divide between right and wrong, good and evil, black and white. Now, suddenly, there were all of these muddy shades of gray clouding her sense of morality. Vel Anir was righteous in all things, any who said otherwise were heretics.

Yet here was this man, labeled a traitor, and he was showing her what she assumed was kindness. Physical contact that wasn’t intended to hurt or harm. A softness to his voice which was rare to find within Anirian society unless there was an agenda behind it. It baffled her.

“My name?” she questioned hesitantly. Seemed like an odd request. One that was ultimately unimportant in the grand scheme of things. “Once my abilities manifested I was named Ania at the academy. House Weiroon knows me by this name and it is they who feed me. Clothe me. Watch after me.”

She didn’t like this version of reality. Before her magic was removed she was so certain as to the direction that the world turned. Now it seemed like it went in forty-seven different directions. All equally valid, none necessarily correct or virtuous. Just existent.

What he was asking her to do was abandon everything she had ever known. To do what? Beg on the streets? Her entire life had been devoted to killing, torture, and intimidation. If she had been in a dream state before she longed to return to it. When things made more sense.

“Thank you. I mean it. But, my life has exactly as much worth as what I can offer my home. Our home.” At that moment the younger woman removed Thorne's hand from her chin, setting it aside and commented, "tomorrow I will wake up and be different you know. Life will be simpler."