Private Tales These Venomed Lies

[Aristeia Darke]

Alliria had her hidden havens, some better kept than others, but the faith stayed the same. Undying. Devoted. Loyal. Believers. They all flocked to these holy crevices, they all whispered their prayers and asked for blessings. Some weeped, and some were silent.

Alliria also had her unsavoury people. The zealots, the fanatics, andbthe maniacs. Nonsense, no breath for reason, and above all else, unworthy.

Aristeia knew all of this the moment she set foot past the city's boundaries. She knew it was too populated, too loud, and stayed close to her sister when they travelled through the streets. They were having to spend more days here, for the fruit of information ran rampart, and the two sisters were eager to find a home through opportunity. The younger Darke sister could not be by her sister's side at all times, but at least the people of this day and age still have their blessing halls.

The temple she found was not far from her current lodgings, and perfect in every way. Hidden in a courtyard, overgrown and over-loved, a quiet respite for the Priestess. She donned her crimson robes, had turned to face where the moons loomed above in the daylit sky, and shut her eyes as prayer came easily. As a disciple of Moire, Aristeia knew how to seek solace from the First Mother.

There was barely anyone tending to these gardens, no other religious figures or devoted, but the stones of blessings were erected to stamd here against all else.

This was her oasis. Away from all the noise and people that tempted her to fall into that whisper of bloodlust.

 

[Shrike]

A man walked into the sanctuary of the gods, his lips moving soundlessly. Horrific scars marred a portion of his face, from the side of his left forehead running down across a cheek.

He wore colorless clothes of black and gray, matching his silver hair and silver skin.

His lips stopped moving and he stilled at the sight of the temple’s lone occupant. Muscles in his jaw twitched, like ripples in stone.

Eyebrows sharp as knives drew together.

If he had known another would be here…

Tydeus looked behind him, undecided.

When the praying woman continued to sit in silence, the tall half-Sidereal joined her on the floor.

He closed his eyes and tried to pray to the celestial gods for peace, for justice, for a better tomorrow.

They did not answer.

They never did.

A pantheon of cowards, who turned a blind eye to the suffering of this world.

 

[Aristeia Darke]

The moment the other took a step upon these holy grounds, Aristeia became aware of their presence. She liked knowing despite her back to them, the crimson cascading from her shoulders and spilling in they way blood pools as it hit the ground. Her robes did not move, as the Aszai did not move a single muscle say for the movement of her mouth as voiceless prayers were offered. She did not acknowledge the other, even as they too lowered to their knees.

And what a chaotic calm they possessed, for whatever troubles or ailments they suffered, it disturbed the air.

The smallest of noises came from her, a slight clearing of her throat.

"Do you pray to forgotten gods?"

 

[Shrike]

A pause in answer, long enough to wonder if he heard.

“Dead ones,” croaked the Shrike at last, his voice a harsh rasp. Another curse of the poison tormenting his body, even after all these years.

His eyes flared open, silver as well - except the left that bore the scarring was milky.

“Or ones who do not care.”

Clothing rustled. He stood, turned to leave, paused.

“No one else comes here. Why do you?”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Her head was still bowed, the slight annoyance of strain aching at her neck and shoulders but still she endured it. "I like the quiet. Reminds me of the moment my sister and I had awoken." It had been quiet, dead quiet, and the rest of their coven, family, and friends all perished in the ways of time that had passed and disturbance caved them in. Unrecoverable, and yet both sisters knew they all had expired.

"There are no dead gods, but there are deaf gods. So involved in their own selves, they forget the ones they promised to help..." A small smile quirked at her painted, blotted lips.

The crimson hood had been drawn, not enough to hide the sideview of her face, but enough to paint her in holy imagery. "Praying to gods in quiet corners makes them look at you, at least."

The greenery around them seemed to brighten, rejuvenated and standing taller and prouder. Moire had done so, for the First Mother was a goddess to life and creation, and among other things. "If you wish to be heard..."

At this, the Aszai finally moved. Her arm extended, offered in the space between them both. Her hand was gloved, petite dark brown leather. A precaution, even if her flesh was clean.

 

[Shrike]

He stared at the outstretched hand.

“You would not offer if you knew me.”

Hamlets on fire. Mounds of corpses. The screams of the anguished.

The two-tone stare moved to look her in the eyes.

“If they watch. If they hear. They do nothing.”

He looked down at his own hand, fingers curling into a fist.

“Suffering is as music to them. Surely you know this.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia lifted her head, eyes looking upwards to the foliage she was facing. Then, she turned her pale stare to meet the eyes of the other. She smiled, prettily, and baring the double set canines she was blessed with.

"No, I do not. The First Mother weeps when her children suffer, and so she fills those that worship her warmth and love."

Her hand still offered, unmoving and unwavering.

"Mothers bend and break to make you feel heard." The Aszai prayed to Moire's children too, each a representation of the moons' phases. "You pray to the wrong gods."

 

[Shrike]

A slight frown furrowed his brow.

“I do not know of your mother.”

He reached out and pushed away her hand, firmly though not with force.

“Nor do you know me.”

The woman’s smile, her teeth… unnatural. But Alliria was a place of many people.

“She is full of love? Warmth? Where are her temples?”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

The frown that crossed her face the moment he pushed her hand away, the undeserving tone in his voice as he denied sharing in her worship. He was wrong. A being that sought after wrong and ignorant gods could only eventually into bleed this man and become as those he prayed to.

"Her temples are lost, but I am her Priestess. I am her child. She gave my sister and I another chance at life, to rebuild, and it is my role here to make others see to her love."

Aristeia broke their stare, peering straight ahead as she calmed herself despite the pains at her canines. The salivating she had to swallow down, for heightened emotions always had her teetering towards bloodlust.

She was not there yet.

"I believe you to be a fool." Aristeia announced aloud.

 

[Shrike]

Tydeus nodded at her words, studying her reaction.

“Maybe,” he rasped.

“But if your Mother could not protect her temples, then I believe her a weak god.”

His jaw tightened.

“I have no need of deaf gods… or weak ones. There are other powers who listen. And promise true strength.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia's jaw set. Her eyes narrowed and still she did not turn back to see the other.

"You intrude on something you have no knowledge of."

Sister, I may spill blood today... The thought had been filled with irritation and restraint. Aristeia never had to deal with beings like this when she had been a Maiden of the Temple. Had learned how to charm and influence others with the allure of her voice and intention as a Priestess, but Aristeia had not reasoned with this man as she should have.

No. He did not deserve to be heard by her gods.

"I do not need to be heard by others."

 

[Shrike]

“No. You cling to the Mother,” cruelty tinged his words, the drip of a poison barb.

The woman’s eyes refused to turn back and meet his gaze. Not in fear. The Shrike knew what that looked like - memories of peasants pleading, snot and tears mingling, begging for mercy.

“What love does she offer you, that you continue to serve her.” A hint of curiosity.

If there was another path than the one he trod… another way to achieve vengeance…

But what use was a goddess of no temples promising “love.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia steeled herself. An age since she had felt the courses of anger seep through the raging veins in her body.

He was untrue, and yet something in his words resounded with her. She did cling to Moire, only because beside her sister, she still had her religion as something to tie her back to Anver.

"My sister and I are the only ones to survive... but I still feel my gods lingering in this world. That tells me more of my kind had survived, perhaps had offspring... and it is my duty and honour to restore the home we had all lost."

 

[Shrike]

“Hm.”

He knew nothing of building. These hands of his were not meant for it. Too stained in blood and ash.

“What happened to your homeland?”

So many calamities in this world, hard to keep them all straight.

 

[Aristeia Darke]

"Why should I tell a stranger that discredits the faith of someone else?"

She owed this stanger nothing. Now he asked to see her gaping wounds? To see the wound so deep that bone was left exposed? No... she wore her crimson robes, she hid the loss. He did not need to know about the Aszai, of Anver, and the bloodborne disease that did not claim her life.

 

[Shrike]

The Shrike looked at her for a long moment and his lips parted, as if to respond.

From behind, there came footsteps. The Shrike went utterly still, as a leopard whose muscles coiled and bunched.

"Hello? Oh, I didn't expect anyone here," said the newcomer, a human in a fine tunic and hose. A brooch on his shirt marked him a banker. "Pardon, I'll just be going..."

The Shrike's jaw flexed as he ground his teeth and whirled, taking three steps forward and closing the distance.

The banker frowned in confusion, then his face went deathly pale, "You-" he bleated, even as Tydeus unsheathed a long thrusting dagger from his hip, grabbed the man by the back of the head, and rammed the blade down into his neck. A gurgle of blood and rushing air were the only sounds the banker could make as he thrashed about.

"The Red Guild always take their dues, you knew the price," Tydeus rasped. Then he yanked his blade free and let the man fall to the ground to flop about like a landed fish, blood spurting from between fingers fruitlessly trying to close up his ruined neck.

The Shrike looked back at the priestess, eyes narrowing in thought as he wiped his blade clean on the hem of his shirt.

 

[Aristeia Darke]

The moment she saw the glint of steel moving in the air, she knew the next colour she would see.

Aristeia whipped her head to face away, to keep her back turned to the Stranger and his kill.

The blood was a sting of mettalic amongst the botanicals, a sharp edge of bloodlust erupting inside her. Her canines ached, wanting to bite down and have her meal, but the Priestess could not trust herself. She needed her sister, her anchor, to keep pure of death from her touch.

Her moment had not come in order to do so.

"Blood on holy grounds..." She murmured, taking measured breaths but unable to keep the scent of blood. "Have you made a sacrifice?"

Why else take a life?

 

[Shrike]

“A sacrifice?” Tydeus examined the length of his dagger, ensuring the fine steel surface was clean before sliding it back in the sheath at his belt.

He let out a snort, idly examining an errant bead of blood on the back of one hand.

“You really think I came here to pray?” The assassin shook his head.

Nearby, the banker’s thrashing ceased with a final gurgling death rattle.

“Ever hear that shit before? I’d swear it’s the soul exiting the body.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia still refused to look.

Her lungs felt as if they were being constricted by the very cages of her ribs, the sharp scent of blood only serving as temptations beyond the Sten could tamper.

"On these holy grounds, you have brought violence."

Aristeia near groaned with effort to steel herself. It was unbecoming of someone of her standing to fall to the pressures of bloodlust, and she was well to keep it that way. "This blood you have spilled must not grow cold without offerings to any deity."

Not on these grounds...

 

[Shrike]

“What, priestess?” He cocked his head, “Go on then.”

Tydeus gestured at the corpse, “Bless it.”

He moved slowly toward her until his blood-spattered form cast a shadow across her. Until she could smell the coppery tang of the scarlet ichor from soaked sleeves. And the scent of something else. Like rocks before rain.

The killer leaned closer, until he could hiss in her ear, “Bless it for your Mother.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia lifted her head, her eyes so pale and fragile that they could not meet his eyes. Instead, they stared at the bloody state he was in, the deep red shades taunting her.

Bless it for your Mother.

Now, her eyes glanced up into the Stranger's. They narrowed, her brows furrowing with distaste.

"You are not worthy to give gifts to Moire." She hissed at him, her lips curling to show the double set canines all Aszai possessed. This was the instinctual display of a threat.

 

[Shrike]

The canines. The look of lust. The talk of sacrifice.

He thought he understood now.

The eye marred by toxins stared at her, too knowing, seeing more than these petty dimensional walls.

“No,” he rasped in agreement. “I’m tainted meat.”


Tydeus stood far too close to her. He raised a hand, examining the crimson stain on his cuffs, then his eyes locked with hers as he brought the hem of one sleeve to his lips and ran a tongue over the blood soaked garment, the copper taste flooding his mouth.

 

[Aristeia Darke]

Aristeia had a tormentor once.

When she was a Maiden of the Temple, another girl made it her mission to highlight the weaknesses of Aristeia in hopes to discredit her in the eyes of the gods so that she would not Ascend to becoming a Priestess.

They had been some of the worst months of her life, to terrible and lonesome. She had not told her family about her experience, nor to any Priests of Preistesses.

She had belief Moire would guide her, that the gods would listen and reward her for persevering.

And that was what this Stranger was doing now. He knew how she teetered on the precipice. Saw how she reacted to the fresh scent of blood. This was the punishment she was dealt for telling her sister no to every offer of sten to help stave off the bloodlust and calm her anxieties, but here she was now.

Challenged with the real blood, still warm.

"I must go." She whispered, her voice almost hollow.

The Priestess pushed herself to her feet, careful not to trip on her crimson robes.

 

[Shrike]

The woman stood to go in a rustle of those red robes.

A whisper of leather and the dagger appeared back in Tydeus’ hand. He held the tip of the blade at the woman’s throat, cold steel pressed against pale flesh.

“I didn’t say you could leave, priestess.”

 

[Aristeia Darke]

A knife would not kill her. Aszai healing was greater than that of a human's, even when not fed on fresh blood.

But to even threaten to spill her blood on these grounds already compromised, disturbed... that alone made her hesitate.

Her eyes flicked to the strange gaze of the man, holding his gaze. "I am not part of any of this."