Completed Under the Skin

[Syele Wilhart]

A few miles off the beaten track between Vel Cirak and Viret, an abandoned barn burst into life as dusk settled. One lone figure barged through the rotting wooden doors and was swiftly followed by two others, who helped to carry a fourth; long-settled stagnant dust was devoured by the sense of controlled panic which filled the barn to the rafters, heightened voices reverberating through cobwebs, both old and new.

"Set him down quickly and keep pressure on the wound," Wilhart barked, rooting through her pack for a lantern and tinderbox to provide light as the day escaped them.

The other two, Lumsden and Nostra, obliged, urgently laying down the man they had helped carry onto the decrepit straggles of hay that wheezed dust and mould under his weight. His protests to the movement were slight, more the beleaguered whimper of a dog caught in a nightmare than a man suffering from a grievous wound. His face was a grey swamp, strands of hair plastered to his forehead, slick with cold sweat, and his mouth hung loose and slack, showing the stark stain of red from within that washed over his teeth and tongue.

"There's nothing to keep pressure on!" Nostra shouted in return, the woman trying to oblige with the command but failing, her leather gauntlets steeped in death. "I've been holding his damned guts in!"

"Hey! Hey! Eyes open, Casal! No sleeping 'til Vel Anir, you hear?" Lumsden urged, kneeling over the wounded man and slapping his face as eyelids drooped unevenly, mouth only spilling blood instead of words.

By then, Syele had managed to light the lantern, rushing it over to the group so they could appraise the damage and see what could be done. The grim shadows cast by new light across their faces told a story of death. Lumsden reeled away, his hands on his head before lashing out with his foot at an old wooden bucket, sending it into the wall with a shower of splinters. "Shit!"

"No! No no. I can still..." Nostra stammered, still wrist deep inside of former guardsman, her friend, "...we can cauterise. We can..."

Wilhart placed a gloved hand on the woman's shoulder and gently shook her head, to which Nostra winced. She knew there was no chance to save Casal, that you couldn't cauterise a partial disembowelment, even if for a moment she wanted to believe. Wordlessly, Syele knelt by the man's side and drew a blade across his throat, his lurid lament disappearing in a pitiful gurgle.

She made sure to close his eyes, a mercy they would all be lucky to receive.

---

A few hours passed, giving time for the night to fall and for the living to tend to their own wounds.

It had been an ambush on the road, one of five in as many months. Dreadlord Trewen. The dossier had been vague on him; 'transformative magic' was as much information as they had gotten for his bane. Perhaps they had gotten careless, foolish in the thought that their rune-inscribed armour would keep themselves safe, small successes breeding hubris.

Their target had been more man than beast; his body was a weapon whose limbs swelled and transformed into monstrous appendages, jaws, claws and spines disregarding runes in search of flesh. Almost all of them were wounded, bar Nostra, who had the benefit of a crossbow and some distance.

They had won in the end, having to leave the carcass of the Dreadlord on the road in a hasty retreat to try and save Casal.

As the adrenaline had worn off, Syele soon realised her own wound from a slash of claws in her side would not just heal with a bandage and hope. It had forced them to start a small fire to cauterise within the barn, the black reek billowing up through a large hole in the roof. It wasn't ideal, and all they had to do was hope that nobody caught the smoke obscuring swathes of stars. With flesh sanctified by Lumsden's vodka and sealed by red-hot iron, the former Sergeant had bandaged her ribs, and her compatriots had offered to take watch together while she rested.

None of them knew sleep very well any longer.

However, Wilhart obliged with the assistance of garel, a medicinal, sedative herb oft relied upon by their kind to ensure a morsel of dreamless and restful sleep. She did not anticipate the other two would take the vodka to their watch outside the barn; the woman wouldn't have agreed to rest otherwise.

So while she slept in the bedroll by the embers, Lumsden and Nostra stood outside, at first digging a hole for Casal, whose body had been dragged outside for burial. Digging a solemn grave gave them something to do as they reminisced about their friend and drank.

And then drank more.

By the time the conversation had turned maudlin, bladders had been loosened. In the dead of night, Lumsden, who was significantly more inebriated, had staggered off around the side of the barn to go for another piss, leaving Nostra around the front leaning on the old shovel they had found.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

"Stay behind with the unit, Initiate Larrainth. Any more than necessary and we may tip off anyone we come across we have a larger number marching this way." Dreadlord Trewen looked down at her, chuckling at the furrowing of the Initiate's brows giving away her distaste for such an order. "You are one of the greatest weapons Vel Anir has, Larrainth. Your father knew it and taught you finely before the Academy shaped you. Wasn't it him that enjoyed a show before ending it wtih a nice finale?"

But the girl only hummed and stared at him a moment later, turning on her feet to leave him be.

Ever since the Revolution, Dreadlords were biting at the bit to get a chance of destruction, of glory, showing off their legendary skills, and that often meant the truly devastating magicks were left behind. A last resort.

Vittoria did not go through hell and conquering it to be left behind.

No... she would remind them that once she earned that title of Dreadlord, they would be unwise to place the Unmaker in the backlines.

---

"Body's cooled down... I'd say time of death is between..."

Vittoria stared at the corpse, eyeing every sign that he put up a good fight. She did not tune in to hear what the others said, did not look up at them as they walked around her and she gazed upon the man that told her to remain behind. He would not be lying here on the ground, defeated and gone, had she been there. Her magic was potent, whittled, shaped, honed, and sharpened over the years she was present at the Academy. She had broken herself worse than what any of the Proctors could do to her, because she knew the only way she would break was with her own magic.

She had brought down an entire town once because executive decisions were made out of incompetence, and their last resort had been to devastate. Vittoria reveled in that moment, earning her the title of Unmaker at just fourteen years of age. Revolution had made them softer, made them hesitate as if a moral compass had been installed in each of them. Vittoria had not suffered years to undestand those older than her, but her childhood was still fresh with conditioning to obery every order.

To be a good soldier of Vel Anir.

"There is a track of blood going that way." She interrupted, lifting a hand to gesture nonchalantly at the trail. It trickled onto the ground differently to that of Trewen's, and did not match his injuries. "Shall we have Quinnick change course and lead us towards—"

"We are not operating outside of our orders." A Dreadlord cut in, and Vittoria turned to see where the voice belonged to. Her eyes narrowed.

Ophir.

Her handler, if there were a title to anything of him being present on every mission she was on this year. "Let them go?" The slight inflection to her words were the only indicator that she witheld her rage.

Ophir did not flinch at her scathing tone, having built a way to not cower at her ire. "We must return to Vel Anir, report what has happened and leave it to the higher ups to dictate the next move, Initiate." And you return to the Academy.

Left out, once more.

---

She did not need the lesser magick of Livia Quinnick to hunt down those that killed Trewen.

He meant nothing to her, but the chance to make someone suffer at her hands was all too alluring to ignore. Vittoria had a bloodlust, her magic calling to her like a siren's song, and in the distance, it softened to a caress along the midnight wind.

Vittoria stayed in the shadows, where not even the moonslight could reach her and paint her in silver.

They were loud, drunk, Vittoria summised after observing those standing guard outside. The trail of blood had grown inconsistent, but her hunt provied fruitful when she followed a couple of strangers trekking through the forested area. Both carried injuries synonymous of a fight with a Dreadlord.

The lone person standing guard would stiffen hearing them tramble againt the forest floor, cursing and making their location known.

"Oh..." The guard grunted. "Where the fuck did you two go?"

Vittoria stayed to the shadows encasing her, still and silent. She was a feline that liked to play and torment a mouse, and what fortune that half of the culprits she could see were drunk, and the other half unable to support themselves on their own feet.

But she had gone a whole day and night playing nice. She had an advantage at that moment, and one she would not waste.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Screams filled the air, so pained, so useless, it made Vittoria suck in a breath and marvel at the sight of the two newcomers fall to the ground. The screams only came from one, the other's neck already splintered they were rendered useless, but conscious of the pain Vittoria's magic was inflicting.

She waited until both drunks made noise, waited until any others present inside the dilapitated building came out. Then, and only then would she peel their flesh, muscle, sinew, and bone. A grotesque tableau, pulled apart and left suspended there for all to witness. It was horrifying to lay eyes upon, but in all of it's gruesome glory, it was hard to look away.

Only until she saw whoever hid in that barn did Vittoria let the body fall, broken and in disrepair.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Screams ripped Syele from her sedate slumber with a sharp gasp, the green of her eyes wild and disorientated as the woman rolled onto her side, only to suddenly gasp at the biting pain where the Dreadlord's claw had gouged flesh.

Amidst the screeching backdrop of agony outside the barn, there was no time to think. For all Wilhart knew, every second wasted on making a decision was a second taken away from the life of another, and so she was moving on drilled instinct, scrambling out of the bedroll with a pained grimace and onto her feet. The only item she grabbed was her short spear, propped up against the wall, her gambeson too cumbersome to equip at a moment's notice, which left her in boots, breeches and a bandaged torso.

Storming out of the barn, she...

Freeze.

Lumsden. Nostra. Chest tightened. Gripped by an invisible hand. It squeezed the air from her lungs. I can't. Skin from flesh. Flesh from muscle. Muscle from bone. Please. Taken apart. Why? Everybody dies around you. Hands shaking. Head of the spear trembling. Can't breathe. Who could do this? So much blood. Ears ringing. Face burning. You can't save anybody. Eyes unfocusing. Wide. Horror. Jaw slack. Parts on the ground.

Fight.

The enemy was there, face obscured by death. Erich's rotting eyes stared back. She'd put down scores of mages. Erich, please. Necromancers. Witches. Elementalists. Warlocks. She'd seen death a thousand times over. Why are you faltering now?

Flight.

Syele's feet moved independently, and she stumbled backwards into the barn. I can't breathe. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she staggered through the dim lantern light, animal instinct screaming at her to hide as the former Sergeant sought refuge. Dead under your care. The woman practically fell into one of the stalls like startled livestock, remaining on the floor with her spear pointed upwards as it might have helped her.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

A single silhouette disturbed that shadows, stepping into the silver beam of the celestial moonslight. No other sounds came from the barn, and Vittoria waited a moment to be sure, but a feral smile curled at her lips as she stalked forward, hugging the blanket of shadows as her eyes stared, focused upon the woman.

Even she was not at her best.

And yet, the way she moved, stared at the horrific splattered remains of her comrades, Vittoria knew she was someone that knew how to fight. One should learn to, to seek retribution and vengeance with a face so scarred as the woman's. Relishing this moment, Vittoria stalked forward.

She could crush the woman, she could rip her apart slowly in a show of force, or even end it all by feeling for that heart and severing every valve...

But she already had her fun.

Vittoria took slow, careful steps that did not give away her position. She used this time to take in the woman's appearance, only stiffening and coming to a halt as recognition registered in her memory call. There was no name to the rogues, of which Vittoria learned were not Rogue Dreadlords, and at the time she scoffed and pondered what ordinary humans had to complain about to oppose Vel Anir.

She did not care about money, but there was a sense of satisfaction when bringing in someone wanted. Doing somebody's job, but better.

"Ghastly, is it not? What we look like beneath all this flesh and appearance." Vittoria found her way into a stray line of moonslight, it so thin it merely cut across her face in harsh shadows and highlights. It made her look like a predator, watching from the safety of strangeness and shadow as she advanced forward in a feline prowl, stalking towards her prey. Thin beams cut across her face, altering it with every step. "But we all have hearts that bleed and die the same."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Deep breaths, soldier.

Beneath the maelstrom of trauma, where ghosts lurked in vision and sat heavily on her chest, Syele knew she had to claw back control. Can't breathe. Every breath, short and shallow, only feeding into that animal panic that gripped her by the throat.

Focus.

She'd lived with this for over a decade now. Some days worse than others. Erich, please. The former guard knew that it would never leave her. There were ways to cope. Just had to seek them out. Her right hand tightened and twisted on the haft of the spear. Wide open spaces. Count your breathing. It's your fault. She thought of Jast, his hands on her shoulders as he talked her down before. Came out of nowhere. Gotten caught in a crowd. Couldn't breathe. Could see his face. Jaster was there at the other side.

There's a job to do and-

The focus was broken, interrupted by the voice that stalked Wilhart through the barn. As much as Syele was frozen in hiding on the floor of the wooden stall, her rapid breathing gave her away. I can't. There was something smug in that voice, savouring the fear and devastation of such terrible death. It struck that frightened animal as much as it did that hand of vengeance. Everyone is dead.

"...n-no," Syele muttered between the gasps for air, her spear still primed upwards in waiting, "...not the same. We're not the same..."

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria moved, entering the barn now. So sure in herself that she would not come off the worst this day, she walked slowly past debris and dirt, looking around the place as her eyes adjusted. She could not hear whereabouts the lone woman had gone to hide, but Vittoria had ways of finding it out.

This was now her moment on the stage.

An answer came, soft and not so clear, but it gave the Initiate an indication of where they were hiding.

"You killed a Dreadlord, did you not?" She asked bluntly, coming to a stop in the center. To some, she would be an easy target to strike, but Vittoria was brought up by a decorated First Rank Dreadlord before being honed and nurtured by the Academy. She had researched and studied what not to do in combat, and used this knowledge to lead any opponent in a false sense of having the upper hand. Her eyes kept watch, waiting for movement. Her eyes listened, ready to react. "And not just this one..."

"You see, I have seen your face before. The Republic is asking for quite a large sum for your capture..." Quiet, again, Vittoria let the words sink in. "Of course, it is still a rich sum for your death too. That is a good thing I do not kill for the money..."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

The voice continued, providing the much-needed space and time that Syele desperately needed to regain her composure and fight. Can't. She looked to ground herself again and restarted the process—her right hand, the only limb she had been able to move under the crush of bodies, tightened around the spear again. Erich, please. Should have died there.

Before Wilhart could try and reconsider Jaster's words of support, the horror that lurked within the barn spoke further. There was a bounty. Her face was known. Dead or alive. Better off dead. It was a revelation that robbed her of breath at a time when those were hard to come by. Ears ringing. She felt the blood pump in her temples. Eyes unfocusing for a moment.

There's a job to do.

No. No. No no. Can't breathe be taken alive. Syele had accepted a long time ago that she would die for this. Fuck. It was only right. Die for your penance.

And no one else to do it.

"...no."

At last, the former Sergeant found movement in her legs, gingerly trying to shift from her backside into a crouch. It was a glacial movement that sent a harsh reminder of her fresh wound, her torso still clad in bandages and little else, leaving her vulnerable to the grotesque magic this woman possessed.

"You... you... kill for pleasure," Syele spoke with that breathlessness still in her voice, now crouching with the spear primed for the next movement she saw at the stall entrance. "You're dis-disgusting. A disgrace to... to life."

Show those fucks the Guard doesn't break. We don't break.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria whipped her gaze to where the movement now made itself known, and the feline grin fought it's way to Vittoria's lips. The Initiate turned to face the other, unable to make every detail of her, but the face was enough validation.

The Dreadlord Venatrix the posters had claimed her to be, as no name was known. She was unrecognisable, but with that image burned, Vittoria was determined to find it out.

"Every soldier enjoys killing. We must stomach it, after all, and if one is particularly gifted at it, why not enjoy it?" There was amusement in her tone, excitement in her eyes. Nothing seemed to bring Vittoria Larrainth to life than the cusp of death unto another. "The most powerful of Dreadlords embrace the abomination that they are. It takes a rare one to excel to being the best, and I intend on doing just that."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

The woman's words settled thick in the air like toxic miasma. This sentiment was the lens through which she viewed all Dreadlords, not just the callous disregard for life but the active pleasure in snuffing it out. Breathe. To hear it spoken out loud sickened her, smothering her capitulation to trauma and replacing it with familiar rage.

"No."

She still struggled to fully find her breath, the sheen of terror-born sweat still glistening on her forehead, but the woman clawed back enough composure to make a stand. Breathe.

"There is no... there is no joy in killing," Syele answered, unsure in her heart if that was really true. Using the base of the spear, she stood from her crouching position, grunting as her wound protested. "We exist to serve the Anirian people. That is... that is where good soldiers find fulfilment."

Wilhart edged forth, wielding her short spear in both hands, her steps cautious in the knowledge that she was at a severe disadvantage, only emboldened by the will to put this beast down lest she became the next Isbrand.

"Our lands know... enough suffering. I-I cannot allow an abomination like you to live."

Breathe.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria delighted in the fight the woman summoned, the despise and loathing coating every word directed at the Initiate.

"Oh, but I will live, you see." She made no move, inviting Death to take those steps forward. "I was born and bred to become this, to serve Vel Anir. Protect Vel Anir." The girl lifted her chin, seemingly staring down at the wounded woman hellbent on ending Vittoria's life. "Only the strongest of the Dreadlords survive."

And she will not die today.

"What teeth do you have when that spear breaks?"

Softly, oh so softly would the woman hear cracking, would eventually feel the wood begin to shift under her grip as it began unstable. One wrong move and the entire thing could break apart. Vittoria did not need to rip it to pieces. Not when the woman could exhaust every weapon she had to sacrifice and entertain the girl.

"As if you could touch me before I break you piece by piece..."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Wilhart felt it before she could find a retort or the will to advance. The haft of her spear seemed to crack in her trembling grip, causing her to look down and see her well-maintained weapon succumb to an invisible ruin. Already without a strong defence, all Syele could do was watch helplessly as her offence was weakened, practically stripped away.

She had to hold fast; if she crumbled again, the woman feared she would not get back up.

"Serve and protect," Wilhart said quietly. Her right fist tightened around the shaft, causing it to splinter into the flesh of her hand, the back snapping off and onto the floor. Her left hand, burnt in the same fashion as her face, took to snapping the spearhead off, the rest of the withered wood discarded. "But all you... you can do is destroy. You were born and bred to be a... disgrace to Vel Anir."

Forcing herself forward, the former Anirian Guard's feet were cautious, still afraid, still shaken but moved by purpose despite those things. The remnant of her weapon was in one hand, and the other was a closed fist.

"I will die before I break," she spat before lunging forward with a pained grunt, her closed fist releasing wood fragments and splinters at the monstrosity's face, the other hand looking to slip the spearhead into the flesh of her gut.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria turned the splinters to dust, their original force being thrown behind it left the softer and lighter forms to fall short, and the woman charge through the cloud with purpose. Her opponent had skill, no doubt on that, but she was weakened, slower, and the Initiate instinctively caught her wrist and diverted the trajectory of the spear head. It found purchase into the top layers of her leather armour, ripping it free so that the Initiate could without hesitancy break the bone under her hand in hopes the reaction to the pain would drop the weapon.

"I bet you have killed plenty of us monstrosities in your career." She crooned, speaking softly as she held the woman back. "But you have made this quite exciting by presenting me a challenge. I cannot break you before you die?"

Vittoria pushed the woman back enough to make her stumble.

"Allow me to show you how I destroy anyone that opposes Vel Anir."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

In one liquid movement, her hand was caught and redirected, a sudden crack of pain shooting up from her wrist as the bone was broken with relative ease. Through gritted teeth, she cried out, facing a threat that seemed more like a promise with every passing second.

After being sent stumbling backwards, the small voice of self-preservation tried to urge Wilhart to flee, knowing that the situation was dire beyond remedy. She didn't hear it, only knowing the rush of blood that came with adrenaline, fear and pain. Clutching at her broken wrist, she felt the heat radiate from the injury. It was only the start. Break her piece by piece. A challenge now. It was fun for this abomination. Bones and flesh perhaps, but not her, not her principles. No, she refused to give any creature the satisfaction, let alone a Dreadlord.

There was no witty retort, with Syele choosing to return to the fray with nothing more than gritted teeth, seething hatred and one functioning hand.

She stepped forward, more cautiously than last time, feigning a right hook to the Dreadlord's head but instead sending out a strong kick to her left knee instead.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria took the hit, but her magic was faster.

Before she could fall, her hands stretched to catch her fall correctly, the bones in the woman's hand all broke at once. By the time the Initiate caught herself on the ground, she rolled and oustretched her arms to bowl over the other. A feral snarl left the girl, every bit of that monster, that creature, every horrible aspect of Dreadlords of old times raining down on her.

There was no humanity in those eyes, not even the gentle nature of waves the colour had reflected. Unleashed and unyielding, the power the Republic and Academy had hoped to keep buried within her with the use of distractions and runes to nullify her magic, but Vittoria had been born to be the rot that fed into the benevolence being taught.

That power almost left her control, but Vittoria was present enough to know the damage she wished to deal.

It did not stay with the hand. Bones all up her arm now splintered and snapped, a few pieces threatening to pierce under the skin.

"Is this disgraceful enough to you? Or shall I show you my cruelty knows no bounds?" It was bloodlust. It was the measure of weakness in her opponent, broken and bleeding from previous injuries. Vittoria's own blood had heated, magic ready to demonstrate exactly why even her own people feared what she could do.

This was grief waiting to come to life. This was the amount of power she had wished to wield after her father passed near two years ago.

She could not bring someone back from the land of the dead, but perhaps she could still play god and sentence more to death.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Ordinarily, Wilhart would have been moving to follow up, chaining blows until her opponent was incapacitated or, better yet, unconscious. However, ordinarily, her bones did not suddenly break beneath the will of foul magic. The sudden sensation struck her with another strained cry, leaving an opening for the Dreadlord to counter, and knock her off of her feet.

There was no choice but to press on, but the immobility of broken bones hindered her, along with the cauterised wounds from the day before that protested with every movement.

Then her arm e r u p t e d.

It was the sound that registered first, a deep insidious snapping that travelled up the length of the limb like the earth fissuring during an earthquake. The pain soon followed with Syele's screams the horrifying accompaniment, caught somewhere between shock and agony. It left the woman on her back, her other hand reaching over to touch upon flesh that tingled and throbbed, hot to the touch.

Piece by piece, she had said.

"You... you..." Syele seethed, spitting through gritted teeth as her face contorted, caught between venom, fear and pain, "...you said I couldn't touch you..."

Wilhart had to goad her, hopefully to either inspire recklessness or a swift demise.

"...got hit by a... by a wounded woman," she continued, her words dripping with hatred as they travelled through beleaguered breaths. "I've faced... far better Dreadlords than you. You... you are merely... average... and lucky."

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

It was too easy to play into Vittoria's bloodlust, to discredit the greatness of cruelty she was displaying and calling it luck. It made the girl screech, her hand pressing on the sleeve of broken bones rendering the arm useless to the woman. But that was not enough. Her magic fed on the pain, began to pull and tear at the flesh there, peeling the skin enough to glimpse the muscle beneath it. Her rage carried, creeping towards the woman's chest and neck with flecks of open wounds, as if a clawed hand shredded into the woman.

To be called average... as if being shackled as a human was not enough of a sentence.

"I think you do not need that tongue of yours..." She murmured. Vittoria pushed herself from her target, got to her feet and scoured the barn for something to inspire her. Perhaps it was an excuse to cool down the roaring fire in her veins, that phantom voice goading her into tearing the woman apart. "But I like hearing people scream."

Nothing stuck out to the Initiate. With a soft sigh, Vittoria reached a hand to her lower back, cutting with her nails to a slit of magic that concealed a blade.

"Mind if I sharpen my blade?" Vittoria did not wait for an answer, coming to the side the broken and useless arm was. With her boot, she flattened it to the ground and pressed her body weight against it. Bones, broken out of place, splintered under her magic's wrath, gave way to her boot. They pierced through muscle and flesh, blood now seeping from the opened wounds. Vittoria leaned down, more force on her single foot on the ruined arm.

She waited until the pain passed a moment before using the jutting bones as a whetstone. Vittoria's breath came out bated, her eyes focused on the grinding of blade to bone, careful to cause enough movement to shoot pain through the woman. "One day, I will be Archon. You will be bones left here and forgotten. Carrion for the rats that you no doubt had grown up in the same gutters." A particularly slow, tedious scrape of her blade that forced the bone to move. "You already killed an average Dreadlord. Trewen was a waste to our number... but it is your audacity to spill blood that made me hunt you..."

She had been warned not to pursue, ordered to stand down, but the nagging tore at Vittoria. It was a siren call, a chance to unleash.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

There was some tiny morsel of satisfaction to be garnered by the reaction, to get under the skin of a Dreadlord, even while caught in the web of certain doom. She tried to savour it as much as possible. Syele was not so foolish as to think that goading the monster would be without consequences; suffering was inevitable. It would be swift with some degree of fortune, but if not...

She clamoured through gritted teeth as retribution fell upon her mangled arm, the swift pressure followed by the sharp flaying of flesh. What kind of creature held magic of this cruel nature? All Wilhart could do was watch in horror as the bare meat of her arm fissured, worming up the limb and towards her upper torso.

Piece by piece.

As the Dreadlord searched the barn, presumably for the tools to cut out the former Guard's tongue, Syele did her own search; the other hand, with a broken wrist, clumsily felt around the floor where she had fallen. Only she knew what she was trying to find—the spearhead.

For the time being, she palmed it, the edges cutting into her hand until the sadistic beast masquerading as a human returned.

When broken bone erupted from the flesh, she howled, eyes wide and wild as the pain concentrated in sharp, devastating spikes. Animal instinct tried to pull the limb away, but it was useless and stuck fast under the Dreadlord's boot. Every stroke of the knife against disjointed bone sent a sickening reverberation through her, the tendons on her neck protruding as the rest of her surged in taut agony.

"...you... waste... your time" Syele managed to respond, rolling onto her side and facing the Dreadlord, her scarred visage drawn taut by pain. "...I am... one of... many" The words were strained through her teeth between outcries, hissed out with spittle and ragged breath. "...you will be... an Archon of NOTHING!"

As if to punctuate her point, Syele spat at the face of the Dreadlord, seemingly out of nothing more than the purest of hatred.

However, she hoped for two things. The first was to enrage the monstrosity made flesh, to push her further into less calculated torture or swift death. The second was to distract her, draw her eye to her face and blind the creature with fury so she would miss the spearhead that Syele now moved to stab into the Dreadlord's thigh with the other hand. Her broken wrist would hamper the damage she could do, but if she could just hit an artery...

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

There were certainly points upon her body that would hinder Vittoria's movements, would make her feel the mortality she was unfortunate to be cursed with, but her magic, her adrenaline, it blinded her to what could ruin her. The stab at her thigh was a spike of pain, a burning, but Vittoria's bared teeth soon came away in laughter. It bordered on maniacal, staring down at the piece protruding from her thigh.

"I will hunt you and the others like vermin... I will poison your waters, burn every shelter you have, and rip away every shred of hope you have until you have nothing but your unremarkable lives left. Fear the blanket of death as it comes for you..." Vittoria pressed all her weight on the arm beneath her boot, hearing a sickening symphony of bones, muscle, and blood squelch.

Her movements were restricted, as if pain could not stop her, but the metal stuck in her thigh was enough to alert her not all was right. It was an annoying reminder, and against all medical knowledge she possessed, she wrenched it free and tossed the spear head to the side. Her hand went to cover it, coating her palm and fingers with her blood. "You ever heard what they said about powerful Dreadlords? That you could tear their arm off and they would still fight, magic fueling them to continue... what have you got if I were to test that theory on you?"

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Syele looked on, determination turning to horror as the freak merely laughed away the spearhead now embedded in her thigh, only proving her monstrous nature to be true.

The boot once more crushed down upon her mangled arm, causing her to cry out as Wilhart returned to her back, her scarred visage creasing under the tension of agony. The Dreadlord's promises of suffering for their entire movement sought to join the boot in grinding all sense of hope within her into the ground, but silent convictions stood firmer than flesh.

She knew nothing. Not their locations. Not their numbers. Not even their names.

Their only lead, the face of their bounty, the source of information, was here and destined to die before she would talk. All Syele needed to do was keep pushing to encourage the rampant, sadistic lunacy that afflicted this creature as much as her foul magic did. She could be dead before clarity hit the Dreadlord like consequences for actions should have ought to.

"...then I would... have one arm, you witless... mediocre... cunt."

Wilhart's insolent answer only served to be obstinate and to push the creature into increasingly severe choices. The real answer to the question was better left unsaid. What would she have if her arm was torn off?

About five minutes.

Well-versed in the grim realities of battle, Syele knew how long a person could last after losing a limb and what a death sentence it often was—ten minutes for the healthy. However, her wounds from before and now only shrunk the hourglass of death. All she needed was for the aberration to go through with it without thinking.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria's eyes lit up. A cut of light from above put the girl in a silver glow from the moons high above, allowing the woman to see Vittoria's lips pull up at the edges in a small smile. "No need for the crass language..."

It was beneath Vittoria to use such words, for she believed it to be used by those less fortunate in life, that could not afford to compose themselves in a better light.

"Enough of that."

Vittoria's expression fell back into the cold and hard stare upon the broken women before her. She thought to disconnect both sides of her jaw, but pain was a slow thing to deal. Her left side of her jaw would crack, unhinging from it's proper placement.

But why stop there?

Vittoria's magic moved like a light blanket over the woman, a series of cold and hot air caressing against her before seeping into her pores, deeper and deeper until it wrapped around the twenty six bones in one foot. One after the other, the bones broke. The Initiate stared, watching the woman break piece by piece without a flinch or averting her gaze. She met the scene without falter, as if to ensure her magic did as she bid it.

"When they find you, I hope they look at you and see you are beyond repair." The idea seemed to give her some life in return, a small breathy laugh. "Perhaps I could let you live just so you feel every bit of pain and wishing for death..."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Another piece.

One side of her jaw flared, the prominent crack reverberating through her skull painfully, causing her to let loose a sharp yelp. Syele could feel it in the aftermath, the way her mouth hung open lop-sided and unable to close. Not dislocated, but completely snapped. It ached, pulsating outwards, but was a drop in the bucket next to the agony of her mangled arm, merely the vehicle to hinder her insults and dismantle a new part of her body.

It didn't stop there.

The vindictive creature moved on, seeking new bones to break—piece by piece. Wilhart writhed with every snap in her foot, the price for movement a reminder of all her swiftly accumulating injuries. Strained cries left through a squint jaw that could no longer fully shut to grit teeth and try to bear it.

The monstrous sadist stared the entire time with an intensity that only highlighted her complete lack of humanity. When Syele had attempted to look back, she had faltered. Erich's rotting eyes stared back instead, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her lungs once more in tandem with the Dreadlord's musing over even finishing the job. Can't do this again. Last one alive, waiting to rot. No. She just had to...

...breathe.

"...'een there," she murmured with slurred and absent consonants, her jaw on fire with every syllable, "done tha'..." Once more, Syele rolled onto her side to face the direction of her enemy, her tormenter, her killer. Her free hand reached over to the Dreadlord's boot, awkwardly grabbing with all the strength and coordination of a curious toddler. "...'en dey... hind 'e... they'll look... at 'e and hind your 'lood on... 'y hands..."

Suddenly, the hand was not so sluggish and pathetic, and it reached for the spearhead wound on the beast's leg, where Wilhart tried to jam her thumb into it.

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria paused, admitting herself a mere thought to admire the woman's ire to continue to speak despite the broken jaw, thanks to the Initiate.

Just as she appreciated the woman's last attempt to inflict pain on Vittoria. It would not compare to the pain she had dealt to the other's movements to tear into the wound in Vittoria's thigh, but it filled her with anger, to rage, to a jolt of magic surging inside her and being unleashed onto the broken vermin to get her away from the Initiate.

But she did not shy away.

Her blade was still in her hand, and with meticulous motions had carved a large tidal wave between the jutting shards of bone in her arm. "My father used to mark all his hunted kills with our House sigil. I carry the tradition when I can. You see... hard to do so when I tear people into pieces like your friends."

Hurt me again. Vittoria was open to many more attempts at causing pain to her injury.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Syele's attempt to provoke the Dreadlord into deadly retribution once again. Words nor harm would move the creature to the killing blow, lending truth to promise of piece by piece.

Magic and blade brought forth the response, with a sigil carved into flesh of her mangled limb. Every moment of the blade causing fragments of shattered bone to shift uncomfortably. Still, throughout the symphony of broken-jawed protests there was a glimmer of hope, at least for death, at least at the behest of family tradition.

"...'uck your cunt house," Syele managed to slur out, her ability to call the Dreadlord a cunt not impacted by being unable to close her mouth.

Still, she persisted with the other hand, her thumb, slick with blood, continuing to seek the wound. All she could do at this point was poke and prod, frustrate and annoy like the proverbial flea on the back of the lion. That's how Dreadlords saw them, after all. Insects, great in numbers but wholly insignificant.

"...it 'ill...all burn," Syele promised of the beast's noble house, "...and your entire... in'red cunt fa'ily... with it..."

 

[Vittoria Larrainth]

Vittoria tilted her head, watching the woman with a feline's curiosity.

"I am the last blood born Larrainth, actually." She spoke, using her knife to carve more into the woman's arm. Her artwork went upwards, towards the neck bit of exposed flesh at her neck. Here, she carve a V into her neck, a memento of the Initiate. "I am responsible for three Larrainth deaths in the past two years, since my father passed."

Her voice was soothing, gentle, as if she were truly telling a story to a friend.

"You see, our blood became sullied when my father's estranged twin brother fell in love with an elf. She was pregnant, but that child will no longer see this world. He was the last born in this House that I killed, and the line will die with me... after I marry into another house. It was always my father's wish that I wed a husband as powerful as me, to push me into becoming Archon Larrainth."

Her knife's point scored a path to beneath the woman's chin, forcing her to angle her face to look up into Vittoria's eyes.

"I was going to let you live, but I think watching you bleed out would provide me with some entertainment."

And then her head disappeared. She leaned back, using her knife to cut into the woman's arm in slow slices, as if she would cut her arm off one stroke at a time.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Was it a relief to learn that this abomination was the last of her line? To know that whatever wretched blood was responsible for her creation was no more?

It might have been.

However, it was hard to snatch any sense of victory when the blade cut into the maimed flesh of her arm with deliberate and practised cruelty. She couldn't even grit her teeth any more to endure it, the snapped bone of her jaw rendering it incapable of closing correctly. Each slice travelled upwards, the blood flowing down the trail of brutality and soaking into the decaying wood beneath.

By the time the Dreadlord had reached her neck to leave a parting gift, Wilhart's pained protests had turned hoarse.

Forced to look into the woman's eyes, she saw Erich's judgment staring back at her. Rotten eyes overlayed on a putrid soul, taking her breath away and replacing it with guilt. You should have died then. The thought of surviving this, of going through everything all over again, was too much.

So when the Dreadlord's intention to watch her die was revealed, Syele finally just relaxed.

She had never asked to survive. In fact, in the wake of the wall, she had tried to ask Ranna Anakanos to end her life there and then, a grim request that was denied. She owed it to the living and the dead to carry on. So she did, fostering a bitter and scarred heart that only knew the sting of self-flagellation. It was so exhausting to live and yet so difficult to die.

"...a 'ity..." her uncoordinated jaw mumbled between sharp breaths between methodical strokes of the blade, "...I 'ill not... see the... end o' you..."

Her upper lip curled as if hatred had tried to imagine a smile.

"...Archon... o'... Ashes..."