Private Tales Wildfire

[Esper]

The blackened gravel of Sheketh crunched under her small, hurried steps, each jolt sending a sharp ache through the cuff at her wrist. Iron. A cruel thing to a fae.

Esper’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground, dark volcanic dust and jagged rock reflecting none of the warmth she craved. Her fire, her life had been dimmed for weeks, first by the iron shackles, then by the long, wet voyage across the sea. Though she was finally on solid ground, she still felt its lingering chill coursing through her veins, her body weakened by it almost as much as the metal stealing her power and energy.

Beside her, Malephis moved with unnerving ease, hurrying her along. His long coat brushed over the uneven terrain, the curl of his horns casting twisted shadows across the jagged landscape. His purple skin seemed almost to drink in the muted sunlight, glinting like molten stone, and Esper forced herself not to flinch at his looming presence.

They stopped before a smiths, the one he'd been looking for, and the devil grinned, jagged teeth glinting in the forge light. He pulled her close to him, hand gripping her chin and dragging her lightless eyes to meet his.. "Here we are, my pet. We'll have some new jewellery for you soon enough.." he winked, and shoved her inside.

 

[Gerra]

To name it anything but a hut would be generous. A hut far from civilization, on a cliff by the sea, near to the volcano that dominated the tiny island off the coast of Sheketh proper.

Gerra seldom received visitors. And those he did seemed obsessed with either murdering him or forming a cult around him. They’d all left, either dead or fled. And he no longer cared. His illusion, his idyll, was dispelled at last. And he cursed all the gods of Arethil for it. Would that he could but walk into the ocean and forget existence. Yet he did not. Oft he’d stood on the cliff’s edge, looking down, upon Nym’s departure.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Not so far down. He’d die on impact.

Just a step and the torment of this life would be over.

But he had no stomach for it.

He had not shaved nor washed nor done anything but drink the fermented milk of goats for days. So when he answered the door of his hut and saw them standing there, he did but scowl and look passing rough.

“Yes? Why have you darkened my door, devil?”

He glowered, uncaring of the demon which stood before him and likewise of the demon’s companion. No, slave. He saw it in the movements and their stance. She was a thing of enchanting beauty. And for that she would be kept in a cage for enjoyment. Better if she’d been born ugly and malformed.

He who had stood face to face with the father of dragons feared not the wrath of some misbegotten demon.

“Speak.”