RE: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4]
09-01-2013, 02:23 AM
(This post was last modified: 09-01-2013, 02:30 AM by chimericgenderbeast.)
It had been hours-- or it felt like it had been, the passage of time was indiscernible within Il Maledicta's labyrinth of once-glamorous, now-faded galleries-- since Lavi had met with the gypsy, and her words still haunted her. The fortuneteller had explained nothing, only made the theater seem more foreign; after her circuitous rambling, Lavi had only more unanswered questions that went ignored. In between scatterbrained attempts at piecing together what she knew, she would take another step-- forward and upwards, her bare feet caked in dust from the creaking staircase she now climbed. She could only wander aimlessly, hoping that something would arise and decipher Il Maledicta's incalculable enigmas.
Lavi stopped, now at the top of the staircase. The strange cities of Venice and Chicago and Naples, cities utterly alien to her, lay down at the bottom of the countless spiraling steps that she had finally ascended. They were behind her, and their world no longer mattered, she tried to tell herself. The fortuneteller's appraisal of her as having a curse crossed her mind once more, a parting memory of that world, and the druid felt a recalcitrant flush of anger-- how dare she judge her as cursed, calling her talent at an art they'd never so much as dream of an unspeakable anathema.
Her arms folded together, clutching herself as she shuddered-- unsure of whether that malevolent thought was her own. Lavi turned away, desperate to forget what transpired beneath the theater's collapsing foundations.
A new environment greeted her when left the stairwell-- or Lavi assumed as much. The anarchic sprawl of market stalls and haphazard, jury-rigged edifices was nearly indistinguishable from the subterranean warrens down below, at least to eyes trained on forests and wilderness. It was hard to apply the same skills; to transition from the quiet of pristine snow and trees to the riot of color and Il Maledicta's wandering troupes of ashen-faced actors was difficult. She was disoriented, her steps were almost too-light in an attempt to mask the dazed confusion-- and, on some basic level, the fear: she would be seen amongst the teeming crowds. Hiding would be impossible.
She carefully sidled forward, like an injured deer amongst wolves.
---
For a brief moment, someone noticed the druid slip inside of the marketplace-- and just as quickly, they were distracted again.
Carlie hadn't stopped talking about how to kill Imago. There was still some windfall that could be extracted from Carlie, Nameless was certain, but her enthusiasm-- if it could be called that-- for the scheme to kill Imago was nonexistent; she only barely managed to feign a polite interest. There was no financial incentive in the plan, and while her sense of cutthroat opportunism saw opportunity enough to profit, it would be difficult with Carlie's line of thought. As the girl continued to speak, Nameless took another bite of a peach she had acquired with her stack of wooden coins, with only a thinly-remembered modicum of decency keeping the fruit from dribbling down her chin. Her eye was caught by the drab attire of someone moving through the crowd, a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the actors-- someone who wouldn't likely be a native to the theater. She realized this was the same person she'd seen enter moments earlier.
Nameless silently excused herself, mentally tucking away her own designs on Carlie as she began to shadow the new arrival.
Lavi didn't notice her tail-- she was lost in thought, trying to piece together what she should search for. No revelation gripped her, no certainty as to where to go. She only had the same solitude and confusion that she had carried with her from the catacombs below-- the druid was hoping for an answer when she wasn't sure what question she would ask. She nervously tugged on her sleeves as she walked, pulling them further over her arms.
"May I 'elp you, mademoiselle?"
A bitter taste of iron seeped into her mouth as she reflexively bit down on her tongue. Root-tendril feet took a half-step back, eyes looked up to see who addressed her-- an ostentatious figure, draped in tattered, moth-eaten finery and masked in peeling layers of dried makeup. A clothier, she presumed, judging from the stall he occupied: bolts of thick, colorful fabric were draped off of its wooden framework, and an assortment of tailored articles were strewn about. She immediately disliked him, and it almost frightened to know that she couldn't pinpoint why. She scanned his wares, waiting patiently to see what he wanted, her normal vivacity carefully suppressed.
The tailor took her silence as a show of interest, and immediately spoke again. "Ah, ze mademoiselle likes what she sees, oui? She could use something better zan ze filthy rags sh--"
"I'm-- I'm not interested, thank you." Lavi's reply was half-hearted and detached; she was distracted by her search for something unknown.
An overexaggerated gasp of shock was his reply. "Mon dieu!" He exclaimed. "She wishes to remain in her disgusting tatters? Non, c'est impossible, it is--"
Crowds of painted-faced figures were gathering, attracted to the tension of a disagreement and patiently coiled for an explosion of drama. Lavi was aware of them, their attention beating down from all sides-- she started to walk, desperate to escape the tailor and his gathered mob.
An errant hand interrupted her-- outstretched fingers grasped and tugged, snagging against her sleeve and inarticulately pulling back to reveal carefully hidden bark-skin. Ash-coated faces gaped and silently gasped as the tailor pulled her arm upward, exposing it to the newly-gathered audience.
"--it is out of character. Zis chérie ange was trying to 'ide from us." The tailor finally finished, placing a disquieted, accusatory emphasis on his ultimatum.
Hidden amongst the crowd, Nameless watched the scene play out, intrigued by the new revelation but not displaying the same melodramatic shock the collected troupe openly revealed. She wasn't sure just what to make of her, but she was a curiosity and had rapidly attracted a crowd-- and novelty always sold well, she knew. Her diminutive stature helped her sneak forward, moving unnoticed amid the painted-faced throng-- until she stopped, her eye caught by a forgotten poster plastered on one of the market's walls.
A foreign rush of anger surged over Lavi; for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to slake an alien bloodlust, to punish the tailor for his impertinence. Her free hand reached back, hidden underneath her sleeve so that none of the gathered thespians could see the pale twinkle of blue light coruscating over her fingertips. She could make him beg for her forgiveness. It would be easy to break him, to torture him--
--No, Lavi thought, her own mind reasserting itself over the malignant influence's reverie. The memories of exacting excruciating pain on Francisco were indelibly burnt into her mind-- she had no desire to go through that again, to go through hurting someone and being used against her will. She'd need to use her gift to escape, she knew, but not in the way that loathsome presence wanted her to.
Lavi allowed herself a small, vivacious smile.
The tailor looked at her, no longer addressing the eager troupe and instead returning to pressuring her and trying to ignore the new liveliness crossing her formerly listless, fearful face. "Now, mon chérie ange, what will your miracle b--"
Lavi's unbound hand dug deep into the piled cloth and fabric, the flickering glow suppressed, even though in an instant her slight attempt at subterfuge would not matter. The textiles rippled, quivering slightly-- and then burst forth, an immense homunculus of fabric springing into being. Scarves were knotted and twisted against each other, tugging other pieces of the ragged construct as unfurled bolts of cloth billowed like the folds of an immense cloak. The entire figure loomed over the crowd-- somehow barely managing to not fall apart-- and protectively drooped over the druid, shielding her.
A once-intimidating crowd turning to fear, a tailor's grip loosening as he retreated, an intimidating aegis of eaten-away silk and fabric-- Nameless noticed these details, but was distractedly interested by the druid. She quickly folded the poster she had been reading, stowing it within the pages of her notebook before anyone else had time enough to look upon it. In the half-second her attention was away, the girl had escaped, now running down one of the broken marketplace's narrow passages. Nameless mutely followed, ignoring the now-collapsing golem or the actors, who had forgotten the girl and devolved into a shouting-match over how important their character was; whatever unity they had when presented with the foreigner was gone. Her own mind was on that foreigner-- she was important, and Nameless had every intention of manipulating a profit out of her situation.
Without her attention, the golem had fallen apart, the magic holding it together collapsing with no force to supervise it-- but Lavi didn't care; it had served its purpose in helping her escape. She ran, not bothering to look back and see if she was being tailed.
Her root-tendril feet finally stopped, settling against the wooden floorboards. She was in another one of the marketplace's promenades, now, still lost within Il Maledicta's labyrinth but away from immediate danger. Passing performers still looked at her and regarded her with a cold, mocking derision, but did not immediately see her as a possession to be coveted-- the way the tailor and his mob had. They didn't worry her-- she was more concerned by the procession that now gathered around her, the one that seemed to be completely ignored by the distant actors.
A troop of black-clothed figures had quietly emerged, seemingly from the bazaar's woodwork, and silently taken positions around her. Their assortment of masks-- from faceless facades of porcelain to funerary-like veils to dark, shadowed hoods-- obscured their faces entirely, and Lavi took a half-step back towards the passageway she had emerged from, as if to flee. At their center, however, emerged one man. He was different, dressed in tattered regalia, his eyes tightly bound by a silk blindfold. He limped towards her, each step he made seemed pained and precarious-- despite the clear signs of youth. The man staggered forward for a few more steps, finally stopping. He extended a hand, reaching until he felt the druid's arm-- she did nothing to resist-- and stopping only when he felt the odd, bark-skin texture. His bare feet weakly paced backwards as he withdrew his grip.
A thin, forlorn smile crossed Avox's face. His hands delicately danced against the dusty air, tracing out glowing sigils of light against a surface of nothing.
i have been looking for you lavi lannon
He was a broken man, Lavi suddenly realized.
---
"Is there a reason they don't talk?"
Avox tilted his head in the direction of Lavi's voice, his face changing to a quizzical expression-- or the best approximation that he could underneath the crinkled layers of his blindfold. They had stopped walking now, and the servant could only guess at their new location from the fleeting bursts of sound. A saw moving against wood, the strain and tension of distant ropes and pulleys, the scuffing of shoes and the groan of something being dragged-- they were backstage, in the apocryphal realm the actors of Il Maledicta ignored.
"They haven't spoken. Not when you found me, not when we were walking. Not even while they work." The druid continued, when it seemed no response would come from her guide-- Avox, she reminded herself, recalling his introduction during their brief journey.
they are stagehands they are not meant to be heard
Lavi sighed tetchily, crossing her arms as she read Avox's floating symbols. Between her last group of companions, the criminal aristocrat she had been forcibly brought before, the nonsense-babbling fortuneteller, and now her latest guide, she had yet to meet anyone who would provide explanations that weren't meaningless non-answers. Her brow furrowed-- a somewhat meaningless gesture, she realized, taking in his blindfold once more. She let her eyes wander, her vision dancing over her surroundings as she wondered how to proceed.
"Is there anything you can tell me, or is it all just cryptic riddles like everyone else?"
The servant shuffled a half-step back, his head hung downward in mute apology. A new set of luminescent signs were etched against the air.
i can tell you that we are both the unwilling servants of a malignant demon
Another foreign rush of anger assaulted Lavi, the alien thirst returning as she studied his words. Her feet stumbled, her hand reached out as though to strangle, her mind swam until she forced herself to focus. The feeling quickly subsided, but it was clear that her blind companion had somehow noticed-- his stance was different as he inscribed another line of bright glyphs, the last set having dimmed to nothing but immaterial cinders.
his name is imago dei
he doesn't live so much as exist and exists only to experience
pleasure and pain are the same to him
Forgotten years of torture and pain resurfaced, and the knowledge that she would suffer as he had. Avox stopped, feeling unsteady on his feet-- he couldn't continue, couldn't bear to let her know the suffering that would be inflicted on her. He heard a few footsteps, the rustling of heavy furs and worn fabric, and felt a warm, comforting grip clasp around one of his hands. He had to continue, he realized-- she had to know.
he can only feel through others and he has
he has chosen you
i am sorry i am so sorry
The druid loosened her hold on Avox, her hand retreating back as she let his words roll around her mind.
he made
he made me forget my name my true name not avox
i cannot imagine what he will do to you i am so sorry
What he said seemed impossible-- that she was the thrall of some unheard-of demon, that it had chosen her, that some terrible fate would befall her. A thin film of dust rose from the floor as she nervously paced for a few steps. What Avox had explained was impossible, Lavi knew-- but the sincerity, the melancholy present made it just as impossible to doubt his conviction, that he believed what he had told her. He had been the only one to give her an answer, she thought. Her hand fidgeted uncomfortably, blue sparks of light momentarily flickering over her fingertips, as she wrestled with the notion that he was right.
"Why hasn't he done something to stop us, then? It isn't like he can't have heard us." She asked.
because he does not care
what are men and kings to a god
we are nothing but playthings to satisfy his hedonism
Avox shifted uncomfortably-- he felt one of his arms reaching behind him, independent of his own impulses, and the servant shuddered. A dagger that definitely had not existed dropped into his fingers, its blade pressing into his skin, the point of pain tracing upward as his hand moved of its own accord. Blood slowly dripped down the servant's back. An abrupt realization crossed his mind-- that he had upset his master. Avox immediately flailed his free hand, hastily rushing through the motions and tracing a new set of sigils; he needed to tell her everything now, he needed more time, it wasn't supposed to happen like this--
--Lavi rushed forward, a half-second too late to stop the blind servant. His arm jerkily swung forward-- in an instant, the dagger was puncturing his neck, and a moment later his vise-like hand had forcibly torn the point outward in a wide, exaggerated slice. Blood ran down his clothing along the wound, and he collapsed, his face frozen in one final look of pleading desperation. He offered no screams of agony, no last words, only the same silence he had when living. Avox was dead.
She had seen others die-- from exposure, from famine, from disease and plague, but never like this. Lavi shivered, feeling a sudden rush of cold as she stared at his corpse, her mind locked and fixated on the horror. Blood pooled, stained Avox's silk clothing, collected and dripped through the floor. His life had been taken-- by him, she realized. Maybe the demon had not come down and performed the act, but it was him nonetheless, toying with the two of them as puppets to satiate his rapacious whims. Her eyes briefly glanced over the room-- no one had reacted, and when her vision had returned Avox's corpse was gone, disappeared into ethereal nothingness.
Lavi shivered again, frightened at the prospect of that same power being wielded over her-- the power to take a life, even her own. Imago's invisible presence hung heavily over her, like a suspended sword. Her tormentor had a name, now.
Her feet began to move-- whether on her accord or not, she was uncertain, her only thoughts were on how she needed to escape, to get away from this painful eternity and his silent, torturous mocking and the foreign thoughts of anger and lust that bubbled and rose in her mind. She needed to stop him, but her broken resolve couldn't stomach the thought. She ran.
And as she left, Nameless mutely followed.
Lavi stopped, now at the top of the staircase. The strange cities of Venice and Chicago and Naples, cities utterly alien to her, lay down at the bottom of the countless spiraling steps that she had finally ascended. They were behind her, and their world no longer mattered, she tried to tell herself. The fortuneteller's appraisal of her as having a curse crossed her mind once more, a parting memory of that world, and the druid felt a recalcitrant flush of anger-- how dare she judge her as cursed, calling her talent at an art they'd never so much as dream of an unspeakable anathema.
Her arms folded together, clutching herself as she shuddered-- unsure of whether that malevolent thought was her own. Lavi turned away, desperate to forget what transpired beneath the theater's collapsing foundations.
A new environment greeted her when left the stairwell-- or Lavi assumed as much. The anarchic sprawl of market stalls and haphazard, jury-rigged edifices was nearly indistinguishable from the subterranean warrens down below, at least to eyes trained on forests and wilderness. It was hard to apply the same skills; to transition from the quiet of pristine snow and trees to the riot of color and Il Maledicta's wandering troupes of ashen-faced actors was difficult. She was disoriented, her steps were almost too-light in an attempt to mask the dazed confusion-- and, on some basic level, the fear: she would be seen amongst the teeming crowds. Hiding would be impossible.
She carefully sidled forward, like an injured deer amongst wolves.
---
For a brief moment, someone noticed the druid slip inside of the marketplace-- and just as quickly, they were distracted again.
Carlie hadn't stopped talking about how to kill Imago. There was still some windfall that could be extracted from Carlie, Nameless was certain, but her enthusiasm-- if it could be called that-- for the scheme to kill Imago was nonexistent; she only barely managed to feign a polite interest. There was no financial incentive in the plan, and while her sense of cutthroat opportunism saw opportunity enough to profit, it would be difficult with Carlie's line of thought. As the girl continued to speak, Nameless took another bite of a peach she had acquired with her stack of wooden coins, with only a thinly-remembered modicum of decency keeping the fruit from dribbling down her chin. Her eye was caught by the drab attire of someone moving through the crowd, a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the actors-- someone who wouldn't likely be a native to the theater. She realized this was the same person she'd seen enter moments earlier.
Nameless silently excused herself, mentally tucking away her own designs on Carlie as she began to shadow the new arrival.
Lavi didn't notice her tail-- she was lost in thought, trying to piece together what she should search for. No revelation gripped her, no certainty as to where to go. She only had the same solitude and confusion that she had carried with her from the catacombs below-- the druid was hoping for an answer when she wasn't sure what question she would ask. She nervously tugged on her sleeves as she walked, pulling them further over her arms.
"May I 'elp you, mademoiselle?"
A bitter taste of iron seeped into her mouth as she reflexively bit down on her tongue. Root-tendril feet took a half-step back, eyes looked up to see who addressed her-- an ostentatious figure, draped in tattered, moth-eaten finery and masked in peeling layers of dried makeup. A clothier, she presumed, judging from the stall he occupied: bolts of thick, colorful fabric were draped off of its wooden framework, and an assortment of tailored articles were strewn about. She immediately disliked him, and it almost frightened to know that she couldn't pinpoint why. She scanned his wares, waiting patiently to see what he wanted, her normal vivacity carefully suppressed.
The tailor took her silence as a show of interest, and immediately spoke again. "Ah, ze mademoiselle likes what she sees, oui? She could use something better zan ze filthy rags sh--"
"I'm-- I'm not interested, thank you." Lavi's reply was half-hearted and detached; she was distracted by her search for something unknown.
An overexaggerated gasp of shock was his reply. "Mon dieu!" He exclaimed. "She wishes to remain in her disgusting tatters? Non, c'est impossible, it is--"
Crowds of painted-faced figures were gathering, attracted to the tension of a disagreement and patiently coiled for an explosion of drama. Lavi was aware of them, their attention beating down from all sides-- she started to walk, desperate to escape the tailor and his gathered mob.
An errant hand interrupted her-- outstretched fingers grasped and tugged, snagging against her sleeve and inarticulately pulling back to reveal carefully hidden bark-skin. Ash-coated faces gaped and silently gasped as the tailor pulled her arm upward, exposing it to the newly-gathered audience.
"--it is out of character. Zis chérie ange was trying to 'ide from us." The tailor finally finished, placing a disquieted, accusatory emphasis on his ultimatum.
Hidden amongst the crowd, Nameless watched the scene play out, intrigued by the new revelation but not displaying the same melodramatic shock the collected troupe openly revealed. She wasn't sure just what to make of her, but she was a curiosity and had rapidly attracted a crowd-- and novelty always sold well, she knew. Her diminutive stature helped her sneak forward, moving unnoticed amid the painted-faced throng-- until she stopped, her eye caught by a forgotten poster plastered on one of the market's walls.
A foreign rush of anger surged over Lavi; for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to slake an alien bloodlust, to punish the tailor for his impertinence. Her free hand reached back, hidden underneath her sleeve so that none of the gathered thespians could see the pale twinkle of blue light coruscating over her fingertips. She could make him beg for her forgiveness. It would be easy to break him, to torture him--
--No, Lavi thought, her own mind reasserting itself over the malignant influence's reverie. The memories of exacting excruciating pain on Francisco were indelibly burnt into her mind-- she had no desire to go through that again, to go through hurting someone and being used against her will. She'd need to use her gift to escape, she knew, but not in the way that loathsome presence wanted her to.
Lavi allowed herself a small, vivacious smile.
The tailor looked at her, no longer addressing the eager troupe and instead returning to pressuring her and trying to ignore the new liveliness crossing her formerly listless, fearful face. "Now, mon chérie ange, what will your miracle b--"
Lavi's unbound hand dug deep into the piled cloth and fabric, the flickering glow suppressed, even though in an instant her slight attempt at subterfuge would not matter. The textiles rippled, quivering slightly-- and then burst forth, an immense homunculus of fabric springing into being. Scarves were knotted and twisted against each other, tugging other pieces of the ragged construct as unfurled bolts of cloth billowed like the folds of an immense cloak. The entire figure loomed over the crowd-- somehow barely managing to not fall apart-- and protectively drooped over the druid, shielding her.
A once-intimidating crowd turning to fear, a tailor's grip loosening as he retreated, an intimidating aegis of eaten-away silk and fabric-- Nameless noticed these details, but was distractedly interested by the druid. She quickly folded the poster she had been reading, stowing it within the pages of her notebook before anyone else had time enough to look upon it. In the half-second her attention was away, the girl had escaped, now running down one of the broken marketplace's narrow passages. Nameless mutely followed, ignoring the now-collapsing golem or the actors, who had forgotten the girl and devolved into a shouting-match over how important their character was; whatever unity they had when presented with the foreigner was gone. Her own mind was on that foreigner-- she was important, and Nameless had every intention of manipulating a profit out of her situation.
Without her attention, the golem had fallen apart, the magic holding it together collapsing with no force to supervise it-- but Lavi didn't care; it had served its purpose in helping her escape. She ran, not bothering to look back and see if she was being tailed.
Her root-tendril feet finally stopped, settling against the wooden floorboards. She was in another one of the marketplace's promenades, now, still lost within Il Maledicta's labyrinth but away from immediate danger. Passing performers still looked at her and regarded her with a cold, mocking derision, but did not immediately see her as a possession to be coveted-- the way the tailor and his mob had. They didn't worry her-- she was more concerned by the procession that now gathered around her, the one that seemed to be completely ignored by the distant actors.
A troop of black-clothed figures had quietly emerged, seemingly from the bazaar's woodwork, and silently taken positions around her. Their assortment of masks-- from faceless facades of porcelain to funerary-like veils to dark, shadowed hoods-- obscured their faces entirely, and Lavi took a half-step back towards the passageway she had emerged from, as if to flee. At their center, however, emerged one man. He was different, dressed in tattered regalia, his eyes tightly bound by a silk blindfold. He limped towards her, each step he made seemed pained and precarious-- despite the clear signs of youth. The man staggered forward for a few more steps, finally stopping. He extended a hand, reaching until he felt the druid's arm-- she did nothing to resist-- and stopping only when he felt the odd, bark-skin texture. His bare feet weakly paced backwards as he withdrew his grip.
A thin, forlorn smile crossed Avox's face. His hands delicately danced against the dusty air, tracing out glowing sigils of light against a surface of nothing.
i have been looking for you lavi lannon
He was a broken man, Lavi suddenly realized.
---
"Is there a reason they don't talk?"
Avox tilted his head in the direction of Lavi's voice, his face changing to a quizzical expression-- or the best approximation that he could underneath the crinkled layers of his blindfold. They had stopped walking now, and the servant could only guess at their new location from the fleeting bursts of sound. A saw moving against wood, the strain and tension of distant ropes and pulleys, the scuffing of shoes and the groan of something being dragged-- they were backstage, in the apocryphal realm the actors of Il Maledicta ignored.
"They haven't spoken. Not when you found me, not when we were walking. Not even while they work." The druid continued, when it seemed no response would come from her guide-- Avox, she reminded herself, recalling his introduction during their brief journey.
they are stagehands they are not meant to be heard
Lavi sighed tetchily, crossing her arms as she read Avox's floating symbols. Between her last group of companions, the criminal aristocrat she had been forcibly brought before, the nonsense-babbling fortuneteller, and now her latest guide, she had yet to meet anyone who would provide explanations that weren't meaningless non-answers. Her brow furrowed-- a somewhat meaningless gesture, she realized, taking in his blindfold once more. She let her eyes wander, her vision dancing over her surroundings as she wondered how to proceed.
"Is there anything you can tell me, or is it all just cryptic riddles like everyone else?"
The servant shuffled a half-step back, his head hung downward in mute apology. A new set of luminescent signs were etched against the air.
i can tell you that we are both the unwilling servants of a malignant demon
Another foreign rush of anger assaulted Lavi, the alien thirst returning as she studied his words. Her feet stumbled, her hand reached out as though to strangle, her mind swam until she forced herself to focus. The feeling quickly subsided, but it was clear that her blind companion had somehow noticed-- his stance was different as he inscribed another line of bright glyphs, the last set having dimmed to nothing but immaterial cinders.
his name is imago dei
he doesn't live so much as exist and exists only to experience
pleasure and pain are the same to him
Forgotten years of torture and pain resurfaced, and the knowledge that she would suffer as he had. Avox stopped, feeling unsteady on his feet-- he couldn't continue, couldn't bear to let her know the suffering that would be inflicted on her. He heard a few footsteps, the rustling of heavy furs and worn fabric, and felt a warm, comforting grip clasp around one of his hands. He had to continue, he realized-- she had to know.
he can only feel through others and he has
he has chosen you
i am sorry i am so sorry
The druid loosened her hold on Avox, her hand retreating back as she let his words roll around her mind.
he made
he made me forget my name my true name not avox
i cannot imagine what he will do to you i am so sorry
What he said seemed impossible-- that she was the thrall of some unheard-of demon, that it had chosen her, that some terrible fate would befall her. A thin film of dust rose from the floor as she nervously paced for a few steps. What Avox had explained was impossible, Lavi knew-- but the sincerity, the melancholy present made it just as impossible to doubt his conviction, that he believed what he had told her. He had been the only one to give her an answer, she thought. Her hand fidgeted uncomfortably, blue sparks of light momentarily flickering over her fingertips, as she wrestled with the notion that he was right.
"Why hasn't he done something to stop us, then? It isn't like he can't have heard us." She asked.
because he does not care
what are men and kings to a god
we are nothing but playthings to satisfy his hedonism
Avox shifted uncomfortably-- he felt one of his arms reaching behind him, independent of his own impulses, and the servant shuddered. A dagger that definitely had not existed dropped into his fingers, its blade pressing into his skin, the point of pain tracing upward as his hand moved of its own accord. Blood slowly dripped down the servant's back. An abrupt realization crossed his mind-- that he had upset his master. Avox immediately flailed his free hand, hastily rushing through the motions and tracing a new set of sigils; he needed to tell her everything now, he needed more time, it wasn't supposed to happen like this--
--Lavi rushed forward, a half-second too late to stop the blind servant. His arm jerkily swung forward-- in an instant, the dagger was puncturing his neck, and a moment later his vise-like hand had forcibly torn the point outward in a wide, exaggerated slice. Blood ran down his clothing along the wound, and he collapsed, his face frozen in one final look of pleading desperation. He offered no screams of agony, no last words, only the same silence he had when living. Avox was dead.
She had seen others die-- from exposure, from famine, from disease and plague, but never like this. Lavi shivered, feeling a sudden rush of cold as she stared at his corpse, her mind locked and fixated on the horror. Blood pooled, stained Avox's silk clothing, collected and dripped through the floor. His life had been taken-- by him, she realized. Maybe the demon had not come down and performed the act, but it was him nonetheless, toying with the two of them as puppets to satiate his rapacious whims. Her eyes briefly glanced over the room-- no one had reacted, and when her vision had returned Avox's corpse was gone, disappeared into ethereal nothingness.
Lavi shivered again, frightened at the prospect of that same power being wielded over her-- the power to take a life, even her own. Imago's invisible presence hung heavily over her, like a suspended sword. Her tormentor had a name, now.
Her feet began to move-- whether on her accord or not, she was uncertain, her only thoughts were on how she needed to escape, to get away from this painful eternity and his silent, torturous mocking and the foreign thoughts of anger and lust that bubbled and rose in her mind. She needed to stop him, but her broken resolve couldn't stomach the thought. She ran.
And as she left, Nameless mutely followed.