Sick Until the End (Aello)

[Wrenmae]

He watched her with a sort of languid curiosity. The macabre bloodletting, the way her hand glistened with that most vital liquid. It enamored him, drew him in. Now this was a woman, a real prize. Wild, controlled, somehow the edge of paradox all in a lithe body and swift movements. So he was content to simply watch her. His own hand was clenched, blood seeping around his fingers, following the curves and canals of wrinkles in order to find their escape through his fingers. Somehow, his blood was not enough, was not the kind she looked for. With such ease she had deduced that...and in the dark? What was it? Did the moonlight sheen differently off its glistening back? Did it smell of disease and plague? "My blood," he said at last, flicking droplets away from him and into the forest, "Why is it insufficient?" It was all he could think to ask. Soulmist, summoning spirits, these were the words whispered of necromancers in Alvadas, passing information he heard and dismissed. None of it he'd witnessed before, never seeing a spirit either. What shades of unquiet dead haunted this forest? What shades haunted the world around them? This girl was his gateway to answers, to the knowledge only gleaned from experience and happenstance, circumstances both ideal and vile. "Does your goddess speak to you?" He asked, his voice dropping, thinking, "I have not heard Vayt's voice in years. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps he has forgotten his mark." Shaking his head, he leaned against the tree, the hard bark digging into his flesh and releasing spiders of adrenaline into his body. "The gods," he muttered, "How they laugh at us."

[Aello]

Muddied eyes remained fixated on crimson drops. Pouring into base jar, spun of glass. "Because you are not a kindred soul," Aello replied. "You are not one with the spirits." She paused a moment, considering her words as her body trembled. "You know nothing of the life after this, how to commune with those already gone. It is thus that keeps your blood from being of any use to us." She smiled weakly as her life's fluid seeped out of her skin; falling into the basin which lay beneath. For a long time, she remained silent, before thinking it best to reply to Wrenmae's question. To which she merely nodded, at first. "It has been a time since she visited me too. It makes it easy to forget her voice. The feel of her eyes upon mortal flesh." The girl furled her fingers as the blood flow slowed. Willing it out of her skin. But still, the cascade diminished, forcing the girl to clench it shut a moment, before opening it again. She grit her teeth as searing pain coursed through her skin. "Come here Wrenmae," she whispered. Her voice soft, delicate, and inviting. "My body grows cold, like the hand of death is upon me." She paused a moment as her eyes slowly rose; settling on his lips. "Sit behind me, won't you? And wrap your arms around me. Hold our bodies close. Keep each of us warm as we wait for the blood collected to be sufficient enough for our purposes." She licked her lips, whetting the cracks as she turned away. Noticing now that the container was only half full. Her eyes followed the lazy trickle. Her ears prickling at the measured sound of the plop. "Whisper words into perked ear. Tell tales of your god. Say sweet things. Seductive things," Aello urged. "Tell a girl everything Vayt would tell her, should he try to intoxicate her. Sway her to his side." Aello's eyes glimmered playfully. Red raindrops reflected against her dark pupils; smoldering with fiery intent. There was nothing that could take her gaze off the jar, slowly filling to the brim. "Won't you come?" she whispered as her hand shook violently, nearing the jar. Flesh threatening to draw across glassy rim. "Won't you allow disease to embrace death? To couple in a final dance to the finish? A moment of pure ecstasy?"

[Wrenmae]

She was an intoxicating rarity. Words spun of seduction and mystery, a potent drought and meal. Shroud pulled himself up from where he sat, stepping carefully on raised roots in onyx cast shadows before settling behind her. Above, looking down, he could see the moonlight crawling across her long hair, running like rain across her face and seeping into her skin. She was more of Leth than Dira, he thought, more a being of moonlight and shadow than death and decay.

He settled behind her, his unclad body pressing against her own, inviting the curve of her back and the supple swell of her shoulders against his own thin chest. His warmth was a burning beacon of vitality, given a hungry roar from his own divinely influenced health, he knew her risk of infection was great, her chance of cold greater...and that in the end, she would let the influence of sickness slip from her body like a warm breeze, leaving only the aftertaste of memory.

"My god speaks of strength," he said to her at last, placing his stubbled cheek gently at the crook of her neck, speaking into her ear. Part of him wanted to ask of this magic, of what he'd need to do in order to practice it. But those words seemed less important now. Vayt had found, in this woman, a place to seep his influence. Certainly one of his Favored could not pass such an opportunity. "All living beings suffer from the infirmities of their condition. We sweat, we bleed, we sicken, we die. All a natural process. My god promises power in return for obedience, the mere obedience of life."

His whispers brought a wind against her ear, tickling its inner shapes and tunnels, sultry, deep, strong, sure. "He asks for no sacrifice, no service in his name, only for his chosen to travel the length and breadth of Mizahar to spread his influence." His arms wrapped around her, hands splaying out across her dress to seek a place of refuge. Shy her breasts, they settled on her lithe body, possessively, warmly. "We of his own carry his will by our nature. Diseases flourish in our presence, health wanes. The weak perish and the strong learn their mettle. We are the testers of Mizahar, we cull the inadequate from the stock. In such times of fledgling civilization, what, my Dear Aello, do we need of the lazy and the parasitic? Imagine your body stronger, more beautiful, healthier than you could have imagined it otherwise. Your very touch will bring the influence of this world's infirmities upon your enemies. You will live vibrantly, you will be strong...does this not...tempt you?"

[Aello]

Her eyes tore away from the blood filled jar. Crimson sloshing against transparent confines. The lashes furled against muddied iris as her neck twisted, allowing gaze to falter but a moment, as they took sight of man's embrace. "Am I not strong enough?" Aello whispered. "Even when my blood flees?" There was a momentary pause as her life's fluid continued to seep, and a light breeze swept through the forest. Tousling her mane of chestnut colored hair before putting it back down rather lightly. "Why would a mark displaying want of poison become necessity?" Aello asked. "Or even something to be desired with death's embrace appearing so inviting, in that the knowledge of the goddess who resides will take me tenderly?" The girl paused as she turned away from Wrenmae once more. Allowing her gaze to rest upon the jar. "There is strength though, in this body. No matter how slight it seems. There is a beauty hidden past the dried fronds as well, the weather worn patches. It will be a time yet, before it is taken." Aello fell silent for a long time after that as her hand continued to tremble. The leaves in the trees rustling softly as several blades of grass swayed in the breeze. Gradually, the level of blood rose, overcoming the empty spaces. The hollow center which rested in each of the onlooker's hearts. Lust which had yet to be sated. "This should be enough to satisfy," Aello whispered as she drew her hand away, and bound it with a strip of cloth kept hidden beneath the folds. She could feel the shallow trickle tapering off as she turned to face Wrenmae. His hands, which kept her unnaturally warm. "We just need the words now. Enough to call to them. To make them come," the spiritist added, as she turned away, and stuck a single finger in the jar. Whetting it just enough to darken the tip. The ends of fine horse hairs; akin to a proper brush. Gingerly, she pulled away and began to inscribe, several triangles with out a base. Rounded in endless ring. Sixteen points in all, forming lopsided star. When finished, she forced herself to withdraw. Are you ready? her mind inquired, beginning to wonder if this were truly a task the girl would want to undertake. OOCI am thinking the next post we try to get it to come. Not so sure I could come up with a good incantation right now, sorry.

[Wrenmae]

Her words were haunting reminders of her breathy fragility. Caught between the unyielding strength of a mountain and the delicate curves of a porcelain doll, Aello fought paradox. Certainly her body shivered against his, folding almost perfectly along his body. Together they moved almost as one. She would shift her muscles and his contours would follow. He would shift to be more comfortable and her body would compensate.

They breathed duality.

They beat unity.

His warmth compensated her deathly chill, and even as she put her health at risk in cutting herself before a member of Vayt, Shroud felt she would not die from an evening of exposure. There was a sort of determination in her, a wildness that eschewed a state of death and rose above the means of life itself.

Perhaps he was just enamored with her, making excuses to make this wood-child, death-daughter something more than she was, but he felt comfortable in his idea of her.

"It matters little," he said softly, "I have not heard the words of my god for some time."

As the blood collected, and she drew the shapes, Shroud dared to reach out toward one, falter, and withdraw his hand. It was magic then, certainly, but something to do with the realms of spirits?

"Where did you learn to call the ghosts?" he asked softly, his voice a tickling whisper in her ear, his lips against her skin, "By what power do you command the dead?"

[Aello]

Wrenmae's pale pink lips caressed the underside of her earlobe. Aello could feel his warm breath buffeting her skin, sending a small shiver through her system. The aurist smiled weakly as she tilted her head down, closed her eyes, and allowed the wave to wash over, as smooth was replaced with gruff. Fine hairs, the beginning of a beard. Dark in the evening light. "Father kept the knowledge in his chest," the girl whispered as she opened her eyes. Muddied irises mirroring her lip's expression. Reflecting it as the moon encased her skin. Adding to its pallor. "He had a book where he kept all of his secrets." Her lips curled into an even wider grin as she paused, deep in thought. Her eyes glazing, as she became shrouded by her fleeting memory. "I was one of the few who knew where he kept the key," she added as her smile faltered and her gaze fell to the ground; her hands. "And being unable to resist the temptation, unlocked his knowledge. Unraveling each thread, excavating all the things he tried to keep hidden. Even from mother." With that, her gaze rose as her swan's neck twisted. Her deep brown mane running alongside; tickling her skin as his lips were drawn towards her cheek. She could feel them gliding along as she smiled calmly. Knowingly. "That was the beginning of all knowledge. An introduction to a little known craft," Aello explained, in little more than a whisper. "Now there are other stores of knowledge by which I came to know and understand the dead," she wore on. "For father is gone, and the book with him." She paused, considering her words a moment. "The dead themselves visit often, and they explain a great deal about their kind. Although, the rest is often garnered from experience. Having them become one with you. Having them share your memories, thoughts and skills, as you share their own." Her eyes glimmered dangerously. "More still, can be found in books." With that she fell silent as she leaned forward, and lightly pressed her own lips against the smooth portion of his cheek before drawing away. Holding his gaze. "Now, enough of what the heart holds," Aello whispered as she turned to her jar of blood. Her hands trailing forward, palms outstretched. She held the flats towards the glass, and soon, allowed them to encase. Holding the container reverently as she guided it towards the blood marked center, and set it down. "It is time to fill the void. Time to lessen the emptiness." She paused, almost for dramatic effect. "Now, we shall call to one of your own. Perhaps, they will heed our words, and grace us with their presence." "Hold me close as I whisper the words," Aello instructed before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth to steady herself. To think another moment before she parted her lips a final time and spoke thusly: They call you the woman's weapon, the domain of snakes with their forked tongues, that which drips from their elongated teeth, crescents, like human's saliva from pearl walls. They call you the dark sickness, that which blackens man's pallor, turning their visage to the night, as sores grow on the skin, red, welts, a dismal blood; stained, ruined. They call you the emptiness at the back of the throat, shriveled center, which draws lips to stomach, they say it mirrors the water, when it has been sucked dry by sun's blaze, and rain fails to fall; earth grown parched. They say you are the plague, a plethora of pain, ranging from a cough which racks the soul, to lack of sleep, to raised skin, discolored flesh. They call you pestilence. They call you disease. Poisons. Plague. Sickness. You have many names, but only one true face, Vayt, God of man's ills. But it is not to you whom we call, but your followers, living beyond the veil, that which divides both worlds, that which rests between the living and the dead. We call to those who once bent the knee, bowed, offered you respect, and knew you best. We call those you have already kissed, and Dira claimed. Let them hear us. Let them heed us. Slowly, the young spirtist lifted her hands, holding them skyward as she raised her gaze to the knight. Her chestnut colored mane cascading down the length of her spine. Children of pestilence. Children of poison and plague, come to us! As the final word rang, Aello returned her gaze to the bloodied star. Returned her hands to her sides, as the wind stirred. Tousling her hair. Caressing each of their forms. She could feel it rousing each of her senses as the folds of her cotton clothes rippled lightly, and Shroud's arms seems to tighten around her. Pebbles rattled against the ground as the blood faded. Swallowed by the earth; seeping through the beige grains. Almost, she thought, as she watched and waited alongside the marked. Although no one ever came. No ghost had decided to heed their call. The girl frowned. She had thought with their encasement, someone may have been sent. But she was wrong. "I'm sorry," Aello whispered. "It didn't work." She fell silent a moment as she let her back settle against his chest. As she forced herself to breath. "Sometimes, they do not open their ears," Aello whispered. "Sometimes, they choose to stay where they are." She swallowed the clump of saliva that had gathered in her throat. "Without the blood," Aello began, "they will not come." The grass swayed as the leaves in the trees danced. "Sometimes they do not venture here...." OOCNot sure if you wanted to do anything else, so feel free to wrap up.

[Wrenmae]

Quietly they held each other, Aello’s words ringing in the darkness of the forest around them. The chant was powerful, the words inspired. For a moment or two, Shroud actually believed they would see a ghost, some phantasm that would soar from the trees or rise from the earth to speak with dull and sonorous tones. But as moments lengthened into many, and those collections became chimes, the forest stood testament to their failure here tonight. Shroud was not aware he’d been holding his breath until his lungs began to burn. He exhaled against her neck, his blazing warmth hot against her skin. He might have pushed her over and had his way with her, but there was a solemnity in her figure, a poised disappointment in the way she spoke that banished all thought of carnal pleasure.

“Those of Vayt are notoriously lonely,” Shroud said at last, letting her go, “I do not expect that one would much enjoy our company, even after its disease was laid to rest.” He stood, stepping carefully over to the tree to remove his clothes from the branch. Rather than slip them on, he lay them out on the ground, neatly folded, and stretched. “Well, wild girl Aello, I believe our meeting has come to an end. If the fates are kind, we’ll meet again and perhaps…” He eyed her with undisguised longing, letting the sentence trail to silence. “But till then, I’ve enjoyed learning a bit of Dira’s will.”

His body buckled, djed roaring through his skin. His body shrank, twisted, bones becoming hollow and shifting, his feet becoming talons, black feathers pushing up from his skin. For a moment, his skin was like tar, warping, thickening, and lengthening in certain places while retracting in others. His neck extended, his lips twisting out into a cruel black beak. The feathers continued to push out of his skin, ripping through bloodlessly and settling. The raven was bigger than most, about the size of an eagle, and it regarded Aello with pitch eyes. Opening its wings, it cawed sharply, breaking the silence of the forest with its crass cry. Shroud cocked his head to the side, the shape of the skull finally settling along with the other changes, and took the folded clothes up in its talons. Turning to the open water, it beat both black wings and rose into the air, winging quietly beneath the trees and out over the water. Up it wheeled, up, and up, until the tail of dawn caught his glossy feathers and glistened off them like a blazing signal.

And then, the mage was gone.

And Aello was alone.

For now.

[Balderdash]

Delicious rewards! Happy days and jubilation!

Wrenmae :

Skill XP Awarded Swimming 1 Stripping 1 Subterfuge 1 Seduction 3 Morphing 1 Unarmed Combat 1 Lores: Salty Vengeance, The Fine Art Of Sarawanki Puking, Plotting Retribution, Getting Metaphorically Bitch Slapped By A Familiar, Aello The Tree Lady, Aello Is Dira’s Servant, Strong Lasses, Love Is For Suckers, Being A Sucker, Aello Has No Family, Aello’s A Wild One, Evoking A Spirit, Entering Raven Mode Items and Consequences: Your PC now gets butterflies in his stomach whenever he sees Aello. Enjoy your crush.

Aello :

Skill XP Awarded Tracking 1 Stealth 2 Spiritism 2 Seduction 2 Lores: Knowing When To Turn In, Wrenmae Vayt Marked, Being Involuntarily Branded, Wrenmae Has No Family, Evoking A Blighter’s Ghost, Vayt Responds To Strength, Vayt’s Incantation, Wrenmae's Raven Mode Items and Consequences: The cut on your hand has developed a minor infection from being around Shroud. It can be treated easily with antiseptics or Healing, and isn’t life threatening. If left ignored, however, the wound will begin to fester.

Just kiss already! I mean... Nice thread. Didn't take Wrenmae for a "love at first sight" fellow. I enjoyed reading it.

If you have any questions or concerns about this grade, please PM me! A happy you makes a happy Balderdash!