Flashback [Evalin] Our Share of Night to Bear

[Philomena]

Spring 17th, 502
Late Evening, Turning into Night
The Flat of Dr. Philomena Lefting, Zeltiva
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"A year's worth, Dr Lefting?"

"Is that alright? Does that... Make things difficult for your books?"

The tailor, a sharp eyed, well dressed woman frowned, "I am just not accustomed to it, doctor."

"It's only that I always forget, and then you have to chase me down for rent, Mrs Shears. I thought... then I might make your life easier, at least for a year."

"Its highly irregular. You aren't up to no good? No laboratories up here? I rent only quarters, not laboratories."

Minnie sighed. She had explained several times to her landlady that she taught literature, rather than any of the magics or sciences that might make a mess, and for how much prying and prodding the tailor did into Minnie's affairs whenever she came by for rent, one would have thought the tailor would have bothered listening all that time, "Yes ma'am, I promise you. The only work done in here is reading and writing."

"Well… its irregular, but you're a good girl, and you haven't given me any trouble. Now, you're sure you won't be taking me up on fitting you for something more suited to your station, doctor? I still stand by my offer, I'll give you half on the labor, if you buy materials."

The woman meant well, she seemed genuinely distressed that Minnie dressed the way she did, but nonetheless, after a time, it began to grate, "No, really, Mrs. Shears, you were too generous already with my robes. I promise when I am ready for you, I'll come talk to you, ma'am."

Mrs. Shears nodded, "Alright, then. But don't you forget. Halves. I'm no Saville, but we can cut you something that looks better than this."

"Yes thank you, Mrs. Shears, good night."

She pressed the door shut, perhaps a tad rudely, in reflection, but she was going mad with impatience. Minnie had been a full professor now for just past a year, and if she had learned anything it was that a professor's days were mad with unstructured time - one day she would be attending some horrible party, another giving a lecture, a third holding seminar with a student who paid for extra tutoring, and then all the interstices of the day were spent in research. She began to understand why professors would borrow books from the library - there was no time to run back and forth. There were, then, certain moments of the day she jealously guarded - and this was one, the moment one bell past sunset when she would kneel to pray.

She pulled off her spectacles. Her eyes, as she grew older, were getting worse. It was time, perhaps, to return to the glassblower and have a new lens blown, one thicker this time for the left eye. The room was dusky - a student's habits still ruled her thoughts, and she lit only one, cheap fat-candle, keeping the whale-oil ones only for guests and votives. The room, though, had been hers for years, and the combination of her blindness and the room's dimness did not impede her navigation of its sparse floor plan. She went to the wall, where an old door on four sugar-barrels acted as a desk, and took up the fat candle, then knelt on the ground, before the altar, lighting the tiny spermaceti votive there.

The altar was nothing grand - it was a small table, the candle, and a shallow bowl for offerings. This she sprinkled, now, with a handful of barley-flour, and a few drops of oil-of-lavendar. Behind the bowl, on a clumsy wooden stool, sat a small prayer doll, battered, poorly constructed, and very old - the fabric was so worn it perhaps predated Minnie herself. The scroll of parchment in its hand and the quill in the other marked it as Qalaya. Ablutions now done, with an air of informality, she slid her buttock off her legs to rest on the floor, leaning on one arm. The other hand reached forward musingly to stroke the doll's ragged face, as she sighed. She murmured very, very soft, "Ms Qalaya, hello…"

The manner of beginning a prayer was clumsy, overly personal, almost comical. But it clearly was deadly serious to her: she took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her blinded eyes were dewy, and her voice shook slightly, "Oh, it was a hard day, today. The dreams came again last night..."

[Evalin]

It had taken Evalin some time to find this woman. Many long, and ill spent bells searching for the perfect person, the most prospective of targets... The most unlikely of tools.

The immortal smiled as she made her way down the emptying streets, passing idle travelers as they made their way after a long day of monotonous, and pointless, efforts to gain footing in the world. In a way Evalin pitied them, They know not the futility of their actions... But a blink and they pass into darkness. Such a sad existence it is, yet in every world some must rot and die while others live on to greatness.

Yes... Such small, insignificant creatures they were. Each went about their lives unknowing just how little their life meant in the grand scheme of the world. None of them knew that they were trapped, imprisoned in a false sense of freedom. Caged within an illusion of choice. Shaking her head the sounds of Evalin's staff upon the stones soon became the only sounds that echoed across the calm streets. Slowing her steps Evalin's eyes of red finally graced upon her destination. A small shop, a tailors shop, one that she had passed many a time in her travels through this city of learning. One she had never paid much mind to, until now that is...

Stepping around the corner Evalin was just in time to see the landlady finish her talk with her patron at the door, and at the sound of the clicking latch Evalin pushed herself into the shadows of the building, pulling her hood low as she listened to the steps as someone descended. In her mind the pounding resounded, calling Evalin's attention to the craving that burned through her soul. Her mouth felt parched, her body ached, and the ache... The never ceasing thrum of pain in the back of her mind had escalated with the days spent without quenching the thirst. Raising her eyes to the stairwell Evalin touched a hand to her lips, Would it not be rude to intrude upon a guest expectant of a mean? No... Would be far better to feed before attending an acquaintance I think. She wondered breifly to the identity of the woman who walked unknowingly into the waiting arms of the imortal witch, yet all thoughts were banished as this mortal's body passed before Eva's eyes.

Stepping forward from the shadows Evalin's existence was suddenly made known to the woman. Turning, Mrs. Shears mouth would form into an O of surprise, but with a smile Evalin would raise her staff, "Be silent now, or you will disturb the night."

Shears would blink, and make to reply with a question, but the staff in Evalin's hand would move in a blur of motion, impacting with a resounding CRACK as it landed squarely against the woman's skull. Slumping to the ground, Mrs. Shears, while unharmed, would surly wake with quite the headache.

Grasping the woman by the neck of her clothing Evalin would drag her limp body to the shadows, leaning her to rest with her back against the wall. Producing a small knife from her robes Evalin would kneel before the woman, taking up Shears' left hand in her own. Glancing at her Evalin would chuckle, "Be thankful, for your sacrifice will give strength to my cause." With one motion Evalin would slice the pale skin of the woman's arm, ruby red drops of blood begining to stream forth from the cut like a waterfall over the rocky shores. Growling under her breath Evalin would lean forward to taste the sweet nectar of life gifted to her by this woman, growing ever eager as she consumed more and more of the life that flowed freely from her. After a chime or two passed the fierce throbbing would lessen as the craving was satisfied, and Evalin would lean back, red speared across her lips and cheek. Dropping Shears' arm Evalin would stand, not bothering to tend to the wound that still poured. Looking up the stairs to the wooden door that held her true objective tonight Evalin would whisper, "Now then to attend to buisness."

Climbing quick Evalin would soon find herself before the door, and staff in hand she would knock swiftly three times. As the door opened Evalin would smile, licking a drop of blood from her lips as she leaned on her staff, "Good evening Ms. Lefting. Might I come in?"

Current Body :

I have decided this to be Evalin's body in this year.

This body Evalin obtained not too long before this thread. Its one of the most elegant bodies she has every taken. It used to belong to a woman with money, but Evalin took her for all shes worth . Oh and she still has red eyes just can't tell in this pick XD

[Philomena]

*tap-tap-tap*

//Oh gods, that's Ms Shears, again. Make her go away.//

It was, indeed, a hard day, and Minnie was huddled in front of the altar by the end of her prayer (or whatever one might call it). Some people are beautiful cryers, some people, it is not even crying - it is weeping, the emotional water of heroes, who weep over transparent faces of alabaster for lost love, the slight pink rings around their eyes only adding a transcendant glamour to their beauty. Minnie Lefting, though, was no weeper. She was an ugly bawler, more like. Her face had the tear swollen red of an upste child, her eyelids puffed into fat little pillows on each side of her. Her complexion became mottled , and her lips shook a bit, not in a beautiful tremble, but in a way that made her look mildly idiotic, simple-minded as the goodwives of the neighborhood might call it gently. Minnie did not keep a mirror in the flat, but she did not need to - she could feel the hot pressure of a tear swollen face, she knew just what it looked like, and the last thing she wanted was to have Ms Shears come in asking questions about it, weaseling into her business.

She thought for a moment of ignoring the door. Of sitting very quietly. But the door was not perfectly sealed, and the shutters were not latched shut, the light from her feeble candles would leak out under the door. She would know Minnie was home, and would knock again. So, unable to revert to the defense of hiding, she flew to the less familiar or competent work of deception. She went to her table, snatched up the book she had been working with the night before ("The Burning Wing", a collection of epitaphs from the mid 300's), and then fumbled about for her spectacle, mashing them onto her face, as she stumbled toward the door, and fumbled it open, without even looking to see who it was.

"Ms Shears, I was just reading, I'm sorry, you caught me on a sad poem--"

She attempted a wry smile. It wouldn't have worked anyway - the room was clearly too dark for reading, and as she held up the book, to demonstrate, the title flashed on the spine: 'The Manner of Stonecutting in 4th Century Sylira'. But the effect was laughable with the stumbling way she threw the excuse out before it was needed.

She would have read the title herself at this moment, and begun the process of mortification that is such a familiar companion of the poor deceiver, but instead, she started in shock. The red eyes, the cowl and staff, the dart of the awful tongue.

She had seen the Nuit before, the spiritualists of the cemetery at least, but not, perhaps, at her doorstep, late at night, when she was already an emotional wreck. Her mouth froze at the sight, her brain petrified, only one of the gears within cogitating in slow, fruitless circles, trying to catch another gear's teeth, to produce some response //What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?//

A tooth caught, an easy tooth, the tooth of Minnie's last resort - the tooth of meek etiquette, and it roughly threw her face to life.

She sniffed and rubbed her sleeve uncouthly across her running nose, and blinked twice. Her voice is tear quavered, and nasal, something between a whiner and an allergy sufferer in the height of spring, "I'm sorry, did we... have an appointment?"

[Evalin]

Evalin looked at the book that was suddenly presented before her, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow as she spoke, "I see... Such poetry as this must be rather new to the world, but then I know little of such things as flowery words and poetic nuances"

Those eyes as red as freshly spilt blood cast themselves over the woman. Signs of tears, distress and hightend emotions. Eyes of saddness and sudden shock at an unexpected visit. A hastily crafted excuse rather poorly presented. Evalin's smile grew, What perfection there is in this choice, perhaps more so than I had originally anticipated.

Speaking swiftly in a tone that exuded authority Evalin said, "Come now why would I have an appointment with you at such an hour as this? Surely you have more intelligence than that." Using her staff Evalin would push against Lefting's shoulder, forcing her way past without any hint of politeness. Once inside the Immortal Witch would take a quick tour of the space, pausing in front of the alter she would absently talk in a bored tone, "Such... fine dwellings you have." Raising a hand Evalin would call her power to stir, pressing her djed against the palm of her hand and expelling a small amount of res to float before her, its appearance like heatwaves and hard to notice in the dim lighting. With an absent wave Evalin would split the small mass into three equal portions, sending them to float over the wick of each of the unlit candles. Hissing under her breath the res would ignite, lighting all three at once, "What use is an alter without lighting the candles?"

Turning Evalin would walk to the makeshift desk, the sound of her staff on the wood echoing through the small room. Leaning upon her staff Evalin would gesture to Lefting, "Do come in. I believe we have much to discuss."

Raising a hand Evalin would summon forth more res to pour from her palm, sending it to circle Lefting. Bending her finger toward her Evalin's command would scorch through the res, changing it into wind that would pull at the woman's clothing in the direction of Evalin herself, and if the door was still open Evalin would send a portion of res behind the door, spinning it so that when it was changed to wind it would slam the door shut.

OOCI apologize but I took some liberties and assumed the candles were unlit. Hope thats ok!

[Philomena]

Minnie was a University girl, through and through, and even a West Winger didn't get far in life without seeing a bit of djed thrown about. Never a fan of showmanship, in different circumstances - vastly different - she perhaps would have even greeted the little candle lighting pizzaz with a touch of scorn or disdain. But after all, there is in magic a certain... magic. Magic, in this sense, is like storytelling, or music, those who are masters of it know how to tie it so tightly to a narrative that it feels like the story itself, rather than a special effect. And Minnie was in a mindframe to be told a story against her will. And this strange, abrupt woman knew how to tell the story - sparse, stripped of transitions and pleasantry, with a vivid intensity to match the uproar in the heart of the audience.

Thus it was that, quite literally, Minnie found herself spellbound. The staff pressing her out of her own doorway did not feel rude, it felt symbolic - it spoke the unspoken line of the character Minnie began to imagine in her skull: //This world, little one, is not yours anymore. It is mine now.// The bored tone, the patronizing sarcasm, did not feel like power plays. They felt like the echo of the reality of Minnie's position. And even the candles - the great risky first piece de resistance of the performance - drew her into the tale, the tale of being trapped up in the hand of a foreign god, of suddenly finding that one's room is a ship, and the sea is tumbling in. The set was the set of a monologue, Minnie less a character than a quivering-breasted prop. And when the very air licked at her hair, her ears, drawing her in, she closed her eyes a moment and shivered.

There is something to becoming a story, both sensual and deceptive, for it gives the illusion of both intimacy and destiny, the feeling that one is a piece of something one should be a piece of. A hollowness in Minnie filled with the shivering nectar of this moment, and she murmured, murmured ever so softly, so softly it was more a prayer than a comment.

"Qalaya, Qalaya... I shall *write* *this* *down*"

And then, her feet moved. To say she chose to move, is to ask deep, philosophical questions of what it is that choice is. To say she wished to move is to only wonder at the spectre of desire. But she stepped forward, slowly, her childlike little body truly childlike now. Her breath ran quick, and it infected her voice, the nasality of it pulling backwards into a weird, pitchy tremolo.

"Milady, do I ask your name, then, now?"

[Evalin]

Evalin's smile would grow ever so slightly, "Now then my dear, that is how it is done."

Walking slowly around the table Evalin would never break eye contact with the woman, "You ask me such a question as this, so perfectly and well phrased." The slow footsteps and clunk of the staff echoed in the empty space, filling the silence with an anticipation of what was to come, "Might you ask me my name? Dear child of course you might, though very few realize just what they request of me." Coming fully around the table now Evalin would begin her slow tread directly toward Lefting, "What is in a name you might ask? A name... A name is a window into the past of a person, like footsteps in the snow it might lead a trail backwards through existence to a time before they were who the were when the question was asked."

Evalin would stand nearly toe to toe with the woman before her, and a single, cold hand would trace the line of a single tear streak down the child's face. Chuckling Evalin would walk slowly around the girl, revolving around her completely while she talked, "A name brings with it titles earned from a life of deeds, some known and unknown. A name shows forth the deepest truth that a person holds. A name is a cursed blessing cast upon the heads of infants, dubbing them 'be this' of 'be that' before the first thought of choice is awoken in the mind." That hand of death would seek refuge in the locks of Lefting, pulling at several strands as Evalin circled to stand at the woman's side. Bringing the locks to her lips Evalin would breath deeply the sent of the woman, her eyes of red half closing as she licked her lips once more. Stepping away Evalin would return to stand in front of Philomena. Looking down at the woman, for Evalin only just realized the height difference they shared, the immortal would lean on her staff, raising a finger to lightly brush back a stray hair that fluttered before her eyes under the hood, "Do you ask me my name now? My dear girl, you need not ask."

Straightening Evalin would raise her staff, eyes glimmering fiercly from the darkness, "I am she who lives through all. I am she who will grace the end of eternity with my footsteps." Evalin's mind fell back to darkness, tracing circles in flaming white to scourge her mind's eye. One large circle formed into view behind her eye lids, a second, smaller circle drawn within. A smaller circle was placed at the center, four lines directed outward to the 2nd inner circle. Other elaborations were made to this picture which Evalin ingrained in her soul, directing the to her staff as her djed flew through it.

"I am the darkness between the stars, I am the all consuming flame." At the word 'flame' Evalin would slam her staff upon the floor, flames erupting from its tip to scourge the ground around the immortal and Philomena, "I am eternity, I am forever. I am the Contractor. I am the Sorceress of Flame and Shadow." The flames slowly subsided, leaving in their wake black marks which formed the circle Evalin had envisioned in her mind. Leaning forward Evalin would barely whisper these final words, staring straight into the woman's eyes as she did, "I am the Immortal Witch Evalin. She who shall defy Fate himself and bring an end to his reign."

Stepping back Evalin would return to stand near the table, the flow of her cloak setting as she turned to face Lefting, "In light of current courtesies I would also ask what I might call you now as we have thus been better acquainted."

OOCI took a couple of liberties again, so please tell me if I should edit anything! I tried to get your attention in chat but failed miserably lol. Let me know if it is ok of if something should be fixed. Loving this thread! I can't wait to see through Minne's eyes in this one

[Philomena]

Shiver - stop. Shake and stop. The movements, the susurrations of the blood red lips, the peering of the blood red eyes, the taps and rattles of the staff, caress of the Witch's robes against the pale-cold flesh, all called out little siren songs, to take each piece of Philomena, touch its vital core and send it shivering, to purge it of all nervous energy and fill it with the ineffable form of forms, the power of itself. Her hands shook, and then they were not hands. They were Hands. Her lips quivered into the succulent stillness of Lips. Her breasts rose and fell into the warm mystery of Breasts.

The tears, a poet might demean to attribute to an emotion, to call them tears of the last evaporation of reserve, or tears of some unspoken, unutterable joy. It would be belittling. The soul has its mornings, and the mornings of the soul distill their dew just as the mornings of the earth. To try to understand it is to forget it for what it is - the crystallized breath of the new day, the distillation of expectation. The fragile jewels of the new.

She felt the silken cold fingertip brush one dewdrop from her coarse cheeks, and felt them ennobled, felt the finger glide along her hair, hook tiny tendrils of her half unraveled braid and tease them out like the breath of ghosts across her back, and then the fingertip drew close, and brushed, just brushed, just kissed against her pale nape of her pale neck. Her body went slack at this, with the grace of desired collapse - not limp like a doll, but fluid, like a dancing wind, a wind with puppet strings wrapped through those frigid fingertips. She melted not into the ground, but into the hand, her cheek rolling onto the icy palm, her lips breathing hot, slow breaths down the tender skin of the witch's wrist. Her throat trilled languidly into a tiny mewl of regression. The woman's face drew close to Minnie, breathing the pitiful smell exuding from the braids - the odors of the hopeless in the story - the smells of hopelessness, of abandonment, of in frequent washing, of cold books, of old felt hats, and unremembered ink stains. The warm lips breathed out a breathy moan of a voice, an unvoiced moan of words, the sing-song of the recitant of the remembered poem:

"The Gods, Eternity doth seek,
In dusts of ancient stars,
My lady's lips can suckle juice,
Of life eternal from the fruits,
The bitter fruits of night."

Her eyes flew open at the poem, and they were deep, and hollow and very, very, young. Her voice did not speak now, but her eyes did, spoke of empty evenings, of half-forgotten days, of the probing for completion in a world inherently incomplete. They were eyes that sought climax in a world that shivered along at a teasing half-pitch.

The woman's hand left, and Minnie looked up to her, her eyes locked. Her beautiful hand swept up to draw a lock away from her face, and Minnie did not follow it for her eyes locked on the Lady's eyes. Fire flew out from them, and kissed her skirts, and tickled elemental fingers at her hands, and still she did not look, for her eyes locked on the Lady's eyes. And when the name was spoken, and the question asked.

"My name... my name... my name is Philomena. And it isn't even mine, it was pasted on after I was already in the world. And at your lips request, I would forget it, I would leave my name behind, only a word on a page in a book."

She reached a up, slow, but with no hesitation. It was involuntary almost, like the muscle memory of a long-practiced, choreographed dance, it drew up slow, left the circle of her own pitched heat, drifted up just over the cold robe, the colder flesh of this sorceress, touching nothing, but following each contour, without the aid of Minnie's spectacled eyes. It only made the final centimeter when it reached the woman's lip, her finger hot as the fire ring, against the plump, icy flesh. Her voice whispered now, less a noise than shiver of the air.

"You are... a story. You are a story. Tell me a story, Witch-Queen? That's what I ask. The stories, these stories. What do you need from me? I am the things that you have left behind - the body, the blood, the heat, the fear of death. What can you want from me? I would give it, for a story, Witch-Queen."

And then she grew still, and silent. Still her eyes turned up, still locked upon the ruby lamps before her. Still they poured out the seduced gaze of the supplicant.

[Evalin]

That tongue black as pitch darted out, tasting of that finger that graced her lips stained red with the blood of the innocent. Reaching slowly with her own free hand Evalin would tangle her fingers in those of the woman's, that smile never faltering as her eyes gazed upon the prospective future that this child held. A story? A story she asks? How... Insanely perfect were it all in the grand scheme of what Evalin now bore in mind.

A most interesting prospect indeed... she thought to herself, as her eyes fell over the hand that she now clasped in her own, What jewels one might find within a box long since buried beneath rubble and dust, hidden by time itself.

Her eyes returned once more to gaze deeply, longingly, into Lefting's own sparkling pits of intellect, and that buzzing, thrumming of craving swelled once more in the deepest recesses of the Immortal's mind... yet she set aside such trivial things and allowed herself to grasp at the situation at hand.

"A story..." she spoke softly, bridging the distance to stand but a few inches from Philomena once more, "Now then... That be a fair price, one I am more than happy to pay. Though... for this gift I would ask more than a simple favor." Gliding her hand up the woman's arm to cup a cheek Evalin would lean close to whisper in her ear, "In exchange for mine tale, I would command you forever remember this night... Forever remember this voice which whispers to you, and write down what I would tell you here."

Drawing back Evalin's smile would be gone, a harsh fire lit within eyes that brokered no bartering of price, but of course Evalin knew the woman would not resist. Gliding upon the floor, the sound of her cloak whispering after, Evalin would wrap her arm about the woman, pulling her close and whispering in her ear once more, "I give you then the words of an immortal."

Stepping back Evalin would walk toward the door, pressing a hand against the wood as she began to speak, not looking up as she did so, "Think you not that I would tell you whole truths or half lies, for what is existence but the graceful intermingle of fact and fiction... But I would not utter a falsity of facts or twisted fiction to one prospective scribe." Turning she would lock eyes with Lefting, leaning upon her staff to speak slowly, her eyes growing distance as she pulled the words from the deepest darkness of her soul, "Think you of this now, of a life born that was not a life at all but a half existence of breath and waste. Day by day a life of bitter anguish filled with tears of red shed daily by one and he who loved her dearly. Imagine you a life not worth living, yet death itself held more terrors than life... for in death there comes a sudden halting, and all that was, is and could have been suddenly falls away to nothing..." A grim smile lit pale lips, and as she spoke the smallest hint of emotion might be heared, "There is in life the bitterest grief and the fondest possibilities, yet many a time I would wonder if either is worth the price. Though... For the immortal of Flame and Shadow, nothing in the price might halt the progress of the eventuality."

Chuckling Evalin would glide past the woman to return to stand beside the table, leaning upon her staff as she absently picked up a lit candle and continued, "Life... Such like the flame upon a wick, or so the Man Cloaked in Promises once told me. It takes but a breath to extinguish it, yet even so its beauty cannot be ignored... In fact, it might be said that its mortality might raise is value, as its fleeting light is burned upon the back of our eyelids long after it is snuffed out." At this Evalin would blow softly, putting out the candle and return it to its resting place, "Though as you might notice, something lingers long after the flame of life is extinguished..."

Evalin gathered her power, pulling res to flow around her, spinning it in wider and wider circles and increasing speeds until, finally, she hissed and the res was changed to wind which burst outwards. Nothing powerful, but just enough to extinguish the light of ever candle around her.

"When light does cease, darkness remains..." The sound of Evalin's staff could be heard in the shadowed apartment, getting closer and closer, "Where there is light there is also darkness... Darkness which comsumes the light to increase its strength, to grow and flow outward. You see this upon every night, that absence of stars is filled with it, and it grows ever more each and every passing day. Light is fragile, just as life is, but darkness... Darkness is forever. It is all consuming, eternal, and though time would try it does little but slow its every widening progress."

There would then appear a flicker in the darkness, a small flame held by the Immortal Witch that would light just her face, and those eyes of red would look out at Philomena, "I am that darkness... I am the darkness that lives on by consuming the lights of those who dwell on in this meaningless existence. While the lights of the worlds flicker and falter I am unchanged. I am eternal, I am forever... And I shall take from those who know not the gift they are given and fuel my own endeavors with the very life they take for granted." Reaching down Evalin would light the single candle once more, extending it to Philomena, "An introductory to the first chapter, rather appropriate for a first meeting I think, my dearest scholar."

[Philomena]

The vulnerability of the thrall can be so easy to conflate with virtue. "She is subservient," the mind thinks, "And thus, she is not responsible. She is being taken advantage of by someone stronger."

Perhaps.

There are elements of truth in our predispositions - but only elements. But in reality, the close observer of the interactions of lover and beloved, of kept being and mistress, of thrall and enchanter, learns to see a pattern - enthrallment, after all, must fill a need as surely for the submissive as for the dominant. There is, the universe murmurs uncomfortably, a certain power in submission. Submission takes, manipulates, distorts, disentangles, as surely as dominance - this is the difference between slavery and subservience. Slavery is a trumpet call. Subservience is a dance, and the thrall, too, has her ways of taking from the dance the steps she wishes, she learns the powers of self-mortification, of the teasing and directing of power. Seduction is the craft of the seducer, but it is the art of the seduced - one must, to paraphrase a poet, do it exceptionally well, do it so it feels like hell, do it so it feels real.

If there is an art to subservience, it is the art of learning compromise. Minnie Lefting possesses a skin that has not been touched by a stroking, gentle finger for so many years - she will not shiver to have to provide her own warmth for the touch. Minnie has not had fingertips entwined inside her own, she will not hesitate to curl downward beneath them, to express gratitude for them, to wrap trembling blood hot lips together, and press them against the cold flesh and hard nails that slither through her own ink-stained hands. When her breath quickens at the tickle of speech dripped like a philterer's pipette directly into the pearl-pink shell of her ear, it is in part simple animal response - but that would be simple brutal control, it would not be the dance. Instead, she wraps the breath inside, twines it into dredging cables, drawing up the echoes of memory, overlaying recollection and comprehension into a complex cubism of light and color and breath and ghost. All intimacy in men is a reflection of the intimacy of the gods, it is a reflection of the interplay of pure conceptions. The witch then plays the role of immortality - the child-woman plays that of memory, and the dance is the dance of the phantasmagoric, deathless virility of recollection.

"I do not mind the dark, Lady,
I do not mind the dark,
Give me a rush-light to write her names,
And I do not mind the dark."

The lady's hand retreats, and the supplicant relents, lets the dancer release her, for the power of subservience in dance, is that the dominant needs it, like a sculptor must have clay to carress, or stone to crack. She falls slowly to her knees on the floor, the tension of collapse taut like a mandolin string. The dance does not end, it transforms, enters the realm of the invisible - the storyteller has their thralls, just as the sorceress, and just the same way, there are those who simply hear, and then those who listen. The Lady speaks, and lays the velvet warp and woof of a bolt of story-cloth, the Child draws a thread out, stitching, stitching, stitching, drawing the tale into a garment that can be worn instead of simply admired, and lays her own dress on the ground, shivering in the cold of the costumeless actress, that is more than simply chill, that extends to the chill of the mask-wearer who has no mask, then pulls the new-stitched garment up around her, fastening it about her neck, running hands to smooth it across her belly, over her hips, down her legs. Costumed by story, then, she rises at the end and puts a finger again to the woman's lips, this time the blood hot, and quick inside of it, her cheeks flushed with the blood that gorges her racing skin.

"I am a small servant to a great mistress. My hands can write, my heart can beat, my lips can speak..." her voice is wasted so, by now, there is hardly a voicing to her words, the sound of her is merely the breath's dissipating reflection of the contours of her throat, her mouth, her lips, her tongue, "But thy hands are stronger, thy heart stiller, thy lips firmer. What then, can a child like me bring to her mother?"

The last sentence, wavers, pulses with supressed thrills of the tides of the subconscious. She sucks delectably at the two words: "child", "mother", she devours them as she speaks them, like sweets fresh dipped from a chocolatier.

[Evalin]

The candle past, Evalin smiled at the finger pressed against her lips. Sliding her hand over Minnie's once more Evalin grabbed ahold of the woman's shoulder, pulling her close to whisper in her ear, "Be mine... Be mine from this moment on, and I will grace you with the most wondrous stories every conceived." As she spoke Evalin's hand moved to entangle in those half done braids, freeing them completely to grasp a hold of the locks. A semblance of control, though not one that demanded complete. With strength of hand Evalin would force the woman's head back, exposing her neck so that she could hiss her soft breath upon Minnie's pale skin, "Give me all that you are. Your breath... your words... your blood..."

That tongue of black now made a trace along the silky skin, so warm and heated compared to her own cold and callous flesh. With an iron will Evalin only just forced her teeth from clamping down upon the softest point of skin, yet still she would scrape her teeth lightly across before pulling back, releasing the woman and walking to stand on the other side of the table.

There now, I mustn't take from her just yet. It seems she is much more useful than I at first thought. Turning slowly Evalin would produce from the folds of her robes a book, well worn and damaged. Laying it upon the make-shift desk Evalin would push it toward Minnie, "Though I would ask much more in the coming future, for now I find myself in need of a bit of repair. I know of your work, and your profession. Might you aid me in its repair?"

The book was a simple introduction into the magic of summoning. Drawings and figures filled the pages, and it was not very rare in the slightest. Though Lefting might take an interest in who the author was. There in the first few pages there was noted a single name dated several centuries before. 'Evalin'