Always darkest before the dawn [Stitch, Jilitse]

[Tarot]

"Your struggle is meaningless," the Pycon's voice rose above the noises of the battle, "you are infants trying to cut water; you are charging at windmills! You are nothing but cosmic mistakes, and I am here to correct you." He was brandishing some thin object with one clay arm, probably a fork that had gone missing the day before. It looked like a grotesque trident in the Pycon's grasp. The other arm was free but swinging left and right in the direction of Jilitse and Clarissa. Asking Clarissa to fight the power that controlled her was one thing; succeeding was another matter entirely. The child's fingers were still wrapped around the hilt, and her body was trying to pull out the blade for a second attack. The other orphans screamed and retreated upon seeing the struggle, utterly terrorized at seeing one of their own stab her friend Jillie for no reason at all. The Nuit turned sharply to keep Clarissa from pulling out the sword. Jilitse tried to headbutt her to momentarily put her out of commission, but it didn't really work out the way she intended - the shock and loss of ichor had made a Nuit's already slow reflexes even more awkward. What happened instead was that, when the hilt suddenly took a turn to the right, Clarissa's fingers were still not letting go. While in the end the sharp motion did wrench the sword out of her grasp, it also drew the little girl forward with it. She staggered off-balance, and let out a yell as she stumbled downstairs, arms in front of her for protection. Thankfully, the dead bodies on the stairs softened the fall to an extent, and Clarissa landed on her backside, dizzy and in pain on the very first step but apparently in one piece. If Jilitse thought herself in need of a weapon, she merely had to reach behind her back and pull out; of course, it would cause the gaping hole to leak ichor faster, as well. The pain she could manage... being the heroine and all that. Meanwhile, something was triggered in Stitch's brain. Like figments of dreams long past, memories from before his bad day. He knew how these things worked, did he not? He knew all the motions. And all this non-lethal crap wasn't the way he had first learned it, right? He knew it all, the little trick that makes you go swooosh and then crack and then the other guy falls to his knees and your hands won't stop and go swisssh, swift for the kill with the noise of light armor hitting the floor but you are no longer there, your torso twisting to the limit to throw the dead man at the second foe halfway through his clumsy excuse for a punch and, once downed, snap his backbone with a thud. And before Stitch could even realize this, two of his assailants were dead and the other two were screaming at the top of their lungs, waving their swords at him - now apparently determined to make use of them. Their auras filled with sudden fright, they tried to maneuver around the blind man to get him from two sides. "What the petch are you doing?" yelled the Pycon, his poetic vein of doom seemingly exhausted, "there is no freedom in failure! Can't you even kill a blind man, for petch's sake?"

[Stitch]

The sound of breaking bone was satisfying, even though Stitch wouldn't know he had enjoyed it until much later. He was caught up in the fury of it all, in all the horror, in all the pain. Bones snapped beneath his hands, blood coated his fingers, and he took life away as if he had owned it in the first place. His body reacted on years of training, so much so that he was not so sure his own mind was controlling his actions. His brain had triggered what he had first learned, and then his body had taken over from there. He wished he could say he was fighting against his rage, but it wasn't something he could admit to. He was going along with it, letting it control him, letting it take the revenge he wanted against these scum. They had threatened his children! They were threatening to do terrible things to them! He wouldn't let them. He would defend this place to his last breath, and most of all, he would defend them. He had to hurt them so bad that they would never get back up, that they would never return, that they would never raise a blade against him again. He had to kill them! Even though his body was acting in the here and now, all according to reflex, his mind was quite far away. His mind was with the children, as they screamed in fear. His eyes were examining the figure of Clarissa, as she fell, her strike still buried deep within Jilitse's body. That wasn't his child that had done that. One of his children would never do that. Her Aura screamed of fear and confusion, begging everything around her to understand that it wasn't her hands that had moved. It had been something else, she pleaded! Two dead bodies lay near them, those of the fiends that had gone after his beloved. He couldn't understand how they had been killed, but apparently Jilitse had managed to defend them. Now, they were only dealing with the little clay man. He was merely standing there, screaming out orders. Was he a spell caster? How was he, a little doll, planning on fighting Jilitse, who had somehow managed to kill two grown men? Stitch didn't have much time to think of it, for his mind had flooded back to the present. Two men lay dead at his feet, and the other two were horrified. How had this blind man managed to kill two of their own, and how had he managed to do it so fast? Surround him, they reasoned! Even if he has magical eyes, he can only focus on one of us at a time! Even if he has magical ears, if we scream enough, he can't track us! Or perhaps they were just screaming. He hoped it was out of fear. He hoped they could taste it. He flooded forward, not hesitating to pick his target. Go to the one circling his left, cause him to stumble a bit, perhaps put up his guard. Stitch's charge was only a feint though, and he would spin, attacking the one who was hopefully taking advantage of his exposed rear. Disarm with wrist grab and twist, then bury extended fingers into the throat. Use his oncoming momentum, and grip on wrist to pull him forward, to further bring his throat upon your fingers. Crush. Puncture. Kill. Perhaps not an instant death. Perhaps you just crushed his throat. Let him lay on the floor, gasping for breath that will not come. Do not hesitate. Do not wait to see if he is dead. Move to the next. Stitch struck out with the block and the blow, then instantly turned again, hopefully meeting the one he had feinted at to begin with. Take advantage of their fear and hesitation. They do not know what you can do, nor they know who you are. They do not know how you see. Strike fast. Kill! Use disarmed sword of earlier, if possible. Sweep it up, and spin to attack! Block oncoming sword strike, either with wrist grab, or chop. Use his momentum. Bury sword in neck. It shouldn't be that hard, should it? It is only a bar of sharp steel. If sword was not attained earlier, than simply chop at neck. Remember to tug him toward you. You must not simply agitate the neck. You must break it. If all went well, two more men would fall. Just like that. The bloodied blind man would turn, his once-gentle mind still not registering that he had just killed four people without blinking an eye. His rage still roared fresh in his mind, along with his sorrow, his horror, and his hatred. Tears streamed down his dirtied cheeks, leaking from broken eyes. He didn't know if it was from the sorrow, the anger, or the smoke. Smoke was quickly filling the room, the dim Aura of it managing to cloud his vision, if only just a little. It didn't matter. There would be one opponent left hopefully, and he would turn to that one, focusing his magical gaze upon the clay man. One left. Kill him.

[Jilitse]

Jilitse was reminded of something that happened not so long ago, when she had to raise her sickle in order to defend herself against another man. She had met a man in the wilderness, a man strong as he is steadfast. This battle was suited for the likes of him. Perhaps in that unnecessary memory, Jilitse found comfort. If she was to kill, she was to kill in order to protect herself and the things she wanted to preserve. Life she can give, life she can take away. The skewered animator sluggishly paced forward, bringing herself towards the advancing Pycon.

She was getting woozy and wobbly, and every chime was extending like it was the eternity that she had lived. Each step was a heavy burden to her body, each slight movement a deeper incision into her rotting mortal flesh. Memories of people she had met were flashing in her head. Now was not the time to remember what she had learned during last season, but there were bits and pieces of mocking and spiting memories that flooded her head. The Gods are never there when you need them. Good luck on your journey. May we meet again. Beer is tasty.

As her body swung in her knees, her soul swung in hope and despair. This was, so far, the culminating point of her existence. When it came to sacrificing one's self for another - whether it was for Mashaen, for Stitch, or for the kids behind her - Jilitse found herself more than capable. It was because she promised. And words, the promise were made of powerful words - of love that had remained constant throughout the years, that even when the body had gone the soul existed. And the soul that knew love, loyalty, and hope will never waver for it has decided. Jilitse had long ago decided to follow Mashaen, recently promised to save his butt. Why else would she be still alive if not for a reason, for a purpose. She was eternal because of the very same thing she had lived for when she was alive. Alahea was yesterday, today, and forever.

Jilitse continued to stagger, no longer paying attention to the kids, who knew better than to move an inch, and no longer eyeing out for Stitch. So far, things haven't gone according to her plan. But then again, when you have made enemies, you must also take your enemy's plan into consideration.

The Pycon, whoever the person or God behind him, was a threat to her. Once again she had receded to the natural instinct of self-preservation. What would a tiny cutlery item do against a sword, what would small tiny steps do against the motivated and courageous saunter of the Nuit? A lot, of course, considering that Jilitse was in greater handicap.

She faced the little enemy head on, prepared to tackle the little thing. She reached out for it, knowing full well that contact would probably mean more holes in her body. She tried to catch it with her own cloak and gave a frantic and focused clobbering. She spent the best of her energies in attempting to catch and restrict the Pycon with one hand and at a time most unexpected, she finally pulled out the sword sheathed in her body, gave out an indiscernible cry: a war cry of ancient Alahea - Jilitse was already past her lucid moments. "Kyaaa~" And tried to hit the Pycon with the blade and then pound it with the hilt of her sword.

The final strike. Tonk! She took a bow (it looked like one at the very least) and folded herself on the floor. The sword was still mechanically slashing at the assaulting Pycon. It was probably the lowest point of her career. It was the moment of lingering despair when one just cried out and asked for help from the Pantheon.

"Priskil," she prayed, lamented, and cried, "help us." She felt weak, useless, and wrecked. "Dira, please do not claim my soul. I implore you." There was little Jilitse could do to strangle the small agile being, but she's giving it her best.

[Tarot]

The Pycon quickly got over the moment of confusion and steeled himself for Jilitse's assault. To call it an assault was something of a misnomer, the assailant being a Nuit - and a wounded one at that. It was like a cavalry charge in slow motion, almost comical to behold if not for the direness of the situation. On his part, the Pycon brandished the fork like a trident, making it spin and swing with more grace than one might believe at first. Apparently forkfighting was not unknown among his race. The Nuit reached out for him, but he dodged her easily, jumping far higher than his own height and landing to the side. These Pycons had quite some power in their legs. She tried catching the thing with her cloak, but he was simply too fast for Jilitse's clouded mind and clumsy reaction times. He just spun around her like a performer would dodge a charging bull in the arena. All the while he taunted her with his annoyingly deep voice. "You know, I thought you were a wizard from Sahova. So, where's the magic then? Shoot a fireball! Make the walls crumble! Twist the fabric of reality! But you can't, can you? You are the shame of your peers. You are just a failure that does not deserve to know freedom!" Meanwhile, Stitch raged on, but the remaining foes were acting more cautiously around him now. He charged at the first man, but feinted to actually attack the second that predictably tried to get him from behind. He managed to disarm the man, but the victim wriggled under his grip more than he anticipated, and the maneuver did not come off as clean as Stitch had envisioned it. You messed up, Stitch. Your fault for not training as hard as you should've over these years. Your mind knows, but your body can't always keep up. The enemy fell to his knees, disabled but not struck in a lethal way. Meanwhile, the other man was already upon him, and the first man's sword was outside his reach. He blocked the incoming slash with his forearm, but the blade slid forward and sliced through his clothing, cutting along his upper arm. It wasn't a terribly deep cut, but it certainly bled quite a bit; not that Stitch would feel the pain until much later, of course. The soldier let his partial success distract him - it was the last mistake he would make. Stitch tugged him mercilessly and just broke his neck like that. One moment he had a neck, the next moment he had a mess. The last remaining man, disarmed and on all fours, looked up at the blind man, blood running from the corners of his mouth. "M-mercy," he coughed as best he could as Stitch's figure loomed over him. Jilitse's world exploded in pain as she pulled the sword out of her chest, ichor dripping down her clothing and glistening on the blade. "So you aren't getting it, eh? You can't…" he taunted her, but zang! The sword swung with the power of desperation. This time he barely dodged in time, and the blade shaved some clay off his body. "You undead bitch," the Pycon growled as tiny bubbles of clay began to fizzle where his body had been touched. "And your damn ichor!" Like acid it seemed to be eating away at the tiny creature. He jumped back out of her range, hissing. "You asked for it, she-corpse." The arms of his fork began to glow faintly at first, and then fiercely with red heat. The piece of cutlery drifted away from the Pycon's hands, levitating up as it positioned itself in Jilitse's direction, menacingly. And then the burning fork shot at her like a projectile aimed at the middle of her forehead. Like a crossbow bolt, lightning fast, right to the Nuit's only vital organ. Was this the end of Jilitse? The fork stopped about one inch from Jilitse's head. A pale hand was wrapped gently around the item. A young woman stood by the Nuit's side that had not been there the moment before. Clad in white, a light glow radiated from her skin, illuminating the room. She had no shadow, dark and slightly curly hair framing an ethereal visage. "A sincere plea at last, Jilitse of Sahova; and here I come," she said softly, letting the fork fall with a clinking sound. The Pycon was paralyzed with fear. "You… you…" Stitch would see that her aura had an amount of purity to it that he'd never seen before. It was like her energies struggled to stay confined in her humble form. "There will be no more carnage here," said the woman, her tone gentle but assertive. "You can show yourself, Counting Doll. I know you are lurking in the shadows." In response to her call, one more shadow stepped out of the corridor, apparently arrived from the same Summoning portal as the rest of them. It wore heavy robes and the hood covered most of the head, but Jilitse had no doubt that it was the golem-body of Drainira. Stitch would see that the newcomer's aura felt artificial, constructed; it had no curves, only squared edges. The hooded one nodded slowly. This did not seem to be the first encounter between the two. "And so, Mother Goose enters the fray," Drainira commented, unmoving. "A pleasure to meet you again, Master Jilitse. And to finally make your acquaintance, Master Stitch. That note about the Game does not really count, right?" "Leave this place at once," Priskil ordered, her voice always soft with a steely undertone. "Not without my little sister, so to speak… the book," the golem-girl replied calmly. "I was only 52% convinced that you had it in your possession, Master Jilitse. It was obvious you would go for the Second Clause in the Oath, given all your juvenile fantasies on the Archwizard. Still, a significant stroke of luck to find the book here. Hand it over and Master Stitch's children will not get hurt in the struggle."

[Stitch]

Stitch loomed over the fallen oppponent, his ears suddenly deaf to the pleas of the pathetic man. Three bodies were strewn around him, and now, there was only this one left. This was the second to last threat that he would have to deal with before his children were safe. The world was still around him, and for a short moment, only him and the man existed. He was unaware of the fact that Jilitse was about to die. He was much too lost in the moment, lost in his murderous rage. Only him and the opponent existed, and within a few short seconds, it would only be him. How was the best way to go about this? The man was evil. This was likely another trick. Stitch had to be careful, and dispose of him in the quickest, easiest way possible. Perhaps simply a boot to the side of that bowed skull. It might not kill him, but it should take him out of the fight for quite awhile. That would be all that was needed, right? Blood dripped off his arm, and he absentmindedly glanced his Auristics toward it, considering the wound. He had messed up, in more ways than one. He had gotten injured, and he had accidently left one of his attackers alive. That could have spelled doom for him and the children. You messed up, Stitch. Your fault for not training as hard as you should've over these years. Your mind knows, but your body can't always keep up. Stitch's head tilted back toward the opponent, and his features hardened. He had to put the man down. He had to take him out, and make sure he couldn't harm the children again. He had to make sure the fanatical man couldn't even think about it again. Clenching his fists, pulling a single foot back, he lined up his shot. A swift kick to the side of the head. Best case scenario, it would knock him out. That wasn't too bad, was it? After all, he was protecting the ones he loved. He was protecting the ones that this man had tried to take away from him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, reason had finally decided to make a comeback, and it was screaming out at him. It was telling him to stop, that it was over, that he had already done enough! But no, it was too late. He had already lined up the kick, the man was in the perfect position, and there were too many other voices in his head. Screaming, crying, desperately pleading for him to do it. His body shivered, and his Auristics went wild, throbbing and pulsing at different levels of brightness. His foot wavered, and thankfully, that was all the time he needed. Someone else suddenly appeared in the room, and Stitch's senses went haywire. His Auristics screamed out, warning him to look away from the newcomer. She was bright, not painfully so... But Stitch could sense that she was struggling to keep all that light in, and down to a reasonable level. If she wished, she could blind him instantly. She was doing her best not to. He wanted to look away, just out of caution... But at the same time, he couldn't. His head ached from looking at her, but it was one of the most pleasurable pains he had ever felt. It was a clarifying pain. It was a sharp aching rod that slammed through his murky thoughts, bringing him back to reality, stunning him out of his rage. Where was he? What was this place? Who was she...? Upon further examination, he found that he could care less about the minor amount of pain her bedazzling Aura bestowed upon his weary mind. She was beautiful. She was... pure. She was good. She was here to save them! Stitch's knees gave out, and he fell, slamming to the floor right in front of the bandit. They knelt there together, Stitch too weary to hold himself up any longer, too confused to even acknowledge the man he had been about to kill earlier. Another figure appeared from the darkness, and once more, alarms went off in his skull. This one wasn't here to save them. This one was something else entirely. Her Aura didn't radiate a thing, it just barely existed. Just as if it was there because it had to be, logically. It was shaped in a way that Stitch had never seen before, and it didn't give a reading, no matter how hard he tried. It was as if she wasn't real. But here she was, speaking to him in that quiet tone. Almost out of instinct, he responded, politely so. "It is.. uh... a pleasure to meet you milady... the Game...?" The Game. That's right! Was that another reason why they were here? His head sharply jerked back toward his four opponents, and that was when he finally figured it out. Dead. They were dead. Why were they dead? Had he...? All at once, Stitch bend over, emptying his stomach onto the floor. The stench of blood was heavy on his nose, and suddenly, the feel of their flesh was so very alive on his fingers. A sob racked his body midway through the upheaval of stomach fluids, only further disabling him. He gasped for air as he finished, sobbing, his head tilting toward the pure woman, silently begging her for help. The remaining man pleaded out again, but Stitch had forgotten his existence. There was only the woman in light. He needed her help. He needed to be healed, to be cleansed, to forget all of this. Even the threat regarding the children went unheard. The decision was left to Jilitse alone, as Stitch was currently completely helpless. Shuddering with sobs, and looking lost and alone... The man had obviously come back to his senses, and he was obviously broken.

[Jilitse]

It was getting harder and harder to hold on the will to survive. Even more daunting was the effort to actually keep alive despite the wounds and the enveloping despair. Jilitse was considered a one-sided mage - she was never interested in other magic than Animation, in order to keep up with the whim and genius of Zarik Mashaen. She had long accepted this fact, and was able to live with the right amount of mediocrity to not be bothered with being called a "failure". She was quite lucky to have survived this long, and if she would perish, 500 years of existence wasn't such a bad record.

But even dying candles shine.

Perhaps it was the presence of Priskil that renewed the strength of her spirit - why would one lose hope at the sight of Hope herself? And so ravaged as she was, Jilitse was able to beam a smile. A smile Drainira would have recognized, because only Jilitse would curve her lips just so, as if she was holding back a secret that she would never tell. It was a secret that held all her cards against the golem, the secret of life to a Nuit who never lost her ties to being a human: faith, hope, and love. Each invisible word offering the poor heroine Nuit some last chutzpah. "The magic is here." She said to the Pycon, pointing to her chest. It would not make sense to anyone in the room except Jil. She made her choice, and she was the solution. Nothing else mattered except the accomplishment of her goals. The important thing now was not who she was, but what she can be.

Jil was heaving when Drainira spoke, but quick logic spun around her head. Stitch and Drainira were acquainted? In what way, what note? Jil pushed the thought back to the fringes of her consciousness. Now was not the time to think of trivial things. Focus was needed. Tanroa had placed them upon a crucial moment. May Lhex be on their side.

"Drainira." It took extra spirit to hold her hands against the floor and lift up her body to face the Supervisor, using all her strength to attempt to sit up. Ichor was dripping out of her wound. "Do you really think that we would let you?" Now that Priskil had come to her aid, she would not let the golem hurt the children, yes? The goddess was on her side! Jil put that against faith. "I would assume that you have also calculated the probability that I would agree to you. That would be nil, Drainira." Jilitse had to exhale, speaking was wearing her down. If only it was possible to wish Drainira away.

She whispered, meaning the words for Priskil's ears, "Goddess," she bowed her head in mixed reverence and fatigue, "I only have the will and not the ability to defend myself, and I t-trust you to protect everyone." Lights were dimming for the Nuit. Where was Marie Suzanne anyway? A season ago the book had promised a great adventure. Things were far away from being great, but the promise of adventure was only beginning. Surely the sentient book will not suddenly run to Drainira's open arms? It would defeat the purpose of not letting the Pycon get to Marie Suzanne!

"I apologize Drainira, but I cannot let you." These words, coming from a dying Nuit, sounded far less threatening than they were meant to be. But her resolve was to not let Drainira take Marie Suzanne, not let Drainira hurt the children, not let Drainira hurt Stitch, not let Drainira destroy the closest thing she had for a home. She gave a meaningful gaze up to the lady of the light. Help me, her lips said. "Mashaen wanted me to defeat you." Drainira would no doubt calculate the probability for that to happen. So miniscule, the Supervisor might think that Jil was bluffing. "And Mashaen wanted me to tell you that he still loves you like a daughter." Drainira could calculate the verity of her words, too. Then let her, and I will show her the truth one day.

Whatever to keep her alive to see the end of her quest. And the only thing left for Jil to do against Drainira was to destroy her. Unfortunately, now was not the time for that. Jilitse admitted to herself that she could use some help, some magic. Something useful against these wretched enemies.

In the Nuit's eyes, piercing through the impending death was the will to live. Priskil could easily see that Jil was adamant about her plea, was sincere with her desire to help the children and Stitch. It was such a short notice, but maybe Priskil could come up with something. She was, after all, Jilitse's last Hope.

[Tarot]

Had Drainira calculated all of this? Of course she had. She had considered no fewer than 712 different outcomes. Her accumulated knowledge of Priskil's personality as well as Jilitse and Stitch's capabilities had helped her devise her current plan. Furiously fast calculations flashed behind the golem's eyes. Jilitse could say yes and hand over Marie Suzanne, and then Drainira would win. Or Jilitse could say no and then the ball would be in Priskil's field, which meant that Drainira won. The golem-girl looked down at Jilitse's fallen form. It was frankly surprising that she'd even survived this far against the forces the doll had sent from Opportunity, but she was at her limit. A few chimes and the Nuit would finally leave this mortal coil. She was dying and she knew it. "You may think you are doing the Archwizard a great service, Master Jilitse, but in truth you are just deluding yourself," the Supervisor shook her head lightly at the mention of Mashaen's message. "He is old and lost. I was this close to freeing him alongside the rest of Sahova, delivering you all to oblivion, but the Isur got in the way. I keep getting plagued by these minor statistical fluctuations." She turned to Priskil. "So, what shall happen now, Mother Goose? You heard her. She will not negotiate." The glowing goddess had remained silent all along, her face somewhere between stoic, sad and irritated. "You do not like having to choose, either, do you?" Drainira reiterated. "You want to help her, but you will have to sacrifice something. You either save her small and flawed unlife, or you face the Puppeteer's power and eventually drive me away. No time for both things. So, which one will it be, Priskil of the Light that Blinds?" Priskil drew a long breath. "You are the one who places value into trinkets and things you can touch. I value lives and hearts. This Nuit may be a small and flawed creature, but no more than I am." "Then," Drainira grinned - and it was no normal grin, but a mad and cold exposure of sharp teeth, "it is settled." The golem extended her arm, Projecting it towards Marie Suzanne. The book flew into the golem's strong grasp within a moment. It flapped its covers for a moment or two, but saw the futility of its actions. Jilitse could do nothing but watch helplessly; her wound would not let her intervene. "I have no interest whatsoever in unskilled human pups, anyways," the golem explained. "Go save your protégée. She only has 4.8 chimes left to live, give or take. I have watched these things move and die for centuries - I would know." "Tanroa is fair, Counting Doll. Whatever you do in life always comes back to you. Golems are no exception," Priskil said, no hate in her voice but quiet resignation. The goddess joined her hands, and there was a flash of light that overflowed in Stitch's aura vision. When the light subsided, both Priskil and Jilitse were gone. Drainira looked around and made a light tsk-tsk sound. "You see, Master Stitch, the thing with morals and ethics is that they make you so terribly predictable. Why would anyone burden themselves with such a handicap?" The golem stepped slowly towards the fallen blind man. All that could be heard was the children's sobs. "Sadly, our talk about the Game will have to wait a little longer. I am also out of time." She stopped in front of the fourth soldier, the one Stitch hadn't killed. The golem barely moved a finger, and the man gurgled as his throat was cut open by an invisible force. She turned around. "Well now, all that's left to deal with is the little…" She narrowed her eyes. The little Pycon was gone. For the first time, Drainira had a displeased look, or maybe it was just the lack of any look. "I see, Priskil. It's a draw after all." She walked away and past the doorway. "Tell Master Jilitse I will free her personally when we meet again." And with that, and another blue flash of the portal that had taken her into Stitch's Welcome Home, the golem was gone. "The Home! The Home is burning! Quick, fill those buckets!" The screams, and the noise or armored men running around, filled Stitch's consciousness. The Knights had arrived. The Home and its people were saved. *** There was only light of any possible color and even some impossible ones, and motion through light, faster than any bird. Priskil was flying through a corridor of pure, shimmering light, holding Jilitse's devastated body in one arm and a whiny Pycon in the other. "Let me go, you witch! Letmego, y'hear me! I am a harbinger of freedom and thus I must be free! Yes! I am a FREE MAN!" "I could let you go," Priskil said softly, "but then you would die. This passage has been treacherous since my Aquiras was struck." "Oh," said the Pycon, and he stopped struggling. "Well, I am kind of free right now, come to think of it." The goddess shook Jilitse lightly. The Nuit's remaining strength was waning. "Don't fall asleep. There is light within you that I won't let be extinguished. We will get your book back in due time, but lives come first, Jilitse of Sahova. Always." Priskil stopped at a glimmering crossroads, floating amidst the colorful light. There, also floating motionlessly in the aether, were human bodies of either gender and all ages. They were dressed in pre-Valterrian garb. "They were using the Watchtowers when Aquiras fell. There was a power surge and they all died, but their bodies are suspended in stasis." The goddess stopped near a female body with long, shiny hair. Ironically, she had been an Alahean mage. "Just position yourself for the transfer. I will take care of the rest."

[Stitch]

Stitch fell to the ground, laying there in a pool of his own bile and bodily fluids, shuddering sensations passing through his tired body. He no longer had the energy nor the will to hold himself up, and even if he could, he wasn't so sure that he would be able to actually do anything. He didn't fret about it though, for once. Even laying here, helplessly unable to defend his children, he felt a sort of satisfied peace. They had made it through the worst of it, and now, their saving Light was here to help them. He felt Hope flooding his veins, and it tasted like the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. Even in his current state, the blind man could help but let a smile touch to his lips. Thank the Gods, they were saved. The children were saved. He listened intently to the words Jil spoke, and thankfully, she proved all of his suspicions true. It was Priskil. She had come. Why she had come, or how she had managed to see this small little incident out of the hundreds likely happening in the world... He didn't have the answers for that. He wasn't about to try and ask them, either. He was happy, so amazingly overjoyed that she had taken notice of this particular situation. He continued to listen to the conversation, also pleased that this Drainira had given Jil a choice. All she had to do was hand over that infernal book, and then they could do this without any violence. Priskil wouldn't have to lift a finger against the odd stranger, and then Drainira wouldn't have to attempt to defend herself. Stitch didn't want his children caught in the crossfire. And then, just like that, Jil denied the puppet her book. Stitch froze on the ground, his head whipping up to face Jil, the magical eyes of the blind man locking intensely on the Nuit woman. He whispered under his breath, unable to understand, trying frantically to figure out why she had just made that choice. "W-why... did you...?" He whispered from his position on the ground, placing his hands underneath him, struggling to push himself up of the floor. Perhaps the meaning of the book was something far beyond his understanding, but here and now, Stitch couldn't at all fathom what made it so important. They were comparing paper to human lives! They were bartering for them like they were just another item at the Bazaar! Quickly pulling himself to his knees, Stitch shook his head, the trembles overtaking him once again. "W-wait... T-this... T-this one doesn't think you should..." The conversation continued on, Stitch's whispered voice completely meaningless to the current players of this particular Game. Drainira turned to Priskil, the artificial Aura betraying nothing, confirming Jil's voice with the Goddess. Stitch held his breath, praying that the Goddess would make the choice he felt was right. Would she too place those infernal pieces of paper over the wellbeing of his precious children? Within moments, Priskil decided, and her answer caused Stitch to collapse on the floor again, relief flooding his bones. "T-thank... y-you..." The words were whispered once more, but he trusted the Goddess would hear them. Just like that, in a flash of light that caused Stitch to wince, both the Goddess and Jilitse were gone. He could only assume that Priskil had taken the Nuit to heal her, but he didn't stress over the details that much. He trusted Priskil, and this event had only given him that much more faith in her and her ways. But, now that he was alone with Drainira... His head turned, cocking upwards to regard the approaching puppet, the sobs of his children thundering in his ears. He was in no state to defend himself, or anyone else for that matter. That didn't mean he wouldn't try, however. He had one more punch left in him. He still had the Flux, enough to power one more blow. If he had to, he would throw that punch, no matter what it meant for his body. The puppet would see him tensing as she stepped closer. The thought of the blind man resisting was likely quite laughable, for her. The man died suddenly next to him, and Stitch mentally blinked, surprise freezing his body as the Aura just flickered out. How had she killed him? What had she done to slit the man's throat? He had been helpless! Anger swelled within him, but all he could do was lay there, cursing his own helplessness. She was now threatening Jil, almost mocking Stitch while she did so, and he could do nothing but lay there and silently curse himself. Moments later, a flash of light, and the girl was gone. Seconds after, voices filled his ears, and the familiar Auras of various Knights flooded his vision. It was over. It was finally completely over. He tried to raise a hand to point the way to the children, but he was still shaking too hard. He had killed for the first time ever, and it was something that had dealt a severe blow to the foundation of who he was. Taking a deep breath, he rolled over, facing the ceiling, just resting. Even if he had broken that moral code of his... ...he still had something he needed to do. He whispered to the sky, giving thanks to where it was due. "Thank you... Milady Priskil. Thank you so much."

[Jilitse]

Her word for it was minor statistical fluctuations. To Jilitse it was always a spring of luck. Maybe Lhex had not meant for Drainira to succeed - yet. The declaration of war was unneeded. The Nuit drew her eyeballs back, tired, exhausted and dying. Something in her stirred, the part of her that knew how it was to hold on to something and believe in it. Believe in it so much it could actually turn out to be real. She would win this round. Jilitse had already said her piece, the decision was surrendered to Priskil.

She will be saved.

What was left was to face the consequences of her actions and decisions, and it was not without immeasurable hurt and disappointment when she saw that Marie Suzanne was taken by Drainira. There was nothing left to do but to be the same old helpless useless Nuit that she was. Cold logic, "Nothing else could be done." Jilitse made calculations too, it would be a very long time before Drainira would even let Jilitse get Marie Suzanne back. Maybe Drainira would win this round, after all.

And in that moment, she was blinded by Priskil's light. There was hope for future confrontations - this was a protracted war against Drainira and Sagallius. Some battles have to be lost. Next time she would have to win. Stitch and the Orphanage left Jilitse's head for the moment - they would be remembered, and there would be time for reconciliation - hopefully. Hope was dim but it was enough.

Not many people were ever graced by the presence of deities, some would rarely get the chance in the most fanciful circumstances like dreams or visions. To have Priskil beside her nearly lifeless body was to have an insurmountable amount of hope. It was indescribable - and Jilitse was certain that the feeling washing over her was not death looming - but the very essence of Priskil. She barely understood Priskil's words when she spoke - many things did not make any sense at the moment.

There was uncertainty in Jilitse as she moved towards the body, and she felt nothing but immense gratitude for Priskil. She almost did not want to let go. But it had to be done, and fast. Tanroa might be counting down on Jilitse's life already. Won't let that happen.

It was time for rebirth.

[Tarot]

"You may think you did nothing today," Priskil replied gently, helping Jilitse latch onto the body of the dead Alahean girl, both suspended in a weightless sea of light. "You may think you could do nothing at all. The truth is, you will grow from this. Because it hurts, and because you were the one who wanted it." The goddess guided Jilitse's head closer to her next host, until their lips almost touched. "The truth is, you can grow and she can't. No matter how many skills she takes from others, no matter how much she tinkers with her mind, a doll is always a doll. This is her tragedy, and the reason I pity her above all." Lines and circles of light were traced all over the dead girl's body, in a manner reminiscent of the Nuit's transfer ritual. Priskil patted Jilitse on the nape of her head, causing the first wave of ichor to spurt out of her mouth and into the next body's. "You will be fine." Again and again, Jilitse vomited her remaining Soul Vector into the dead girl. "But you, too, must learn from your mistakes. So far, you have let your love for one man, and only that, drive your actions. You must learn to love yourself, Jilitse, for everything you are and could become." The Nuit coughed up more ichor, and by this time her current body was almost empty. She could feel her soul wavering inside, barely connected anymore. As the last remaining string snapped that was holding her within, she felt flung out of her body and into the next one, where the ichor attached her to the new host instantly. It all happened in a blink. "You could be so much more, if only you let yourself…" Jilitse saw her old, mutilated body drift away from her in the ocean of light, hair flowing freely in the invisible currents. She was feeling very weak from the loss of ichor, and it would take time to regenerate what had been lost, but at least she wasn't dying anymore. Her strength was gradually returning to her. "As for you," Priskil turned her attention to the Pycon, "the Counting Doll was certainly going to dispose of you. Because you failed, and because you drew the Summoning circle. You know the coordinates of her base. You are weak, and a liability to her. You know I am right, little one." "I… I…" the Pycon tried to protest, but he knew it was true. "The Great Benshira gave me the power to free others, and he said Drainira was his Prophet." "Do you really think you free someone by killing them? By erasing their dreams, their feelings, everything they ever were? Or by taking their will away, forcing them to hurt their loved ones?" Priskil's eyes glowed, her voice still soft but steely. "Is that freedom to you? Your ancestors, the ones born in a flask and forced to serve as living weapons for a madman, wouldn't think so." The little creature fell silent under Priskil's gaze. After a while, he spoke again. "I don't know. I am… not sure anymore. I don't know what to say." "The difference between the Benshira and myself, is that I won't tell you what to think," Priskil said. "But you could apologize to Jilitse here. Even though you were just a tool, you brought her and others great suffering today." The Pycon looked up at Jilitse's new body and bowed his head in shame. "I am sorry." And, right after that, "5820285709329421. Dead center of the circle. That's where she stays, the place she calls Opportunity." The exceptional memory of the Nuit forever carved the number into Jilitse's mind. Priskil nodded. "He is telling the truth, without a doubt. Now comes a challenge for you, Jilitse. You see how our enemy acts, how they slip into the cracks of your soul and twist it from within. This little one made a grave mistake. Can you forgive him - not forget, but forgive - for what he did to you? Can you forgive him just like Stitch needs to forgive you?" She smiled, and looked at her expectantly. *** As for Stitch, what followed was lengthy questioning by the Knights. They wanted to know who or what had started the fire. The discovery of dead armed men in the Home did a lot to ease Stitch's position, though the Knights seemed worried that these guards had gotten into the city without passing through the gates. A Summoning circle was found in the library room, but the digits with the astral coordinates of its destination had been rendered illegible thanks to a glyphed spell - Drainira must have taken her precautions. It was quickly assessed that none of the people in the Home could have drawn the circle. Stitch's position was cleared, at least with the authorities. The common people, those were another matter. Gossip would spread, and some would question the wisdom in letting a blind man be a caretaker for the structure. For all the buzz this generated throughout Stormhold, no-one volunteered to help Stitch fix the damage. Several hours later, the Knights left the place and took the dead bodies with them in secret. They ordered Stitch not to mention the part about the assailants to the general population. Clearly, knowing that they could be attacked anywhere and at any time wouldn't do well for the people's morale. They apologized, too, because it would make him look bad in front of everyone - it would look like the fire had been his fault, or his negligence at the least - but the city's best interest had to come first. After they were gone, Stitch noticed something on the floor where Priskil had stood that night. Some portions of it looked brighter, almost discolored, forming letters and words. A normal eye would struggle to see it, but his Auristics could spot it quite easily. TO STITCH PLEASE TRY TO UNDERSTAND JILITSE IF YOU CAN THE BRIGHTEST LIGHTS OFTEN CAST THE DARKEST SHADOWS SOME WOULD SAY THAT ABOUT YOU, TOO YOU ARE A GOOD MAN IF YOU NEED A FRIEND COME TO THE ZAGARIA WATCHTOWER TALDERA, NORTH-EAST OF KARJIN -P.