Private Angels Do Not Tread Here [M]

[Lucero]

TRIGGER WARNING:​

graphic violence + gore, physical + sexual abuse​

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Spoiler: The Return of Ambre Lavigne

Ambre Lavigne, the bastard daughter of a Noble Woman, assumed that if she had been the bastard daughter of a Noble Man her disappearance would have been welcomed. Beautiful young woman at the age of twenty, long black hair, stunning green eyes, a real shame that she got abducted.

Knights Assignment:

Silas Grimnod of Dusk: Human shapeshifter but can only shapeshift into creatures he has eaten, sheds their skin and leaves a bloody mess, the most experienced knight on the team. Fears death and is a germaphobe and phasmaphobe. Role to be filled: leader

Rakan of Dawn: Canine Beastkin, silvertongued rogue, good with sleight of hand and blades. Older than he looks. Loves jewelry and sparkling things, hates sharing. Role to be filled: info-gatherer, blade master.

Nemera Hinojasa of Dusk:
Half Elf, Half Human, incredibly beautiful and knows it, doesn't need magic with fists like hers. Role to be filled: Obviously the tank, what, you thought the men were gonna get all the glory? The real bruiser is Nemera.​

Lucero Verdugo of Dawn
Role to be filled: Healer, support, recon. The sunshine character of the group.

Below Altalusia and further below Unicorn Bay the trees did not yet show off their leaves of mandarin, marigold, and maple. The air was dry around Overlook Hamlet, set not too far from the free state of Telephassa and it's capital city of the same name. The closet market and church were south, in a village called Lantana, the halfway point from Overlook to the capital. It was a fact that brought some relief to Lucero. It seemed inside the Free States the infestation of Menessis had only grown. It wasn't nearly as bad at the Sightless, Lucero always had to remind herself of that, but the time spent next to a Church that had popped up like a weed in a garden, it's black walls and roof a ink smudge against a painting, the statue of well-shined obsidian of Mother Meness out front that meant to welcome but seemed too omnipotent to embrace "wayward sheep," still left a bitter taste on Lucero's tongue.

"Easy with that, Lucey," Syr Hinojasa warned her, taking away the dried roots belonging to a young ceiba from the blind knight, tutting as she saw just how thoroughly the young woman had tore through them. "You nervous or somethin'?"

Her eyes burned all over, Lucero could feel the strain in her brain. There was a tight, dryness her eyes had refused to get used to. Even sleep couldn't relieve her of such itchiness, as if she hadn't blinked in days and the very air was sucking out all moisture from her eyeballs. They felt heavy, like rocks. A small part of Lucero wanted to stop, but her comfort meant little to her inside the barn that smell faintly of manure and damp hay. It hadn't been easy to convince the old couple to let them sleep in the barn, but of course once Rakan started waving around his coin purse they had compiled. They had given the knights blankets that were rough and itchy, the sort to put on a horse and not a person.

"No. I'm angry." Lucero answered. Syr Silas paused in whittling the piece of wood he had been working on all month. Despite not being able to see, Lucero knew all eyes were on her. She was never angry, that was something she tried to hide. Lucero knew she didn't look angry, there was no heavy breathing, no growling, no harsh words that meant to harm. But she felt it, deep within the marrow of her bones. It might have been the ceiba, rejuvenating her, a curandero secret she had shared with the Knights of Anatheum.

The trees could only be found in the Free States, the soil up North didn't suit them, the seeds would refused to grow. Lucero liked that about them, it meant she could hide some of her heritage from the others.

We call this the tree of life, it's roots are powerful. Her mother had been the one to pass on this bit of knowledge to Lucero. When she was tired, when she ached, when it felt like her head was filled with the prayers of the living and the lamentations of the dead, chewing on the roots had soothed her. It was something that was akin to chicken soup for the soul, the insides of her insides. Often times, Lucero was left feeling like that there were pieces of people she couldn't see, pieces of people inside of her that didn't belong, that itched to get out.

It meant she was powerful. Stronger than her mother, perhaps as strong as Sjitli or maybe stronger than that. But it meant that Lucero shouldn't let emotions sway her, these powerful, invisible things that led her from one thing to the next. But by the gods, she was angry. Angry at the world, angry that their mission was only to save one person and not every single victim who had been taken in the night, whisked away like some sacrifice for money. It was always for money.

Perhaps it was because she had grown up poor in coin but rich in family, but Lucero despised how much gold could get away with. It was sickening when she considered how a flash of gold could silence people, could cater to people, could control people.

Lucero rubbed at one eye, mumbling a curse in her mother tongue.

"Lucey," Hinojasa warned, "Be careful. This is just to get more information."

"But they have her." Lucero didn't turn to look at anyone, she kept her eyes on the street across from them, pushing herself to the very limit to see that soul that belonged to Asunta. If that was even her name. A woman that preyed on other woman, the worst of the worst. There was no sort of kinship, no silent agreement of loyalty. No, this was a woman who saw herself above other women, a woman that chose men and laughed with them, a woman that used her status to hunt and steal. It had been a strange realization upon the discovery that most likely it was Asunta who had decided upon which woman or child to kidnap. And yes, she had kidnapped children, and no, it had not been for the same reason as the women. Asunta was cruel and depraved and wicked.

Lucero held back her tears as she thought about what had happened to the boy of the young mother that Asunta had stolen. Lucero couldn't fix him. She tried, but there were pieces missing, and Lucero did not have the gift of creating something out of nothing.

"We don't know that." Syr Silas was firm, heartless. Lucero knew that wasn't how he felt. She saw him battling his own anger as they came across village after village, each with a tale too similar. The most beautiful of their village, usually woman, sometimes man, gone without a trace. The only thing that had been unusual was a blonde woman, a magician, with a book strapped to her hip and a body that had men looking away from shame and women seething with jealously. "Lucero, hey," He was snapping his fingers at her. "Don't. Whatever you're thinking, stop. You're can't fix this, the damage is done. We just need to get Ambre before they enter Telephassa. You can't see her soul, right?"

Lucero was quiet. She couldn't see Ambre's soul. But she could see Asunta's and the henchmen. She could see them past the small barn they hid behind, across the street, and into the basement of a tavern that had told the Knights no basement existed. It was either gold or fear that had them lie to them. Lucero only hoped it wasn't gold.

"That's what I thought," Syr Silas sighed and went back to his whittling.

"But...."

"Shh," Hinojasa placed a tender yet heavy hand on Lucero's shoulders. "You're thinner than before." She commented, almost shocked.

"She hasn't been eating," Silas announced. "You haven't noticed?"

"I have," Rakan answered. "She only chews on those roots. Not a good look."

"Lucey," Hinojasa breathed, worry etched in her face. Lucero was the youngest out of all them by at least a decade. The young woman could feel Hinojasa pat her back as if she were a baby that needed help burping. "We're nearly there. Once we find out that secret entrance, we'll go in. They won't be able to run away."

But Lucero didn't slouch, she didn't look away, she just kept staring. Where was Ambre? Where were the others? How could she not put all her effort, all her skills and abilities into this mission? These poor souls were suffering, and Lucero couldn't tell the others, but she could hear them, crying, begging, wishing for nothing else but death. Let me die, let me die, let me die. She knew that was Ambre. Please, gods, let me die. I can't do this, I can't, I can't, I can't. Lucero knew that Ambre had tried biting off her tongue, but it had hurt her too much so she had given up. Lucero knew Ambre didn't want to die.

Ambre didn't want to live much right now either, not if this would be how she ended up. And if Ambre was suffering before the ritual even happened, then what about the others? Lucero couldn't stop thinking about the others.

She would save them, she would, even if Silas told her no. Hinojasa would have to knock her out cold if they didn't want Lucero saving every last soul the Crimson Covenant had taken and abused. They called it a Metamorphosis. Lucero knew what it truly was. Black magic, but not the sort she knew, this reveled in blood and flesh and torture and pain, it needed screams and resentment, the lack of humanity to truly take shape.

"They've been waiting a long time," Lucero said finally, wanting the attention off of herself and her inability to eat when all she could do was think, think, think. "It must be important, whatever they're waiting for."

"Another woman?" Rakan offered.

"Wouldn't Asunta do that herself?" Silas spat the words onto a paltry pile of hay. The family had sold their cows long ago. The barn was nothing more than storage.

"Maybe she thinks she is too suspicious." Rakan wouldn't fold so easily, even to their leader. Silas didn't say anything more, Rakan had a good point.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

Rois was as deaf and as blind to the scenario as ever.

When you did not know the full picture of something it absolved you of guilt; you could not feel bad for what you did not know or understand. It was far, far easier to brush off the troubles of others when they were left unspoken or hinted at by way of complex words, for every thread dangled before him the man chose to simply look away in boredom. It was not his problem. He did not need to ask questions. When villages mourned the absence of those spirited away without so much as a trace they kept on moving, hoof after hoof and then some as a crawling carriage that leant no ears to the plight of those suffering… and suffering indeed had turned him cold hearted.

The turning of the full moon had seen a request pressed into his hands of the unusual kind. It wasn’t so much as startling as it was a little perplexing, why would anyone need a score of carved off breasts if not for strange, fetishistic purposes; the only sort that bought lobbed off tits wanted to feverishly jack off over the pair before they withered away into rot. So for twelve of them… it was either the meeting of sick individuals engaging in an orgy or a cult. It didn’t matter which one. The butcher didn’t actually care, they had been lugging around frozen tits for a while and off-handing them to someone who promised a small fortune of wealth for the peculiar objects was a God send, a real opportunity to both lighten load and make money, so of course he was going to oblige the whims of whatever freaks had humbly sent the courier to his most gracious camp.

Said camp wasn’t going with him, naturally. There is absolutely no way the man would drag his teams members-- especially not the whimsical Feliene and shy Alaera-- anywhere near such a shady affair, they did not have the luxury of turning into a monster at a moments notice. The crew are abandoned as they often are a mile down-road with the mules and wagons, the group had conveyed worry before his departure, you’ll be safe on your own, boss? Rois had given a haughty laugh as he took up the reins of the rolling box-cart, keeping a smug expression scrawled across his face. If there’s any trouble, I’ll run. I promise.

The rattling of wheels, the stiff, minute cracking of ice, the huffing and puffing of a strong man trekking in the darkness to the hamlet’s frayed edges, no mind is paid to statues or the lack of any sort of soul about. Get in, get out. The instructions had been clear enough, look for a woman and her damned back-up posted outside of an innocuous building (an inn? A tavern?) about the ramshackle edges of what appeared to be farmland, or what was left of it… the tiniest clusters of homes, barren trees reaching upwards towards the overseeing heavens in their glory, and a mess of a barn that bore holes large enough to tell him that animals no longer lingered there. Rois was tense. Such deals were usually done within the depths of the forests where the canopies could cast dark, obscuring shadows upon them, but here…? In the open…? Moonlight danced upon the reds of his hair as he dragged the goods closer and closer to the awaiting figure of what he assumed would be Asunta in all her cloaked glory.

The pulled wagon comes to a tight stop with the slightest squeak but a few paces away from her, the distance large enough to stop any lunges from the awaiting thugs that prowled in the shadow of the doorway. How serious, whatever they wanted these useless spreads of fatty tissue for had to be of some importance… but the man wouldn’t know. He did not ask. He simply delivered, and--

“Payment.”

Barked out without any real emotion, there wasn’t a chance in Hell that they’d get their hands upon the boxes disturbing contents without at least showing some good favour first, the clinging of a coin purse at the very least to prove that the tiring journey hadn’t been completely useless. White shirt, black slacks, no armor, it did not matter how simple Rois looked, the red hair and the bandages always proved distinctive-- Sir Silas would recognise him immediately. The colours afar glimpsed in Lucero’s gaze, eaten hungrily at the edges by the tenacious blacks that had come to make him him, was a good smattering of nervousness. Alertness. Displeasure. Red eyes roam the spreading of the few buildings, the butcher does not see them, but no part of him is comfortable being so brazen about business when the hamlet was set up like an ambush could happen at any moment-- not from a cavalry of knights… but from agents far darker whose idiocy could result in an attempted mugging or worse. It is so… so… quiet. Words spoken above the rushing of blood in his ears,

“This is a terrible location to meet.”

 

[Lucero]

Asunta stood proudly beneath the night sky filled with clouds that stretched long over the smattering of twinkling stars that wished to make themselves known to all on Khurun. Bright rings of the Mother broke through, casting glowing celestial colors to lengthen Asunta's shadow, twice her height and lacking all the width of her hips and shoulders. The Mirror Moon's light reached the silver necklace around Asunta's pale neck, the sign of Sitha the Renewing reflecting the Mirror Moon back despite the clutch of a lonesome cloud shielding the moon from the sight it would soon behold.

If Rois was nervous, Asunta was the exact opposite. She was fair skinned and had eyes that rivaled the summer sky, her blonde hair was not muddied by any brown or ruined by any gray. Something about her face made it obvious that she was a older woman, but the lack of crow's feet around her eyes and smile lines around her mouth contradicted the matronly gaze. A long face with a long nose, there was a unique beauty to Asunta and so she took care to make her blonde locks tied neatly with ribbon behind her head and to not over pluck her pale brows. She wore the garb of most medics, white cloak, blue utility trousers and oversized tunic. The brown leather belt secured around her waist was an excuse to show off her figure, the sort to make young boys question why their body did such a new thing, for girls to admire, men to salivate and women to despise. A book and coin purse hung there uselessly.

Sashaying up to Rois, smiling knowingly and confidently, Asunta looked the man up and down. Behind were men that did not travel with her, leather armor and sheathed blades, big but with muscle that was leaner than Rois. They always arrived at separate times and never looked at her when she was about the town. It was easy to stand in the middle of this small, stoneless road when parading around as a medic, whispering the teachings of the Eight Labors and telling parents with ill children that she had always felt a connection to The Caretaker. All she had to do was clutch the cheaply made necklace of Sitha and look at the Mirror Moon. Stupid hicks always believed her then, the pathetic fools.

"No one ever taught you any manners, did they?" Her raspy voice was a sultry purr, she the cat and Rois the mouse. Oh, he towered over her alright, the top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders, and yet she stood taller than he ever could. Only a meter separated them, a hand rested on her hip as she narrowed in on the wooden wagon that Rois had pulled all the way here. "But who needs manners when they're handsome?" Despite the coin purse on her hip, with one hand Asunta used a single finger to one of the men still sticking to the shadows to come forward and show Rois the payment.

He was a man from Lapvona with a beard that held his culture, all his stories of adulthood, the trials of a warrior forced to live in the unforgiving tundra. He was not blonde, worse, he was dark-haired, a sign that he had been shunned as a boy by all of those in his Covenant. Decades later, he still carried that chip on his shoulder, his stride stiff and reluctant while he pulled out a small wooden box. The box looked even smaller than it was in his burly hands, dark curls of hair heavy on the back of his hands and near his knuckles.

"Surely you won't run off while I take a peek, big man like you has nothing to fear with little ole me..." The smile on Asunta's pale lips was anything but sweet, not even the fake sweetness most women could produce with ease tainted her smile that was as cruel as a hungry wolf's sharp grin. Rois was the pig, Asunta saw herself as the big bad wolf.

But to Lucero, who could see the prickle of nervous energy, a pitter-patter of raindrops splashing against a inky black pool that swirled with malice, Rois was the man who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Her heartbeat had picked up the moment she saw him, there was no one else with a soul like his, still deep and dark and dangerous and yet unable to hide those timid flashes of color that represented his true feelings. She leaned her face against the rough, splintering wood from planks that were older than her, not caring if her cheeks were pricked if it meant she could see him better.

"Ahaha...." Syr Silas couldn't conceal his enjoyment, peeping at one of the many men he disliked with every fiber of his being. "Would you look at that." His dark eyes went to Lucero. Nemera and Rakan had been curious when a lone figure pulling a wagon walked along the road, but their interest peaked even further. Lucero's neck and shoulders were stiff, time slowing down as questions bombarded her mind.

There was a part of her that had wished Rois would have come back to the inn. She had wanted to talk to him more, to touch him more, to slowly piece together what being half demon really meant. He never did return, even if Lucero had stayed up the rest of the night in case he decided to knock on her door or barge in like he had last time. She didn't even catch a glimpse of his soul as they had mosied around Cornishcrest with Yinka. If Lucero didn't know herself better she might have considered that she was in love.

Days passed and when days turned into weeks, Lucero stopped thinking about Rois because it wasn't love but some strange twist of fate that decided the two of them could only meet, like the sun and moon, dawn and dusk, but never day and night. It was a romantic notion, but without tender memories, all Lucero could remember about Rois was that a part of him had been vicious and another part of him had been gentle, such juxtaposition meant there was nothing to truly latch onto, that there could be no fantasy.

So she had gotten comfortable believing that their last meeting was their last and the purpose of it was to make amends, even if only Lucero had apologized. It layered sweetness upon the bitterness of their first meeting when he had left her bloody. It was only natural to begin to forget about him, only thinking about him when she doubted herself as a good person, a good healer -- and really, only then did she consider Rois as a passerby, a lovely flower passed while on a walk, and no, really, she didn't think about his teeth and the fire beneath his belly all that much to begin with.

"I knew he was a fuckin' dirtbag," Syr Silas hissed.

"You know him?" Syr Rakan whispered with a tilt of his head, his long, dangling earrings briefly clipping against each other like a windchime. Silas didn't have to answer, because the answer was clear in Lucero pressing her face against the barn's wall, slowly beginning to drown out the hushed words of her fellow knights to listen to everything he would say to Asunta. There was no way that he was a part of this, right?

Lucero's stomach fell into a empty pit, falling further and further as her heart raced beneath the slender curve of her ribs, chest starting to heave as if she had just been running miles and miles for her life. There was no way that Rois was a part of this, he was just a man, he had said so! He hadn't taken advantage of her, but he had pretended to Silas to take her in a alley. Was it true then, did Rois really help the Crimson Covenant with the selling of their "goods?" Rakan tasted the air with his tongue, sniffed here and there.

"I smell... blood."

Lucero's stomach sank even further, her nails began to bite into the old wood, and when she felt a splinter stab beneath a nail and make it bleed, it felt good.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“It is not you I fear. It is what I’ll have to do to you all if you try anything funny… I am no fan of wanton violence. But I am not against it, either.”

He wasn’t about to allow himself to be pinned by this fox, baring a handsome grin and the flashing of fangs, outwardly Rois settled into the usual mask of deviousness despite the raging storm within. Asunta figured herself a hunter of men, the cleric-like adornments she touted were nothing more than a ruse for the inexperienced. Real healers, be they by faith or by actual medicine, were not the gaudy kind if they wished to be seen with any legitimacy; his first thought is of Lucero and the purity of her plain white lengths, and then to others long gone to the horrid past, they were all composed of a clean simplicity that never sought to grasp at the attention of hungry men. As bitter as the thoughts make the butcher-- remembering how their clarity and brilliance always seemed to tread down upon his ‘innate darkness’ that he’d somehow been ‘born’ with-- the rabid flickering of anger is stopped before it ever reaches the hues surrounding slitted pupils. Faker. Asuna could not fool him.

Bitch.

This was a sort of roleplay. Those black-clawed hands knew this sort of creature well, where men would seek to reap in anger and violence women would play with words and gentle touches, dominatrixes in leather sauntering about dark rooms alive with the panting of people at their heels; he knew them well indeed. Had taken hands against them. Had performed for them. Saw them for the sharpness of their cruel gazes, snakes in the guise of humans, ever hungry to strike out and watch victims writhe against the poison in their blood… it is because of this there are no words to affirm the ‘handsome’ comment, the red-head has no want to play in this game of allure and heart-strings.

You are definitely not my type, the butcher remarked inwardly as eyes flickered from the womans movement to her tottling guard of sorts who was slow-approaching with a box-- hes listening for the clinking of coin. There was a pretty jingling was coming from her hip but it did not seem to be the strangers intent to bare it, narrowed eyes sweep back to the full figure of the blonde to his side,

“I’m guessing you think you’re a faith healer,” Rude, he was not supposed to be rude to customers, but it cannot be helped-- the tone isn’t conscious. Rois dials it back with the frustration of a cowboy roping a horse, tugging the rope tight, easy, the deal isn’t done yet, “... Apologies. It has been a long day, forgive me for my sharpness.”

It hadn’t been a long day at all, he’d spent most of it snoozing, avoiding the grabby-hands of the two young elves that sought to chase him about, teaching his Orcish wagon-driver how to read and snacking upon a recently picked up mess of fruits from the east. To show some good faith the wagon-box duo are addressed and the greedy want for payment is briefly ignored to flip the lid upon the pinewood crate for Asunta to look down upon; and its contents are not visible to the gang hiding in the shadow of the barn, but it’s exactly what she is after. A stack of spread flesh, one and two, pairs upon pairs of frozen breasts that give off the telltale rolling of frost as they are exposed to the humid air. Their cutting is impeccable, these were not hacked off by the hands of a barbarian but carefully taken to by silver scalpel to produce soft rings of clean meat immediately frozen for freshness in an array of colours and sizes… full to flat, small, perky nipples to teats many would be eager to take teeth too.

But what would a ‘faith healer’ (that is what fanatics always called themselves, he had never known the title to be true) be doing with all these parts…? Maybe some sort of revolutionary cosmetic surgery, ha, there was many a-woman out there that wished to change the sizes of their chests, but that seemed a little extreme. It had to be fetish work. Some pretend clinic in a basement where she did fake surgery to please those sick weirdos who got a rise out of medical equipment... ah, don’t ask questions. It did not matter, after all. Curiosity was crushed with the tipping of his skull,

“And because it’s been a long day, I’d like to get back to my bed.” Lied with perfect smoothness, but the lights of nervousness and the coils of anger within had not faded whatsoever. Hand to hip, Rois has to make sure he stops looking about in thinly veiled caution and instead purposefully adorns the man and the little box with a nonchalant state,

“Fifty silver per single, twelve pairs… that’s twelve gold, ma’am.”

And if twelve silver could buy a small family food for a week and fifty silver was the cost of a starting set of chest-leg iron plate armor, then twelve gold is a lot of money indeed.

 

[Lucero]

He made Asunta laugh easily, like adding two plus two. The laugh sent shivers down Lucero's spine, every empty octave knocking into all of the vertebrae of her spine, small earthquakes that had Lucero shuddering. It was the sort of laugh that brought no joy and felt no joy, it was nothing and nothingness was scary. It made it too easy for others to put their own feelings with that laugh, to fill it up and make it full, and Asunta didn't have to do anything at all.

"You're mistaken," Asunta raised a hand for her to lean her cheek into. "I don't consider myself to be that what... so... ever." Asunta could heal, the book on her hip implied a knowledge so deep and rich and complex that it couldn't be remembered, that it was a requirement to search through the many pages to even utter a word of magic. She didn't heal anyone without first taking coin, Asunta would only heal someone for free if it meant getting something out of it for herself.

Ever since she was a little girl, her hobby has always been breaking things. Specifically, breaking the things that belonged to others, that was her favorite thing to break. A family heirloom, a watch, a comb, a painting, and sculpture, a necklace, a book -- all of these could be broken and then broken further into small, sharper pieces. Asunta sauntered to the side, peering behind Rois to take a look into his wagon, at the box revealing the perfectly sliced and handled breasts, plump and with a clean, sweat musk. It was like Asunta had only ordered a crate of exotic fruit.

Rakan could smell blood. Lucero wiggled her nose, smelling something entirely else.

Every word was a nail in the coffin. Fifty. Bang. Silver. Bang. Per Single. Bang bang. Twelve. Bang. Pairs. Bang. That's twelve gold, ma'am. Bang, bang, bang, bang.

"How beautiful." Asunta cooed, and then with a snap of her gloved fingers, the Northerner stepped forward, beginning to open the box. "Give him fourteen gold. A tip." Limpid blue eyes looked up from the peaks of flush, each pair blushing a different color as she had gazed upon their unblemished, satin-like skin. "Unless..." The eyes of a hunter are back on Rois. "He stays with me tonight for a nice and even thirty."

Despite suffering from dry eyes all day, Lucero could feel the mist of anger wet the whites of her eyes. She could feel the build up of the tear, growing fatter and fatter at the corner of her eye, threatening to spill over like a buxom woman who ordered a corset two sizes too small. The tang of magic was in the air. Syr Silas shot all the Knights a look. Rakan was the first to grab his stuff and head out. Nemera had to pull Lucero away from the wall she was plastered to. Despite that, Lucero looked over at her shoulder, watching the souls outside in that empty street.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

She is trying very, very hard to seduce an asexual man.

She is all whispers and dancing smiles, beautiful flushes and sweet smells; commanding in voice and yet soft in all the right places. It has no effect. All Rois spies is someone desperate, very desperate to loftily proclaim aloud that she’d be willing to slip beneath satin sheets with him for money… funny. It is so humourous the butcher could erupt in joyful cackling at the notion, as if he needed more money that badly, as if he did not have enough wealth to keep himself very well satisfied in a multitude of ways! They’d never know that, however. No, standing beneath the moonlight he is an honest working man who has trekked the wilderness to deliver gore to a fake healer, a whore-master, a madame, something that a boss of a prosperous company would never naturally do… this was a task for lackeys. Paid muscle. Lower-class rabble, usually defenceless in their ability to resist the allure of more change lining their haggard pockets.

It was a good thing the former whore himself was good at acting, even more-so when it came to the field that comprised a good chunk of his working youth-- it is so easy. Downturned eyes, small flickers to the bouncing of her bountiful chest, pretending to get caught when observing the thick curves of full thighs beneath delicate silk and looking away fast enough to make him seem guilty of a lust based offence. A little movement at his throat, the touching of a collar as if to indicate that a subconscious heat was beginning to smoulder beneath the lengths of his golden skin, Rois’s heart beat quicker than usual but not for the thrill of fucking; this was taking too long. Being dragged out. The longer they stood idly out beneath the spread of glimmering stars the more something was likely to go wrong--

“You are too kind, ma’am. I am grateful that everything is to your liking.”

Because who gave a fuck if she thought she won, the red-heads voice was submissive upon Lucero’s ears but the softness there… she had heard softer from him. Stranger still to the knight was the absence of any hungry emotion for the base wants of man, no lechery, no perversion, no matter how much he shuffled and awkwardly looked to the side like a farm-boy getting his first taste of womanly attention it was very clear to inwardly see by way of colour that nothing had changed whatsoever, reluctance, nervousness, flittings of anger,

“I am no liar, I do dislike your attire… I think you are beautiful now, but with it off…? Well...” Low lying red eyes glancing down at Asunta with curling lips displaying a subtler smile now, one feigning deviousness as the lines of the she-devils throat are glimpsed before pupils roam lower to dance about the crook of her neck, obscured by sea-blue fabric. They share heat. Rois hates it but allows the shiver it produces from the natural repulsion to come off as a off-shoot of repressed desire, slowly dragging that gleaming crimson gaze upwards to meet her eyes,

“... And it is because I am no liar that I will not fool you now. I could honestly not take your offer, my lady.”

Rois leans forward to bend over Asunta with the tips of fiery curls creeping against her perfect skin, teeth but moments away from scraping against the curl of her ear, a whisper now, quiet, so quiet,

“... I am upon the tail end of suffering from a bout of venereal diseases. I would not see you catch them... despite how much I wish to know your domineering tongue in bed, and the pain I am currently ailed with.”

Incredible. A step backwards, an easy smile,

“But now I know where you are, eh? So when I’m ready… maybe you’ll be willing to offer what you wish for me again.” So sweet, so innocent seeming, a thrum of excitement flittering about false words. He never wished to see her again. Rois does not want to snatch the gold from the dull bastards box like the greedy little goblin he is and so holds out a hand to the man like a peasant wishing to be graced by coin. The correct amount and the tip.

“I’m sure you’ll remember my face.”

 

[Lucero]

"Lucey," Nemera's tug was stronger, fingers curling beneath her collar bone like that were a ledge to help pull them over the lip of a cliff. For a moment, Lucero resisted, like a dog refusing to stop despite it's owner pulling the collar harsh around their neck. "We gotta go." The tang in the air, for those sensitive to the Shroud, was like a bad clam that had given up and opened it's shell to waft the most putrid wave of dirty pier and cracked barnacles. There was salt and something sour. While Asunta's bodyguards didn't move unless told to, the Knights were not fools. They wouldn't linger in the barn.

So all Lucero could hear was Rois implication of seeing Asunta naked being a pleasure. It disgusted her, not because she was jealous, but because Asunta was a horrible person. Lucero could shoot daggers towards that stagnant pool of yellow and green bile that stained Asunta's figure. Splotches of green like pond scum, perfect for mosquitos to lay their eggs in and continue the cycle of sucking all the blood and life out the living, spreading disease. The blonde's physical appearance could hide it to everyone else, but all Lucero saw was rot and decay, a warning to stay away. Yet before Lucero tore herself away and followed after the rest of the Knights, she saw within Rois that there was no flame of desire to be stoked.

Did he know it, too? It didn't matter, Lucero was no longer looking at them, holding onto Nemera and being as quiet as she could be. Rakan had laid out a path for them, if they stepped in his footfalls they would make no sound. Nemera remembered the way easily and with certain swipes and presses of her fingers could help guide Lucero to follow after her. The smell of a dead sea was growing ever headier in that barn.

"Liar." Asunta didn't look displeased, if anything, her smile is wider and more honest than it was before. She didn't bother in pointing out what she found to be the lie, be it his desire for her, his excuse for not taking her up on her offer, the show he put forth, or something else entirely. Her long nose casts a shadow over her cheek, but it quickly disappeared as she leveled her gaze up at Rois. It didn't matter that she had to tilt her head back, exposing her throat to him and the silver chain still reflecting moonlight despite his larger frame threatening to overshadow her. The man left her empty, stepping back, smiling. "Give him the fourteen gold, Felvidek. Daen get the box. We need that going out tonight."

The box-holding Felvidek pulled out each coin one by one, only placing a single coin into Rois's open palm as slowly as any man could. It might have come off as rude or some display of power, but with the heavy crease in his brow, it was more likely that he was doing his best to count. Should have been easy, one, two, three... The man called Daen came forward, stepping around both Asunta and Rois. He didn't spare Rois a single glance, his shaved head was marked with unknown symbols. It would have been painful to get so many, and only few knew of just how many more tattoos Daen had on his body. It could be assumed many more, there were markings on his neck before being hidden by a high collar, even the back of his hands and knuckles revealed inky scars.

The silence didn't bother the three of them, Asunta still regarded Rois coolly, she would have inspected her nails if she didn't wear gloves. Instead, both hands were planted on her hips as she looked up at the sky. The clouds continued their invasion of the stars.

"You do have a very memorable face," She said it like it was an afterthought. "Very scary with all those bandages. Hiding warts? Scars? I don't really care, but... you might not want to linger. We won't be." The final coin was placed in Rois's hand, a small mountain of fourteen gold. Daen hefted up the box with easy, as if it were empty. He was thinner and taller than Felvidek and had terrible form when lifting up the box, but there was no strain, not even a huff. He went down an alley to a side. Asunta snapped her fingers at Felvidek and he turned towards her. He saw her point at the old barn.

The man lined his hands up on either side of the barn as if sizing it up like an artist might with a paintbrush. He even closed one dark eye, really concentrating on framing the barn just right before... CLAP! His hands came together and the barn fell apart. It was as if he had smashed a birdhouse. There was a plume of smoke, the sound of something sizzling in hot oil in a hotter pan, magic hissing out like steam. Old wood had splintered and cracked easily, big pieces and little pieces piled upon each other, too much of a mess to mend and fix. The entire barn would need to be rebuilt. Asunta smiled approvingly at the mess, Felvidek was getting much better with it.

"The thing about this shithole is that there are so many rats. You're welcome." She pivoted on her heel, turning her back to Rois to dismiss him. A candle was lit in a window, farm animals beginning to stir, startled from their sleep, but the humans always moved much slower than them. Plenty of time for both parties to start running. A carriage revealed itself, Daen holding onto the reins, cargo already packed up. Felvidek helped Asunta onto her seat before climbing onboard himself.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

Don’t roll your eyes. Don’ttttt do it.

The little ‘liar’ spat at him with sudden callousness is not surprising. That lovely, honey-sweet facade melted like snow in spring, typical, another poorly kept mask plastered into a face that had probably known the lips of many lovers… Asunta’s was paper, and his was stone. It did not falter so easily. Rois pointedly ignores it with the air of someone who does not care a lick for her feelings as he counts the slow moving gold, thankful for the little stunt of moving it coin by coin, it made making sure the right amount was forked over was correct--

“Not really hiding much. Sort of like your friend there.”

When fourteen passes his hand retracts with eagerness to deep pockets, finally allowing critical eyes to pass from the madame to the strange fellow with symbols marring the skin of a bald head. There was little wonderment in that gaze. Just the muted acknowledgement that his occult symbols of smeared blood were not as fancy as whatever hexes resided against that tattoo’d skull and a smidgen of curiosity when the box was grasped and lifted as if it was filled with air; there was some good hired muscle for you. Maybe the runes leant him some magicked strength, Rois pondered absentmindedly as he quickly returns to the pull-cart (they only possessed three of these, it would do no good to see it taken) with a back briefly to the party-- the red-head misses the pointing, does not comprehend the shrouds stirring in all its brilliant glory and feels it as a slight shift of the air, magick--

CRASH, shards of wood folding in upon themselves, their cracking and splintering are a shot in the dark that causes the butcher to jump with the unexpectedness of it all, he whirls around to see where the structure once sat and suppresses the widening of squinted eyes, yup, it wouldn’t do well to linger at all. The momentary panic born from the crushing of silence is hastily swallowed down, but the sound of the structure collapsing dies slowly, bounces off of buildings and rocks and dies somewhere in the distance as a faltering echo… a dragged gaze to Felvidek, it lingers, dances to Asunta and the sudden carriage, rats? Had someone… been watching?

“I am thankful indeed.” Breathed in semi-truth, if someone had been spying within that barn and now laid dead beneath the mess of bent wood and smoking hay then oh well, such occupations came with downsides, he is pitiless as his worn hands grab the trolleys handle and the other touches his brow in a mock salute; he’s already scurrying away as words are spoken, eager to not be exploded or trampled beneath a carriage,

“Travel well, and it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

Get the hell outta’ here.

The forest was but a few minutes away, it loomed in all its decayed glory, the shadows of thick trees and rough paths were a safe haven… and he does not run because that would look desperate, but Rois is powerwalking towards the darkness with the nicking of weathered wheels against smoothened cobblestone. His head was filled with gossip-- the others were going to love the tale of the mistress who thought she could own it all only to be so pettily denied by lies.

 

[Lucero]

"Do we follow after the carriage?" Rakan whispered

"Naw, they're onto us." Silas grunted. "Damnit, Lucero, did you stop maskin' us?"

Nemera still held on firmly to Lucero, guiding her more efficiently than Moose would have. Their footsteps were still soften by Rakan picking the fastest and quietest route.

"My concentration slipped." It hadn't been for very long, no more than a second or two and all because the moment she had saw Rois she had been foolish enough to stop putting her focus where it mattered most. Would Syr Silas blame it on Rois or her being tired? "I need more ceiba," Lucero declared quietly. "And coffee beans." Silas didn't say anything, so Lucero risked glancing at him. He was fuming, his silence a necessity so he wouldn't explode and unleash his anger.

"You need sleep," Nemera said firmly. No one said anything, they all knew Nemera was right, but one considered Lucero to be in over her head, someone else thought that Lucero was proving to be a pain in the ass, and all Lucero could think about was pushing Nemera's pity away and proving Rakan and Silas wrong. But no one had voiced any of their thoughts and Lucero was not a mindreader, only a grumpy woman who found comfort in assuming the worst.

"Rakan, where are you leading us?" Nemera spoke again.

"To the forest."

"Why?"

"Because that's the direction their supplier came from."

"We really won't go after the carriage?" Lucero asked, the hint of defeat in devastatingly quiet voice.

"Just because you dream of an early grave doesn't mean the rest of us do." Silas cut in, still the color red mirasol, if only his anger could be as mild as those peppers. Like a poorly rehearsed play, the roll of wheels bouncing upon uneven and cracked cobblestones could be heard behind them like a poor king's trumpet to announce his arrival. Some of that anger simmered down inside of Silas, but it still threatened to burst. "Everyone be quiet, we're still in the shadows, we'll follow him from a distance. He can tell us all about the Crimson Covenant, maybe he even knows how to get inside their hideout in Telephassa."

Lucero looked over her shoulder, in the direction of Rois, quickly approaching them.

"Silas," Nemera let go of Lucero, all the Knights were standing still now. Lucero held onto Nemera's strong arm with one hand, feet pointed towards Rois and every great big step he took. Did he have really long legs? She could only remember how broad and heavy his upper body had been, how big his head was on her lap. "We wait until Telephassa we have hours to get Ambre back. We're pushing it."

"They won't expect us sneakin' in. That thing back there, that was a warning. Who knows what else they can do. We're takin' the stealthy route."

"They're aware they were being watched." Nemera countered.

"Only because Lucero got distracted. Now, shut up, he's comin."

Lucero held her breath as she watched Rois pass them by as quick as a thief in the night. If only she had the sense to not prove Silas right. The blind knight let go of Nemera, moving quickly out of the shorter woman's grasp and ran after Rois like she were some ghost that had never known a body and wanted his. She looked the part, bangs sticking to a forehead that had been profusely sweating under the strain, dark brown eyebags that made her look gaunt, white pupils that looked like a desert sun against a desert dawn because what should have been the whites of her eyes were pink, veins pronounced and a angry red.

Under better circumstances, Lucero might have greeted Rois sweetly and asked him how he felt, how his head was doing, and if he had a toothache from eating too many sweats. Or she might have gone the cheeky route, reminding him that he still owed her that cigarette and then teasing him about just how much he had drooled on her pillow that she the innkeeper had asked her if she had a dog. Instead, as her boots pounded heavy, pushing her towards Rois, she wanted to do nothing more than grab him and... gods, she was so angry, she could feel the first tear threatening to spill.

Fate decided that none of the three possible routes fitted their fickle nature, and being as cruel a mistress as luck, they decided they had something better planned for Lucero.

Lucero hit Rois's wagon hard, the sort of bone-cracking sound that had everyone wince and be glad it wasn't them. She had come at Rois with such speed that she tipped over, falling inside, biting her bottom lip to keep herself from screaming. Lucero tasted copper not long after.

"F... fuck." The smallest, quietest F-bomb the world would ever know.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

He would have never had known he was being followed…

… If not for Her.

Quick-footed, the trolley’s lightness meant Rois could afford to pick up the pace just a little once the treeline was breached, an eager and easy trot. Phew. Nothing else had gone wrong, no clattering of wagon wheels in pursuit nor the cracklings of strange magic, just the darkness that he loved so much breaking the lines of his form into something less easy to see with every passing trunk. The forest was safety. It was home, often lit by soft fires spiralling into the night, the medley of a team mercilessly picking on each other or fooling about or actually working as a cohesive unit hidden away from the rest of the world… they possessed no land. They stayed in no fixed abode. Wanderers who felt familiarity amongst the roots and its moss and its croppings of wild flowers, a caravan of stays he knew would be eagerly awaiting the story of his return with open arms and a chorus of words, who were the sick fucks behind this order? And he could picture the scene in his mind as he jogged, some lady who thought herself both fancy and attractive, dim men with powerful hands, and the joyful clinking of gold to be spent onwards and upwards at villages afar-- the money was the best part, always.

The walking dreamer had successfully tuned out of the outside world… but is then brought savagely and cruelly back into it when something collides with the dragged trolley-- a chattered yelp of surprise with eyes like saucers as its tow is dropped and the damn thing almost tips aside with the impact, spooked he swivels and dances backwards with uncertainty to see what the moonlight has hurriedly delivered onto him--

… It is Lucero.

Mountainside, ferns, pines. Warm bricks, chocolate and grilled pork, the softness of a kindly bed, the ire of a knight spurned… and the gentlest touches of fingertips ever-eager to claim his skin. It is she of no sight and beyond sight, colours and notions, as clumsy as ever, the grace of a gosling, always kissed by blood somewhere. It had been a few full moons. It had been… a few months… the glint of the whites of eyes against bushes, unfamiliar, star-shine pins them there, others, others--

New colours like vines come to rapidly creep about the shadowed form… it is the darkest of greens, as deep as lichen growing old upon rocks, as thorny as the stems of roses.

Betrayal.

Ah... it all suddenly made sense. Of course. Perhaps the first encounter had been an accident, just the mix-matched crossing of two souls at a random point in time, but the next…? A plan, a plot, not fate but a scheme devised by hands that would seek to stalk, he was going there, we will be there, too. All of those fond memories had been nought but a disgusting ruse to tease him and his company out into a barren open so that they could be judged. All her softness and her gentleness had seemed so strange when directed at a monster like him, unnatural and unwarranted, but if it was but a play to gain information or to knock down the walls of his heart then it had worked. When he saw she had fallen about his cart he had not immediately sought to scold her, to bark at the woman in anger, fingers had instead flinched as if they sought to swiftly pick Lucero up from the predicament without thought--

Shame.

He’d fallen for it all so easily, shame is a dismal purple, scammed, used. A knight was a knight and their duty came first, the freaks and their purchase were probably just a part of a sting operation to catch him in the act of something terrible and punishable and now, due to his stupidity, Rois was going to be out-numbered after being out-witted and they would bring their magicks and their swords and their righteousness to arms; if only he’d have been stronger. Kept to what he knew, no-one outside of the little family he’d built could be trusted; but Lucero’s grey-sky gaze had been disarming and he had thought, just for a moment, just for a second, that maybe… he could be vulnerable. Could let go of the anger and coldness and just be… himself. Look where softness had gotten him.

Rage.

Look where softness had gotten him!! In the dark with these people afar, no weapons, no armor, how was he to defend himself against whatever guillotine they had rolled forth to punish him with?! Familiar red flowers upon the thorny vines, they would trap him, these wolves had pinned their quarry against the peace and quiet of home and they would turn fangs outward now with the intent to draw blood, maybe Lucero was supposed to be a distraction-- they knew, they knew he’d have a soft spot for her-- and whilst the butcher reeled in astonishment and awe and shock the group would ready themselves for war-- it would not be. It could not be. He was not the rabbit in a snare, not the pheasant beneath the point of an arrow, Rois steps back five times with a stunned expression so affixed to the harsh lines of his face that even anger could not break the pain that glimmered in crimson eyes, disbelief, she’d, she’d really, all this time,

“D… don’t make me do something stupid. We will all regret it.”

Breathlessness had once been from running… but now it was from emotion. All it took was a single finger to pluck up a length of the bandage criss-crossed about flushed cheeks to cause an immediate and shocking change in atmosphere.

Pressure. If insects were singing they no longer sang. If birds danced about perches they immediately flew. As if the air itself had suddenly gained a ton of mass and gravity was pulling it all downwards every action was noticeably heavier, a breath, a movement, a turning of the head. It thrummed noiselessly. It was invisible but there. The shroud had given way to something dreadful, the cracking of the proverbial glass, a splintering of the fabrics of magick itself that brought about a yawning darkness, a prickly feeling, terrible, awful, massive. And so too came heat, as it often did. A rising temperature to make the warm summer night begin to swelter, the scentless wave of the sun at night… it was a threat. If even this small action could stir the curtains of reality itself, then what would happen if a black nailed hand swept the bandages off in their entirety…?

Rois does not put his arm down. He is poised to do the unthinkable.

If She had to die with them all…

… Then she deserved as much for her treachery.

 

[Lucero]

Stars perforated the black and blue hued night with silver and white, the branches above were patient in the slow shifting of the shadows. Stretching over any path, known or forgotten, creeping along every tree until light fought to seep through. The black air had been around them, cooler yet in the wood than in Overlook Hamlet. Cricket song smoothly cascaded over the soft breeze on the move, whispering through leaves and grass with bluebell eyes. Peace had settled over the wood, rodents searched through foliage, mother birds nestled above their chicks to keep them safe and warm.

Lucero lifted her face towards Rois to look at him, shimmering tears with as much glimmer as the silky white ribbon of stars unraveled above them. The beauty of the starry sky, the quiet of the forest, the gentle tickle of a breeze, not even the night could cool the rage the Knight and the Butcher felt. Under better circumstances it could have been so different, and somehow, Lucero knew the unspoken fact that had sprouted like an unwanted weed. She plucked it from her garden of ill-fitted morals.

He was disappointed? Well, so was she. He was furious? That made two of them. What a shame for that to be the thing they had in common.

Before the blind knight has a chance to scream at him, her willpower is snuffed out like an ember that never had a chance against a hurricane. It too sudden for Lucero to feel shock, like a mouse caught between the claws of a owl it never had a chance to hear. The fly in a spider's web, the ant beneath a boot, egg pushed over the side of a nest, the fish caught in the hook, the worm in the lizard's mouth. It was scary because that was just how it was, like nature, it was in its nature, no one could stop nature.

On that mountain, Rois had been kind to her. The realization was soon forgotten, dissolved by the heat. Everything was always black for her, her sense of touch had heightened but so too her sensitivity to temperature. It felt like the hot summer afternoon in her hometown, the day she had gone through Sjitli's chest, found the papers that were always hidden from her. It felt like the day of her first and greatest regret, the day that still haunted her, the day that changed her destiny for forever. She had been ten and now at twenty-three, Lucero still felt the same fear.

Was she really no better now than she was at ten? Was she still that same, terrified little girl who only thought of running when it began devouring people she saw as her second family.

The shroud bent itself around Rois and it, the force that never once needed a name because it had always been known, there before her bloodline had ever came into existence. A low hum, like the ever-present murmur of bees in a sunflower field, strong enough to vibrate between her ears, forcing her heart to beat the tempo it created. Lucero had no choice but to obey, her brain too stupid to think so her body could only do.

Everything about this was made all the worse because she was stuck on the flimsy cart. Perhaps Lucero could have been braver if she were on solid ground, but right now she felt suspended in the air, awaiting with bated breath for someone to quick the stool out from under her so she could hang by the noose created from her own stupidity, in her own stupid belief that her and Rois had come to an understanding and he would no longer purposefully hurt her. Gods, she hated being off of the ground so, so, so much.

Once so angry and yet now she bowed her head to him. She had wanted to say so much to him just a moment ago, because that was really as long as the terror had lasted so far, nothing more than a single second and yet she was shaking like she were exhausted and had bore witness to this for hours, but all the words had died in her throat, the dry and sore graveyard for all her thoughts to never be.

And for a moment, Lucero could see things she never could before, the shroud finally thick enough to reveal the cart, to reveal the full shape of Rois and the bandages he threatened to rip off his head.

---

"What... is that?" Nemera was horrified, held back by Rakan to keep her from running after the youngest knight in their group. "Lucero is--"

"A stupid fool." Silas said.

"We can't let her deal with that alone, she'll die." Nemera's hid the fear she felt. They were so much further away, they hadn't chased after her as she ran, Silas had told them not too. Both Nemera and Rakan could feel that Silas knew something, that he as being a bastard by keeping it from them. But trying to pull out what it was, who that was, why Lucero had ran, how she could leave them behind was worse than pulling out all of his teeth, fingernails and toenails.

"She won't."

"You can't possibly know that!" Silas turned to look at Nemera, giving him a look that could kill. Rakan didn't look at him too pleased either, and the fact that he was so quiet about the whole thing meant that the two of them would go against him easily he didn't choose his words carefully. A seasoned knight, Silas didn't have trouble thinking when every fiber of his being told him to run and hide. It helped to be honest during times like these, it got all the words out a little bit easier.

"Lucero will do anythin' for someone hurting. She won't die because Ambre and the others are still out there. She'll be careful, not because she wants to live but because she wants them alive."

---

"You're already doing something stupid, Rois." If she didn't think, she could speak through this. "You're going to hurt me again? Why? Because you can't sell me? I'm not suitable for that, right?" Words were coming out faster now, if she stopped then she might not be able to make her tongue move again, already it felt heavy, her words came out so weak despite what she felt. Lucero couldn't stop shivering in fear, but she could lift her head up just enough, finally being able to look him properly in the eyes, or at least the closet she had ever gotten to it.

"Because I'm a knight, so people will come looking for me. Because I can weave, so I can heal myself. So you left my room and took Helene Gannorn from her bed and sold her to those horrible...." Her voice got tinier. "Horrible...." It was a horror only a twisted mind could find pleasure in. Helene's body had been found before Ambre had gone missing. It had been tossed onto the road like trash, like a broken wagon wheel that had no use left. They hadn't even bothered to hide what they had done to her, hadn't even considered to toss the dead woman's remains somewhere secluded and unused.

They were proud in their wastefulness and wanted the entire world to see. All that was left of Helene was a head and a torso, at least that was all that was left of her original body. As if she were some marionnette to be pulled and twisted, someone had poorly and ineffectively cut off her limbs at the joining her body. There was no regard for craftsmanship, bone was splintered and fractured, but that could be hidden with the attachments. Short, rolled up and sewn pieces of cow intestines that were still slippery with oil and other things that took on the stank of vinegar had somehow melted into the knobs of Helene's shoulders. There had been more care placed into creating the perfect flesh pockets than there had been in cutting off the woman's arms.

No thread tied the cow organ to the body, it was as if an inexperienced potter had tried putting a handle on a vase. It was crooked, unnatural, didn't belong, but Lucero could smell that it had been used. The skin had been stretched to meet the arm's replacement, and at one point it had been ripped and never mended so it kept ripping, growing longer and wider. They hadn't done anything to the legs except patch them up with skin from someone else. It had been hard and wrinkled, it didn't belong. And when Helene had been opened up, because there was something hard in her belly that stuck out oddly, as if she were pregnant with something not human. Lucero didn't know how it were possibly, but someone had cut open the lower abdomen, pushed soft pink innards to encroach over the wall of the large intestine to then squish a fetus of a rotting lamb before closing it all back up.

Lucero hadn't been able to eat for days, and right now, thinking about it, she could feel the slimy maggots squirming over her fingers, trying to crawl up beneath the sleeve of her tunic. She could hear the pop of a boil that smelled worse than a old, dying person's breath as their teeth rotted in their gums, could puke all over again because it had been thick and viscous and gotten on her cheek and was stuck there like a spit of mucus that only jiggled instead of dripped. But there was nothing to puke, her stomach was empty, and yet bile still reached up her throat anyways.

There was no comfort, even with Helene properly buried, because that had been a month ago when her body was found, and it had been three months ago since Rois left that inn, so how many others were there?

"Maybe you didn't rape her but how could--" someone who knew how to be gentle, someone who had worried about her getting in trouble, someone who seemed to be not that bad or scary after all"--you ever sell a person to a fate worse than death? Who else did you sell into that cruel, depraved slavery?"

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“Who the fuck is Helene Gannorn.”

He could feel them afar… stirring souls against the darkness, things that had not fled from the oppression of the Shroud-fiend and its slipping from one world to another, everything, anything, revealed. They were ripples upon a blackened lake within a startling distance and she, prattling, emotional she was the adverse splashing of a drowning creature in a pathetic heap within the cart. Lucero meets his savage emotion with a heated rage spliced with overt sadness but the words are foreign, out of sync with memories, after the room Rois had returned back home to where worried (and unworried) staff awaited. They had talked about sweet things of the north and sat about on patterned cushions and heard not of the bed and inn rooms but of a seizure episode in a darkened alley, alone, and a staggered recovery time. The girls had sweetly frisked his hair and checked for the scraping of skin, a bird had scolded him for going alone when the time frame meant such an occurrence was imminent, rolled eyes, blah blah, lets forget about all of that.

He had wanted to forget about all of it in its entirety, but hard was the action of dragging memory from mind when one of the well-remembered subjects kept stranding herself amongst his dark shores, ever-eager for danger, it bit at Lucero’s heels like a stubborn spell of bad luck. And he cannot let the bandages lay quietly against his skin as they always did. Not when those others were closing in to act, not when the butcher was about to be surrounded, but Rois does let a little bit of strange wonderment fringe pitched words-- he is always truthful, has always been truthful with her--

“You are not making any sense!!”

Tup tup tup, footsteps, rounding the cart to shove a foot against its side. Lucero is a featherweight compared to the frozen flesh of the hour past, the man aggressively tips the wagon onto its side with a rogue foot in a manner that sees the blind woman spilling out upon the ground-- and she does not fall harshly. Does not slam her head against the ground, the motion brings no shades of night to her skin in the way of bruises, just a sideways tip… and she spills out like liquid. Purposeful action. They both knew it would have been easy to take nails to wood and flip it entirely over like a bull to runner, see her descent to the gloomy ground as more of a crash than a glide, but somehow even in a moment like this Rois remembers the comfort of the knights lap amidst a terrible bout of confusion and pain. The knight in question is now closer to the point of the shrouds splintering. Both clarity and distress wrap their mismatched arms about her and squeeze tightly.

“What is this nonsense you are spouting?! I do not sell people--” A violent snapping of fangs, hes offended, bristled up like a spitting cat at the idea that she’d honestly, truly think that he’d stoop so low. He knew slavery. Knew it like the back of his hands, like the taste of bile on his tongue, it takes effort to stop the fist not against his cheek from shaking… to her the threat is the haze of the air. The heat. The culmination of horrid emotion stirring against every living thing, as if a fire beneath them was bellowing up smoke to choke upon, but to him it is the others. They are coming. Every second they come closer and closer and Rois wants to run as hard and as fast as he can to anywhere.

This was the rush of the cavalry's horsemen and their lances surging towards the mouth of a cave, the picture book scene of the brave and bold and the terrible, evil dragon eagerly awaiting their violence.

“I am a butcher of already dead people, I do not kill people, I do not enslave people, others bring me bodies and I cut them up-- that’s it!”

Heart racing, fingers shaking, the red-head has to stop a whine from reaching those words, he desperately wants her to believe him. The butcher is not an idiot, the strangeness of Lucero’s statements make the situation very clear. This isn’t a betrayal like first thought, this is some twisted, sick case of mistaken identity, there were still some aspects of the dour emotion present because the belief that she’d used him still remained prevalent at the forefront of his startled mind, but. Now came the time to be logical. This was not personal. This was all a mistake. The horsemen rode the crest of a burning hill, lengthy weapons gleamed, hoof-fall came faster, the moment of dizzying impact was coming-- a mistake turned disaster-- the dragon and its crimson scales and massive claws was rearing up to cast a frightening shadow upon them--

“I don’t know who ‘Helene Gannorn’ is; Lucero, call them off. You have to call whoever is coming off.” … Steps backwards once again away from the now capsized cart, Rois’s eyebrows have unfurrowed themselves, turned upwards upon his brow and his baritone voice came lower, swifter, please believe me, the butcher could be angry at her later for whatever she had said or done or thought,

“If-- if they attack me then I’m going to have to protect myself; and if that happens, you are all going to die, do you understand me?!”

Shroud. Darkness. Heat. The furling of the underground fire, the humid air that made it feel like one was not breathing at all, the fingers at the ringed bandages… and the absence of life. Everything was still, and even the heavens above were shaken from their velvet shawl and seemed to hide beneath the clouds… it is coming. That lowly humming like a droning machine barely audible but felt, faster, they were almost upon the beast now, could see themselves reflected within the savage monsters slitted eyes as it threatened with open jaws to bring rows upon rows of glistening teeth down upon them, looming thing, awful thing, the corners of its vicious mouth turned upwards in a smile.

They were going to collide.

The knights, the dragon, and the pair standing between them.

“Call them off, stop them, now!!”

 

[Lucero]

Of course he would play stupid, Lucero could believe that he didn't know the victim's name, but it was too suspicious that someone had gone missing the night at the inn. Rois had proven to be adept enough to jump out of windows unscathed, from at least what Lucero knew about it. Was this a poorly executed attempt to gaslighting her into thinking she had the facts wrong all because he didn't recognize a name?

How cruel, Lucero thought, gritting her teeth harder against each other if only to keep them from chittering against each other as she shivered violently despite the heat. How could she have been so foolish? Silas was right, she was soft in the heart and in the brain.

When he began walking towards her, Lucero flinched instinctively thinking he would claw at her head again, to peel the skin off for good this time. She was met with the pleasant surprise of him tipping the cart over with a big, heavy boot. Falling onto the earth was welcomed, safety at last, the solid ground could steady her. It helped with the fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. She could breathe again, get ahold of her thoughts, use her hands to feel and to learn and to know.

He was saying something to her, something that doesn't make any sense. Lucero wanted to ask him what he meant. People brought him bodies? They were already dead? Lucero uses a tree to help her stand up, giving Rois a peculiar look. Maybe he meant animals? But no, he had say already dead people. So then... an exorcist, or perhaps someone to fight against the canker tides that could spread from coast to coast like a plague?

She was doing it again, making excuses for a person, giving them the benefit of the doubt. But, he had said he didn't sell people. Lucero realized that the moment Rois had said it, she had believed it, instantly, hadn't questioned it. Even as he continued yelling at her, nearly pleading with her, she could see his emotions on full display. She could see something else as well, something that didn't match what Rois felt.

People didn't know it, but even the best liars always felt a little disgusted when they lied. She didn't see the roasted tomatillo green stretching over his stomach like she normally did when others whispered false words. Lucero instead the limpid blue cracks of truth, the faintest hint of vulnerability. Rois truly believed that if the Knights came to Lucero's rescue and attacked, he was going to kill them all. It wasn't strange to her that he was behaving as if he were reluctant to do so, that he valued life over death. Wasn't that the natural thing to prefer?

"Just because you dream of an early grave doesn't mean the rest of us do."

Lives were on the line, all of them dancing on the edge of a knife. This night did not love anyone, when it left the dawn would bring the buzzards and the moons would still be in the sky to watch it all happen.

"Stop yelling at me!"

Lucero felt as if her and Rois were looking down from a cliff, a stone wall against their backs, impossibly high up, wind and earth seducing them both to fall forward. It was not the time to be meek but bold, at least jumping off meant they could fly before they fell. Her lungs felt like they were getting crushed, every breath not worth it, ribs threatening to collapse inwards. But this sort of pressure and all the anxiety it brought, the blind knight knew she needed to fight through it.

Fingers were brought to her lips, not bothering to wipe the dirt off because time was of the essence. Her breath was too shaky to get a good whistle out of it at first, and Lucero raised up a hand towards her fellow Knights. A deep breath and then she blew, the whistle loud and crystal clear, enhanced with magic that lingered on her tongue with an aftertaste like a burp, reminiscent of a previous meal and almost as good.

Even this far away, with three horses and their riders fast approaching, Lucero could see them and all the trees between them, the weeds and the flowers, the rocks and the seeds. She saw movement, the shape things took from the wind, leaves ruffling, stalks swaying. Every time a hoof hit the ground, Lucero saw it, she could see that Nemera had the lead, Rakan and Silas behind her. Rakan had a sword drawn, Nemera was clutching the reins like a madwoman, and Silas had a hand on his pouch of stunweed.

They must have heard her whistle, but they didn't stop. It left Lucero no choice. She whistled again, pointing a finger at the horse Nemera rode, an invisible thread of shroud, tight and sharp like fishing line, shot from center whorl of Lucero's forefinger to strike the beast in the heart. Adrenaline pounded through Lucero even more, but with a calm breath, the blind knight thought of peaceful times.

Late afternoon naps, hot chocolate with a hint of cinnamon, fresh laundry smell, a warm blanket, taking time with a book, sitting back to watch a storm brew or for shadows to grow long, knowing everything was done and there was nothing left to do. Despite Nemera's hard kicks and shouts and pulling, the horse slowed. Rakan slowed his own steed on his own volition, not risking to leave Nemera behind.

"LUCERO!" Silas shouted, angry as ever, appalled that she has done something he found to be utterly despicable. The concentration did nothing to stop the tears from spilling down Lucero's cheeks, the disappointment from Silas fueled the flood and Lucero didn't care if it meant she might drown herself in her own tears. She pointed her finger next at Silas' horse and hung her head low.

Would they even believe her that she had done it to protect them or would they label her as a traitor?

"FUCK!" She knew his horse had stopped moving.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

Did she not understand the gravity of the situation?

Yelling was proportional to the threat, yelling was the bare minimum he could do as the woman afar staggers to her feet with clouded eyes ever eager to shed wobbling tears, exasperation, why was she thinking? Why was she pondering the truth of snapped out words as if he wished not for the better outcome, if Rois wanted them all to die the man would have already transformed. Would already have taken Lucero by the teeth to cleave her in two and gone onwards to meet the incoming party with vitriol and spite, a loose, rabid animal that sought the crunching of their bones and the spilling of hot blood against a greedy tongue; it would have been so easy. But no, he picks the harder route, the kinder route, the one that does not see death beneath the hazy breadth of the terrible aura that came with the shroud being spurned… maybe Rois would regret that. Uneasiness naturally came hand in hand with the unknowable nature of the future.

“You, you--”

The whistling makes the butcher flinch just a little, eyes turned to where the clattering of branch and the cracking of soil both marked hoof-beats-- it was fully expected that they’d simply charge into him. The man knows little of the shroud and magicks and techniques and Lucero’s pointing means little to he who was ignorant of such, all the way up until the last horse stops he is holding his breath as if daring to breathe would cause some calamity. Did she command animals wills…? Had the whistles spoken to them in some unsaid language, stop, the danger is too great, or was it a snare sprung to trap the beasts there? Either way the red-head can finally exhale slowly with burning crimson eyes settled upon the raging form of syr Silas,

“You, specifically. Shut the fuck up.”

Absolutely no grace yelled afar, these people are nothing but weapons in the dark and they do not need to be appealed to as much as the snivelling healer did. They did not matter. If they were all flattened and smeared into bloody mud by the claws of the demon he would weep not, she mattered, she was the only one that mattered, Rois speaks loud enough against the echoing silence that followed to Lucero and Lucero alone. The horses begin to stir restlessly. No wind comes to sweep between them. The smallest step forward, careful not to cause the woman alarm as words are pointedly loud enough for the others to hear;

“I am guessing you followed me from my deal with that woman.” Rois begins with narrowed eyes of disapproval, the reds circling pupils smouldering like cinders, “A woman whose name I do not know. I received a message asking for body parts two weeks ago and a location-- so I delivered what was asked of me. My crime is not that I am a murderer.”

A sideways glance to the tacked up party upon their steeds, making extra sure they heard crystal clear the next statement by barking it out aggressively,

“MY ‘crime’ is that I am a BODY-BUTCHER.”

And back to the sniffling healer with a low, murmuring growl of annoyance, no, to him this was no crime and he hated saying as much aloud, but the context was needed. If the blue cracks had been vein-like before in their appearance to the blind ones eyes they were now ripped open, truth, the absolute truth in sapphires against the hues of nervousness and tenseness already upon the shadow. The finger beneath the bandages has not moved, its presence is like a loaded pistol, one pull, one snatch and they would believe that hell itself had come to haunt the surface world,

“I am just like your local butcher, just instead of cows and pigs I deal with people. Nameless, storyless, already dead bodies. From grieving families wanting coin to murderers trying to hide evidence, I ask no questions, I pay for corpses, cut them up and then sell them on. To the sick and depraved, to those seeking medical practice, to people who want to engage in dark magicks and to beastfolk who are simply hungry. So when you come to me with accusations and names it pisses me off, because I REALLY have no idea who you are talking about.”

The corner of his lips tilt upwards but it is not a smile of good humour or silliness, it is cold, bargaining, an address to the party again,

“You can feel it, right…? What power I have?”

Darkness and misery. Tenseness and heat. The wobbling of the very fabric of magick itself, the pistol, the rattling of a bullet in a chamber, its aura ripples silently across the skin like the barest touch of hot water shifting the hairs of ones arm. It rolls against the form and curls away, sightless smoke, the horses are forced to stand there against their wills but they have become unnerved by something, their ears are pinned against distressed skulls as they knicker and toss-tails and threaten to spook with the whites of their eyes gleaming beneath moonlight, fear. Their swaying forms quiver as one.

“If I wanted to kill you, wouldn’t I have already done it by now instead of talking to you clowns? Be logical, I am not pretending to be strong, I simply am. Lucero knows I am half shroud-fiend.”

Hot skin, thick fangs, an ever present growl rolling beneath normal words. Truth.

“I really don’t need to talk to any of you at all, yet here I am, explaining myself. Co-operating. And I do not know what you think I have done, but explain it clearly and maybe we can get through this without violence.”

 

[Lucero]

If Lucero could have gagged Rois, she would have. She must have given him the wrong impression about the Knights of Athenaeum. She had always been the outlier, even amongst those in the Order that were healers. Syr Margot, a Pursuant at such a young age, could swing a sword as fiercely and as easily as Silas. They were not a band of knights that feared the bloodshed, they wielded might and magic as easily as swinging arms when walking. Lucero knew some who were particularly bloodthirsty, but all would be willing to fight to the death, especially to uphold their Oath.

There was nothing in that Oath that said they would protect shroud fiends and uphold them to the same reverence of life that they held for the wylds or the peoples. Rois had said it clearly, he was a butcher, he took bodies and cut them up. They might have already been dead, but Lucero thought about the missing peoples and the absence felt in their families, unable to be buried or cremated, parents and siblings still holding out hope that they might be alive. She thought about bodies that held evidence, proof of their wrongdoings or their victimhood in a violent crime. Sure, maybe if he only ever cut up the "bad" people but on what grounds could such a thing be done?

Was there to be a trial, proof? Rois didn't strike Lucero as someone with the same set of morals that she had, didn't even strike her to have the same sort of morals as Sijtli who saw the world much differently than her granddaughter did. He could not be a good judge of someone's character, he didn't seem to have the patience for it. He must have taken in many bodies without a blink.

How easy was it to drop off a corpse and walk away, knowing every joint would be removed the socket, cartilage and sinew, blood and gristle, all of it chopped and sliced and unrecognizable? It now made sense to Lucero, how big Rois was, broad and tall and well-muscled. He had to be a big man if he was cutting up people.

Her stomach flipped, somersaulting as if to make her sick, but her feet carried her to Rois with the slow steps of prey moving through tall grass, on high alert, ears pricked, nose twitching, eyes wide. One hand reached out to him. It was amazing, seeing him like this, no longer smears and smatterings and swirls of color, but to see the width of his build, the bandage he kept taut.

"You shouldn't have said all of that," Lucero sounded sad. A part of her would have lied for him, made up some excuse on his behalf, to keep him from harm's way. "I don't know how to protect you now." Because still, in her mind, she couldn't forget him running away from her before spasming on the ground in a helpless heap.

Silas moved easy through the dark as if it were easier than walking during the day. Nemera and Rakan were close on his heels like two faithful hound dogs, every part of them as equal as the hunter. Lucero clutched Rois's hand tightly in a deathgrip, he'd have to break her wrist before she would let go of him. Blind eyes stared straight as Silas as every slow, calculated step brought him closer to the butcher.

"If you wanted to kill us?" He echoed, the hint of a sneer in his voice. "You must have a lowly opinion of us if you think you can do that." The night hugged Silas tightly, like a mother to their child, only his face was revealed like a white lotus flower still blooming in the center of a dark, deep, dangerous lake. "Maybe you scare her but you don't scare us, half fiend or not. As far as I'm concerned, all I see is another dirtbag, scum."

Lucero wouldn't risk letting Rois and Silas go after each other again. She still didn't understand why they disliked each other so much, their first meeting just as bad as their second, but she needed to interject before either of them escalated this fragile conversation.

"If we explain, maybe he'll help us?" Lucero's knuckles were white, she could feel the strain in the back of her hand, the inside of her risk, all the tension hidden by a brown leather glove.

"Lucey," Nemera was shocked. "You can't be serious. He helped them."

"But he didn't give them a live person!"

"He just said he helps those who use black magic!"

"I have one hand in the Pursuit of Death." Lucero reminded Nemera, softly, carefully,as if oping Rois wouldn't hear her say it if she said it slowly and quietly enough. If she wanted to repent and to pay for her past sins then only Life would give her the opportunity to ease the thorns of regret shackled around her heart.

"But you're a Knight." Silas directed his words at Lucero. "You know control. You value control. This guy," He pointed a finger at Rois, "I bet he doesn't give a damn about the pain he's causing others as long as he's getting paid. Should've taken the psycho bitch up on her offer and filled your pockets further."

"No," Lucero's voice was louder now, firmer. "Everyone has the basic right of refusing someone's advances. Even if they are half-shroud fiend... or a body butcher." The three knights all felt differently about that statement. One agreed, one felt that he could agree because it sounded nice and good but some people really deserved a taste of their own medicine, and one person believed that Rois deserved no rights at all. She ignored what she saw, turned to look at at Rois instead. "You don't know what the Crimson Covenant is doing, right? If we explain it all to you, you'd be on our side, wouldn't you?"