What We Become

[Death Knell]

Skoggard.

It was a dark day in Skoggard. Clouds had rolled in from the sea, rumbling with thunder as soon as they reached the arid hills around the fertile valley. Only a few drops struck the glass, but enough of it -- and enough threat -- that they did not expect many petitioners today.

The slayer was dressed in a rose red tunic, embroidered in yellow and blue, and simple black leggings cut to flatter her figure more than the practical fit she was used to. The only adornment that she cared to wear was on her left index finger, a silver signet ring with the family seal; the only concession was her black boots, her cleanest pair, but still reliable and fitted with silver spurs. They rang quietly as she shifted in place by one of the tall windows that lined what had once been the ballroom.

Now it was the hall of petitioners, and it was empty enough that every noise echoed like a behir's lair. Ettyn rumbled a sigh and flared her nostrils, smelling the coming storm more than she watched it. The blackest clouds in the distance let out a rumble of their own, and she muttered at them, "Just get it over with."

Anya was across the room, half asleep, lying on the bench where they usually sat to hear audiences. Her own long sleeved tunic was black, belted with a garnet leather belt that matched her leggings. Her feet, in tall riding boots, were up on the bench, knees bent. Her gold ring was smaller but marked with the same sigil. She was picking wax out of the engraving with a fingernail.

"It'll do this for days. Weather gets stuck here." She was a morning person, but doing something you don't want to do always makes mornings harder. At least she didn't have to speak up to be heard.

"Valleys," the slayer growled. She was quiet for a long moment, black eyes flickering subtly as she scanned the horizon visible from the manor. "Good test for the bridge. Will know if we built it right..." she reasoned, and narrowed her eyes on distant movement, winding around a bend through a line of trees, out into the open ground before the manor.

"Hmm. Someone's coming."

"Outside? Why? Can you tell who it is? There's still time to go, Des keeps sending me movie ideas. There's something with halflings or elves or dwarves... maybe all of those?" Anya sat up, tugging her sleeves down and smoothing the long braid in her hair.

She looked at the window Ettyn stood before but couldn't see out of it.

"Mm," Ettyn shook her head. "The War of the Rings, maybe... but, we should stay. Told them this was the time to see us. Someone's come here. Should stay and be seen..."

She trailed off, staring harder at the approaching traveler, but the increasing rain lashing the windows made it more difficult. "Cloaked woman... on foot," she noted, which was a strange way for all but the poorest to approach the manor, especially in this weather. "Four guards... Unmarked uniforms, but -- swords, axes, crossbows. Look like mercs. Ready for anything."

She looked over her shoulder at the door, considering it for a moment, then called out, "Vivien! Tell them their escort can wait outside, and tell the sergeant. Make sure they're watched."

"Armed and walking? It sounds like they already did meet something. Let them in," Anya yawned, a sound that ended with a groan while she stretched her arms overhead. "It's going to be a long day, I guess."

Ettyn's instructions were hastily followed. Vivien had the good sense to summon additional guards to take up station outside the hall. The manor's doors weren't pulled open until everyone inside was in place.

The air was so still that the opening of the doors echoed for a moment. On the tail of the sound, the woman who had arrived spoke. Her voice was clear despite its breathiness. "I am petitioning the Lady and require an audience."

The voice carried inside the hall, where Anya sat bolt upright. Her own breath hitched in a gasp. She turned wide eyes on Ettyn to see if she recognized the voice as well.

There was an axe resting at Ettyn's belt that had not been there a few seconds ago. She recognized the voice, and moved from her place by the window to put herself in the gaunt traveler's path. "I'm the Steward here -- Ettyn Gedda." She had not kicked up her spurs -- they rang against the tiles with each step, until she came to a stop in front of her. A short enough distance that, with a quick burst of pseed, she could bury that axe in her throat. "What's your business... and who should I say wants to speak to the Lady? Roisin?"

Her eyes narrowed. She knew that name to be a lie now. That the one who stood before her, the alleged dueling fan and would-be victim of a wraith attack out in the streets of RhyDin, was none other than Anya's half-sister, Mariot.

"It's all right, Ettyn. Let her in." Anya stood up from her seat. She wasn't armed, and her hands were still at her sides. Her voice was quiet but her nerves were obvious in the way her eyes flicked back and forth between the other two.

Mariot didn't even pause when Ettyn stepped forward. Nor did she offer her name. "I know who you are, Ms Gedda. And I know what you can do. Step aside, I will speak with my sister."

Mariot's small band of mercenaries followed her into the hall. They hadn't taken their hoods down or surrendered their weapons. The method appeared to be to ignore anyone else who claimed authority, and it was working.

Ettyn's nostrils flared. She did not look over her shoulder when Anya spoke. She did not even obey her. "We toast your homecoming... only gonna need three glasses," she said, a pointed signal to her friend about the four 'mercenaries.' They stank of undeath. She did not give up her ground.

"Move aside, pet." Mariot was small and easily brushed past Ettyn. At the same time, her four followers split with a pair each moving left and right.

"Mariot, please go home." Anya spoke up again. "I don't want to have this conversation. Nothing has changed. Just go home."

"I am home," Mariot purred, her feverish green eyes sweeping repeatedly over the room, out the windows and back to Anya. "You've done well putting her in charge. She's better at this than you."

"Anya, they're death knights!" Ettyn backed up to keep pace with the splitting warriors, and risked a rapid glance over her shoulder. Mariot was closing the distance, while Anya was still too far away. Her jaw tightened. She made a decision. "Get the fuck out of here." Her left hand rested at her belt. Her right hand reached back over her shoulder to something unseen.

The two guards posted outside the old ballroom door moved into the doorway when their Steward raised her voice -- and hesitated, at the now grim and unnatural movements of Mariot's escort.

"Of course they are." Anya already sounded defeated, there was a hitch in her voice that was followed by a hard swalllow.

"Tell her to leave," Mariot wasn't making a suggestion. "I've seen her in the rings. They will kill her first." She didn't look back because she didn't need to. She knew that her death knights were splitting again, surrounding Ettyn. Two had spears in hand while the other two had swords.

Steel hissed noisily out of its sheath, and she bared her teeth at the rotting, bone-rattling beings surrounding her. The naked blade was wreathed in what appeared to be black smoke, and rang with a low, quiet, mournful wailing. "Don't listen to her, Anya. You leave. I'll be fine," she said. Sword in one hand, axe in the other, she tried to keep her defenses up against all of them, backing towards the wall to limit their angles. Not for the first time, she felt naked without her armor.

Anya didn't answer Ettyn, she knew she'd be told to run. "Mariot, don't do this. Even if it works, it won't matter. There's no line to you. We can work something else out. There's plenty of land."

"I'm not sharing this with you." It was an old whine and one that Mariot couldn't keep to her measured tone. "He was my father first, until your witch mother stole him and made him forget me. He should have given me all of this." She went so far as to stamp a foot. Anya winced when she heard the click of the heel on the floor.

Behind Mariot, the first of the knights poked out at Ettyn with a spear, herding her towards the wall.

"I was going to just let you die here." Mariot had recovered herself.

Clack! The first poke was parried offhand, and the slayer raised her sword threateningly to slow their advance. Despite the threat to her, she tried to position herself to keep an eye on Anya and Mariot. "Don't threaten her, you shriveled-up cunt," she growled at the necromancer. "Look at me. Look at me!"

The next probing attack came from two at once, a spear and a sword. The sword Ettyn parried with ease, but the spear tore along her side, ripping her shirt and slowly spilling viscous black blood; while a retaliatory twitch of her axe sent chunks of an aging rib bone flying and skittering across the floor.

Instead of Mariot, Anya looked at Ettyn. She finally moved, trying to push past Mariot to go help. "Leave her alone. She'll go."

[Death Knell]

Anya's left hand was opening and closing. Her entire body was chilled and she needed to get heat to her fingers. Her progress towards her friend was stopped when a wall of dark mist rose in front of her. She could hear Mariot casting, had a moment of hope until she looked through the mist at Ettyn. The same thing wasn't happening over there. This wasn't going to end with a step out.

Mariot finished her casting. "She can stay." She smiled at Anya, a cold sneer. "She's part of the family now." The mist between them was solidifying, coalescing into a massive demonic form. It had to bow its head to fit under the former ballroom's vaulted ceiling. Behind it, the four knights remained focused on Ettyn, mindlessly pressing on. The two with spears backed up to level their weapons at her chest while the two with swords pressed from both sides.

The guards had finally rallied their courage (and enough people) to begin to press into the ballroom, driven by the exhortations of their sergeant and of the seneschal, Vivien, desperately trying to get her employers the help they needed.

But at the sight of a being of terror and death, a fiend of annihilation fielded by warlords of the Shadow Realm to sow terror, a nightwalker? The guards lost their nerve. Spears leveled, they shouted in alarm and contradicting each other's orders as they backed out of the ballroom again.

Anya and Ettyn were alone.

The death knights' press was relentless, scoring shallow strikes across Ettyn's shoulder and her thigh, a thin cut across her cheek, and a deep, oozing wound under her arm. But she was still standing, and defiant, and there were a number less bones in the death knights for their efforts. "Only family here is me and her, gravelicker," she snarled at Mariot.

She knew it was not enough. The knights would win, or the nightwalker would kill them both. The summoner had to fall.

The next flurry of strikes plunged into empty black mist, and the slayer appeared in the middle of the ballroom, running in spite of the torn flesh screaming in protest. She saw the nightwalker looming over Anya, beginning to turn at the disturbance. She leaned as far as she could, just past it, and sent her small axe whistling through the air with precise aim and strength, slamming it into Mariot's arrogantly turned back -- deep into her shoulder blade.

But one backstab was followed by another. Rather than lunge with his spear, one of the undead simply flung it, and it slammed into the slayer's back. She let out an explosive cough, viscous globs of black blood scattering before her, as she stumbled and thudded into the wall, the spear bending out awkwardly. Her grasp on her sword was loose as she faced the advancing knights. Her vision was hazy. "Anya... run..." she groaned.

The axe cutting into her back made Mariot grunt. She stumbled forward, her own blood only trickling from the wound. She turned to watch Ettyn hit the wall with bright eyes. "What a waste. Well," she clapped her hands together twice, getting the attention of the nightwalker. "Watch the stupid one, don't let her leave."

With the necromancer's focus fully turned to Ettyn, the death knights were reinvigorated. They redoubled their efforts to finish off half of the pair.

On the other side of the nightwalker, Anya balled her hands into fists. She didn't have a way around that massive figure. "Leave her alone! She's done! Mariot! Pay attention!"

"Nah..." Ettyn grunted, coughing more blood as she tried to push herself upright again, one shaky hand braced on the windowsill. "You come at me... Mariot... you gutter-fucking piss gremlin...!"

Two undead struck with their swords, one parried, the other slicing her arm and knocking her weapon from her hand. She pushed off and headbutted him, disintegrating his jawbone on impact. But the second spear slammed into and through her chest, and she let out a long, liquidy wheeze as he pressed into her, driving the spear point deep into the wall behind her. Arms twitched spasmodically -- once she reached for Mariot, fingers tensed and claw-like, shaking with rage. The second time, her black eyes were on Anya, trapped behind the nightwalker; but as before, she was too far away.

Her hand fell, her head slumped, and the unnatural depth of shadow in her eyes grew dull and glassy.

[Death Knell]

The knights stopped moving, their weapons dropped to their sides. The nightwalker stared down at Anya. In the silence, both sisters inhaled. Anya's was shaky and shallow while Mariot's was calm and deep. The next moment, both started talking.

Mariot paced the distance between herself and the slayer, chanting quietly in a guttural language that sounded unnatural in her carefully cultivated accent. First one undead then another crumbled as she pulled their essence out to redirect to Ettyn.

And behind Mariot, Anya started pleading. The nightwalker batted her back with a rough shove when she got close to passing it. "Mariot, leave her alone. It's done. You can have it all. Let me take her home. I don't want it. Ettyn, you'll be ok. You'll be fine. You can come back. Just come back."

Marion finished her casting and turned to her half-sister. Her green eyes were burning when they met Anya's tear filled blue ones. "She will. I can use her. She is quite good here."

The body of a death-cursed slayer was tough, but not indestructible. They could be hacked to bits, bled dry, burned away, dissolved, or with enough patience and effort, drowned or suffocated.

But the spirit of a slayer was another matter. Like a revenant, bound to their curse, they were never far from their body. They lingered in the Shadow Realm, just out of sight, listening to the cries of every creature, every single being they had ever killed, while the blighted essence of that place wrapped around their spirit until it was strong enough to return to the body, to have enough of the darkness to revive the flesh.

Mariot filled Ettyn's body with blighted essence. Her spirit returned quickly. And her pitch black eyes began to flow with shadows, streaming across the room from every corner, drawn inexorably into her. Inch by inch, she lifted her chin to stare at Mariot... and then right past her. She repeated the words:

"Anya. Run."

Anya stopped pleading and sniffed, bringing her arm up to swipe her sleeve across her face. She shook her head at Ettyn, her breath already slowing and her shoulders dropping with relief when she saw her move again. She gave her friend a half smile.

At the same time, Mariot realized her mistake. Instead of Ettyn returning as her newest knight, she had returned as herself. There wasn't time to puzzle over the specifics of what had gone wrong, that could be done when she had a body to study. Instead, "Kill her," she said simply.

The nightwalker began to draw its hand back. To Anya's advantage, it was massive and every movement was broadcast. Her left hand flared, sending the largest barrage of energy darts she could muster at its chest where they slammed through the shadows surrounding it. It barely felt it, just continued to swing its arm forward again. First, it batted her to the side, sending her sliding across the floor. Its arm continued on and up, fingers curling until it was pointing to her where she was crumpled on the ground. It didn't need to speak to finish the job.

Mariot smiled at Ettyn, genuinely happy for the first time. "Would you like to keep your job or are you stupid enough to follow her?"

"Anya!" Ettyn roared as she crumpled. She tried to twist herself free, to rush to her side, but the bloody spear still skewered her, pinning her to the wall. "Get up... you have to..."

For her -- for Anya. A long life, filled with love. It had been her wish. It had to come true.

But Anya de la Rose was dead.

[Death Knell]

Ettyn did not hear Mariot. She did not even hear herself screaming, and the scream that tore from her throat shattered the shaft of the spear, the bones of the death knights scattered on the floor, and the glass in every window in the manor. She dropped to the floor and did not falter, bending only to scoop up Dawn's Strife, the mournfully wailing, shadow-wreathed blade. She pointed it at Mariot, heedless of the hulking nightwalker that stood in her path.

She had not stopped screaming.

The nightwalker moved again to sweep its arm around. It pointed again to Ettyn. And again. When nothing happened it roared back, finally breaking its silence. The shadows that had clung close to its form spread, billowing out to fill the room with its own breed of blight.

The darkness that billowed out from the nightwalker washed over Ettyn, staggering her back, completely engulfing her.

Seconds later, Dawn's Strife was bursting with the light of its terrible wrath, cutting through the darkness and into the hulking death-terror that was the nightwalker. She did not try to defend herself. She screamed and roared, sliced and slashed, her bright blade searing through its body until it evaporated with a howl.

The only shadows that remained in the room were Ettyn's now, drawn ever deeper into her. Mariot was revealed. She pointed the sword at her and advanced again.

Mariot stood her ground, to her credit. When the nightwalker fell, she tried to pull some of the power back into herself and redirect it. She held her hand out towards Anya's body, the only form she could find available to turn in the moment.

Ettyn never let the spell culminate. In another burst of black mist, she closed the distance to Mariot, pirouetted, and slashed the sword clean through her wrist, sending her hand tumbling across the ballroom. She ended the turn by headbutting her in the teeth, kicked her in the stomach, and slashed with her off hand, suddenly filled with the axe -- it clove through Mariot's other hand at an ugly angle, splintering bone, scattering three fingers, and leaving two dangling by bloody threads.

Mariot screamed wordlessly, her confidence gone in the face of the onslaught. She fell silent as the headbutt stunned her and ended up on her knees, swaying and staring sightlessly at her only remaining ruined hand.

The slayer rocked on her heels and paced liked a caged animal, while a dozen guards and a dozen more servants pressed into the doorway, looking on open-mouthed. But there was nothing to say to Mariot de la Rose. None of it fixed the ragged hole in her heart left by Anya's sudden passing, a wound more aching, more painful than the spear that had been driven through it.

She slammed the sword through Mariot's neck, sending her head tumbling in one direction, and her kneeling body slumping over the other way.

The ballroom was silent. Duncan and Vivien, Angnes and Osbern and a dozen others began to creep in, scattered debris crunching underfoot.

Then something other than blood began to seep from the torn flesh of Mariot's neck.

Tormented souls, those who had been slain and turned by her, those whose bodies had been dug up and desecrated and pressed into her service, howled their way out of her body with the first burst of black mist. Three more followed, and then a cyclone, her corrupted and spent life essence spinning out in waves like a hurricane as dozens, then hundreds, then more than a thousand spirits she had twisted and wronged screamed their way free, over the heads of the terrified servants, out through the windows, dissipating into the aether.

Next were all who had been slaughtered by her creations, many more thousands of souls, the screams of a city she had razed to the ground. Osbern cowered against the wall and wailed, begging the forgiveness of the gods; Angnes covered her face with her hands, screaming and weeping; and all were pushed back, lowering and bracing themselves against the onslaught.

Except for the slayer, who stayed rooted to the ground. Wave after wave of the black mist lashed into her chest, seeping into her body -- the ravenous claim of the death curse, which demanded that she slay evil and blight, all to balance out the killing of a unicorn, innocent and pure.

It was only after the last wave that Ettyn was on her knees. Her wounds were mostly healed, but red blood dripped from the long cut on her cheek, splashing onto the floor next to Anya's face. Chestnut colored hair swayed around her face when she bent down to whisper to her, green eyes adoring and desperate.

"Súile glas. Mae gen i súile glas. Fe ddylech chi eu gweld. Agorwch eich shúile a gweld."* Tears joined the red blood accumulating in a little puddle on the floor beside Anya's head.

A throat cleared behind Ettyn, a nasally voice followed, businesslike. "Lady de la Rose? According to the late Duchess's wishes, all holdings and titles have transferred to you. It is customary for the passed to lie in state-" Duncan was interrupted by a hiss from Vivien.

The girl who Ettyn had given a chance grabbed the lawyer's arm to ease him back, away from the slayer. The others in the room, those who hadn't been present at the modification of the will, bowed their heads to hide their surprise and grief.

Though Duncan may not have known it at the time, Vivien had just saved the lawyer's life. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but with him further out of the way, and the seneschal too close to him, the hot spike of wrath succumbed to grief and anger once more. "...No," she croaked, sniffed, and wiped an arm across her face. "No... she won't lie in state," she shook her head and collected her weapons first. "No one touch her. Take Mariot's head... stake it, out front... and leave us be. We're going back to RhyDin."

After her weapons came the inert body of her friend and greatest love. She cradled her close to her chest, and with slow, steady steps, moved out of the ballroom. Past the useless guards, past the servants, both gawking and grieving. Up the grand staircase, to the portal back to Domus.

Their home.

(( * "Green eyes. I have green eyes. You should see them. Open your eyes and see them." ))

[Death Knell]

The Cuckoos Nest.

The day had started out much like any other; Mart was cooking while Morgan sipped on something spiked with rum, just across the island from the Moon Elf. The firestones were glowing and pleasantly warm in their braziers, and something lighthearted was playing on the display out in the living room.

Outside and at the base of the great Mallorn in which the Cuckoos Nest was settled, the lush grass of the glen whipped back and forth with the changing winds under a warm evening sun, and the archway at the entrance showed the empty, even desolate streets of the West End on the other side of the Gate.

The image clashed terribly with the peaceful glen: grubby cobblestones, ill-kept or abandoned tenements, and the silhouette of an approaching form bearing a precious, terrible burden.

Crossing Old Temple and part of Dockside, curious Watch officers had been an issue for the once death-cursed monster hunter carrying her dead friend in her arms. She'd shaken a few off with a well-timed, "Fuck off! I'm fixing my friend!"

The curiosity she experienced in this stretch of Dockside was not always so well-intentioned. By the time she reached the archway, there were four half-elves who appeared to have sharpened their own teeth, watching her from a distance as they began to drift closer to her.

She didn't have time to fight these people. She didn't even know what she was capable of anymore. But she knew that Mart had access to deep and powerful magic, that he'd fixed Morgan at least once before; and she reasoned that if anyone could fix someone who was not supposed to be dead? He could.

She stood before the archway, shifted Anya in her arms, and shouted at the top of her lungs: "MART! MORGWYNN!"

The fact that she seemed to know the residents of this strange abode by name gave the young men following her some pause. They stumbled back as the archway between two derelict warehouses, a wrought iron thing flanked by a pair of elaborate street lamps, shuddered at the Slayer's call. For the briefest of moments, the quartet of warehouse blocks shimmered, and then the archway's interior shimmered for a few moments as the Gate solidified.

On its other side was Mart, Morgan beside him.

"Ettyn...?" Looks of concern quickly changed to shock or surprise as they took in the scene before them. Mart knelt down and put a hand to the grass as soon as he saw Anya's form cradled against Ettyn. Glyphs and partial scripts of various incantations flared to life and etched themselves into the dirt, leaving a ten-foot circle of grass burnt away to nothing at the Gate's entrance.

"Come now, we need to get inside right away."

"Necromancer. Summoned a beast from the Shadow Realm... she... it just pointed at her, and she..." Ettyn's eyes were green, her skin was a healthy tan, her hair was chestnut: she appeared perfectly mortal. And the changes meant that her gaze was less inscrutable: the constant motion in her eyes belied her panic and sadness.

She understood Anya's sorcery only somewhat, and Mart's scarcely at all, but she did not hesitate placing her trust in him or Morgan. She stepped through quickly, finding herself in a cluttered workshop, with shelves lined with books and scrolls, and a large table in the middle. She kept Anya's body in her arms, cradled close to her chest, anxiously shifting her and making sure that she was secure.

Mart's eyes met the Slayer's as his fingers wrapped around her wrist, still curled about Anya's body. The urgency with which he moved belied the gentleness of his touch. "It was good to bring her here." He released her, and turned to Morgan.

"Morgan, I need three large diamonds, and both the red and blue bags from the big trunk." Morgan looked back to Anya and Ettyn for a single, anxious moment, before squaring his jaw and nodding.

"Right." He dashed out of the room as the items on the table began to clear themselves.

"Tell me everything you can remember about the beast, Ettyn. No detail is too small." Mart was already tracing out larger runes on the top of the wood while smaller circles and scripts burned themselves into it, seemingly of their own accord. By the time he looked up to check on the slayer, his eyes had gone the color of amethyst, and a faint light shone from within them.

Ettyn had not released Anya and did not set her on the table now, at least not until she was told to. She had been holding her like this for nearly an hour. "More than..." Her eyes ticked back and forth, overcome with anxiety, but she related the details almost robotically. "More than twenty feet tall. Gaunt. Black... blacker than my eyes... were. Long, flat face... holes for smell, or... other ways of seeing, like some planar creatures have..." She frowned and licked her lips as she tried to work out every detail.

"Blue eyes. Four. It roared at me... I think. I couldn't hear. I was screaming. Long horns, like your friend, the witch. Long finger-claws -- fingers and claws aren't separate. Like sharp fingers. Raised heels, like an archdevil or a werewolf."

The Mage's eyes narrowed for a few moments as he glanced to the side, then brought up a hand. Something just short of what Ettyn had faced shimmered like a picture in a book over the palm of his hand. Its horns were stubby and its body was a little bulkier, but it was unmistakably kin to the creature that had done this to Anya.

"A Nightwalker. Something like this? You killed it?" It was the only explanation he could come up with for what he saw standing before him, after all. "Place her on the table, now. If it was a Nightwalker, there are only a few routes available to us."

"It smelled of the Shadow Realm-- I know that well," Ettyn muttered, and her nostrils flared instinctively. Her sense of smell had dulled with the curse's breaking. "But not undeath... it was... more fiendish," she added, and placed Anya onto the table with care, cradling her head.

She'd barely looked at her in the last hour, the way she'd held her close, but now, seeing her laid out? Her eyes welled up, and she sniffed into the back of her hand. "Wasn't supposed to happen... a long life... full of love... I wished it... How can she be--?" The last word caught in a bubbling sob.

[Death Knell]

Morgan found the fear in Ettyn's eyes -- green! -- to be more frightening than the moment he heard the bellow. More concerning than the limp body in the Slayer's arms. He had stood frozen like a wild thing in floodlight until Mart's voice broke through with instruction. Something he could do. Something he understood. He only hesitated for the moment it took to look at the two, and made a mad dash for the closet that was, essentially, component storage. Thankfully, everything was well labeled. Thankfully, he knew the room top to bottom from dusting, sneakily restocking so the Elf had a neverending supply of this type of pearl and that sort of dried root... The diamonds were immediately acquired, and nearly toppled out of the pouch he made of his shirt as he slammed to his knees by the trunk to open it. Red, and blue. Quick, now!

By the time he returned to the workshop proper, his face was red and there was a shake to his hands when he held out and offered the items, looking then to Ettyn.

"It's... it's gonna be okay, okay? It's gonna be okay." Maybe he'd sound more reassuring if he hadn't been so thoroughly shaken.

The slayer's breath steadied, and with another mighty sniff, she lowered her hand from her face. She knuckled the edge of the table. Green eyes were still nervous, restless, but they flickered to Morgan a few times before returning to Anya's inert form. "...He'll fix her," she said, nodding to herself. "He'll fix her."

A long life, full of love. "She will have it." Tiny fissures, like cracks in stone, began to spread along Mart's brow and exposed arms, creating a pattern like rolling clouds or waves. His hand set upon Ettyn's for a moment, before gently urging her to let Anya's head lie untouched. As Morgan entered and he took the bags and the stones from his outstretched hands, he'd begun to speak quietly, in Elvish. "Rinn-na nin, o fuin i'ráw, a i'mán." The first diamond was set upon Anya's stomach, and both hands pressed it against her as he continued.

"Ed-no i'galad-o i'Ithil, im conn-HA!" The first spell snipped and tugged at the torn threads of time, undoing the damage and dishevelment Anya's body had suffered, but even as these things stitched and wove back together, something seemed amiss. The diamond was gone, but no color returned to her cheeks, no breath filled her lungs. She was still very much deceased.

He'll fix her. Of course he would. This was no low level overworked cleric in a temple. This was Mart Di'Luna. Morgan stepped around to lay a reassuring hand on Ettyn's back, gentle as a breeze. There was nothing else he himself could do. The magic was being worked, and it was all going to be okay. He'll fix her.

He let his eyes stray from Anya's still form to Mart's face as he demanded her soul returned, his chest tightening for that brief moment before he returned to watch the spell reach finality. And it did... But with no result. Morgan held his breath, pressing his lips together as he stared at Anya's chest, waiting for it to rise. To move.

Why wasn't it moving?

Mart and Morgan's touches seemed to settle the slayer, if not truly calm her, and she was silent for a long moment. Silent, and still: these were habits she had picked up before the curse. Green eyes flickered restlessly over Anya's body. Cuts and bruises were healed, the flesh was whole and intact, and would have been healthy were it not lifeless.

Finally, Ettyn drew a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes continued to tick anxiously as she scrubbed at her jaw and the pinkish-white scars on her face... "It took the gem, but it didn't give her back... do I need... more gems -- can get more gems... Underdark, or her Tower, or... but it took the gem..." She shook her head and mumbled, "It should have worked..."

She stared at Mart. "It should have worked. Make it work. Fix her." Her lips were trembling, and her expression was incredulous and desperate as she searched his face for answers.

Mart's mouth opened and closed once, as his brow scrunched up and his face pulled into a frown, before Ettyn's voice softened his features. "We know now. It was something like the Nightwalker. She cannot be brought back, except by the magic of a Wish, or..." He looked back down, and took the two remaining diamonds and set them upon Anya's stomach again. The bags had opened, and various ingredients began swirling and tearing and mixing together in the air.

His eyes were glowing brightly, losing definition as the magic channeled through him. "On-nin nin iest, a rinn-i mán-o nin mellon na hen ráw!"

A great pulse of purplish-white light surged from the diamonds over Anya's body and washed over the three surrounding her, but when it cleared, there was no change. Mart was breathing heavily, and the ingredients swirling around had coalesced into a single orb of liquid, thick and orbiting the Mage.

"I... There is..." The light of his eyes shone upon Morgan, and then Ettyn, a moment's hesitation holding him.

Morgan might have paled, in that first moment of unease of a spell not working. He kept his composure, however... for Mart had figured it out, surely. The Captain's back straightened, and he breathed carefully, nodding to the Moon Elf. He had this. Surely. It was just a matter of the correct spell. His hand left Ettyn's back, and he shifted an inch closer for reassurance. He did not say anything, however. It risked breaking concentration.

That the Wish spell did not work... concerned Morgan greatly. And as much as he felt pain, even heartbreak for Ettyn and the still Anya on the table, the worry in his eyes fell upon Mart. He dipped forward and tilted his face up. "It's okay... It's okay." He said it loud enough to reach Ettyn's ears, as well. "I can get whatever you need." This was said far quieter, an offer only to the caster himself.

Morgan couldn't think of a time he'd seen him so unsure.

Ettyn turned slowly to Morgan when he inched up beside her, and saw that look of heartbreak written plainly on his face. The worry. That she was truly gone?

Her jaw tightened. She sniffed hard, and rested her hand on Morgan's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze as she said to Mart, in a quiet voice: "She went to a faerie circle, and... made a deal with Death. For Beltane. For my curse. For me." She swallowed hard, shuddered, and with visible effort, forced herself to continue. "Death showed up in her cards... too... when she talked to, uh. To the witch -- Mallory."

Her eyes were restless again. She was working up to something. "You have jasmine tea, and uh... a portal, a magic servant...? Just... get it to Crossroads Funeral Parlor. She'll... she'll know what to do with it," she murmured, as her eyes fell to Anya's pale and still face again.

Mart's face twisted from disbelief to sorrow, and then into a sort of indignant anger as he listened to Ettyn speak. "No. If Death is holding on to Anya's soul, then Death is all that can release her."

He twisted his hand in front of the globule of liquid he'd blended together, and it seemed to solidify as its movements slowed to nothing. He plucked it from the air and swallowed it before he put his hands on the tabletop Anya's body rested upon. The runes and glyphs, the lines in ancient codes and languages, all slithered along his limbs and across the parts of his body that could be seen, rearranging themselves into something new. "You will have a few minutes, at most, before the potion takes effect."

He turned to Ettyn after another few moments, as serious as he'd ever been. "Only you may engage in discourse. Do not let Morgan speak." And then he turned to Morgan, and his finger rose to his lips before he simply said, "Do not be afraid." He smiled before the finger slipped down his chin and beneath it, whereupon a crackling bolt of electricity tore through the Moon Elf's body and he fell back against a set of shelves heavily-laden with books. So heavily, in fact, that he slid to the ground without knocking even one from its place.

As soon as Morgan heard Ettyn's plea for tea to be delivered, the young man turned his head to look to the kitchen. There was a wide variety of teas in the cabinets, and he was quiet for a short moment before his hand slid across the air with a gentle waver, and a small tin of it came free from a collection of fancier blends Morgan had found interesting and brought home. It was a strange request, but he'd offered his help. Anything. It wasn't long before the tea was gone, and Morgan turned to look just as Mart reached to touch his lips.

"Afraid...?" came the soft question. Not only in his voice, but in the tightening of his eyes.

The sonorous crack of electricity jarred a scream from the Captain's lips, and he froze, arms reaching toward the Elven man almost helplessly before his hands flew to cover his gaping mouth in disbelief. He looked to Ettyn then, eyes wide and lids welling with tears, before his gaze returned to Mart, searching ever harder now for some sign of life. When he saw none, his breath hitched in a high pitched noise.

It seemed as if Mart had left for the same place as Anya, crumpling much as she had done. The image flashed before her eyes, her friend's fall to the floor. She could hear the scream that had ripped from her throat when she saw it, a scream that she could not be sure had ever stopped; even now, as she stood in silence.

Do not let Morgan speak.

Ettyn blinked away the tears rapidly as she reached out for Morgan, snaring an arm around his shoulders and bringing her hand over his mouth. She raised a shaky finger to her lips for quiet; saw it shaking in front of her, steadied it; and then repeated in a low voice, "Do not be afraid." Green eyes searched his face again, but this time, they had banished their own fear. Determination and a glimmer of hope resided there now.

She lifted her hand, letting it slip to his shoulder, and turned to watch Mart. She did not let her gaze stray to Anya now. Not while she had to be strong.

[Death Knell]

Mart's body was still, as the light of the magic channeling through him began to fade. At least, it seemed at first to be fading. From the centers of the light began a pair of whorls, black as pitch and spinning slowly, drawing the light back within until only bottomless, empty pits of darkness remained where eyes should be. The spell circles and glyphs wrapping around his body took on the light, a dull white glow trapped beneath the skin and running along every mark. And then, a breath.

Not a gasping sort of breath that reached and clawed at life, but a wet, sucking kind of sound that perhaps Morgan, and certainly Ettyn, could recognize. The sound of that last ragged intake a living thing made before it wasn't. His chest rose, and his fingers interlaced as they stretched up above his head. The voice that passed his lips was that of Mart Di'luna, but there were so many others speaking with it. As he clambered to his feet, and brushed off his trousers, his lips turned up in a grin.

"No rest for the wicked."

It was perhaps for the best that Ettyn's hand covered Morgan's mouth, trapping his own hands against his lips in an almost crush... for there was a muffled wail that promised to have been a word, had it been given a chance. He tried to look into Ettyn's black eyes, to be mollified by their inscrutable strength, but they were the wrong shade now. His legs weakened and shook, and finally he turned away from that terrible vision of Not Mart, clenching his eyes shut and trembling.

Do not be afraid. It was easier said than done, wasn't it?

Ettyn recognized the sound of a death rattle all too well. She kept her hand on Morgan's shoulder for a moment longer, then turned to the side, nestling him against the side further from Mart. She was putting herself out in front. Casters in the back.

She hiccoughed wetly at the thought.

She bowed her head slowly to Mart-that-was-not, to Death, and spoke. Her voice was hoarse, more from the crying over the last hour than the years of injuries. "Anya de la Rose. She's not yours... not yet. Let her return."

Death walked slowly around the table, hands together in an almost contemplative way as its face turned first up and towards a window. Without shifting its gaze, a toothy smile began to spread and a hand broadly gestured to Anya's body. "Now... That's not entirely true, is it? I mean, there she is, after all. Dead." Finally, its attention turned directly to the Slayer.

"And who do we really have to thank for that, Ettyn?" The smile turned saccharine. "Give you a hint: Tá a súile glas, agus a croí bog."* It continued to circle, until the table was no longer between them.

"Now, you're right about one thing. She's stuck." Its hands clenched, brought up before its chest. "Trapped." They gripped the collar of Mart's shirt, seemingly desperate. "Undoubtedly in agony." The grip tightened, before both hands dropped. "Thanks to that little Wish you made."

Grief laid heavy and painful over the slayer, but it did nothing to smother the fire of anger rising from Death's words. She bared her teeth and tried not to clutch too tightly to Morgan, balling her other hand into a tight fist. "Bwyta fi,"** she spat, right on poor Mart's floor. "You knew about the wish from the start... dug your bony fingers in and held on anyway. If she's hurting... you're hurting her. And being a selfish little pube-snipe. She's not yours. Price has been paid. Let the fuck go," she growled, shaking loose the tears collecting on her chin.

Death listened, impassive, until the end. Then, though, it smiled. "A tempting offer, but I think not. No, no, it simply won't be possible to let her go." He made an almost mockingly sad face.

"Unless of course, you let her go first. Renounce the wish, free her soul? It's a win-win, wouldn't you agree?"

Ettyn shook her head slowly, green eyes filled with fiery determination now, unmoving from Death's gaze. "...No. I won't let go, just because you're bone-hard for my friend. You want to break the rules... I can tell you firsthand--" She scowled. "It comes back on you."

(( * "She has green eyes, and a soft heart." ))
(( * "Eat me." ))

[Monsters and Minions]

The Crossroads Funeral Parlor.

In spite of the parlor's location, when the wind picked up outside the windows, there was the sound of leafy branches rustling -- as if the building was, for a moment, stood at the edge of the Wilds and all of its deep pathways beyond the Veil, stretching as far as Death itself.

Even in the lobby did the feeling dwell. Down the employee's only marked corridor, down the winding stairs behind a closed door, along the stone-set walls of a hall down below ground; and then finally into a study lit by lamplight. The smell of the wood caught Layla's nose and it mixed well with the scent of jasmine from tea brewing nearby.

Within that room where elder oak gilded the walls and floor while soft reds took shape in the form of rugs and seats did the assistant director of the Crossroads Funeral Parlor now linger.

And when the scent of the Wilds met her nose she said, "It's been quite some time, my friend. Much of the city has changed since."

Death, the one sometimes known as Farwolaeth, appeared when made welcome. It stepped out of the elder oak, one long-fingered hand lingering on its surface, but its attention was on its old friend who had made it welcome. "It has, and it has not, in my eyes. Creatures live... creatures die... and some defy." It approached the center of the room, and though the deer skull it had for a head could make no such expression, it gave the impression of smiling. "You remembered... I remember... Louyang jasmine tea. Nameless Shepherd. How are you?"

"If only... It seems Louyang wishes to still remain secluded. But from this tea," the sound of pouring tea came as a backdrop to Layla's soft words. "I hope that the shades of our first meeting will bring memories of the taste..."

"I am doing well. It has been a privilege to continue to act as but a guide, yet this meeting is not one of pure pleasure -- no doubt that you know that already," she said with a smile.

"There is a lesser deity who seeks to gain worship through greed instead of reverence to duty, and through their hunt for trophies did they claim a soul important to a new friend.. A friend who brought one of my very own incarnations to the hills for her final rest, a friend who brought me this very tea that we will soon drink.. yet, I am a mere guide now. So I ask for a favor, old friend."

"...They renamed her Ettyn Gedda," said Death, its skull turning towards the ceiling, seeing something far away in space and time alike, and contemplating. "I will banish this lesser deity to solitary contemplation in the Shadow Realm, and take over from here. I will be back in time for tea," it promised, and began to cross the room.

It paused. "And cookies. If you have them."

Then it stepped through the elder oak on the opposite wall.

Layla sat there alone in the lantern lit room as she watched the old god of the Wilds leave.

"Have you grown taller since we last met.. or I smaller?" she said to herself with a soft smile on her lips.

(( Written with Layla's player, with thanks! ))

[Death Knell]

The Cuckoos Nest.

"You'd dare speak to me about the rules? You wretched, sniveli-?" Death's voice seemed to hitch, and its face twisted into something between surprise and anger. "What.. What've y-!" Its mouth opened, and its head tilted back as a veritable chorus of screams echoed out, along with a quickly fading black mist.

The darkness from its eyes began to thicken, spread, and pour out across Mart's skin, enveloping the Moon Elf's body and lengthening his limbs. A sharp crack issued from the wall, as chunks of Mallorn wood twisted and broke free, floating over and affixing itself to Death's face as it assumed the shape of a gnarled deer skull.

Too-long fingers rose and settled upon the table beside Anya's head, as the darkness twisted out from its own into the unmistakable form of antlers. The only thing left showing of Mart were the faintly glowing runes and the long, white hair spilling out of the back of the mask Death wore. Even the voice was different. Gentler.

"Ettyn Gedda." The skull turned towards her. "You seek the release of Anya de la Rose's soul from where it lies, between here and there, do you not?"

There was Death, and then there was Death. Ettyn rubbed Morgan's arm soothingly as the changes passed, and the being with Mart's body now wore a new and gruesome face. Her expression was quiet, and solemn. She'd seen guardians before with the same face, some she had honored and avoided, left to their role protecting the heart of the Wilds -- others who'd been blighted, twisted to other ends, and that she'd put down to restore balance.

"Farwolaeth," she greeted it. "I've served you fifteen winters, paying off my sin, 'til today... and I seek what you say."

A moment's silence was all the affirmation it would offer. "Are you uninterested in what she has to say? Even caught between, standing beside Us upon the precipice, she asks you to keep your blessings. She asks only this. Your freedom is her first and greatest victory."

The hand upon the table withdrew then, and dropped to its side. "But We ask you, Ettyn Gedda. Would you seek to prove her wrong?"

"...Her blessing... Beltane... she never wanted me to be in pain..." Ettyn's eyes lowered for a moment, and quickly welled up with tears. Her voice quavered when she spoke again. "...but there's no pain like this," she sobbed. Her arm slipped from around Morgan, as she stepped closer to Death. "My heart... my home..." She clutched at her chest. "I've... gotten used to a lot of hurt... if I get the old pain back... it's okay... it's okay," she repeated, looking Death in the eye, seeking to speak to someone on the other side with her words. "But... I don't want to live with this... hole in me... It's half of me. Half of me is gone, and I... I can't... I can't," she shook her head.

"I don't want to be free. I want Anya... my friend... my... my greatest love... to have a long life... full of love. I didn't want anything... not... not really... I could have died in a hole, and... never woken up, and... I wouldn't have cared... until I met her. And now... that's all I want."

She sniffled and swallowed hard, forcing her hands flat against her thighs, so she wouldn't clutch at Death in her pleading. "I'm always... I'm always interested in what she has to say. I want to hear her. Hear her..." Her eyes welled up again, another sob escaping, bubbling out. "...I really just want to hear her again..." she wailed.

Morgan almost fought to stay in Ettyn's grasp, but instead slipped away and settled on a chair. His gaze settled on the thing that was once mart. Was still Mart, in a way... physically. Mostly. The true heartbreak, however... was listening to Ettyn. He knew he wasn't supposed to talk, and buried his face into his knees, his arms settling over the back of his head.

Death's skull tilted off to the side, as if listening to a whisper. After a time, a sound that was unmistakably amused escaped it, and it faced Ettyn once more. "We shall return to you what was lost, Ettyn Gedda, but at a price. You will continue to serve Us in balancing the scales, alongside your dearest companion. This continued sacrifice shall spare you the agony of your hunger, and the weight of your wounds, but remember:

"You both shall be cursed bring to an end those who defy Us in life for all your days, seemingly endless though they may be."

A hand like the twisting branches of a sapling turned up and extended towards the Slayer, and the skull tilted to the opposite side. "Do we have an accord?"

Ettyn turned to look at Morgan, hearing him moving... but not speaking. Then she looked to her friend on the table, and rather than seek a handshake from Death, placed her hands over Anya's. "...Only if she takes it."

The hand twisted back and the pad of a thumb slowly drew across Anya's brow as it spoke. "She was willing to face oblivion without you." Was that tone, perhaps, a little chiding? As the black that enveloped its host began to unravel and fade into mist, the color returned to Anya's cheeks. She took a hitched, gasping breath, and turned to the side to cough up a bit of blood that hadn't found its proper place during the healing.

[Death Knell]

The skull fell from Death's face as the last of the black faded away, and Mart's eyes snapped open as he fell to his knees, struggling to keep down the potion that had brought him back from the edge.

Morgan lifted his head when he heard Anya stir, and he sat up completely. It had worked! But at what cost? That's when he looked to the Moon Elf and his hands balled into fists. He shook, and shot out of the chair toward him, skidding on his knees to close the space between then and grasping at his shirt. He nearly shook Mart, but instead dipped his head to look ibto his eyes, perhaps far too close for someone barely holding on to their stomach contents.

"Mart... you... you're so..." the desperate tone was a mix of fear and a hint of anger. "Don't you ever..." Sentences, Morgan. Sentences.

As Anya drew life in, Ettyn gave part of hers back. Her breath wheezed out of her in another death rattle, and she wobbled into the table and fell, catching herself with her shaky arms. With each breath that wheezed out of her, black mist seeped into her. Scars darkened, tan skin turned ashen, chestnut hair turned nearly black, until the last of the light faded from her eyes... replaced by an inky blackness.

Anya stayed, curled on her side, waiting to see if that was the last of the coughing. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out with the effort of being alive again. While always pale, she hadn't even regained her usual color - making the blood on her lips stand out in stark contrast. And when she opened her eyes, all of the blue had left them. She didn't match Ettyn's pitch black gaze, but now came close with charcoal grey irises barely decipherable from her pupils without close inspection.

The first place she looked was at Mart. When she saw him moving and breathing, she breathed in again. She finally made a sound beyond retching, in the form of a groan as she rolled to her back on the table again. One hand reached up to rest on Ettyn's shoulder while the slayer worked through her own changes.

"Spare me a little faith." Mart weakly clasped his hand to Morgan's cheek, and smiled dumbly before he leaned forward and fell onto the man. His face was squarely buried in Morgan's shoulder, arms limp at his sides when he managed to say, "How are they doing?"

Morgan readily took the the light burden of the other, wrapping his arms tight around Mart and resting his chin on his silvery hair as he looked over to Anya and Ettyn finally.

Ettyn had hiccoughed and sniffled again at the first gentle touch from Anya. She tensed her arm enough to hold herself up, and placed her other hand on top of Anya's, there on her shoulder. "Rwy'n dy garu di, súile liath,"* she rumbled quietly.

Using the hand on Ettyn to push, Anya hauled herself up until she was sitting on the table. Her other arm came up to wipe away the blood with the sleeve of her tunic. "Rwy'n dy garu di hefyd."** She didn't need to breathe as often anymore, making what was really barely suppressed tears sound like a normal pace.

Slowly, painfully, she turned to swing her legs over the edge of the table. She moved her hands to plant them on either side of her thighs and stared down at the floor.

Morgan choked just a bit, hitching a breath. "They're okay. You did it..." His brows knit together, and fingers curled in to fabric. Softly, he whispered into Mart's hair.

"They have each other again. Everything's okay." Perhaps he hadn't quite noticed the change in Anya's eyes. More likely, it wasn't the time to say anything yet.

"Thank you, Mart." Anya spoke again, from the table.

"Mmmh." Mart slowly turned himself around, smearing the ashen remnants of the spell circles all over Morgan's clothes as he did so, to face the table and Anya. "You are most welcome, my friend."

Ettyn leaned quietly against the edge of the table beside Anya, one hand on her back while she cried. Silent reassurance in the contact. She looked over at Mart and Morgan, and though she said nothing... her inky black eyes may have been slightly less inscrutable than before.

It was a look of deep gratitude.

The groan of a much older Elf escaped Mart as he pushed up to his feet, with more than a little help from Morgan, and let momentum more than his own actions carry him until he could wrap his arms resolutely around the Slayer, and quietly speak.

"Thank you for keeping him safe."

Ettyn rumbled an affirmative sound at Mart, one hand on his arm when he squeezed her. "Anything," she said to him, simply, when he let go.

As quietly as she could, Anya breathed slowly through her mouth. The shuddering inhales evened out. She sniffled once and, unthinking, ran her sleeve across her face. Her eyes and nose were dry but she'd left behind a streak of still wet blood instead. Her fingers dug into the wood of the tabletop when she shivered and leaned forward. To her immense relief and pride, she did not vomit or spit up any more blood.

"Is everyone all right?" She was trying, but her voice was still barely above a whisper.

Ettyn looked aside at Anya, nodding slowly to her question, and cheched on Morgan again. "All right, Morgwynn?" she rasped.

Her voice was much like Anya's. Recovery would take time.

Morgan sat a little longer on the floor when Mart got up, and rubbed at his face. There seemed to be, just on the tip of his tongue, something sassy, something a little smartassy, but instead he nodded both to Anya and Ettyn. "I'm fine. Just... need to process some things..." he trailed off, then moved toward the kitchen. "Who wants alcohol?"

Watching the love of his life turn to death incarnate was a fine reason to drink.

The slayer offered no opinion on this, silently watching for Anya's first.

Anya's stomach rolled again. "No, thank you. Maybe tomorrow." There was a growing tingle creeping up her spine telling her to run, a ringing in her ears and a lump in her throat that was going to turn into a scream. She was barely holding herself in one piece.

"Is it too early to go back to bed?" One thing you don't have a great sense of when you die is time.

"Fuck anyone who says it is," Ettyn said, sliding from her lean. Good to its word, Death had not burdened her with pain this time; but that did not keep her from the sluggishness and hangover-like effects of gaining -- or regaining -- a death curse.

It took her another moment of consideration before Anya slid the rest of the way off the table to stand next to Ettyn. When she did, she turned to Mart and Morgan. "I'm sorry. I... I need to go right now. But... I'd like to visit soon."

Mart had made his way back to Morgan, and smiled in a tired way for the pair as he leaned on the other man. "Rest now. We have plenty of time for everything else later."

Anya's shoulders came up again towards her ears and she swallowed hard. With one more nod to Mart and Morgan, she headed for the door as quickly as she could. If she was sick again or started crying, it wouldn't be here.

Ettyn swept out after her, with three sharp knells of silver spurs marking her departure.

(( * "I love you, grey eyes." ))
(( ** "I love you, too." ))

(( The posts at Skoggard were written with Anya, and the Cuckoos Nest posts were written with Mart and Morgan too, with thanks! ))

[Anya de la Rose]

Anya's story:

The hand of the nightwalker swiping her aside had hurt, the landing hurt even more. Anya hit the marble floor of the petitioner's hall with her knees first, then her shoulder, then her skull. She expected something to follow; a blast of magic or another hit should be coming any moment now. Instead, she felt nothing, not even the pain from the fall. When she pushed herself off the floor, she could see her double still crumpled below her and she knew.

Screaming tore her attention away from her own lifeless body. Ettyn was alive, she knew that, and she knew her friend had seen what happened.
"Run, Ettyn, run."
It had never worked when she was alive. Why she thought she would get through now was a mystery. Instead of being heard, Anya stood rooted next to her body only able to watch. From her vantage, the nightwalker was the most solid thing in the room. None of the shadows that had obscured its form before remained. It was a solid, hulking form of pure darkness. Her half-sister, Mariot was only a little less defined. And flickering between life and death, was Ettyn.
"Ettyn, run! Leave!"

The rise and fall of her chest was from habit more than need. Anya didn't need to breathe anymore. But she still froze even that reflexive motion as she watched Ettyn cleave first through the nightwalker and then through Mariot. With each victory the slayer lost clarity in her vision, pulling farther from the plane where she was trapped. But she could still hear and she could see the healthy glow return to Ettyn's skin, the chestnut in her hair and the hazel eyes that were filling with tears. She dropped to her knees next to her friend. She wasn't looking at her own body, instead she was bent over, looking up at Ettyn, trying to catch her eye even if it wouldn't work. She was too far from death to know Anya was there.
"Súile glas. Mae gen i súile glas. Fe ddylech chi eu gweld. Agorwch eich shúile a gweld."
"I see them. I know. I always told you they were pretty. I can't open my eyes, but I see them."

When Ettyn stood again, she reached out, trying to catch an arm and let her know to stay. To leave her. She couldn't stay behind, she wasn't free and no one could feel her. So she followed. She followed the whole way through the portal, through the streets and into the the Cuckoo's Nest. She watched her body be laid on the table.
"Please don't do this. It's all right."
But still, no one could hear her. Instead, she watched while Mart brought himself to join her and Death, the one who she'd made the first deal with, began his negotiations. He could at least see her, even if he wouldn't listen to her.
"Tell her to let me go."
He was, and she wasn't listening.

She found herself pacing the floor of the Cuckoo's Nest, restless, as trapped as Death said she was. This wasn't going to go anywhere. They needed a different Death. Someone less... disagreeable. There was a shift. The scent of jasmine tea was the first thing she'd sensed in this space between life and death in hours. And then Death changed. It turned into something far worse, and far more reasonable. Mart was gone, and what stood in his place was a true god, one Ettyn knew. She had been in the Arena when Layla had made the deal and she knew a favor had been called.
"Good girl, that's how you do it. Now, let go."

Death turned its head to look at Anya. This one would let her be heard. She didn't waste time with pleasantries. She needed to be free.
"Please, tell her there's no point. Tell her I can't come back. Please, tell her I'll be changed, that she won't know me. Tell her anything you need to."
"Why?"
"Because she's not in pain. She's mortal, her curse is gone. She did it. She finally beat it. If I'm the price, then I'm ready. Please, let it matter. Her voice cracked. "Please, I just want it to matter."

Death's skull turned away. It did not deliver the message she'd wanted.
"Even caught between, standing beside Us upon the precipice, she asks you to keep your blessings."
"That's not- Don't tell her that. Don't let her know I'm here. Tell her I'm gone! Tell her there's no chance. Please. She'll be happy. She'll forget me and she'll be happy. She has everything now."
Anya knew Ettyn was talking, but she needed Death to help, she needed someone to know. Her voice was panicked as she choked on sobs.
"Please, you've seen people die for no reason. Make mine matter."
"...I really just want to hear her again..."

Death turned to Anya again. It didn't speak to her. She knew what it was asking.
"No, not back to what it was before. I... I can't go back to what it was before. She's right, I don't want her to hurt. Her curse has ended?"
The skull nodded, once.
"A new curse. For both of us. We'll both serve you. No pain, but we'll... we'll kill. For as long as you need us to. Don't make her hurt again. She doesn't deserve that. She was just hungry. None of this was ever her fault."
Death turned away, and made the deal. The next thing Anya felt was blood in her mouth. She rolled to her side and spit it onto poor Mart's floor.

[Death Knell]

May 25th, 2021.

Shortly after dawn, Ettyn returned to Skoggard.

The floors had been cleaned, the windows repaired, and the manor had resumed its normal functions, after a few days of shock over the deaths of both Mariot and Anya de la Rose. The seneschal, Vivien, had discharged what duties she was allowed; and as rumors trickled in, along with the growing realization that neither Ettyn nor Anya de la Rose might ever return, she even began to take on the duties of a steward, whenever something could be resolved without a formal signature.

The first rumor had been of Anya's resurrection, at first disbelieved, but dueling news from RhyDin had most of the valley convinced of its truth soon enough. The second had been of their marriage, news that was greeted with gossip and confusion instead of the usual celebration. Had the strange huntress our lady brought home to the valley been her lover all along?

The early morning hour meant that Ettyn encountered less people, which had been by design. Angnes and Osbern were sleeping in, either slipping into a more relaxed rhythm for less to do with Vivien's de facto limited reign, or too old and tired to do otherwise. There was a guard stationed between the doors to Anya and Ettyn's rooms, but he did not say anything when she stepped out into the hall. He gave her a guilty look, and she met his gaze coldly, turning her head to follow him with her inky black eyes as she moved the short distance to Anya's rooms.

She packed quietly and efficiently, putting tunics and leggings and dresses and a few jackets into a large rucksack that she hoisted over her shoulder. There were few things she'd grabbed from her own rooms, though she paused over anything green, before putting it away. Anya looked happier when she saw her friend in green.

"...Ettyn."

There was only one at the manor who would normally call her by that name, and she did not expect to see her here again. That left Vivien -- sensitive enough to know that addressing the slayer as Lady de la Rose could be dangerous. She did not appear scared, though: the tall, tan-skinned woman with short black hair stood before her with her arms gently folded. She was dressed in the way Ettyn often did when she was taking petitions or other official meetings, in an embroidered red tunic and soft white leggings, with a belt in black and gold.

"Vivien," she grunted, and headed back into her rooms where the portal to the Domus kitchen was (for now), with a jerk of her head for the young seneschal to follow. The guilty-looking guard had already abandoned his post. "Look pretty," she said, grunting as she dropped the rucksack in front of the portal. No need to conceal what had likely been long suspected now. She shoved the sack of nice tailored clothing with her shoulder, sending it spilling impossibly out of a shallow kitchen pantry in the cottage. "Take a meeting today?"

"There are a few I've had to put off," Vivien said carefully. She was studying the window, as if looking for someone coming down the drive, though the fading warmth in her cheeks was not missed by the slayer's flickering gaze.

Ettyn scrubbed her face to disguise her fleeting grin. "...Yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't... don't want to be here."

It made Vivien's next observation easier. She turned to look at the slayer. "You're leaving."

"Mm." It was an affirmative grunt. She wouldn't deny it. "Need to set a few things right first." She hadn't dressed as nicely as the seneschal, in a more relaxed homespun shirt, partly unlaced to breathe better in the warm summer weather, hide leggings that likely came from an animal she had killed, soft boots, and a simple belt with an axe and a knife. Tucked in behind the axe was a sealed letter.

"...You want me to be steward," Vivien said as she accepted the letter.

"Thought about it. Open that with the prick, uh--"

"Dunceman?" the seneschal filled in humorously. Ettyn cracked a grin at her, scars stretching, and rubbed at her brow. The hangover from the wild night before still lingered.

"Name he might deserve. De la Rose line names sole heir for the title Duchess of Skoggard, the manor, the lodge, everything in the valley under the estate -- Vivien Delgard. If you want it," she added, the words a little slower, her inky black eyes steady but giving the impression that she was holding her gaze.

"--They all hate me," Vivien replied. Brown eyes were thoughtful, lowering under Ettyn's scrutiny to the sealed letter instead.

"Your ex-husband, and people who don't know what matters? Mm. They do," Ettyn said to her. "Wouldn't blame you for not taking this... or giving it to someone else. But those of us who see you... we see who you really are. Someone clever, sharp -- can do anything she puts her mind to. This Fell-damned valley's lucky to have you."

Vivien lifted her gaze tentatively to meet hers once more, the color creeping back in. "...I will take it, for now. If I give it up, it will not be to a lord or lady. The valley should learn to help itself. We could have a council."

This time, Ettyn couldn't help but show some of her grin, watching as Vivien reacted to her words. In spite of the amusement, the crinkling of skin around her inky black eyes was kind. "Know you'll figure it out. Just... sack the fucking guards," she said, in a conspiratorial undertone. Vivien snort-laughed and brought a hand up to cover her face, embarrassed by her own outburst. The slayer chuckled. "Got a favor to ask."

Vivien took a breath and schooled her expression. Her arms came up again, loosely folded. Her face was mostly serious. "Name it."

"Wine. Half the cellar. Send it up to Domus, the house in Old Temple, RhyDin."

"This will be my first act as Duchess of Skoggard. Great things lie ahead of me," the (for now) seneschal said, eyes narrowing slyly.

Ettyn nodded slowly, giving another hoarse chuckle, and was quiet. She looked over her shoulder, where she knew the gap to Domus was, and opened her mouth to begin the process of saying farewell -- something she had just enough social sense to know should consist of more than an abrupt, "Bye."

Vivien had learned enough about her in the last few months to guess it would be an awkward segue, and interrupted her instead: "Can I ask you a question?"

The slayer sniffed, chuffed gently, and scratched her chin as she regarded her. "Earned at least that."

Vivien's look lingered for three silent seconds before she managed, "Are you married?"

"Mm." Ettyn nodded. "Staying married. Works for us. Love each other. But it's not..." She gestured. "...not sex... not romance... Keep our own accounts on that." Now her eyes narrowed, and she looked down at the seneschal, cracking a slow grin. "Why," she asked directly. The word was a low growl.

Vivien lifted her chin defiantly, daring the slayer to approach, which she did. She swallowed. "I am curious. About a few things."

Ettyn rumbled a laugh as she closed the distance. "Alright... see if we can sate that..."

* * * * *

Two hours later, Ettyn kissed Vivien thrice on her belly and chuckled at the sleepy hum she gave in reply. She slid back into her underthings and slunk out of bed, collecting the rest of her clothes from the floor. She was still hopping into her pants when she noticed a bundle of assorted papers that had been left on the nightstand. A few were slightly aged, yellowing at the corners; most were blood-stained; all were water-damaged, except for the very top note. The lawyer Duncan's handwriting was on this, and she snorted at the words:

for the Lady de la Rose

Turning it over quieted her amusement.

The attached documents were found on the person of Mariot Mowbray, on her undead consorts, and in caches of money, weapons, and necromantic supplies she had kept in the graveyard and the woods near the manor. I have taken the liberty of locking the material evidence in the manor armory. Yours etc, Duncan.

Ettyn's eyes flickered over the documents, but they were nearly inscrutable to her. Though she had an idea who could make better sense of them -- and the supplies in the cellar.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, with an old wooden wine box packed with straw and jars and vials cradled in her arms, Ettyn left the manor at Skoggard via her sitting room portal for the very last time. By noon, she was no longer a duchess.