Where Do We Go From Here?

It had been a relief, at first.

Finally confessing to Ricin what they'd done.

But she hadn't expected him to just walk away when it was over.

It's easier to spill a secret if you know the person will bluster for a while and gradually wear themselves out.  The dangerous ones are those who steadily watched you open up and keep their silence.  Waiting.  Watching.  To pounce, when you least expect it.

Where was he going?  Would he be back?

He'd lain in a coma for weeks.  The group had debated the merits of sharing their secret with him.  Zorah hadn't wanted to -- they were already in a precarious situation.  In the end, however, she'd acknowledged it was probably for the best, and as they were afraid of his reaction, they'd told him together.  It wasn't fair to send one person as emissary when they were all to blame.

Zorah had braced herself for a psychic blow or perhaps a burning sensation when he searched their minds for confirmation, but it felt more like a breeze.  He flipped through their memories as if he were reading a book.

And then he was gone.

Zorah sat at the edge of the group, hunched over on an old wooden stool.  How was she supposed to feel?  Guilty?  Sad?  Properly chastised?  She didn't feel any of those things.

What she did feel was anger.  Anger at being abandoned.  She knew that what they'd done (or allowed to be done) was wrong.  They'd made a mistake and it had already cost someone's life.  Several lives, in fact.  And they'd paid dearly for it.  She'd been through hell and back, and the first thing Ricin did was walk out the door?

The others avoided Zorah like she had a storm brewing above her.  She heard them talking amongst themselves and wished she could join in like she had something to say.  But anger snapped her mouth shut and she decided to keep silent.  For now.

 

Phantom Menace

He's here.

One hundred years later.

He finally found me.

He towers over me, gloating.

"Hello, love," he purrs.

I shudder.  What can I do?

He taunts me, teases, inquiring into the life I tried to hide from him.

I let his voice flow over me, wondering how I could possibly survive this.

He's taking me home, he says.  That place I had hoped to avoid the rest of my life.

The place where scars were his gifts to me.

The place where I was branded his for all time.

The place where I lost the ability to see beauty.


I try to wrest the brand from him -- I can't, I can't go back.

He's too strong for me.

I reach into my pocket and hold onto a shuriken, forming a desperate plan.

How I hate him.


Another voice whispers to me.  Do I trust it?

I strike.  He bleeds.  He's real.


How can he be real?

More words.  Talking, talking, talking, edging ever closer with his favorite toy.

My husband leans over me, hungry, eager to begin.  It's now or never.

I close my eyes and steady myself.  This is my last chance.

This is his last mistake.


Seeing him did freeze me, at first.

Knowing he was real took my breath away.

He's bigger, stronger, faster than me.  How could I possibly fight him?

But when he talks of home, something in me rebels.  I can't, I will not go back.


I may look like I've given up.  I may look like I'm weak, powerless, unable to defend myself.

I may look it.

But I haven't, and I'm not.


As soon as he touches me with that red hot metal, that's my signal.  I'll strike twice, just like the slithering snakes he loves so much.  My resolve has hardened into granite.  I WILL NOT GO BACK.

I close my eyes. 

I can feel the heat on the brand.  I tremble.  It will only hurt for a second.  He won't hurt me after that, ever again.  I open my eyes and stare into his coal black eyes.  Prepare for death, my eyes signal.

But as he reaches for me, a curving, evil grin on his face, he dissipates.

Wisps of smoke.  That's all he is.


Instead of relief, anguish floods my body.

I had him!  I had him in my sights!  Why wasn't he real?  Thoughts course through my brain.

He's still alive, somewhere.  Somewhere, he's hunting me.  He can still find me.  He can still hurt me.

My brain explodes with terror.

All the resolve I felt, though still present, is not enough to dam the rising flood of insanity. 


They find me and after navigating the library, we enter the graveyard room.  I rock back and forth, the panic barely contained.  The spectre continues to spitefully assist us in our quest for knowledge.  Ricin is alive?  Now I know we are to be sent back.  To our time.  To the time where he still lives.

What can I do?  We are needed there.  If I can't protect myself, I can still, for a time, protect those who don't have the resolve that I do.  Those who are still bound by their helplessness.

For while I haven't kept the terror at bay, the encounter with a vision of him has broken me of my chains.

He can try to hurt me.  He can try. 

Darkness Falls

Zorah awoke to the quiet whisper of snowfall.

She fluttered her fingers, feeling the dry, powdery chill.

Her head popped up out of the snow and she spied Gromm.

They were the only ones awake.

Zorah reached for a weapon but one by one, the others awoke and she decided to keep her question to herself.

For now.

She followed everyone off the roof and into the street.  Something was different.

A group of large, black beetles rushed them but before Zorah could even pull out a shuriken, Kirsi had blasted the bugs into individual molecules.

That's the second time today, thought Zorah.

"Pssst."

Zorah craned her neck to peer at a crack in the door of a nearby building.

"It isn't safe out there.  Come inside."

They were probably right.  And the voice sounded like it belonged to a small creature.  She saw doubt and distrust flicker on the others' faces.  Silvus stomped away, attempting to cover up his tracks.  He was unsuccessful.  The voice called them again and all of them, even Silvus, went inside.

They were in a hive of halflings.

Hive isn't the right word, thought Zorah.  Graveyard is more like it.

The one who'd spoken to them questioned them about their intentions -- it was dangerous to be outside after the sun went down.

With growing concern, the group plied the halfling with questions and discovered, to their horror, that not a few hours but several YEARS had passed since the Goblin-Orc attempted invasion.  The halfling, who had been surviving for the last few years, had not kept track of the passage of time, so it was possible they had been gone for almost one hundred years.

Zorah's first thought was, At least my husband's dead.

Relief washed over her.  Then doubt brushed away the relief and painted her into a dark corner.

The group began to speak of time-travel and the potential to go back.  The wizards who'd sent them into the future must have had a reason.  Was there something they were sent here to do?  Would they be able to find a way back?

What if I have to face him again?

The thought was unbearable.

Zorah kept silent, hoping that between the monsters outside and the arguments within, she could prevent her nightmares from preying on what was left of her sanity.

She rocked back and forth, back and forth on the floor, eyes shut.  She couldn't keep herself together much longer.

The fighting within the group was a distraction.  Silvus wanted to visit the remains of the Segrac.  Balthor would be long gone, wherever the dwarves had taken him.  Would the ruins of the Cellar still be there?  Death had received a vision from the Raven Queen.  Although she was no longer present in the city, she was still with him.  Or so he believed.  He wanted to visit the temple from the vision and gain some clues as to his deity's whereabouts.  Gromm was busy pointing out the stupidity of each plan, while Kirsi begged for them to wait just another few hours so that they wouldn't endanger the halflings who'd given them shelter.  The city had become a necropolis, a city of the dead.  Traversing the city at night was a death sentence.

Morning arrived some time later -- with ghoulish screams.  The monsters inhabiting the city were going their final rounds before retiring for the day.  Zorah sat, massaging her temples.

She heard a child speak with Kirsi about the legendary figures of the Goblin-Orc Invasion Attempt -- the league she, Silvus, Death, Kirsi, Evellyn and Gromm were part of.  They wouldn't be legendary without Ricin, and now that he had disappeared (or died), they didn't have a great chance of reaching that status again.

They said their farewells and Silvus finally decided to accompany Death to the mysterious temple.  They walked through the ruins of the once-beautiful city of Zarcharis-Taoul.  The wizards had ripped it apart after the invasion attempt.  It looked as if all natural disasters had gathered here and partied hard.  Wide trenches dug through the city, showing its undersides.  Ramshackle buildings were in the slow act of collapsing, and the inhabitants were now starving, frightened survivors.

Pellor and the Raven Queen had vanished, leaving little hope that the city would survive.  Several quarters were already overrun with the undead.

When they reached the temple, Evellyn realized it was the one Ricin had lived in as a child.  She shared information about what she'd uncovered the last time she'd been here.  Were they here to find out more about Ricin?

They tried stepping inside but a paralyzing fear pushed them back.  Zorah took a firm step within and gulped down her fear.  Something was in here.

She made her way carefully through the ruins.  Her heart hammered.  Someone peeked around a door and stared at her.  Zorah gasped and pointed to where it had been.  An investigation into the other room provided no information.  The person had vanished.

Zorah pulled on her Climbing Claws -- they made her feel a little safer.  She gripped a shuriken in one hand and almost threw it when a large crash sounded nearby.  They rushed to the scene but once again found no evidence of a presence.

"Why are you here?" asked a voice.

A spectral figure floated into view.  Zorah clapped her hand over her mouth to keep in a scream.

The figure taunted and teased them, answering some questions and ignoring others.  It batted them back and forth like a cat with a mouse, finally offering them the chance to visit the library deeper within the temple.  As long as they left the spectre alone.

"But let's level the playing field," it said, snapping Death's sceptre.  It had flung Silvus outside and crunched his bow for all of Silvus' smart-assed retorts, and then brought him back inside so it could gloat.  It took Kirsi's staff ("I like this one.  This one goes in my collection," it said, before it made the staff vanish) and when it turned to Zorah, she pulled out her shurikens.

She presented them in one hand, simply saying, "These are my favorite."

It was the truth.  Her weapon of choice allowed her to stay further away from her enemies.  Distance protected her.

"Let's have something a little more...meaningful."

The dam burst.

All the memories of her wretched, wretched husband and his insidious treatment of her flooded Zorah's mind as she howled in anguish.  She fell to the floor, head in her hands, screaming for help.  Nothing could protect her mind.

Zorah felt her lungs protesting.  She couldn't stop.  She kept screaming, screaming, screaming in agony, all the torturous little details growing larger inside her mind until her brain threatened to explode.

And all of a sudden, the pain ceased.  And Zorah's mind fell to pieces.

She got to her feet and swayed unsteadily.

The others glanced at her with concern but before anyone could reach out to her, they were all confronted by their own inner demons.  Silvus faced a maniacal version of himself.  Kirsi saw the group that had murdered her husband.  Zorah's brain focused on these events before registering that someone was standing in front of her.

"Zorah," said a smug voice.  She lifted her eyes to see a wicked grin slide onto the face of her husband.

"It has been too long," he purred.

She turned her head to see how the others were coping (a strange, distant feeling was creeping over her) and saw that she was alone.

Her body crumbled.  She fell in a heap.  All hope was extinguished.

He had finally found her.

 

Suspicion

I don't trust him.

Popping up out of nowhere, offering unsolicited help, tagging along where he isn't needed...

why is he here?

So far, we seem safe.  All this moving has kept me out of the line of sight and for that I'm grateful.  Even ploughing through bodies is somewhat of a relief.  It gets my mind off of something like that happening to me.

I'm getting better at it.  Turning off the part of my mind that screams at the horror of knife-plunging, blood-flowing, killing, killing, killing.  Turning off the part of my mind that scampers into a corner and cowers in fear as someone edges closer and closer.

I'm getting better at protecting, defending, hiding, sneaking, surprising.  I'm getting better at carving, slashing, hacking, slicing.

...but why is he here?

Who is he?

Was he sent by that maggot who called me his wife?

Was he hired by thugs to drag my dead body back home?

Is he someone we can trust?

Time will tell.

But in the meantime...

...I'm getting better.

Never Going Back

He knew.

After all this time, across thousands of miles -- he knew.

And he was coming for her.

Zorah felt as if she'd never sleep again.  The assassin or kidnapper or whatever her loathsome spouse had hired could be anywhere, any time.  And he would be just as ruthless as her husband.

It was difficult to speak or even think about him -- her husband.  The memories had eventually faded and settled, stuffed deep in a dark cellar where she would never go.  But now they were waking up.

She recalled the wedding ceremony -- a sordid affair.  Her filmy dress's sleeves hid the manacles but no one could mistake the sound.

She had tried to escape the night before but was caught and thrown in a tiny, airless closet to await the wedding day.  When threats of bodily harm did not dissuade her from running when the guards came to get her, her sister Celia's life was threatened, and she knew only too well how the groom delighted in carrying out his threats.

Now, Zorah put her hand over her heart, her fingers finding the branding scar her husband had made to claim her as his own, forever.  She would always have that scar.  Always be marked by his evil.  Always know that he was out there, hunting her, wanting her.

She remembered the shining, black claws tracing her skin, stopping to pierce her so he could hear her gasp in pain.  She never screamed, even when he began to do worse.

But there was one day he went too far.

The house staff discovered her unconscious and dragged her to the servant's quarters.  One of them had a son (unknown to the Duke) and contacted him to take Zorah away.

Zorah awoke in a coffin.

Her muffled scream stopped the wagon and a voice from above calmed her.

"You're safe."

The coffin lid lifted and she saw the night sky in patches around the silhouette of her savior.

They had taken months to reach a safe haven, where the young man said goodbye and made his way back home.  Zorah found work as a waitress and sometimes-artist.  She bartered her way to Zarcharis and had been lucky enough to find work at the Segrac Cellar.

And now...this.

After all this time.  He wanted her back again.

But instead of helpless despair, a tiny spark of rebellion lit in Zorah's chest, burning away the wretched memories, replacing them with a resolution.  No matter what it took, no matter what she had to do...

...she was never going back.

The Three Sisters

Zorah entered her tiny dwelling and closed the door, weariness pervading every cell of her body. She flopped onto the bed and stared up at the cracked ceiling, wondering what the morrow would bring. For once, she wasn't frightened that her husband would find her. She was simply too tired.

After taking a few slow breaths to relax, Zorah sat up and stared out the window. One of her fingers found a hole in the thin, dusty comforter and worried it absently. She needed to decompress.

In the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, Zorah had managed to collect a small supply of artist's materials. She leaned over and opened the lid, inhaling the scents of oil pigment and turpentine. A piece of stiff parchment served as her canvas, and soon Zorah was engrossed in producing a portrait of her youngest sister, Autumn.

Zorah, Autumn, and their eldest sister, Celia, had grown up in a country estate, away from all the pomp and circumstance of the city. Their mother had insisted, even though their father, Lord Kaspar, had his offices in town. Their mother knew what dangers lay in the city and wanted to keep her daughters as far away as possible.

Unfortunately, after her death, the three girls had no choice but to move into their father's townhouse and make do with the noise, filth, and questionable practices of the politicians and merchants who ran the city.

Autumn shocked everyone by being the first to leave - she caught a ship bound for the other side of the world, and while Lord Kaspar went white with fury at the mere mention of his rebellious daughter's name, Zorah knew it had been his fault that Autumn had left.

Celia married into a religious family who kept above the moral filth in the city by leaving it for the countryside. Zorah envied Celia her luck, but of course could not hope for the same.

Zorah was the last to leave. She had determined to skip town just like Autumn and make her own fortune as an artist (which was expressly against Lord Kaspar's wishes) when her fate made itself clear. Her father became entangled with a secretive group of officials and when he could not extricate himself cleanly, he offered up his last daughter as payment.

Count Orreq must have been part Boneclaw...Zorah never remembered him without shuddering at his grotesque, claw-like hands and skeletal frame. He showered her with pretty flowers, compliments, and jewelry, but underneath there was a revolting slug with an unquenchable thirst.

Zorah had never told anyone the reason she'd left. She supposed her friends had thought he'd beaten her or treated her harshly. She never revealed that she'd left because he had appetites she refused to satisfy.

She shook herself out of the unpleasant memories and gazed sadly down at the portrait of her darling sister. Where was she now? Was she safe? Did she have companions she could rely on? As for herself, she wasn't sure how safe she was here, and as for reliable companions...well, she'd just have to wait and see.

Zorah Kaspar

Zorah Kaspar is the second eldest of three daughters. Her classic beauty, intelligence, and status as a daughter of Lord Kaspar ensured she would be wooed by the rich and powerful. Against her wishes, she was wedded to a political kingpin in a large, remote city. Months later, she disappeared. Friends smuggled her to another city where she is disguised as a lowly waitress in the Segrac Cellar...






...except when she's polishing her rogue skills - a natural talent for grifting has come in handy when tips just aren't paying the rent. Zorah hopes to save enough money to live comfortably doing what she loves most: Art. That vision of the future is a long ways off, however, and for now, Zorah is content with picking pockets and using whatever she can find to create beauty in her own little safe haven, even if it's just a simple charcoal sketch.