[Past] Murderous Impulses

Nyllian didn’t understand what they expected of her. Of course she would try to escape if a good opportunity presented itself. It was just unfortunate that she hadn’t managed to attune the right balance of magic. Later, when realised, there was no scream, nor cry of upset, only bitter disappointment and a heavily expelled sigh.

She had still killed someone though they were unaware of her involvement. No, her victim had slept and dreamed of horrors plucked from their own fear and mixed with the malevolence of Nyllian’s own making. It was Childs play really, watching the effect take hold slowly, nightmares growing so fervent that her cellmate became increasingly animated, violent. It was puppetry. Nyllian remained where she always was, sat at the end of the threadbare cot in meditation. The collar around her neck sank deep heavily on her shoulders, its runes marked along the metal dampening, but not completely cutting her off entirely from the weave of magic. Just enough to toy with her jailors.

Nyllian sat unfazed, her indifferent stare fixed on one of the walls which was only interrupted by her occasional blinking. Even collared she could still hear the song of the dead, the undulating moan of the parted not yet crossed over, those who lingered in the void between. She wished to sing with them, give their bones the ability to dance, and all she would ask is their aid in dismantling this place brick by bloody brick, along with those inside. But she had to be content with one.

Her companion would start screaming, shrieking in such curdling fear, Nyllian couldn’t help the little scoff. What did cries really do? And she strengthened the hex conjured, noting the hunger growing in her gut, pushing her will deeper. Too deep. In hysterics, her companion would rise from their bed in a frantic panic, their body hurtling towards the door disregarding the metal bars blocking her path. Nyllian snickered wickedly at first, until the woman began bashing her head repeatedly, then she fully let loose a cackle.

There was a game being played, one that she was an unwilling participant in, yet had no power to excuse herself from. The guards would soon march through, bursting through the door but finding a half-dead woman blocking the path and a Nyllian giggling on her bed. They wanted to know how dangerous she really could be, yes? It would be a sweet day if the opportunity came, if she wasn’t aware of the consequences. Death wasn’t terrifying, just inconvenient. There was much of life that had been denied to her, experiencing the cruelty of others had only ingrained a deeper hatred for those in authority. Biding her time was beginning to wane though, this latest outburst one of many, yet the first to end so fatally since her collaring. 

The door would soon open again, once they’d drug the body out and left her to giggle back into meditative silence.

With the utmost calm, Nyllian appraised her visitor, curious of the fact it was someone completely unknown to her. [color=#b20080]“...You’re not who I was expecting.”  [/color]

In the warden's office beside the citadel in whose dark belly were jailed Antiva's most heretical mages, or at least their mages unprotected by the Crows, Helena growled at the clerk. Her finger was nailed to a parchment in which was signed the names of very wealthy merchants and men of influence, beside which services were stated.

What do you mean by 'clients'? she said darkly, practically spitting the words. One day in Antiva, and she had already lost her mind. Apostates were not draft horses to be loaned out to the highest bidder. This was like giving an alcoholic more liquor! Only abstinence from magic would redeem them, and if that meant locking them away from the light of day under Chantry scrutiny to save their unrestrained souls, so be it. But to condone their terrible magic for money? The fury tearing through Helena's face caused the clerk to stutter and look at his feet, when suddenly, a bell hurriedly tinkled above the doorway. A couple of Templars who had been watching from the door awakened and rushed out towards the Citadel. Then, more guards rushed past the open doorway.

Helena paused, staring at the absurd display of force rushing towards the prison gate.

"Something's killing them down there," sighed the clerk. Helena shot a harsh glare at the clerk, before straightening her uniform and storming to the prison gate herself.

Soon, she found her hand wrapped around the wrist of another woman. Helena thudded her lifeforce into the body, her magic a stern hammer of willpower, but rigor mortis had set in. Helena studied the woman's wide eyes, and the blood that leaked from her ears, her nose, her mouth. These clues were less obvious than the cracked and crushed wound on her forehead. She was told the woman had bashed her brains out on the wall by a guard beside her. Several templars had vomited at the sight of the body. Helena took out her pristine white handkerchief, having seen enough herself, and laid it over the face. Her eyes lingered as the blood soaked through before she stood up with rigid purpose.

Several apostates were sprawled about, chained by their necks with only hay beneath them for comfort. The room hung thick with the rancid stench of defecation.

She scowled at the Antivan Knight-Lieutenant before stepping around him. One of them is responsible, she hissed in his ear, and I will deal with it.

Not your jurisdiction, Starkhaven, mirrored the Templar.

At this, Helena bristled. Her eyes lit with queer light. I know you from somewhere, Knight-Lieutenant, from a poster of Crows wanted by my liege. He winced and looked away. Helena did not smile at she stormed around him, too irate to enjoy her victory. How clear it was that the Antivan circle had fallen so very far. How much could she salvage? At what cost? Her thoughts buzzed with calculations as she sternly bellowed, Leave me with them. She waited with a fierce spirit as they filed out. Alone, at last.

Only one had spoken when she had first entered. Now she turned to the woman and appraised her features first, and something about the way the woman looked made a nerve in Hel's gut flick - and just like that she was certain. The sureness was sudden, but complete, in the same way one might recognize the shape of the word and know its sound. Black hair smeared around the woman's neck, framing wine-red lips. Helena raised her palm, and a bright, harsh light shined down at the woman, spotlighting her with its blinding focus. She wanted to see her flinch. She wanted to see her squint her eyes in weakness. To blast away what lurked in them. Helena twisted her foot this way and that, grinding the sole of her boot into the stone in order to resist the urge to kick.

So... may I ask, who were you expecting?

There was such commotion around the whole thing. The attention amused her, lips drifting between a small smile and an indifferent line as templars came back and forth. The sight of the body hadn’t perturbed her any, Nyllian had merely blinked, snorting a giggle as if it were a regular occurrence. In this place only Death offered peace of sorts to those weakest, and she was anything but weak. Living to spite the templar who bought and sold her given talents for his own pocket, suffering in this place until the time was right. It was unfortunate that it was not today.

Nyllian squinted under the harsh light, lips curling into a sneer with the intrusion of the brightness as her head tilted, shrinking from it. There was no fear though, only bitter annoyance. Despite the disorientation and momentary blindness, Nin’s head turned to the direction of the newcomer, offering a half shrug, [color=#b20080]“I was expecting another party, wondered if there would be wine this time or if I was expected to be on all fours again.” [/color]

She held a serious expression for all but thirty seconds before being overcome by almost manic snickering. After a short spell, she would sober, again shrugging at the curious sudden investigation.[color=#b20080] “This is Antiva, things have always worked differently here. The weak do not last here. And if you're down here, well then, best make friends with death.”[/color] Her hands came together, one shifting to walk the fingers along the top of the opposite hand. [color=#b20080]“He stalks these halls… step, by step.” [/color]

A squeak of a chuckle escaped her, [color=#b20080]“There’s little one can do, collared as I am.”[/color] Sinking back a little, she’d bare her neck to the unbroken seal of runes and wards carved into the ring of metal. [color=#b20080]“Weak as a lamb, me. Can’t even steal your life with a touch of my little pinkie.”[/color] She sighed, lips pouting fully as she feigned disappointment in her favourite quirk.

Helena's face slowly contorted with disgust at the stolen thought of an Antivan party in this very cell. Against her will, she saw prisoner's bent on all fours like broodmares, coin exchanged for magic, and suddenly the stewing of her gut climaxed, and she broke away from the solemn stare. The rush of her vomit hit the center of the chamber, and she quickly clamped her sleeve to her mouth to settle herself down as the chained one beheld her.

Filthy, but I believe it, she managed with a restrained gag. The templar listened to the prisoner's summation of this country, and, in that moment, head cocked to the side, hearing her own thoughts voiced aloud by this strange, warped being, she knew what she would do. Like a street of lamposts flicking on one after another to reveal a pathway, she saw it as clearly as if she could read the future in starlight.

Antiva was utterly and completely lost. Their light was extinguished.

The Antivan Chantry's circle was indisposed and futile, and all that was left was to salvage what she could. 

Starting with this one, whose inebriation with magic had so obviously twisted her.

Helena snapped her fingers, and the woman's collar began to glow, the inscriptions illuminating in the moist darkness that pressed in around them. It was a small trick to read her branding. And for a spell, Helena thought the collar looked regal on this woman, scratched with her golden light, and so detailed was the script, but logic soon settled in that this collar was so meticulously written because this woman had so much toxic magic in her to be nullified. Necromancy, it appeared. How shameless.

Weak as a lamb... Helena repeated, Is that so? Do you know what I think? I think you are a dirty little animal with a grubby little addiction. I think you would burn this whole country down to gobble up the Maker's gift like a starved cannibal without a lick of civility.  And whoever this 'death' is, I will certainly fuck him back behind the veil where demon scum belong. As a friend. Did her sneer flit into something like a smile? Though I'm sure the term doesn't mean much to someone like you. Definitely not a smile now.

She kept her face shrouded in a dark veil with natural, elegant curves, while the other woman's collar blazed with light, reflecting her sweat. 

Little lamb, you are all bleat and no horn. To suckle on what little magic you are able to through the dam of that collar, so desperately - it is a sickness in your dark heart. Helena lessened the dagger-light of the warded collar, looking towards the door now. But you are right about one thing, and I won't allow you to remain here. 

She flicked a finger all around her.

This is a violation.

The reaction to the common depravity perked a brow from Nyllian. Her experience with which had thankfully been few and far between, her talents deemed too dangerous, and better suited to acting as a mindless weapon for hire. Her grin was unapologetic, [color=#b20080]“what would be the point in lying?” [/color]A rhetorical question as her gaze returned to the door, half expecting others to join the newcomer and when finding her to be alone among a sea of familiar faces Nyllian stilled the questions coming to mind.

The snap of fingers brought back her attention to Helena, the whites of her eyes flashing as the heat, pain of the ward's heavy effect flared into being. Her charges written across the branding spoke their own story. Apostate, dangerous, unhinged talent with subduing the undead. Lacking discipline and training, but natural affinity. Necrotic touch is unpredictable. Do not Touch. Nyllian’s jaw tensed, [color=#b20080]“You could have merely asked,” [/color]a scoff of a laugh before her fingers flexed their grip over the cots end.

A strained smile settled across her features though, the templar’s words washing off her like bathwater. If she were given the opportunity to bathe more frequently the elf may have agreed with the foul name calling, but Nyllian simply relaxed. Pain meant she felt something, that she was not quite dead yet and a shiver of pleasure ran down her back as she embraced the searing energy. [color=#b20080]“I have not seen the country for years. What do I care of it? Nothing. What civility, did it ever show me? None. Do I care? No. Why waste spoiled milk?”[/color]

Had the roles reversed, Nyllian wouldn’t spend her time asking such pointless things, making statements of such things that bored her entirely. She’d have sung in time with splitting her bones from one another, joint by joint. Her black gaze suddenly stared in the figure's direction, fixing on the dark with a cold clarity. [color=#b20080]“You say that, but take this off me and I will certainly suckle you and every. Single. Templar who touches me, dry.”[/color] And then as if a light switched on, her expression turned suddenly sweet, giggling like a lovesick lass who’s mind had clearly half-gone.

[color=#b20080]“Are we going on an adventure?” [/color]

Helena pulled on her gloves, ensuring each finger full-reached the tip.

Normally, I would say 'Don't be lewd,' but something tells me I'm going to have to stoop to your level just to be understood. Don't think I won't.

Finally, she brought her hands together and pulled. A magical chain fluorescing a deep sapphire stretched between her fingers. The arcane chain held a deadly glint one might expect from the swords and shields mages could conjure.

An 'adventure' implies fun, so I think not. Now, what should I call you? I don't think 'little lamb' suits you. 

With a click, she snapped the end of the chain to Nyllian's collar. Then, invoking a sharp ray of light, broke the other, mundane chain tying the mage to the wall. The broken link glowed red hot on the ground. She continued to hold the ephemeral ray, but let it fade to a faint glow.

Nyllian laughed, the tone fluctuating between manic paranoia and genuine amusement. [color=#b20080]“Oh precious.” [/color]She’d purr with a flash of her teeth. [color=#b20080]“My level is only just above death, and I welcome its sweet embrace if granted. Stoop all you like, I’ll just enjoy the view.”[/color]

The production of the chain struck nothing of consequence, was it death, was it a walk, was it a job? Nyllian decided she didn’t quite care, stretching her legs for a spell was something, a change of scenery at least.

[color=#b20080]“They call me Nyllian. I call myself Nin. Do as you will, Sheep. Or do I get the same pleasure, Mmm?”  [/color]

Watching her old chain near melt from her, the elf tilted her head to one side. She was almost impressed, almost. The light softened but Nyllian kept her eyes narrowed, giggling quietly. [color=#b20080]“Pffft, fun is relative.” [/color]

Nyllian, Helena stretched the word out, as if to express her disdain for the childish, short 'nin'.

You may address me as Ser Prieskorn, she stated professionally. I say, death has you around his little finger, doesn't he. Helena's face and voice remained humorless. She passed a long, smothering look at Nyllian.

Finally, she said, Absolute silence, now, and she led Nyllian to the door and through the stone hallway of the citadel. The plan for Helena was to summon a great darkness at the first sign of another corrupted Templar, and smuggle Nyllian into the wild streets of the surrounding city through the chaos that was bound to ensue. Then, the journey to Starkhaven on foot. But until then, one bit at a time. Soon, she would have her new captive away from all this mess, and that was for now as far as she allowed herself to think, as she eyed around the next corner.

She hadn’t expected to be granted her preference and as her full name lingered on the Seekers tongue, Nyllian rolled her eyes, bored. [color=#b20080]“I’ll address you how I like, I may use your name, I may not.”[/color] Her shoulders bounced indifferently. [color=#b20080]“Death and I have an understanding, though he can take me when he wishes, I won’t complain. Who is to argue with such an unbiased force? At least in his embrace my soul would be free, unshackled and untethered.” [/color]

To live or to die was not something she had control over. Nyllian could command others, but her own fate was tied to the chaos of the unknown. What was the point in fretting over a fate she had no say in?

Her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, her adult life spent deep in these dungeons merely enhancing her vision so she could distinguish the outline of the stone-lined passage. This covert approach, rather than marching her out pulled a curious line across the mages brow, amusement tugged at her lips, but she bid as she was told. Silence, so void of sound that one could mistake her not even breathing as they moved. And once or twice her gait would pause to watch as templar attacked templar in the confusion. Her chuckle fell as a ghostly sigh, even as the Seeker dragged her to follow.

As they reached the outside the urge to hum tickled into life, and when the Seeker finally paused, gauging their next move, Nyllian gave it breath. The melody foreboding in tone, [color=#b20080]“now I am just a tad more curious than before. What schemes are you up to I wonder?” [/color]

Helena led the other woman with carefully placed steps and a peak around each corner. Civilians went about their business. Shouting could be heard several walls away, but theyhad made it to another disctrict - the restaurant district that neighbored the harbor. The aroma of grilled fish caused Helena's stomach to rumble.

Well aren't you merry, the Templar said only half-dryly, as she inspected the other woman in proper daylight. They aren't schemes, lost one. Maker knows I did not think this through, she muttered, her voice drifting lower as she peeked around the corner again before continuing.

Finally, she drew Nyliian through the food stands like a master her slave. Her eyes slid over the golden hues of fried fish, but there was no time to stop just yet. She blinded herself to the glorious feast about them, just like she blinded herself to the treachery behind her, refusing to turn towards it, but, simply, hurry away before feelings or other Templars caught up.

Nyllian squinted, slow to adjust to the natural light. It caused her body to sway, even as Helena’s steps were firm and sure in hauling her along. [color=#9a00b2]“I’m outside. Of course I’m merry. It’s also amusing to me that you think you’ll get far.”[/color] The mage chuckled, the giddy guffaws rumbling out quietly. She’d behave. For now. At least until her vision cleared some more from living in the dungeons. 

The scent of food filled her nostrils, her head shifted from side to side, peeking the various stalls and their offerings while hunger reared its ugly, gnawing head. The meagre servings they were dealt were nothing to the succulents on display, her companion would do wise to remember one treacherous thing behind her…. Leaning on the turn of a bend, Nyllian deliberately lost her footing, bumping into a stall with enough carried momentum to jostle it violently, produce sent across the air. [color=#9a00b2]“Oops!”[/color]