There was something about the screams of those beginning their time with her Lord that made study far more stimulating. Nyllian was at home in the dungeon’s, a place far more familiar to her than the comforts of the plush living quarters elsewhere. The change had made her nights restless and unbearable. Groans and whimpers of the occupants brought both comfort and excitement, expectation of truth, or fabrication being eventually spilled. All to make the pain stop.
This was not a day for long interrogations though. She had taken to studying, widening her limited education on the craft that came so naturally to her fingertips and shrouded her skin with a fatal touch. This was her craft. The manipulation of the bones of the departed, their left behind husks the only evidence of their souls mortal existence. There was an almost song vibrating from them, one that called to her in dreams and whispered their last desires, their wrongs as ghostly melodies in her mind.
Souls and spirits could be such vengeful things.
In a large cell, Nyllian practised her craft. Idly a hand gestured ahead, the other read the text of an ancient tomb. Another gift from her Master. Its secrets fascinated her, the cover itself an intriguing patchwork of creature skin alone had intrigued the eager student. Before Elgar’nan had arrived at the mage prison, Death was all to be expected for her future. She had courted it from the moment her foot stepped into it, some twelve years previous. What a waste, for such a weapon to be scabbard. An oversight her Master too keenly corrected by adopting her into his fold. Now it was her duty to repay and serve him.
While her studies took her into the fortress depths a quiet rumour would filter through into her mind from elsewhere.
The song pitched higher, growing in volume and Nyllian’s head turned to listen to it more acutely. A quiet smile spread across her lips, was he coming to pay these waifs a visit, how quaint? They didn’t deserve the mercy of a quiet passing. Traitors, or ants were what they were, nothing noble or pure to join the song of the dead.
“My Lord, Death,” Nyllian greeted. The book closed with a snap, her body lifting away from the wall to dip her head in respect. “To what do I owe the pleasure, or is there something I may be so bold to help you with?” Caution was warranted, something she normally didn’t lean into, but this was no subordinate, no minor pawn in her master's plan. The God of Death could be an ally or foe depending on how the wind was blowing, and it was constantly changing in the chaos.
Her head would not raise itself until told to do so, as she knew exactly her place. It was here, in the dark, dank pit of hell with the cries and whimpers of the dying or nearly. Then after they passed their bones became hers… well, his, really.
Nyllian cradled the ancient tome behind her, posture and demeanour submissive in the presence of Death. She could do her Master no good if she fell to Death, and he decided her time had come due to a foolish mistake or misunderstanding, as trick some as he seemed, there was always something to the grand scheme of things.
While her eyes observed the slab work, her other senses remained heightened, ready to be commanded like a good Eth. The sudden closeness rolled a shudder down her spine though her eyes remained trained to the ground, unwavering as the sensation returned it’s path. Almost summoning her attention, with his ghostly touch, Nyllian’s dark gaze met his, widening, struck by the beauty and intimate touch. A genuine glint of awe passed through her dark eyes, brow arching as she recognised his touch cancelled out hers. Curious. Though not out of the bed of possibilities. There was nothing comparable in her mind to meeting him before her timely passing, unless that moment was now?
But no, he wished for her assistance instead of her life. As he retreated back her chin lifted to follow and then reigned back to settle back, gaze returning to the floor while her head tilted curiously.“I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me further. My skills are poor, I’m afraid I will offend you, My Lord, hence why I am practising.”
His laugh changed the tone, the honour of looking on him granted with that ghostly melody. Pointedly, Nyllian gaze met his, her chest drawing in a deep breath as she took in the beauty of his form properly. Only her Master would know if this body was his original form, but if his body was new or not, Death did really cut a fine silhouette.
A small smile graced her lips as he teased her, refusing to believe her skills were insufficient to entertain or serve him. Yet if she did, he may instruct her personally and what greater advantage was that, to have been taught by Death himself? A feral glint flickered into being when following his gaze around them to settle back on her, Nyllian couldn’t help but bite her lower lip with the game he was playing.
“Very well, My Lord, body half turning towards the cell's few captives held at the far end. Her hand outstretched, palm open in offering, gesturing to the doomed souls. “I assume Ladies Choice so let’s pick…” With a click of her tongue and swift gesture of her hand a body was forcibly made to walk out, chains rattling, dragged across the slabs of the cell. “This one will do. He’s been extremely forthcoming, he does deserve a reward, but what say you, my Lord Death? How should I reward him?”
Chains dragged across the stone, scraping and echoing, compounding the slow walk to what would be a painful end. Nyllian’s head hung lower, shoulders lifting as she stalked their approach struggling to maintain a rein on feral smirk that sought to take over.
The purr of his voice called, familiar, almost comforting if not for the placement of his hand on her shoulder. Nyllian neither tensed nor shuddered; instead she leaned into his guidance, head slightly turning some to catch him in the far corner of her gaze. How would it feel, to be stalked by the true Death, she wondered. Her lower lip found itself caught between her teeth, restraining a grin from becoming too exhilarated.
“I can certainly make him sing for you, my Lord.” Fingers moved a fraction, the shift of bone audible enough that it echoed out before the shrill cry of her puppet. Though as Death dug into her flesh the mage tensed, offering a small hiss before chuckling softly at his words. “It would be my pleasure… I think I’ll start with his chest. One rib at a time. Maybe even rotate a few,” then tilting her head further to look at the God, Nyllian’s fingers gestured, one digit following another in slow succession. Every howl made by the pathetic whelp was to be judged and if Lord Death was not appeased, she would raise them to begin it anew.
Dark eyes would stare with a maddening calm, only undulated when cries, turned to plea’s, turned to begging, bargaining and then glinted brightly as the fool pleaded for death. “Oh sweet thing, that is not up to me now, not now Lord Falon’Din has come.”
The hiss past her ear marked the beginning of the song, his breath the snare drum beat of the oncoming death and she was made to be part of it. In this moment chosen to conduct the mass towards the heavens. The honour of being Death’s instrument had her biting back a quiet moan, teeth rolling over her bottom lip while her hands weaved the score to achieve his goal. Yet as fingers dug into her flesh, Nyllian softly squealed her head falling back as the action drew nerves aflame, the desire of closeness quickly fulfilled once their first servant expired.
Her hand, lay lax within his grasp, as a willing puppet to his instruction. She adjusted accordingly, noting how the magic changed, the flow attuned to rip the bone, cleanly sounding the note. Beautiful, her voice all but whispered, her fixed gaze had shifted to meet his, expression a mixture of awe and sickening glee. Nyllian inhaled deeply. Her eyes then fluttered closed, breathing in to quell the growing excitement of perfecting her stunted education. For the moment the mage basked in the glow of success and blissfully recalling the litany performed so far.
I heard your song in the dark. When the Templar’s would come I’d recite it in my mind to drown out their blasphemy. Eyes peeked open as slits and the sinister, cruel curl of her grin spoke volumes. Elgar’nan broke my chains… but their bodies I butchered in your name. A small offering that has resulted in our paths crossing again.
Nyllian leaned in closer, inhaling the scent of him with a soft hum, Now you spend time to instruct me, and I wonder how I may thank you, worship adequately. A glint of madness shone in her eye, not mischief, his response nothing she could accurately calculate. A kiss? But where? Or my blood? Instruct me?
Life had been a litany of woes. From the highs of serving in the glittering halls of nobles to the bloody filthy cages of various prisons, the darkness of the world had taught her true freedom came from Death’s kindness. Everytime that edge came, to fall completely into its embrace she had been held, teetering on the precipice of life and death. Pushed back into the current until the next time her power was of use.
Confidence filled her, the ministrations of their hands in tandem had been learned quickly, fingers gestured to embellish the score… experiment, an added trill of screams let out by their subject.
Desire soon overwhelmed joy brought by their plaything. Cold, skeletal fingers ghosted against her skin, the warmth of her blood quickly pebbling the trail left in their wake. Nyllian shuddered, pressing herself against him as they danced. There were no lies within his words, not like with Elgar’nan. Her rescuer had only seen a pawn, and for a time she had been content to be his alone, but Death’s call was undeniable.
They sang to each other, without words, danced, without music.
The screams of their toy abruptly cut out with his final wish. Every bone left intact, detached in an instant, the wave of extinction a climatic final pulse. She inhaled a shaky, trembling breath, Yes. teeth catching on her lip before turning. His exploring hand, whether accidental or not, caught the tie of her robe, snagging it open. Eyes met his, uncaring of her unravelling attire and instead kept his attention until knees found the floor comfortably. Her hands traced a similar path from shoulders to hang against his waist.
Who am I, to deny the true Master of my being? Let me open wide and worship you. Or, take me how you wish, I’m yours, Falon’Din.
Proving her devotion to him would take time of which they had plenty. Who, in their right mind, would interrupt the God of Death from receiving an offering of submission from a true disciple? No, only a fool would come between Death and his willing subject, else they became a toy for their combined amusement? The veil, separating the dead and living, had always been thin around the caged mage. In the dark of the dungeons its constant presence brought her the only true comfort she had ever known, a peace she would not give up so willingly as Elgar’nan.
Fingers, both skeletal and strong, gripped her hair, the scrap of his talons just grazing her scalp to cause a shaky breath to fall at the ghostly cutting. A cold, pleasurable shudder skipped across her chest with the demand, hands sliding lower, over the silks with obedient purpose. Nyllian held the gaze of her God, dexterously loosening the ties that attempted to hide him from her. Hands would worship, touch gentle in the beginning before firming in a chorus to surround him.
He would not need to guide her over his arousal, the timing of her mouth joining the song at the appropriate moment, tongue lapping, exploring at the first crescendo. On the diminuendo it entered into a thorough study, any doubt of her sincerity was to be banished and flickering her gaze upwards eyes pleaded that her efforts were well received, were worthy of praise.
