Sacrificing Oath- Chapters 3 (Draft)

Ethenal, of the Spectral Inks

Pupils wide and exposed, the sun glared in between the ridges and cracks of sandstone walls that enclosed the room. Streaks of rays illuminated the unsettled grime. Ethenal coughed and rolled about in her crudely made bed. Straw poked through the ramshackle casing of the mattress, which she slapped at, thinking it was an insect.

Sleep long gone from her thoughts, as she had been laying for hours trying to calm her mind from racing thoughts. She found no peace in resting. With a swoop of her small frail legs, she hobbled to the edge of the bed and dropped down. Parts of the floor were icy from the shadows of night, while the rest already warmed by the late morning sun.

Vials of her latest experiments still littered her study floor, some knocked over from the sand storms that visited in the night, others bubbled over and oozing failure. A tinge of heartache surged through her while she tidied up. The silence was so deafening, she could hear her breathing.

Soon the master would return for their shipment and she did not have it ready for them. The surrounding areas of the sandy plains were filled with tufts of weeds and life, but the qualities were diminishing as the climate began to shift into the frost season. The Mentha sparse and wilting from new heavy morning dews and the Maderensis only now growing on the outskirts of the region.

The garden growing around the modest sandstone hovel was flourishing as much as it could, but unsustainable for the master's desire for poisons. The small desert was unknown to most as it was semi-mountainous with sharp drops on the earth that made trade precarious. The only inhabitants were gorgons and rogues of the royals. The desert served as a proving ground for the black market. Proof that if you were to buy the wears that the gorgons had to supply, you were worthy of the task and responsible for their consequences. Ethenal's position in the ring was crucial to the royal army's disposal of the highly influential targets in the region.

As a young child Ethenal and her family traveled through the desert to escape taxation that was driving them to starvation. The land was lush with foliage and even a small spring of water was tucked into the crevices of the sand. Even to this day, she could remember the sweltering heat that blistered their faces that day, unlike any other they had experienced in Aurna.

Though a diminutive desert, most people dwelled in the underground network of the market. It kept them hidden from the bounty hunter's purse and the elements. The reptilian race as the gorgons preferred the temperatures above the terrain. Every few miles you may have seen a herbarium or a hovel in the sides of a cliff. Since the marriage of their leader of the imperial, most have since moved to the capital to live more luxurious lives. Few remained to maintain their prized collection of herbs and specialty jewels.

Ethenal's family stumbled across a royal herbarium on their journey. They planned to stay the night and continue to the ocean side of the grama. They were welcomed by two gorgons who were hesitant in their approach. They spit their language back and forth. When aggravated their scales would flare up and release the collected sand from the breeze. Finally, they were granted to stay outside in a nearby abandoned hole.

Her father was explicitly warned not to enter or come near the greenhouse or they would be killed on sight. They thanked them for their consideration and generosity and headed their warnings. With no room to stand, their family snuggled together in a pile, knitted together by their father's embrace.

The downfall was curious children who made the suffering of fools. The greenhouse's irrigation dig outs weren't messed to keep rodents or any other small creatures out. This allowed Ethenal and her brother Neem to explore. They got down on their elbows and knees and began to slug about the slushy ditch.

They went a fair distance before reaching the inner walls. Long ferns and strawed grass began to obscure their vision as they stayed low to the verdure. Sweet scents stuck to their skin. The arid climate eluded them in this haven. Their small bodies shivered the deeper they crawled. The grass tickled their bare arms as they broke off and began to search for treasure on their own accord.

A slight chatter in the distance broken the distant memory from her tortured mind. No one was to be in the area for many more days. Though there were days she had unexpected missionaries come to her for special orders, she would still be notified by the clan of estimated arrival. Ethenal began to shove important and valuable things in a small cupboard and the rest tucked under her makeshift bedding.

A dagger nestled in a sheath of poison lay firm against her thigh. She pressed her back firmly against the door, listening closely to determine their spacing. Soft footsteps encroached on her den, but then silence.

A shattered crackle exploded in the air as splinters of rotted wood sprayed the air. Ethenal's petite frame buried under scraps of wood. The wind carried in the sand, filling her nostrils and airways with grit.

"So there was someone in here! I told you so!" a young lad giggled as he dusted himself off of the debris. Ethenal tried to peer up through the doorway, but the sun cast and blinded her vision into hazy shadows. In a panic, she patted for her hidden weapon, but it was to no avail. When she was thrown down the makeshift strap had busted and thrown it out of reach.

Covering her mouth while choking on dust, she hobbled out from under and towards her safety. A hand at least twice the size needed, twisted her leg back and scraped her against the ground. She screamed and started kicking and flailing. A different hand pinned her other leg down.

Full-blown panic-struck inside her stomach. Icy-hot blood rushed through her veins. Her head was still dizzy from hitting the ground. She wanted to vomit. The men above her smiled, she knew their intent.

In a haste, she bit her hand with all the courage she could muster. Black ink spilled out as she flung her hand, splattered the enemies. Shrieks echoed in the small hovel as the ink began to incinerate all they soaked. They released their grasps on her enough for her to slip away. While they were patting at their clothing she darted for the knife. The blood was not strong enough to be lethal, but her dagger was.

"You idiots, stop," a raspy voice said as it stepped over the two men groveling around. They were unharmed and more consideration of their belongings melting. Ethenal now in the corner with her dirk clasped soundly between both fists.

He stepped closer while she weaseled her back closer, even though there was no space to back into. His hand extended to her as a peace offering, but Ethenal knew better. In aggression, she swung through the air as he took another step closer.

Fright swelled in her stomach as she let a flurry of swings unleashed in front of her. The cloaked man watched closely at each attack until her stamina diminished. Her heavy breathing was a sign of his next move. With a twist of his body, he slammed his forearm against both of her tired limbs, forcing them upwards against her torso. The blade now against her throat. The helm of his cloak brushed against her raven black hair. His breath smelled of jerked berries and rum.

A frown stretched across the man's rugged face. His expressions easy to read with the lack of facial hair. He was not much older than her. Both youthful and in their primes. Through his cloak, his shoulders appeared visibly toned. His torso curved firmly at the waist, making his clothing seem disproportionate and ill-fitting. Numbness sank into her upward stretched arms and her fingers tingled as they tried to maintain their grip on the weapon. Eventually, the shank dropped and she had met her end.

“We have no intention of hurting you unless necessary,” he whispered to her. Sand had clogged his airways as well. The movements of his speech had a backdrop of grittiness as the sand ground between his teeth. With a swift kick back, he slid the dagger towards his companions and lightly released his tension on her. A river of tears streaked down Ethenal’s cheeks as the fear in her body was still at large.

Her porcelain skin fascinated the strangers. To be so translucent in such an environment must have been more of a chore than to suffer from sun pigmentation. Her wounded hand coagulated with grime and muck from their tossel. Tattered rags hung loosely about her body as if tied together in knots to stay on her frame rather than tailored in a shape of any sort.

“Reap, can’t you give her one of your bottles to play with?” Sigil snarked as he sat cross-legged on the bed in the corner. Ermenegilde twiddled with random assortments of scrolls and paintings on the wall, ignoring everything going on, lost in thought of his own.

Sigil had a point in Reaper’s head. In his eyes, she was so small, and her age unknown. He assumed she was half his age and children are always intrigued by anything shiny. Slowly he reached for an empty crystal carved vial from his pouch that had been fastened behind his hip. Ethenal shivered with a startled. Reaper hushed her softly and took her wounded hand in his. She winced and pinned her eyes closed tightly, scared of what was going to happen. The sound of her heartbeat deafened her senses.

The incandescent crystal vial was slender, and bulbed at the rear. The neck of the bottle was much longer than a typical container. Ethenal’s eyes grew wide as she examined it more closely. She remembered making the concoction herself. It took many efforts and trials. It contained a vapor with healing properties. The long neck to siphon out said gas slowly without wasting the product.

Ethenal was comforted after concluding the invaders of her home were of no threat. Most who approached used her for her ability to bring agony. Instead, these people had the one concoction she made to counteract atrocities. This urn was from years and years ago. A special order had come in from an unknown source not connected with the imperial register. When orders came in from her Gorgon master she had always been given a brief description of the purpose of her toxins. This ensured whether it was for a slow and painful or swift and unsuspecting death.

Ethenal’s expression lightened and a small hint of a smile danced up her face. She threw her meek arms around Reaper's neck, hanging about with just the tips of her toes dragging against the shale. Reaper stumbled a bit surprised by her reaction. He thought to himself that she must have been excited about the trinket. His arms floated awkwardly as he didn’t want to impose interaction or startle.

Sigil’s face twisted with laughter until a repetition of snorts followed. He found it odd that anyone would want to touch someone like Reaper. Sigil couldn’t stand Reaper’s high and might attitude and presence, let alone touching. Their commander smiled at the interaction but quickly changed his facial expressions when fumbling with an invoice to the royal army for her product.

Ermenegilde waved a flash of signs with his hand as silent warnings as Reaper peeked over his shoulder. He continued to rummage through more of her belongings in a furious effort to discover more information about who's dwelling they had stumbled upon. Reaper cautiously unraveled her limbs and set her down upon her bed next to Sigil. With her content and not aggressive, Reaper thought it best she stay still with the watch of Sigil while Reaper helped the captain search through the massive pile of parchment.

Among the invoices had been numerous accounts linking to the Sun Tithe Spire. Ermenegilde had been unaware of any activity from the imperials in the area. It had been a small town filled with grain and supplies for the entire nation. They were uninfluenced by anything other than farm life. Ethenal’s hole was not but a few days travel from the large village.

Many other receipts showed the group how deep the underground market for poisons had grown. Both men turned to look at the small child twiddling on the bed, amused by the vial she had been given; unaware of what they were up to. In their minds, there was no way such an innocent-looking child could achieve such hushed chaos.

Sigil had been going covert in the more rural areas of the city. His size and stature allowed him to sneak about undetected. Between Tavern gossip and unmindful guard watches, he gathered information about postings and roadblocks. This kept the ever on the move group from capture.

According to recent interrogations they'd performed along their journey west a large group of mercenaries was hired to cause issues. It was said the royal army had hired them to make mischief then use their means to remedy them to raise popularity.

Suntithe Spire was a potential target for crop poisoning and mite blights. Ermenegilde wanted to patrol the area and set post for a bit to gather more intel. It was remote enough to keep them undercover while still able to send commands to their supporters. If attacked the lower classes would suffer from rationings. The royals would demand remaining grain to support them and their armies, leaving the rest of the nation to dwindle.

Ermenegilde shuffled a stack of documents together and crouched in front of the straw bed. Ethenal ignored his presence and continued to be lost in thought. He may have been with Reaper, someone she had a new fondness with, but she held reserved opinions of others.

“Do you know whom you work for?” he asked gently, crossing his arms about his knees to hold composure. She turned away, tucking herself towards her pillow sacks.

“HEY! You were asked a question you brat,” Sigil flicked his talon blades between his knuckles after slipping them out from his sleeve.

Ethenal scrunched her face. She bit her lip hard, drawing a droplet of blood and let out a spitting hiss. Saliva and blood misted Sigil’s face. It wasn’t as potent as her last round but enough to make him swat rapidly at his skin. Irritated bumps now littered his face. Reaper let out a small chuckle and shooed him away. Sigil stuck his tongue out at her in frustration and made a motion threat with his blades. Her lips curled back up as if she would spit again, but Ermenegilde’s hand hushed her down.

“Where are the scaled ones?” Ermenegilde pressed another question. Her greyed eyes gazed to broken wall fragments. She didn’t actually know their true location. They always came to her, and rarely did she venture outside of her comfort zone. Not only as a woman made it unsafe in the desert areas. The sweltering heat was almost unbearable to her. The gorgon’s forced her to stay here to tend to their remaining garden of specialty frondescence.

Reaper sighed and sat at the edge with his back facing the two. From his belt, the sunrays had caught a glimmer that danced across the walls like a kaleidoscope. Reds, oranges, and yellow shapes slowly skittered about with the movement of the waning sun. Ethenal squinted as if trying to inspect. She drug her body closer to him until in range to finger about his belt with more vials that were secured.

“Tixiatione,” Ethenal murmured as she went from container to container.

“Do you know who made it?” Reaper asked, while casually playing with a piece of straw poking from the mattress. Ermenegilde rested his aching back against the wall and watched as the two interacted. He dare not speak or upset her at this point after Sigil had overstepped.

“I did,” she squeaked.

“For whom?” Reaper raised a brow but continued his mindless twiddling.

“Snakes?” she didn’t know. She only knew the purpose of the poisons and vapors, not the detailed accounts.

“And your ledgers? Who writes them?” Reaper motioned towards the station of paperwork.

“Master,” she said into her lap. She was beginning to shut down and curl into a ball. Something was frightening or upsetting her Reaper thought. He knew she must have had limited interaction with people and this was an overwhelming experience for her.

Tixiatione was a viscous goo that ate anything it touched that wasn’t coated in lime. To make it took expertise. Though, from observation Reaper believed she had been dabbling in makings, this master of hers must have taught and coerced skills even they did not possess. The magic in her blood was probably the reason she was outcasted into the desert to serve undercover for the royals. It was an unlimited supply of something that could be experimented with to increase potency in already lethal drugs.

Reaper signaled he had gained enough information for their meeting and rose. Ermenegilde slowly escorted himself out of the exploded doorway. His boots wobbling across broken boards as he searched for his companion.

“Little one, stay safe,” Reaper brushed the mop of hair from her face. Her face twisted in confusion. Without a thought, his arms wrapped around her and gave her a farewell hug.. Her body pressed hard against him, through the tattered clothing, he felt the outline of her. She was small indeed, but he may have misinterpreted her age. He shook the blush of pink from his cheeks and pulled her away.

“Staying?” her lip stammered.

“We will return,” he lied. If he returned, it would be to have her eliminated. She was a threat even if she was an unknowing puppet in the grand scheme.

In war, everyone is a victim, enemy, and even ally. Their objective was to minimize all of the above. With the record-keeping done here, they would be able to retrace some steps and eliminate threats against their allies or even use it as leverage.

The wind was picking up throughout the midday. The group traveled east towards Suntithe Spire to secure a temporary base and local protection. The network of trading running through the town would also lead Sigil to scout rumors to use to their advantage. Sigil could sift through useful details and spread misinformation to confuse and disorganized counter groups.

Reaper led the way through the dunes while Ermen and Sigil slugged behind, exhausted from the heat. Both had worn light leather hauberks but they were still far too insulated for warmth. Many days they spent on the road with little belongings as possible, so attire for cold nights was crucial. Sigil was a growing boy who was developing into adulthood. His body growing round from time spent jollying about town squares. The extra time traveling lately would thin him out or the heat would sweat him out.

Ermenegilde poked fun at him through their adventures. Teasing was his specialty. He could make an entire room boast with laughter without knowing a single soul.

Women fawned over him relentlessly and rarely did he spend those nights lonely. Other scouts in their brigade tried to keep track but quickly ran out of ways to tally up the score’s total. For his age, he outpaced any tavern stud.

In the glaring sunlight, the white and blonde stubble on Ermenegilde chin blended in with their sandy surroundings. Sweat dribbled down his face and his matching blonde mane was soaked and sticking to his ambered skin. The worn hauberk long bleached by the rays from previous adventures. A crisscross of straps held his straight swords snug against his back underneath a large green bag filled with his miscellaneous supplies.

Sigil almost matched him, as if a miniature sculpture. The irony of displeasure yet to be a mimic made Reaper chuckle to himself. Sigil’s fine hair clung to the sand being misted about. Every few minutes he would shake out like an old bitch. His plump skin was shriveling and becoming leathered.

They had a chance to make it to Suntithe Spire by the next morning if they endured the pace. Soon the sun would relieve them and their exhaustion would dwindle. Along the way, the group tried to stay around the bluffs to wallow in the shadows as long as possible.

The longer their aching feet carried them, the closer the rooftop's silhouette reflected against the dusk’s sky. Small rain clouds wafted above them, holding their drizzle for another time. Shrubbery was more abundant and some plots of the crop began to formulate a travel path. The late summer grain was several feet high and flourished densely. The path was smooth except for well-used grooves from overloaded wagons. Old mule tracks left a single file pattern engraved.

Reaper’s slender legs screamed with an ache to the point a wrong step would buckle his knees and send him tumbling. Sigil was somehow ahead of Ermengilde and Reaper, with his newfound energy for a rest. His folly nature was slightly refreshing and helped them trudge on the last bit of their journey.

Putrid smells of rot filled their noses the closer they came. Mares were grazing wildly in vegetation that was not meant for them. Ash filled the air instead of light sand. The only sound that could be heard was the crackling of buildings in the distance. Embers illuminated the streets. The rooftops they thought they saw were now concave and smoldering. Long oak pillars resembled logs in a hearth. Dismantled carts full of soot-covered veggies rolled the streets. Some were half charred lying about the ash in the road.

Ermenegilde pulled his tailored shirt up to cover his mouth. His lungs hurt from the devastation littering the air. Reapers cloak gathered debris in his hood while his sleeve wrapped about his mouth. Sigil wide-eyed, scurred the alleyways of the besieged town. The other two remained behind a far distance.

The ash, thick like gum and sticking to everything and its wake. It was mixed with the morning dew as the sun came over the horizon slowly but surely. The morning daylight shimmered against the blackened debris that trickled down upon their shoulders. Sludge began to build upon their armor and stain their faces. Sigil continued to survey the surrounding area without going out of sight. The stench still burning their nostrils was too overwhelming at times. They had never smelled such a disaster. The vegetables didn't look as though they had been out long in the summer heat. What could be causing the smell of a thought?

Ermenegilde slowly drew his weapon and clutch tightly on its hilt. Using the blade of his greatsword he dug through piles of the charred crop. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary other than the town being completely saturated in flames.

No signs of gang violence. The mercenaries that were scheduled to harass this village were not to be there for many moons. Even then, they wouldn't have torched to the acreage to make a point.

The Suspire was still an important resource for the royal army's sustainability. Without food, the warriors would not budge an inch regardless of whose command they were under.

Murky footprints trailed behind them, imprinted in the muddy ash. As they turned a corner about a small bundle of disintegrated homes, streaks of blood smeared the slabs of stone they walked.

Sigil signaled back towards the group to halt.

Fallen ash grazed their gaping mouths, their jaws cranked wide open. The folded cloth on their faces slinking down. They couldn’t believe their eyes. The center square with mounds of body parts. Entrails floating in a nearby fountain. Faces mauled in half, the other as if set on fire as well. Cremated remains found outside of the homes where a fire had not annihilated.

Reaper’s head spun with so much confusion, he dropped to a knee to steady himself. They had never seen such a massacre unleashed in their lifetime. Sure, they were building a rebellion and casualties were had, but nothing of such mass. Not in places like the Sunspire, that was to be a neutral ground of sorts. His heartfelt heavy it might rip out of his stomach. Instead, vomit splattered the cobble.

Sigil’s eyes lit up with newfound excitement. All the blood around him made his body tingle, rushing like a river in his veins. His collection was going to grow exponential. His chubby hand discreetly playing with the buckle on his purse, holding empty glasses to be filled.

Ermenegilde clutched his grand blades tightly. Still worried if the threat had dissipated or if they were to still be in danger. It was silent. Not even moans from the ravaged corpses. This wasn’t his first time seeing bloodshed, but no less made his spirit wan. He had been here many times over the years. The people humble and friendly. The drunk fools drinking their hardships away and women bustled up nicely to attract a good night. The well-taken care of city was now in shambles and ruins before him. He kept his blade unholstered, trudging through the graveyard, hoping to see a sign of resilience.

The shimmer of the sun yet again awoke Ethenal. Gaps of the sun poured in from the doorframe, now only holding the last large remnant of the door from weeks ago. Her eyes gunked with sand and dust more so than ever. She finally had seen sleep. She did not dream. It was just a skip in time.

Through her cracked eyelids, the crystal vial lay on her mounded pillow, nestled safely. The sun had yet to reach it and illuminate her walls once again with prisms. This time it lay timelessly there, looking at it made her forget where she was. The tasks she needed to complete were irrelevant all of a sudden. The only thing she wanted to do was lay. Her bones felt that of a thousand years, and her flesh just a dry draping.

She wanted to go home, her real home. Even in the summer months of Aurna, Fresiy, their hometown, saw snow. The town was nestled in-between a deep valley range of peaks. It was spacious for crops that could thrive and flat enough for large structures. Harsh winters were common, but they always had bountiful harvests.Until the royal army had demanded surplus and tax from them out of their budget. Ethenal’s family was no means poor compared to other street livers, but with every last coin spent on food, no one had time to buy the wears of a furniture maker. Once the food ran out, riots and crime skyrocket. General Husani began martial law. Anyone found of any crime or breaking curfew was executed on sight. People were so frightened they shut down the shops. Too many tried to run and move away, but Husani’s brigade punished and slaughtered the escapees.

Digging through the ditch that night, lead her and her brother to many natives plants they had never seen before. Some smelled of nothing, others smelled like they could taste of pure sugar. As tempting as they were, only one truly caught their eye. In the back of the greenhouse was a blackened shrub. The berries on it were silvery as a fox in the mountains they lived in. They shone like stars against the dark foliage.

The hunger inside them became an insatiable beast. Before they knew it themselves, they had handfuls of the fruit jammed into their mouths. The berries gushing and squirting down their lips with a blue tint. They scarfed and mangled the bush to its bare branches. The taste was beyond their comprehension. Nourishments they had long forgotten rushed in their veins.

Neem’s body snuggled close to hers as they finished their meal. Their small, frail bodies hadn’t seen such quantities of fruit or berries in years. The sweetly sour berries reminded her of the better times in her little mountain life.

Ethenal’s daydreaming had trailed off that she didn’t notice Neem’s body started convulsing, lips turning pale as his fingers scraped at his throat. Panicking, she rushed to her brother. She didn't know what to do. Her tiny, wormy fingers shot down Neem's throat trying to dislodge anything. Maybe he had just eaten too fast and was choking she thought. The fear choked inside her own throat as her eyes darted around for a solution. She ran to the water ditch runoff and pulled off her tunic. It wasn't clean by any means but now was no time to be picky. The terror carried her amped body and now soaking wet tunic back to Neem.

Neem lay gurgling in blood on the pasture. The life draining from his emerald eyes. The veins throughout his frame blackened like inks used for scriptures. A squealing scream erupted from her soul. She wrung her shirt with all her strength. Water splashed into Neem's lifeless mouth, sloshing and spilling without being swallowed. Everything was blurring as if in slow motion. Her clammy hands beating against him. She let out a wrenching scream, barely muffled by her brother's chest. Tears cascaded down Ethenal's sun-blistered cheeks.

Ethenal felt moistness dampen her pillow as she relived the cruel memory. With all her might she pushed the sorrow back down and rolled out of bed. The loneliness cursed her. She almost felt she missed the stranger travelers who came days ago. Although she didn't miss the mess they had made. She tiptoed about, dodging slivers of wood she had missed with the broom. Her bottles still tucked in their hiding holes.

She knelt at her cabinet and began taking out her stashes of dried herbs and monster remnants. Every single piece of her collection lay about her floor. Her brows furrowed while different combinations flipped through her brain like a book. If she mixed the vapor like nature of her Tixiatione with Devil’s bone and reptilian scales, the product could work she thought. She had a few gorgon scales but her client was planning to poison a water source, if she used gorgon scales, they may be less affected and things may be suspicious. Her herb stash dwindled and meager. It would be possible to make a large enough quantity to suffice if she spent time building the stash. That left devil's bone and scales to scavenge.

Devil's bone against her calloused hands felt no different than the sandy coral-like plateaus she harvested from. The coral’s pins merely tickled as she juggled it. She tossed the bone to her mattress as well as herself after tidying up the unusable flora. Her joints popped as she rolled about her bed stretching.

Exhaling a large sigh, she curled under the tattered blankets, shielding herself from the rays peeking through holes in the wall. Her livelihood depended on serving the gorgon master but even then she couldn't fight this overwhelming feeling. Laziness? Possibly. It was like being relentlessly tired regardless of how many hours she slept. She closed her eyes. Go back to her family was all she could ever dream of but the memories of Neem perishing would be her punishment instead.

All the fond times she had seemed fuzzed and drowned by fog, unable to be recovered. The pain was crippling she felt almost just numb. Tears would well up but never fall. A boulder of heaviness sat on her emotions, able to feel shattered fragments of what were but never able to reconnect.

The emptiness was so dark and cold. Ethenal was damned. This void in her soul was eating her and now she didn't even know who she is anymore. Anger rallied up. It wasn't fair. She had never done anyone wrong before this and one mistake took everything from her. Life was never fair but the very least could have bright moments. Any bright moments now are just swallowed by tragedy.

It had been so long yet she was here, stuck in a mindless routine. Life from that point was stacking rocks carefully in a pile, praying they wouldn't come tumbling down. Sometimes a stone would jar loose and feed the sorrow.

She wrestled out from her covers. The anger was rearing. Her small, bony fingers curled into fists and beat against the wall. Over and over she berated the sandstone until her knuckles bled. The poisonous blood sizzled but had no avail. She kept at it, screaming as the rage built until her forehead slammed against the wall with the last bellowing wail. The tears still wouldn't come. All she wanted was to weep for her brother. There was no more strength in her body or mind to continue the tantrum. She sat there, pressed to the wall, bleeding and hollow. Her eyes glazed over in a trance, haunted by her mistakes.

The dusk slowly settled on the horizon, rays disappearing from the room. Ethenal blinked, blood now dried on her face and fists. Time slipped between her fingers once again as she sat unproductively. Her exhausted body crawled along the dirt floor until she reached her travel pack. Mindlessly fumbling about, she packed her supplies to gather. A small hand shovel, chisel and old rags for padding supplies from each other lay snug in the pouch. The Tixiatione was snug up against her body, hidden well out of sight. Such an important ingredient could no longer be trusted in her home with the recent unexpected visitors. She needn't worry about her other supplies. They were easy enough to find and replicate.

She sighed and huffed as she jumbled her shamble of a door back into its socket. The air was humid still and hadn’t settled yet. Her toes sank into the warm sand with each step, with her toes spreading to grip for stability. The tatters of a cloak draped her shoulders and kept her skin protected minimally from the sun. Even at night, the desert failed to cool much, only from the lack of humidity from the oceans surrounding the desert. The landscape was sketched out in the shadows of the moonlight.

The reticence of the hell was almost soothing to her aching soul. The shade of the cliff edges made her shiver. The landscape was far from barren. Sprouts of dried grass clustered about, sometimes tickling her calves. The smaller pieces of broken twigs and grass pricked her feet, but aren't painful against her calluses.

The flattened sandstone ridges were easy enough to climb. She was light-weight but grainy sand fragments still crumbled in her hands as she pulled herself higher and higher. Finger length lizards snuggled in the cracks of rocks, with debris as bedding. Ethenal snatched the piles of leaves quickly. The critters wriggled against her grasp, fighting for their lives, thrashing about. She squeezed even tighter while reaching for a jar in her bag. They were abundant in the rocks but she still couldn’t afford to let any escape.

It only took a few hours before her jar was adequately full before she trekked down the ridge side and back home. She was slightly thankful for the passage of time. Doing this in the heat and chasing the little bastards would have been much more work than she could have handled right now.

Ethenal sighed and loudly grumbled as she came in distance of the hovel. The door had fallen and was laying in the sand outside her home. A gust of wind must have knocked it out of place. She was going to have to tie it down with dried grass or travel to town for supplies. Being out in the sand wasn't a huge bother but she hated sleeping in it. She left it, for now, stepping onto it and scraping the sand off the bottoms of her feet.

Her hovel had no windows only the cracks, she failed to realize there was light dimly coming from inside her home before she'd entered. In the corner three figures hunched over a pile of bodies.

She screamed and dropped her bag to make a run for it. There was no way she was going to stay and question the situation. The sand gobbled her feet deep with each sprint. She ached from her climb and the emotional morning, but there was no time to stop. If she could reach the hills again, she might be able to sneak into the ridges and hide in the cover of night. They weren’t far but they were too far.

Something spindly and hard-hit her calves and she plummeted to the ground, sand splashing into her mouth and eyes. She coughed and swatted quickly at her face to clear her vision. A figure was closing in on her, she panted and clawed at what she found was a bola tangled about her feet. She scooted her body away while untangling the ropes and stone but not quickly enough. The figure was in distance; she bit her hand deeply, drawing as much ink as she could from the veins. Her fist held a good-sized puddle ready. As they crouched she smashed her palm into their hooded cloak, hitting what felt like a cheekbone. Damn it she thought; she wanted the eyes.

“Oh, you’re shitting me, not again!” Sigil squealed as he furiously rubbed his burning face with the sleeve of his leather vestment. He knelt, almost buckled with pain. Ethenal gasped. She ripped a tassel from her sleeve and wrapped it around her hand to stop the excess bleeding, then pulled another from her other sleeve. She spat and pressed it against his face, trying to soothe the wound, but he shooed her away.

They both sat there for a moment, Ethenal listening to Sigil mutter and swear until he sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself together. Ethenal was worried but also confused. She had thought he left, the whole group left, weeks ago. Why was he back? “Reaper needs his bottle back, we need help with some potion or whatever,” Sigil pulled her up by her arm and tugged her along without allowing her proper balance. “We don’t have time to mess around, hurry up.” She punched at his shoulder to let her go, but his grip did not loosen. He was stronger than she thought for his size, considering he was not much taller than her just fatter. “Let go pig, I can walk myself,” Ethenal shouted, throwing herself on the ground, halting their progress until he released her. He pushed her and they squabbled about until they had enough.

“Brat,” Sigil snorted and hurried ahead of her.

Ermenegilde greeted them with a faint smile and a sullen gaze. He motioned for Ethenal to come closer. Sigil threw himself on her bed and pouted. Reaper held a lantern over what looked to be an animal carcass. It smelled torched and rotted. Ethenal gagged and covered her face with her hands.

“Come little one, we need your knowledge,” Ermengilde gentle put his arm around her shoulders and tucked her against him. She had to close her eyes, the body was too gruesome to bear. The smell was stronger now, and it was moving.

“Will the Tixiatone work on him?” Reaper whispered to her. His hand pulled hers down and gripped tightly. She shook her head, eyes still closed. It wouldn’t work. If this thing was still alive, it was by an inch. The wounds were festering and rot had begun to set in. Tixiatone was a strong healing vapor, but not something to bring the dead back to life. It couldn’t reattach limbs or fix terminal illnesses, it was something she thought of making in hopes to help children heal. Doctors were far too expensive for treatments in the slums of towns, even this could fight off infections.

“He will die if we do nothing, can we do anything for him? Is there anything you have to make him stable?” Reaper’s voice filled with panic. Ermenegilde hushed him and patted her shoulders. A part of Ethenal cared, but the other was numb to the urgency. These people hadn’t mistreated her, but how was she to know if the person they were saving would be the same. Why hadn’t they gone to the doctor in Suntithe instead? They knew she made poisons, not remedies.

She reached for the vial that had been secured around her thigh, the Tixiatone, and handed it back to Reaper. For a second she peered down. It was indeed a man, a giant man. Blistering pink flesh oozed from under his armor. Gashes bigger than any of their hands combined trailed all directions of his torso. It looks as if he rolled around in a barrel of rakes. Deep purple bruises were splotched around the tears of flesh. They were almost black in the lantern's light. Her stomach curled into knots, and regret. White slime began to lace the inner parts of the lacerations, but luckily the bleeding seemed minimal.

There was a chance she could control the infection with leeches, and herbal packing the wounds, and hope the Tixiatone was strong enough to work, but she needed it for the toxic vapor requested by the gorgons. The scale in her head weighed up and down for both outcomes. None ended in her favor. If she gave it up to them, the man would be saved, and they would be on their way, but she would fail to fill the order and be punished. If she didn’t help them with the potion, they would kill her on sight.

She weaseled around the two men and to her cupboard of ingredients. A jar of turpentine, scraps of vellum, dried rose petals, sprigs of cropleek, were jammed into her skirt while she searched for a substitute for leeches. Swamp-like areas were much too far a distance and out of climate to keep, she needed something that could do the trick.

“Pig, do you have honey?” she quickly snapped, spinning around from the cupboard.

“To hell with you! Stop calling me that!” Sigil shot up from his resting position, sticking his tongue at her. Ermenegilde rose and reaches his hand into Sigil’s bag that was towards the foot of the mattress. A small sac of honey was handed to her with another warm smile, while a dark glance shot into Sigil’s direction.

She fumbled about, laying the supplies around the giant’s mauled mass. Ermenegilde sat scolding Sigil in the background while Reaper’s lantern above their heads gave her as much light as the lamp could muster. Ethenal was scared. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she ground the rose petals into the jug of honey. After, she dipped her finger in, coating it thickly and winced as she reached for the closest lesion. His clothes were matted against his skin with blood, if she pried them off, she may open the wounds. The honey would have to act as a barrier and heal what it could. She took an inhale and pressed her lubricated finger deeper. The giant didn’t move or make any sound. Ethenal continued until he was lathered. She dribbled her turpentine along with the vellum scraps, bandaging what she could. It took almost all the men to lift the giant to be flipped and treated for even more injuries.

Days passed. They were all sleeplessly working to tend to the mystery man. His condition was improving but now she was out of supplies to continue. This is where she would have to use the Tixiatone. With both hands, she held the crystal vial tightly, praying. It needed to work. She uncorked the top and slowly released the mist to hover through the bandages.

An agonizing roar burst from the giant. His body shot up from its slumber, his stubbed fingers tearing at his chest. Ethenal screamed in response. Ermenegilde and Reaper straddled and pinned each arm against the floor with all of their body weight. It was barely enough.

“What did you do, why isn’t it working?” Sigil pushed her to the side and tried to help restrain. The vellum turned ashen and the wounds gurgled.

“It shouldn’t be doing this! Nothing in his wounds should be reacting!” Ethenal cried. She was killing him and now they were going to kill her. The tears finally came.

“Stop!” Reaper snapped at Sigil, grunting through his teeth while fighting the giant’s strength.

“Did you pull out the fangs?” Sigil commented, ignoring Reaper completely. What fangs? When she was digging around, she didn’t see or feel anything. The only thing to react with the ingredients in Tixiatone that she knew of were reptilian parts. Gorgon’s had large fangs, if they were inside of him somewhere, she was sure to find them.

“Ta..ll..y..” The giant cried in his fit of anguish. His breathing was out of control, and he tore most of the wrappings off but he was tiring. His body slumped back down. He wailed and cried for moments, then became silent. The room was heavy, no one spoke. They only watched for the giant’s breathing to change. Ethenal was curled into a ball, her head tucked between her knees.

Reaper unmounted the giant’s arm and checked his condition. The wounds were sealed but had a slick, black texture to them. It looked as if someone melted glass to seal the cuts. He gentled pressed his fingers about, feeling for any reactions.

Nothing.

Dawn rose again, seeping through the cracks of the walls. The winds brushed sand back and forth along the floor, the door still out of its place. Ethenal had cried herself into a dreamless sleep, one that didn’t budge even with the sun on her face. Reaper unconsciously wrapped his arms around her tightly pulling her against his chest. Sigil’s back lay against Reaper’s, snuggled into the rear of his cloak. Ermenegilde had rested the giant’s head in his lap and soothed him over the night until he succumbed to sleep as well.