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Salvia Eternity · 04-16-2012, 07:41 AM

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A beast stirred in the heart of the kingdom.

It was, or had once been, a girl. A child who had learned the ways of capturing eyes from her father and touched a distant world with her mother. A child who had loved and been loved and known fear and joy.

That girl was gone, and in its place walked a monster.

She did not remember the fight. She had not watched her father cut down the man who had stabbed her through the chest and left her for dead. She had not seen the mountain when it fell. Yet in her dreams she saw things, and those dreams had carried her on when she could not walk. A gaping wound still resonated within her—beyond where the sword had pierced her breast. Her father was dead and nothing, no amount of fury, no cries of anguish, would return him.

When she had risen she had been alone. It was apparent to her that they had not wished to disturb her rest, but she was a creature now driven by a singular purpose. Hot blood rippled under her skin and pulled fur taunt where it left. Her pretty hair was disheveled but cleaned; someone had cleaned her while she slept in that dark world. Standing was difficult, but she heard the cry of the witch and knew what it meant.

The beast staggered to the door of her home and was unsurprised to see a shadow rise to greet her. It was the slave—her slave—and the only one who had witnessed what occurred on that fateful day. Salvia stared at her with wide, fever-bright eyes. “I have to go,” she hissed, and extended one arm.

Somehow, in their unified madness, the women walked. Salvia felt the earth tremble under her feet. She relied heavily on the Korean but did not let this show.

They arrived together, and she saw the shape of the pyre, saw what it meant, and felt her heart break in two. This was her father. A moment of weakness seized her and she clutched at the slave’s arm savagely, forcing herself to remain standing.

Another beast awaited her. Salvia took heavy steps towards the King she called uncle and stood on her own two legs, a pale bandage covering the savage wound on her chest. It was bleeding again, but it did not matter—she would see this done. No words escaped her, but her body radiated with sick heat and delirium. Though she did not know the gods of this woman, this witch, she saw a pale shape rise to join them. Wisteria; aunt, Priestess of Khalif. She was nude and her fur streaked by strange shapes and patterns, painted with expert hands. In her hands she held a figure made of grass, of vine, of unfamiliar plants. It was the same shape as the stone figure around the dead man’s neck.

What a sight, the three of them—a dark woman in raven feathers, a white one covered in sigils of fierce gods, and a red woman cloaked in white like the sheet that covered the body of her father.

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