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demonprosecutor · 4 years

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REMEMBER THE MANTRA: EVERYTHING SUCKS RIGHT NOW!

god-blood lingered on your tongue, fingers stained with red, as you wiped your blade on your chiton. you have heard medicine men slicing open skin to suck the venom out from wounds inflicted by venomous snakes - how effective it was is another story. he does not move, but with a gentle hand, told you that he still breathed. how long he lived; however, was a story you could not discern for yourself.

that thought frightens you. in the time you have known prince zagreus, you have grown to... care for him. in a way that you have never cared for anyone before. and to lose something so fragile and precious as this due to the hands of a beast was horrific. it made you feel cursed, like all good things in your life was meant to die.

you shut your eyes, clutching the ineffectual shawl tighter around your shoulders, as myroclus snuffled at the side of your head. he whinnied piteously, frightened by the night’s events and just as tired. “i know.” you scratch the underside of his chin, the only cover from the falling snow being a tree that arced overhead. “but what could we do?” helpless are the words and no answer arrives, the winter swallowing all manner of noise.

it was strange being out of the perpetual summer of lady persephone’s lands, the feeling being akin to a prey. exposed, fearful, in danger. white blanketed the ground, over barren trees and bushes. in your haste to escape, you knew that you did not have the means to survive

but i could help. you scream loudly, myroclus tossing his head so violently that zagreus nearly rolls off of his back. oh! tame your beast, little one. i am just a lone helper, a benevolent samaritan in these wild woods. the voice speaks in beguiling rasps, rumbling deep within your mind.

you leap to your feet, arms straining with the effort to heft the prince’s blade, the edges gleaming wickedly - hungering for the blood you cannot muster to give.

“oh, put that away.” in the space between a blink and the next, a hunched, shawled figure stood at the end of the natural path, a gnarled cane held in weathered. “i mean you no harm.”

in hesitation, the blade lowers slightly, but you hold fast. “who are you?” you demand aggressively, eyes narrowed in slits, features arranged in the harshest expression you could muster. “speak your name before I... before I use this blade.”

the figure does not move, does not speak. And it is long moments that leave you and myroclus uneasy enough to tense when they laugh loudly. lifting a hand, they pull the hood back and spools of white, shimmering hair falls onto the snow. but the thing that grabbed your attention the most was the milky-whiteness of their eyes, unblinking and unseeing. your grip on the hilt of the whispering blade tightens slightly. “fear not, young one. i bring you and your god prince no harm. i can help. he is... poisoned is he not?”

“how do you know---?!” the query clamps itself behind your teeth, hard enough that your jaw aches. but if they could help zagreus... your arm lowers, the tip of the blade embedding itself in the snow, red metal stark against white. “--- please. please help him. i’ll give you anything.”

the figure seems to smile benevolently at you; however, there was a sense of danger that instantly makes you wary. feeling as though you had made a promise for something you did not understand. “i see. come, to my home.” they turn, a shuffling movement made more apparent in the stillness of the air. you look up at myroclus who whinnies softly in unease.

yeah, strangers in the woods rarely was a good thing.

but one look at zagreus, pale and fire-feet flickering weakly, was enough for you to steel your nerves.

the path to the stranger’s house was not a long one; however, it does make you wary. a wooden house, constructed crudely with all matter of material ranging from branches to furs or pieces of trash carelessly left behind by travellers. it stunk of magic. not quite like the gods, but you have been around magic enough to have a sense of it, tugging at your soul, whispering coyly in the back of your mind (let us in, play with us, know us).

they opened the door and gestured for you to come in, prompting you to slide zagreus from myroclus’ back and toss his arm over your shoulder. gods, he was far heavier than you anticipated, nearly buckling under the weight of his bulk. you take a moment to study the small living space. jars filed with herbs lined the shelves, animal skins serving to be rugs on the floor and a fireplace with a cauldron bubbling at the back.

you deposit him into the cot that they had directed you. gently, as though he were a slumbering child. fingers brush over midnight black hair, fingers like branches, and it’s instinct that your own hand darts out to curl around the stranger’s wrist - eyes glinting with caution. “what will you do?”

to their credit, the stranger does not balk at the look you give them. “take his temperature, figure out which biles to use and construct an antidote.” they pull their hand away from your grasp, laying a hand over zagreus’ sweating forehead, ho-humming long enough to make you antsy. “ah, i know what this is.” their voice was dark, “satyr poison. you had a run-in with them. i thought they lingered in the underworld?”

the question was innocent enough, but as someone who was well-aware that association with gods was dangerous enough, you shrug slightly. “i do not know. i... i was attacked by them and he came to rescue me.” that was the only information you were willing to give, without damning the both of you. and besides, it wasn’t lying - zagreus did rescue you and you were attacked by them.

semantics, really.

“what is your name?” you ask, swiftly to change the subject, but out of curiousity as well.

the figure hums once more before producing a knife. “he is running hot. this suggests an imbalance of too much bad blood. and you may call me anura.” you watch like a hawk as anura slices zagreus’ skin open, holding a bowl underneath to catch the blood.

anura. what a strange name. something that you haven’t heard before and something that rolls off of your tongue weirdly. however, you do not make a fuss about their origins, they can keep their secrets if they wished (gods know that they most likely had many...)

even if you had seen his blood, it was disconcerting to see such a human red. didn’t gods bleed ichor? did gods bleed at all?

anura takes the bowl away and wraps it around the cut tightly, sealing the exit wound. they place wet clothes on exposed skin, staving off the fever and soaking up all the sweat that had accumulated, soaking the cot below. “is he going to be ok?” you ask desperately, too left in the dark to know anything, and holding his hand gently.

they shuffle towards the cauldron and dump the blood within whatever contents was already inside, muttering to themself in a low, rasping croon. the hairs on the back of your neck raise in abject alarm, air stilling, the scent of metal in the air, and oh gods ----- was this... was this witchcraft?

anura chanted, raising their arms and dumping herbs into the strange mixture, stirring with a long spoon, the flames flickering green (unnatural!). the wind outside roared and howled, snow battering the small hut, shrieking louder and louder until it falls silent.

still. quiet. enough that she could hear the panicked huffing of myroclus outside, waiting faithfully.

“here. let him drink this.” suddenly, a bowl of a foul-smelling concoction was thrust under your nose, causing you to lurch back.

“what’s inside?!”

anura stares at you - milky eyes holding an intensity that makes you balk. “do you wish for him to heal?”

without question, without any doubt. you take the bowl, looking away. if you were going to doom zagreus, at least let it be done by your own hands - you suspect that lord thanatos would be at your doorstep then. zagreus’ head is lifted slightly, the bowl placed at his lips where you tip the contents carefully into his mouth, watching as his throat bobs with every swallow. it’s not long before the bowl is empty and the pain on his features ease into something more pleasant.

like he was having pleasant sleep.

anura takes the bowl, placing it onto the nearby table, turning to you with an unreadable look. “payment.”

you gently place zagreus’ head back onto the cot and wipe your hands on your chiton. “ah, yes. how much? i have drachmas in my pouch---” as you pass anura, their hand shoots out as fast as a striking viper, curling around your wrist with a strength that surprises you.

“i have no use for money,” they spit out, derisive, nails digging into the tender meat of your wrist. “i want something more. something that you cannot part without. a piece of your heart.” their voice shudders, deepening, lifting, and you realize - oh gods, they’re not human, they’re not human, they’re not human.

your body trembles like a leaf in the throes of a windstorm, heart hammering in your chest. “-- i don’t... i don’t u-understand.”

“something precious, something fond.” blood wells up from where you are held onto. not letting go even as you cry out.

“i have something!” and it makes your heart ache, tears springing to your eyes at the enormity of what you were going to do. anura lets go of your hand, just so that you can fish out the box that held the seed to sapeio’s tree, tears streaming down your face - offering it to anura.

greed overcame anura’s features, tongue licking over lips, as they snatched the box from your hands. “oh, oh. this is. this is wonderful. all i’ve ever wanted. memory, love, grief.” their eyes roll wildly around in their sockets. “debt repaid, your debt is repaid.”

they hobble over to the table, opening the box and unfurled the white clothe that held the seed; you look away, sobs leaving your mouth as you curl zagreus’ arm over your shoulders, dragging him outside, ignoring the witch muttering to themself.

it was for him. (unfortunately). for him.

-----

zagreus wakes up, feeling both hot and cold, stifled underneath the sheets that he was swaddled in. but his only solace was the cool cloth that mopped up the sweat that beaded on his forehead. he shifts in place, sighing slightly before cracking his eyes open to see your face hovering over his. “... urgh, what happened?” he sits up, aided by you, and promptly propped against pillows.

“you were poisoned by one of those satyrs.” you say, wringing the cloth over a bowl, stained pink from blood. “we’re in a nearby town, safe. i got us an inn for two nights.”

his body ached. as though he had battled through the underworld once more. zagreus felt delirious, only remembering bits and pieces after he was poisoned. you crying, you wielding his blade, some strange figure cutting him. before he started feeling better. zagreus grasped his head, “i.. don’t remember much. how did you heal me?”

you don’t look at him, careful to avoid his gaze. the thought of giving up a piece of sapeio made you inconsolable enough to cry yourself hoarse until you passed out for the night. “i asked for help.” you hear yourself say. “they healed you.”

“oh. oh. sweet... ” you don’t realize you’re crying until zagreus, kind, sweet, zagreus reaches out and pulls you into a hug. “darling, what happened?” you press your face against his shoulder, sobbing and clutching him tightly. he pets your hair, almost-helpless in the way he does it, protective in the way he does it.

you explain anura, how terrified you felt seeing him fall, and most of all, how you had to give up sapeio’s seed as payment. you wrap your arms around him, as tight as you could - attempting to mold your shape against his.

“i’m sorry...” he murmurs softly, guilt saturating his tone. “i know how much sapeio meant to you.”

nonetheless, even in your grief, you can tell that he was regretting on being saved. you lift yourself up on shaky arms, glaring down at him with a splotchy face. “n-no! it’s not your fault! i--- i’ll miss... having it. but i don’t regret saving you.” you point at him fiercely, attempting to cement the fact that even if it was hard to not have the comfort of knowing that something of sapeio was still there, you wouldn’t change your decision “i would’ve saved you. in any lifetime. i would’ve chosen you.”

he stares back at you with mismatched eyes, stunned at your admission. and you flush, extracting yourself from his arms. or at least, attempting to. “wh---”

“please. stay with me.” zagreus sounded weak, face flushed slightly. he shuffles on the cot, turning on his side to allow for you to have enough space to lay in. “i... i don’t think i can sleep alone tonight.”

considering that you were planning to sleep on the floor, this wasn’t too bad of a tradeoff. you nod slightly, settling in the place that he indicated, holding back your flinches at the way he made sure the sheet went over you and the arm curled around your waist gently.

the night was already arriving and sleep lingered at the back of your eyes. “we have to warn the town of the satyrs tomorrow.” you yawn loudly.

zagreus laughs slightly, breath brushing the back of your neck. “of course. not lets sleep.”

it takes a long time before you do.

#hades supergiant #hades the game #zagreus #zagreus hades #my writing #aku writing

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sunevial · 4 years

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How Vir and Miriah met :3

Lightly shoed feet crunched through the freshly fallen snow, wind blowing softly around Virashtai’s legs and tugging playfully at her cloak. With swift yet careful fingers, she adjusted the broach at her neck and pulled up her hood, further muffling her hearing in such a quiet land. She turned once, then twice, eyes searching for something to land on other than endless expanses of white and the little town in the distance.

They found nothing.

Each footstep rattled in her eardrums, every mile passed with barely a chittering squirrel or chirping bird. After a lifetime of communal living, first surrounded by family and then the ever rotating lineup of performing troupes and traveling carnivals and ragtag adventuring groups, she was utterly and entirely alone.

Well. ‘Alone’. No kalashtar ever is truly by their lonesome.

Even so, to not have a single living soul around was…unsettling? Unpleasant? Uncomfortable?

Putting words to feelings was still such a curious concept.

Flat land and well traveled roads made for good time, but even easy travels did not stop bone-chilling temperatures or the early evenings that come with cold weather. Suppressing shivers, the monk pulled her cloak tighter as the sounds of civilization floated past her ears: merchants hawking wares from windows, a handful of children playing in snowbanks, the steady beat of a blacksmith’s hammer. The town was nothing particularly out of place for the region, small enough to walk across in no time at all but large enough to sport a tavern or two.

Finding one such establishment dubbed The Red Leopard, Virashtai dusted off her snow-covered clothes and stepped inside. The room was lit with a number of candles and oil lanterns, bathing wooden tables and rickety stools in a soft orange glow. Something was roasting over the fire in the back, lamb or pork from the smell, waiting for people to come in from a long day’s work and get a hot meal. Patrons were scattered between the tables, nursing drinks and chatting in low voices.

“Evening, miss,” came a voice from the other side of the counter. A man in his fifties, tall, broad-shouldered, and a beard to match a deep voice. “What brings you to this sleepy little town?”

“If I’m being truthful, it was the first place to really stop on this road,” Virashtai said with a small smile, pulling down her hood and shaking out curls.

“Sounds about right,” the man replied with a snort, wiping down a mug with a rag. “You looking for a meal and a room, I’m guessing?”

“Well…yes, though I was actually hoping for a little work too,” she replied, pulling aside her cloak to reveal a beautifully carved zither. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

That got an eyebrow raise. “You a bard or something?”

“No bard, but I am a performer.”

The man slowly nodded, then pointed towards a small stage. Following his hand, Virashtai’s eyes landed on a young man setting up a number of instruments. “Well, we’ve already got one of our own playing tonight, but I don’t think he’d turn down a partner,” he said, cracking a small smile of his own. “Draw a large enough crowd and the first drink is on me.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir.” Bowing slightly, she wandered over to the stage, taking another scan of the patrons. For the most part, they drew from the crowd that wouldn’t still be working so close to dinner, mainly a handful of scholarly types and those too old to be working field or steel. One stood out, though: a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a far more intricate outfit than the people around her, a light purple top revealing detailed turquoise tattoos working their way along her arms. A mug in hand, her gaze hadn’t faltered from Virashtai and the bartender the entire conversation.

Rather used to stares from strangers, it was common knowledge that kalashtar were perceived by others as unusually attractive, Virashtai flashed the woman a friendly smile. That done, she sat down on the small wooden platform, giving her introductions to the musician. As suspected by the barkeep, the young man was more than happy to have another voice join him on stage, and the two of them quickly exchanged words on which songs they knew, which tunes would be best suited, and what other performances the two could pull off with practically no time at all.

It took a song or two for them to synch up their playing, but before long, harmonies started to overlap and jaunty dancing tunes filled the air. People filtered into the tavern at a steady pace, ears following the lively music and eyes landing on the strange woman who had wandered into town with little more than a zither and a walking stick. Some danced along, some listened, and still, the strange woman kept her attention on her.

Well. If she was going to stare, Virashtai would give her something to stare at.

“Zaren? Do you know ‘Night’s Grace’?” Virashtai asked as yet another song came to a close, glancing over to the young musician who could swap between drums and viol with hardly a second thought.

“I do, why?” he said, tuning one of the strings.

“I happen to…know a dance to it,” she replied, smiling and setting down her zither. “And I was thinking that we needed to liven things up before everyone goes home for the night.”

The young man blinked a couple of times, each one resulting in his smile growing wider and the gears in his head turning. “I like the way you think, Vir. Why not, let’s try it out. Worst thing that happens is that you make a fool of yourself and people pay us out of pity.”

“That’s the idea,” she replied with a wink, standing up as the music started and the beat sank into her body. Her feet tapped, her body swayed, and when she could feel the music in every limb, she took a step and let her movements fly free. Arms twirled, hands curled, hips swayed, legs circled, and feet flew as the movements flowed through her, a combination of deep muscle control and performance fluidity. Chatter died down until all eyes turned to her, watching almost spellbound as she leaped and spun, smiling all the while and occasionally clapping her hands to the beat.

The woman simply watched, eyes shining and gaze almost spellbound.

A simple flourish and the song ended, the tavern erupting into applause and cheers for another. Breathless, Vir took a bow and said her thanks, flopping back down into her chair and tossing out her little collection bowl. One by one, people passed her by, tossing in little bits of coin here and there, reasonably generous for such a small town.

The woman waited until the crowd had thinned before approaching, pushing a bit of light brown hair out of her face. “That was quite the show there.”

“Why thank you,” Virashtai said with a small bow. “You certainly seemed invested.”

“It’s not every day someone as interesting as you wanders into town,” she replied, looking at the collection bowl thoughtfully before turning her gaze back. “I find it very hard to believe that you’re not a bard after seeing that.”

She shrugged. “I’ve never really been one for magic.”

“Then what do you do besides put on a show if you’re not a bard, miss…?” the woman said, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit much to be asking, seeing as I still haven’t gotten your name or why you would care?” Virashtai asked, cocking her head to the side and smiling.

Raising an eyebrow, her face twisted into the slightest of smirks. “Aren’t you a bold one? Well, I’m Miriah, and call it an…insurance in case there’s any strange reports when the sun comes up.”

“You’re part of the town guard, then?”

“I suppose you could say that,” she said, eyes twinkling ever so slightly.

“Fair enough,” Virashtai said, stretching out her arms before bowing again. “Vir, daughter of Kor, martial artist, acrobat, and musician, and currently between performing troupes.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Miriah said with a teasing smile. “And I suppose you don’t have much in the way of coin if you are in between jobs at the moment?”

She picked up her little bowl and poured a now much smaller pile of coins into her belt pouch, earnings already split in half due to the other musician taking his cut to the bar. “That is…a safe assumption to make.”

Smoothing down her skirt, Miriah smiled ever so slightly. “Well, then perhaps I can alleviate one of your current problems. I happen to have plenty of space at my house if you were looking for a place to spend the night without having to pay.”

Well. That certainly explained the staring.

Not that she was about to complain.

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Miriah,” Virashtai responded after a small pause, grabbing her staff and jumping off the stage. “Though I would hate to intrude on another’s house.”

“That’s far too formal for my liking, please just call me Miriah.” Her smile softened a touch, though still with a touch of playfulness and the earlier curiosity. “And don’t worry, there’s very little to intrude upon when it’s just me.”

She smiled in return, securing her cloak for another adventure out into the cold. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind leading the way?”

Miriah smiled, pulling a shawl over her own shoulders and opening the tavern door. Cold air rushed past, catching the loose fabric and fluttering it in the sudden burst of wind. Some patron one too many drinks in complained about the temperature change, telling her to either stay in or head out.

Strangely enough, Virashtai didn’t really notice the cold.

#virashtai #my writing #dnd #anon

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