turn their heads to watch, he had the first lifted off of its feet, and he hurled the five-hundred pound animal at its ally in a single swipe. He leapt on the third, crushing its skull from fifteen feet in the air. His smile had not changed.
Irritated, he ran on, concerned about Tisiphone.
It was a roar. No, it was a pulse. There was a distinct rhythmic vibration, long and slow, in amongst the pounding throb. Her eyes were hazy and it was dark. She smelled a sharp tang in the air. It was the same smell as the night before. It was the smell of blood.
She was slowly regaining control of her body. She could feel her limbs moving numbly, as if in molasses or sand. Her fingers were sluggish and her vision was returning¡K
It was a mess inside the tent. She realized what was happening before she had enough control to stop herself. She remembered what happened.
He had tried to touch her. He had brought her close to him, looked down into her eyes as his hands moved around her hips. He had pushed her skirt down and smiled at her right before he had torn away her clothes. She had struggled to get away from him when she saw him for the first time in her own, truest eyes. She looked at him as he tried to pry apart her legs. She saw only food. The red had already taken over by that point. His attack had forced her into a savage fury of unrelenting hunger.
But now that she was cognizant of her actions, she was rife with guilt. He had been a good man. He had not deserved such a death, perhaps he was guilty of attempting to hurt her, but it was not a crime to be punished with death.
She cried as she fed. The tears streaked clean lines down her blood-soaked face. Sobs racked her chest, tight with terror and strange, dark power. Her fingers ached. She let her head hang in shame, blood dripping off of her chin into her dark lap in the moonlight. Her arms were soaked to the elbow in thick, clotting blackness. The blood of a young man pooled in her lap, sticking to her thighs under her shredded skirt.
The scent of fresh flesh stung her nostrils, her hunger rose. Whimpering, she held a morsel before her eyes. The tears rose again, uncontrollable, as she lifted it to her mouth. The hunger was unbearable, like a rift in her belly, threatening to tear her in half.
Her head pounding, roaring like a great dragon, she leaned over his body. She bit off another chunk, its tang sharp and horribly delicious. Her mind raced, trying desperately to reconcile her hunger and her nature. No longer in control, her thoughts drifted and slowed, congealing, as her body took over, feeding.
Everything faded, her sanity slipped. Her vision clouded, the roar growing, drowning out all else. As she faded, a different her rose, older, stronger.
She picked up a cape, standing.
It was heavy in her hand, not fabric but woven metal.
Then, darkness.
It was too late. Far too late by the looks of it. There was blood splattered on the inside of the tent, the candlelight illuminating a shadowy figure bent over what seemed like a corpse. The blood was running down the sides of the tent.
Karnyn strode to the tent flap. He was prepared to rip the assassin’s head from his shoulders. He would enjoy the sensation for once. This man would need to suffer.
There was a whimpering from the tent. Horrified, he lunged around it to rip the tent open when he realized that the crouched figure had just lifted her hand to her mouth.
She was feeding.
He heard her pick up her cape and stand, the plaintiff little sobs muted almost to silence.
The tent flap opened slowly. She turned to the door, her blood-soaked underwear making her look absolutely nude. Her arms were warrior arms, thick talons ended her fingers, and her eyes were huge with fear and excitement.
He looked at her with a mixture of relief and longing. He had slipped too deeply into his persona of Felswen. His love redoubled itself a hundredfold.
She looked at him startled and confused. Her memories came back, out of order and one by one but at a blinding speed¡K
She was standing on the wall, ready to leap upon the hordes of fiends assaulting the gates. She would wait until they had broken through, then she would slay them all. Every last one. The humans she was protecting inside the city would never trust such tactics. But she had fed tonight, and well.
She was lying in a massive bed with a woman, Vorelthrae with her blue and green scales and her dark wings. Aerin and Karnyn were nearby.
She was holding Karnyn, right before Aireon drew her back to the depths. She kissed him deeply.
“Give my love to the girls. I will return.”
She was standing in the mountains, watching Nerles burn. She walked into the mountains, feeding upon the servants of the Insane King as they went about their missions to destroy the kingdom.
She was clinging to a stone spire in the mountains, watching as an attractive man approached. He smelled of dragons, but he held himself as mage of war. They exchanged blows briefly; he tried to get information from her, but she fled instead of slaying him. Later, she had joined his cadre of fiendslayers, to the chagrin of her master Aireon.
She was standing on a stone, lifted from the pits of the abyss itself. Aireon’s mission was clear in her mind: travel to Athon City and meet with those she had once known as lovers.
Karnyn had moved to her and had his arms around her as she shuddered from her flashing strobe light memories. He whispered into her ear in a caring voice, “I’m so glad you’re safe, Tisiphone.”
She regained some control, feeling her killing claws evolve back into normal hands. The irony struck her, finally.
“You think I was in danger from that knight?” she inquired, squeezing close to him, nuzzling into his chest.
“He was actually an assassin. Sent by the church of Iain to kill you. I was afraid he’d get the drop on you and send you back Down. I’ve waited too long to see you again to let him take you away.”
She was touched. “Thank you, Karnyn. I love you. How has your life been? I’ve been away for the most of it.”
“That is true, but I, we, spend every day thinking of you.”
“Aerin and Vorelthrae are still alive?”
“Of course, Aerin is a great and powerful necromancer. She has her own tower.” He smiled, “And Vorelthrae is doing quite well. She’s been quite busy, as have we all. But not a day passed we haven’t missed you.”
“How long has it been, Karnyn?”
“Three centuries and six decades next week.”
A sound brought them apart a little, looking to the side, as Scripto gated in from his high tower in Athon City. He took one look at them, her soaked in blood, him with a girl-shaped imprint on his chest in red.
“I have some visitors who would like to see you two,” their old friend said, his voice smooth with his youthful immortality.
Their eyes lit up together as a woman with blue scales, long green hair and horns stepped through the portal, clothed in a silvery shawl and tight armor. After Vorelthrae followed Aerin in her white dress, her black hair neatly coifed with wrought iron daggers. The newcomers smiled at their lost love who had stars in her eyes.
Scripto chuckled as the four gathered in an embrace. He looked skywards. “Its terribly good to have you back with us, Tisiphone.”
She smiled, warm and safe, clinging to her favorite people in the worlds, and a flood entered her mind, the memories of aeons gone, her past lives, millions of them, all of them hungry. She fainted.
The one once called Psamathe awoke to the pleasant sensation of her stomach being rubbed. The smell of cooked meat and rare vegetables seeped in from the next room. She was warm and comfortable. She looked around slowly, happy to see her friends.
“I remember,” she said.
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