Uneven Scales - A Hellgirl Quest

1.0: Becoming Null

"And in the honor of the Low Gods, lot is sold to esteemed mestre Salt-Upon-Wounds," the auctioneer calls in a creaky voice.

The gorgon in front of you meets the news about her fate with the same sort of quiet resignation that she has exhibited all throughout the auction. She keeps her blindfolded head bowed and stilled; during the presentation the auctioneer had to poke at her mane of serpents to get a reaction, show that the bound reptiles were not dead. When a pair of flesh-market's attendants removes her from the narrow platform - little more than a wooden block to keep her up and visible - she goes limp in their hands.

You turn your head to watch them drag her to the side, to be handed over to her new owner at the end of the day. But you don't have much time to gawk, as the heavy hand grabbing your shoulder reminds you.

"Up," an attendant barks into your ear, pushing you forward "eyes down, arms down. No covering."

Your time has come up. You climb the block, trembling and telling yourself you aren't afraid, that you aren't regretting the decision that brought you here. All lies. But you force yourself to obey, keep arms parallel to your chest and grip your sides, eyes staring straight down, at your toes. An obligation binds you. You mustn't go for little.

"And the next lot," the auctioneer calls, silencing the conversation between remaining buyers. "A rare specimen from the lands of the Aker people!"

She allows herself a moment of pause, strolling in front of you and giving the buyers a chance to take a closer look at your flesh. You don't have to see them back to feel their gaze smeared over your exposed body, staining it like greasy fingers rubbed against your bare skin.

"A chimera" she continues after a moment "born of demon blood and a human womb. In outward aspect, similar to a woman. Aside from the marks of its flesh that you are welcome to investigate, be aware of the wickedness of Hell that runs through its blood: when others suffer by its hand, it feels the fiercest kind of pleasure!"


***


You remember that April morning; you were ten then, maybe elven.

It'd been raining for weeks, and there was a leak in the roof that Mother hadn't yet patched; all your kindling had gone soggy and after an hour of trying to get it to catch fire, she finally gave up and asked you to go to house of Ostrlings, who lived nearby, and bring some embers from them. You remember you didn't want to; you didn't feel safe going around the village without Mother. But she couldn't go - the old wound in her hip was acting up again, and she could barely walk. You asked her anyway, because back then you didn't understand what it meant when she'd tell you she was hurting.

But in the end, you took the pot she gave you and went out alone, your heart beating like a startled sparrow. You dashed to Ostrlings' farm, then froze at their door; but one of Fleda the Ostrling's daughters noticed you, and let you in, and you explained yourself to her and Fleda in mortified stutter. They laughed, gave you some bread and honey and allowed you to warm yourself by their fire before packing a pile of embers into the pot and urging you to return to your mother, lest she freezes.

But then, as you walked out of their door and past their fence, you ran into Odo, Fleda's youngest son. Mother would always tell you that he was born stupid and this is why he'd always tell you the cruelest things, and that you should ignore him. But when you were alone, clutching the warm pot, it felt different to you. He'd say things, something about your skin, or your eyes, or anything that set you out from him, and those things felt terrifying to you. So you froze, and he came closer, and kept telling you those things again and again, and you legs felt like jelly and your heart almost burst. You tried to call out for Mother, and he laughed even harder.

Then, he came even closer, and tried to take the pot from you. For some reason, some stupid childish reason. And you reacted on pure reflex, like a startled animal would: you smashed it against his head, with all the force of your meagre frame.

At this point, the memory blurs and scatters into a kaleidoscope of distorted images and feelings. You remember the sound of embers sizzling in the damp soil. You remember his crying, and the bright-red blood on his cut head. You remember holding a half of the pot in your hand, its broken edges like jagged teeth. You remember Fleda shouting words at you, or at him.

But most of all, you remember your body seizing up with pleasure as you hurt him. It was as if someone had poured liquid fire into your veins, all the discomfort of the night gone, all that tension and stress coiled inside of released in a single burst a warm and and numbing bliss that felt like the sweetest and most intimate violation.

You don't remember returning home, but you remember the scent of verbena in your mother's hair as you tucked yourself by her side, holding onto her as the one anchor keeping you afloat. You remember Fleda shouting again, now in your home, and you remember your mother shouting back, not releasing you for a second. You remember having no words to describe what had happened. You remember crying instead.

She kept you by her side all day, and when the evening came, she tucked you to sleep right by her side. You remember how cold and damp the house was, but you also remember not caring one bit: she gave you all the warmth you needed. She whispered to you for hours: that what had happened did not make you into a devil, that you were just a girl with a body, and that this body would sometimes surprise you, but that you didn't have to be afraid of it. You remember falling asleep to the sound of her voice telling you that tomorrow, it would be all good.

In the years that followed, you liked to pretend that this sweet joy gripping you when you made others hurt was something alien, like a parasite burrowed into the pit of your stomach. But instead, it had driven its hooks under your skin, through bone and muscle, becoming a part of you no less integral than the blood and ichor in your veins. It did not make you cruel, it did not turn you into a monster - but it did leave an imprint on your growing up:

[ ] You grew up focused, but shy. Avoiding others meant avoiding hurting them. As long as you kept your distance, you wouldn't have to worry about what it would entail.

[ ] You grew up brave, but overconfident. You took your mother's advice to heart. You didn't want to be afraid of yourself, so you played up bravery whenever you were afraid you'd hurt someone.

[ ] You grew up resolute, but melancholic. You didn't choose the body you were born with, but you could choose what did with it. You learned to accept it by treating it as a fate dealt to you, a burden to carry.


***


It's increasingly difficult to keep your balance on the block. Your body feels heavy; you sway to the sides, hoping that the moment will come soon when you will be allowed to step down, sit. The auction has been going on for what feels like an eternity, an initial gaggle of shouts and voices gradually dying down as greater and greater wealth and splendour was offered for your flesh. There's an element of relief to that, for sure: unless you show weakness, you don't have to worry about going cheap. You won't fail. This, and this alone keeps you standing.

It's even harder to keep your head down, to not sneak in glances at the people about to take you into possession. You keep your eyes fixated at a knot in the wood by your toes, holding onto it as if it was a lifeline. You obey, and do not look. But you do listen.

"Enough with your appetite, Salt!" there is a woman's voice, whipcrack-sharp and snappy. "You have the gorgon, that other freak, and you still want more? Is there even room left in that menagerie of yours?"

There is hear a heady chuckle. The voice that follows is deep, raspy, altogether unpleasant.

"But see the marks of its blood, clear and pronounced? It is not a body spawned from a mere imp, but a rare treasure of Hell! You want it bled on the sands of the arena? It's to be preserved! Marvelled at!"


***


You remember running into your home one February morning, holding the hem of your skirt up to keep it from getting muddy.

"What's the rush, child?" your mother asked, not moving her hands from above the fire. Something had gotten into them in the autumn, and she was trying to banish it with warmth, and dried herbs. She would succeed then, and only fail later. "What's the gossip?"

You sat on the bench by her, smiling excitedly.

"Suntha's getting wed!" you declared, voice giddy. "To Odo the Ostrling!"

Your mother frowned.

"What a match! A simpleton hitched to a scarecrow."

"Mother!" you blinked, and she smirked at you, the scar across her lips twitching worm-like, to remind you why she seldom smiled.

"Odo is a moron," she said with a shrug. "When the abess made him recite his prayers, he couldn't get past the first two."

"So can't I," you protested. "Doesn't mean anything!"

"So you are of the high faith now?"

You said nothing, but she could always read your silence better no worse than your words.

"Oh, get over it child," she sighed, and ruffled your hair. You chuckled. "He was going to grow up an idiot even before you smashed that pot on his head. And it wasn't a very nice pot anyway."

There was another pause. Again, she broke it.

"You've been delivering me the good news all winter long," she said quietly. "And you know that I don't much like that gossip."

"I just…" you bit your lip and looked aside. "Even Suntha's getting wed. And she's..."

"She is uglier than an execution's night," she finished for you. "But since when was marriage about the looks? And since when do you even care? Last I've asked you'd told you never wanted to marry, girl."

"It's not about that! It's just… mother, I'm fifteen and a half, and I… Odo called Suntha beautiful today. No one ever said that to me!"

She inhaled heavily, as if disappointed.

"Daughter sweet," she said, bringing you closer. "You have your mother's looks."

You looked at her face, all the scars and liver-spots, and she just cackled.

"Not me, and be grateful to God for that. I mean that you are the splitting image of the one woman who ever managed to seduce me."

For a moment, all of your previous concerns vanished, replaced by sheer confusion.

"But…" you whimpered. "So you… wait, I didn't have a fa… how?"

Your mother's next sigh reached a new plateau of exasperation.

"When you are a demon queen, it's really not that difficult."

"Ah," you said, and she seized on your confusion.

"You are as beautiful as she was, and if this village of dolts can't see that it is just more evidence for my theory that they want their wives to be indistinguishable from their goats. And now, please, get cooking. I ache too much today."

You nodded, and said no more. You didn't think about Odo or his wife; for the first time, you wondered about your other mother. You have inherited much from her, not just the cruel pleasure firing up your blood. After her, you received your snapping tail, your ram-like horns, fangs in your mouth and talons at your fingers, but most importantly …

[ ] The fire in you. You have to hold your hand inside a bonfire for minutes on end to receive even a minor burn. With a little bit of focus, you can ignite whatever you are touching, as long as it can catch flame. Your skin is the deep red of fire-bricks.

[ ] The cold in you. The coldest gales barely chill you, and even a thin dress keeps you warm in the depth of winter. You are always cold in touch, and if you strain yourself, you can turn your touch ice-like, cold enough to give ice-burns. Your skin is the pale blue of clear ice.

[ ] The poison in you. It takes strongest poisons to make you feel even a bit nauseous. You never get sick or hungover and can eat about anything. Your blood, once shed, burns like acid, vicious enough to eat through iron. Your skin is the bright purple of the lilac flowers.


***


You dreamed of being admired, once. Now, there are men and women who talk about your body as if it was some exotic gem, who spare no words in marveling over it, extolling its quality. But it is not about you. They admire the skin, and the contour of bone beneath. But nothing else. Your fingers dig deeper into your sides.

"The sands of my arena wouldn't bear a mere imp-spawn, wizard," the sharp-voiced woman declares, proudly. "And with this lust it has? I can chisel that flesh and make it into a contender, the likes of which we have not seen since Stonebreaker."

"Oh." The man sounds nothing short but disappointed. "Lady of the house, please tell, how many years does it have?"

"About twenty," the auctioneer responds, prompt. "It's difficult to tell, as it was not bred."

"Thank you, darling," his voice splashes down, wetly. "Winter, my dear lannista, pray tell, from what age should beasts be trained to serve well?"

She grits her teeth in response, a voice like iron against iron.

"I will not be drawn into your word-games, and I will not have my judgement questioned. Lady of the house! I offer a commemoration, should it become ours. We will fund a temple to Low Gods and a service to the name of your choice for a century to come."

"A gracious offer," the auctioneer acknowledges. "And a generous one. How does esteemed mestre respond?"

"Pfeh!" his voice trembles up. "Fine be it, then! I swear to the Low Gods that I will release all that was given to me today to whoever wins the action, to better show my piety. Make it noted."

"The offering is noted, and its value appreciated. The scales are, again, tied."

For a moment, no one speaks out loud; a susurrus of prayer fills the chamber. You know its words; you spoke them often. For a moment, reflex gets better of you, and your mouth moves to the wordless tune of the Debtors Word. You make no sound, and yet, it doesn't go unnoticed.

"Lady of the house," the lannista calls. "the chimera just mouthed grace. How does it know it?"

"That's very interesting, and a good catch, dear Winter," the wizard picks up. "Your eyes are sharp as ever. Lady of the house, an explanation if you please?"

"Oh, it just is not a bred specimen," the auctioneer replies quickly, sweetest she can. "There are quirks to it, and irregularities the House has not taken upon itself to fix. Its human sire must have induced it into the rites, for reasons quite inconceivable to the House."

"Aker barbarians," there is a sort casual contempt in the lannista's voice that gets to you. They don't see a person in you; they don't see a people in your land. You grip your sides so hard you fear they will bruise. "But there was no war in the last year, and in the year before. If they treated it as one of their own, then how come it is here now on the offer?"

"Ah." Again, auctioneer's response is almost instant. "It is a curious story."


***


Late last spring, you woke up to see your mother curled beneath her blankets, shaking violently; her sweat was stinky and sticky, almost pus-like. You didn't know what to do, so you panicked, and begged her to tell you, and through clenched teeth, barely squeezing words out of her throat, she urged and go to village over where a healer that could help her resided. You didn't dally; you alerted Fleda and asked her to care for her while you were gone, and set out.

A deep, forested valley separated you from the village you were headed for, and crossing it would normally take a day at the least, and then another to return. You managed to get there with sun still high on the sky, only to learn that the healer was ten years dead, and that your mother was the one who had administered last rites to him back.

By the time you returned, after midnight and too exhausted to stand straight, your mother had gone through her entire store of old, numbing potions she had kept from that past of hers she had never told you about. They kept lucid, lucid enough so that when you saw the flask of poison in her hands, you knew it was not unthinking. But the flask was sealed, and she was still alive.

"I'm dying," was the first thing she had said on your return. "I didn't want you to watch," was the second. "I couldn't bear that shame."

A volatile mix of worry, fear, exhaustion and fury took you over. You called her out for lying, for trying to steal her life away while you weren't looking, for hiding from you just how bad it all was. For just how bad it had been for the last few years. Even numbed and ruined as she was, she fought back. Even numbed and ruined as she was, she wasn't ready to admit weakness.

In the end, you cried into her arm that night, feeling just how weak her grip had become as she tried to comfort you. But for the first time, it didn't work, and for the first time, you had to listen to and comfort her. Not that you knew how, not when she spoke to you about how she knew she had only a week or two left, that she was surprised she had made it that far, and that she was terrified of death and not ready for it the littlest bit.

Come morning, the entire village crowded to your door. Gossip spread fast, and they brought in dying-gifts, sweet cakes and honey meant to smooth the final days. Your mother didn't want any of them, and you had to keep her from shouting the guests away; thankfully her voice gave way quick and all that she could do was lie down, powerless, crying and whispering at others to keep away and not see her be like that. Truth be told, you had been waiting for that opportunity all day long. You fled the house with others, hoping to catch a breath and keep your head from bursting.

You sought respite in wandering about the village like a lost dog, trying to lose your thoughts and despair. Others let you be, without bothering you with empty words of comfort and cloying sympathy: Aker people understood grief well, its ebb and flow. As you moved past them, they spoke to each other the one blessing they all followed:

"This too shall pass."

And yet, it refused. It kept on swelling, holding your body and soul fast long past the point it should had burst. You ran around in circles because you couldn't bring yourself to stop, to return to your home, to see her again the way she was, to watch her suffer and rot away, begging and pleading with what couldn't be helped. And you knew the longer you delayed, the longer she lay there, alone, waiting, hoping against herself that she wouldn't have to be alone.

There was nothing you wouldn't give up to save her. To save yourself from seeing her die.

So you did the one thing you could think of, and sought the Low Gods.

Kings of decay they are, masters of the soil to which all living things must some day return, and stewards of the depths of the earth were riches are hoarded, wardens of sunless underworlds of where souls unclaimed by Heaven and untouched by Hell are imprisoned. Few worship them outright, even if all pray them respect they are due. They are many, some worshipped far and wide, some forgotten to minds of men; but they all share in common the same greed.

The village's shrine was neglected and ramshackle; Low Gods were not in the habit of speaking to those who had nothing to offer to them. You too had little hope to hear from them, even as you threw yourself to the muddy floor, eyes away from the idol. But in rumbling voices they spoke back to you, for you were no pauper, and had in your possession a great and valuable prize: a body of a hellish chimera. If you could give it away to a House of theirs, where it would earn them glory and splendour, they would gladly grant you their blessings, strong enough to keep rot and death away from any paltry human's body.

You returned home already hoping that your mother would talk you out of it. That she would cut your rapid, rambling explanation, urging you to abandon the trade and allow her a peaceful departure. That she would tell you that you didn't have to do that, that things would work out just fine without this trade, without this sacrifice. Even as you spoke to her and saw her face lighten, part of you waited for protest, resistance. She offered none.

"Thank you," she said, and on her face, you saw only relief. And then, as you waited for her to add something, anything, she gripped you, a shadow of her former strength flickering back, if only for a moment. "You'll make it through. I believe."

She slept well that night, and although her health showed no sign of improvement, death did not come. But you had to leave. The Low Gods expected their payment to be delivered soon. And so again you asked Fleda to care for your mother, and for some supplies. She must had seen some mark on you, for she did not ask where you were going, merely provided you well, and wished you good luck and that someday you could return and see your mother again. You left on the same day and began a month-long journey downriver, to the city of Tower, where the most famous chimera markets of the known world were held.


***


The auction has been going on for so long that the muscle of your legs burn with living fire; there are cramps in your bowed neck. The attempts you make at keeping steady increasingly fail. The knot in the wood swims and swirls before your eyes and you fear that in a few moments, you will simply drop from the block.

In front of you, the lannista and the wizard are lost deep in a discussion, barely paying attention to you anymore.

"I agree, it's fascinating. But to call it a proof of self-will?" The lannista signs, vice shot with annoyance. "Preposterous, Salt. It's an illusion. You've said it yourself: there is a clear mark of Hell on it. The instinct that guides it is wicked and vicious, and the only use that is of it is of a beast to be trained. Not unlike a tiger, or a dragon."

"And yet, yet, yet," his voice chimes brass-like as he responds "Winter dear, you cannot deny the cunning of its actions, a forethought that is almost human."

"Its actions?"

The sarcasm dripping from her voice is not meant for you, but it touches you all the same. It's such a strange feeling, being talked about as if you were nothing but empty flesh. In the village, they would sometimes call you demon-spawn, when they were angry with you. In time, you got used to it. But you are not sure if you can ever get used to knowing that in the eyes of those, you do not exist. Even as you know that you will have to.

"It is just unheard of for a chimera. Beyond remarkable, truly, and I just cannot allow it to be used up on the arena. I need to know what makes it… whatever it is."

"So come and watch it fight. That shows the truth of men and beasts."

He spits a foreign curse in response.

"Feh. You're irrepressible, Winter. Truth at the tip of the sword? Is this the extent of your argument?"

"It's what I learned, old man" she says, her own frustration bleeding into her voice. "I've raised dozens of contenders, for novice to grave, and knew each better than the child that suckled my teat. Truth…"

"Is in bloodshed, yes, yes." The wizard flicked his fingers, voice reaching a ringing crescendo. "A brute's outlook. Truth, sweet? Truth is will, and singing it into the world!"

The lannista just laughs, a grating, hollow sound.

"So you will give it sorcery and see what happens?"

"Why, yes," the declaration is shrill and sharp, like scraping glass. "By the dark soils, I will! Or cut it open, and see what its inside! Either way, I'll learn and I'll know."

They both pause, breathe out.

"The scales are tied," the auctioneer takes the moment to remind them.

What happens next?

[ ] Esteemed mestre Salt-Upon-Wounds tips the scales. You will become a part of his expansive menagerie, a subject of sorcerous experiments and research, but also a student of his magic.

[ ] Lannista Winter-Arrives-Early tips the scales. You will become a part of her gladiator school, to eventually fight and bleed on her famous arena. You will be taught how to become a warrior, how to hold yourself in combat and how to die a contender's death.​