Of Hope and Wishes
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
Mia was beyond screaming, far far beyond trying to remember the complex words and intonations of spell-weaving. She was in hell... not boiling hot or freezing cold but a hell of the flesh rebelling against itself, all the pains and torments of a hundred lifetimes poured down upon her as the lunatic raved above her, his questions somehow still driving into her mind like like white-hot needles. But she did not know the answers, she couldn't even think how could...? Somehow though the fugue of pain it occurred to her that he was not torturing her for answers anymore, only for his own sick amusement. After al even if her death did not count for much in the king's eye it had to count for something surely.... she hopped.
A sudden gust of wind washed over her, adding a new flavors of pain to the ever expanding repertoire... yet the words stopped. As the young greedily gulped in air her thoughts desperately turned to magic. As though some kindly power heeded her call light flashed though the alleyway, the bright cascading colors of sorcery... but not her magic.
Mia knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she should try to roll away, but she could not, yes glued to the spectacle that unfolded before her.
Curiosity will be the death of your girl, her father's words range distantly though her mind.
Death came for her tormentor, the shadows lashing out with duly gleaming blades and whips of smoke. Then light flashed again and there was something,
someone between her and him... the Warrior from the Sunset Kingdom, the one always at the king's side... what had been his...?
Her thoughts broke off abruptly as the rotting magus who had seemed only a moment ago to be as powerful as some great demon of the Pit fell to to his knees reeling under the blows. The dagger in his hand, the shard of tainted bone clattered against the cobbles.
It hurt to pick up the rock in almost ruined fingers... it hurt worse to grip it tight... she was used to the pain by now... she started hitting and hitting... until the flesh shifted under her hands into... a turtle for all bloody things.
That settled that it, even hurt to laugh... not that the sound that emerged from her lips had any business emerging from a human throat.
"You can stop now, he can't hurt you anymore," a concerned voice spoke from somewhere above.
What was the king doing here?
Saving your life idiot, another part of her replied. "Want to hurt him," she manged to grind out.
"You can't fault her spirit," the shadow mage said, sounding approving.
"Unlike her sense," another silver-haired man, one she had seen only from a distance added.
"Here," the king reached out to gently grip her shoulder, a warmth traveling thorough her flesh and settling into her bones as he uttered an incantation in the High Tongue of the Freehold, too quick for her to follow
Her ills had not all been mended Mia knew but she was no longer infested, she knew as she struggled shakily to her feet, bloody rock still in hand. "How did you do that?" she asked. "Healing magic is supposed to fall outside..." Why was everyone looking at her so strangely?
"Wishcraft allows one to twist magic into unusual forms," the king replied. The smile he bore looked, fond or proud or something like that. Mia had always been better with reading books than people. "Take these until you are mended," he added handing her a small bag of clinking potions. He kept one for himself and drank it though, in spite of the fact that he did not seem to have been injured in the fight, if you could even call it that.
Perhaps this twisting did not come without cost... She emptied five of the potion bottled before she felt herself back to her full vigor, before the pain blessedly stopped.
"Who was that?" the girl asked looking down at the still clearly diseased turtle barely holding herself back from kicking it, for good measure.
"Rohar of Tyrosh, thrall of daemons and soon to serve a much better purpose in death than he ever did in his miserable life," answered the shadow-weaver...
Drekelis that was what his name was, Mia recalled.
"Was the son of a bitch alone?" the armored warrior asked after a moment.
"He didn't mention anyone else... while he was raving," she replied slowly. "I do not think he was in his right mind, even for what he was I mean. He started out trying to enchant me but I threw it off so he started torturing me. I think that knife is enchanted, maybe cursed."
"It pays to remember that not all rats will flee a burnt nest, some will be driven mad with rage," the king sighed softly to himself though Mia was close enough to hear him.
Did he feel guilty over this somehow?
"I should have been more careful walking out here alone," she offered in an attempt at reassurance. the whole scene felt unreal, dreamlike almost, though the memory of her earlier suffering as more than her mind could have conjured.
As they escorted her to the tower, and the petty beast her tormentor had become to his imprisonment Mia recalled the list of questions she had meant to ask of the king but did not have time during his lecture on sorcery.
As good a time as any...
OOC: Sorry this took so long to write, it was very hard to balance actually showing what happened while staying faithful to the perspective I was presenting it from.