Uneven Scales - A Hellgirl Quest

[Gargulec]

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.​

 

[Gargulec]

1.1 Caged Animals

The scales don't take long to break.

"Lady of the house," the wizard exclaims "I tire of this. Let it be heard that I put myself in the House's debt, and promise a favour to it and the Low Gods, should it be their design to collect. Make it noted."

"The offering is noted, and its value appreciated," the auctioneer responds. "What is lannista Winter's response?"

The woman grunts harshly, and you realize your fate is about to be sealed.

"I will not waste my time, nor wealth on this. Have it your way Salt. Lady of the House, I remove myself from the contest."

"In that case, in the honour of the Low Gods, the lot is sold to the esteemed mestre Salt-Upon-Wounds."

"Marvellous, marvellous," your new owner exclaims as the house's attendants remove you from the block. Slick gazes lift from you, and for a time no one seems to be paying attention as you are being lead aside. You are allowed to crouch next to other purchases made by the wizard. Burdensome thoughts cloud your mind, but above all else, you are glad this is over. You release your thighs, hissing as you feel the wounds your nails cut in your lilac skin; you cover your shame and lift your head a bit, feeling sore and stiff in your neck. Finally, you allow yourself to steal a look at the esteemed mestre.

The image of him that his voice has produced in your head - of a rounded, effete creature, like the court-wizards of southern kingdoms from your mother's tales - turns out false. Although draped head-to-toe in rich, silver-threaded cloth, there is not a hint of decadence in Salt-Upon-Wound's stance. In truth, his tall, freakishly gaunt figure - little more than a skeleton frame for thin parchment skin - summons to mind a suggestion of a desert mystic come to preach apocalypse upon the unfaithful. Numerous coils of steel chain are wrapped around his wrists and waist, dull-gray links chiming with his every calculated move. When you glance at his face, you find him smiling wide, with eyes glistening so cold you realize that there is no mirth in him and hasn't been in a long time.

He notices you staring at him, and instantly you look aside, your heart skipping a beat.

"Eyes down," an attendant reminds you, and you obey without question.

"Next lot: a beastly chimera, head of a lion on the body of a mighty serpent!"

The stone floor you sit on and the wall you prop your back against are both cold, but for the moment you welcome the chill, drawing the exhausted heat out your bones. You close your eyes so to not look, and feel all the weariness you have been holding back crash down onto you. For a moment, your consciousness fades and you…

...avert your eyes from the wooden idols of the Low Gods, the shrine in your village dark and damp. To breathe here is to swallow dust, the floor is mud and dark soil. You prostrate yourself in the filth, and as your arms and knees sink into the damp sludge, the Low Gods speak to you. Not in words - they keep those for your betters - but in understanding. There is a certainty that comes down onto you that you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, that that the scales are even and the trade is complete. Your mother will live and you…

...are brutally jerked up by someone grabbing you by the horns. You yelp in pain and surprise and try to scramble to your feet, but they keep pushing you down, so you end up half-dragged, half-crawling across the floor. Before you can get your bearings you are shoved outside, into bright, blinding sun.

"Hoist it!" someone yells, and you are hoisted up and thrown up, landing heavily on thick, wooden boards, the impact softened slightly by some smooth, cold surface. You raise to crouch, rub your eyes a few times, and try to look around.

It's a cart of sorts, with an iron cage mounted on top of it; you've seen similar before, used to move cattle around. Behind you, one of the house's attendants finishes affixing a massive padlock to the grate, locking you inside. You exhale, and then feel something rub against your leg; you look below and your heart almost stops.

A massive, serpentine shape covers half of the cart's floor, bright-colored feathers covering its entire length. You are half-sitting on parts of it, the creature straining to free itself from beneath you. You jump up instantly, letting out a sharp cry, and the beast's entire body flexes, as if trying to snap against you. But instead, you only hear a cold, metallic sound and notice the heavy chains affixing it to the floor of the cart, keeping its head pinned and locked, and another set pinning its tail. It strains against the bonds, but they show no sign of giving.

Still, you quickly crawl away, pressing your back into the corner of the cart, against the bars, your own tail coiling around your leg. It takes you a few deep breaths to calm yourself; the feathered serpent likewise finishes its trashing. Only then do you notice that there is someone else in here. It takes you a second to recognize her through the flat, iron mask, with only a pair of small openings around the nose, clasped over the front of her head - but the few snake-heads peeking out over her shoulder give it away. It's that gorgon that went for sale before you.

When they were putting her on the block, they described her as a troublesome pest with a gaze that could turn a man to stone, and wicked sort of cunning, meant to entrap her victims; one of them being the previous owner, only barely saved from death by his loyal retainers. He allowed her too much, said the auctioneer.

No, the auctioneer said that he allowed it too much. You bite on your lip. Is it a predator, you wonder? Some sort of a wicked spirit put into flesh? They have said the same of you, but you know that you are just yourself. But her? But it? You give her a long look, and see only a woman's body, only covered in spots by fine scale, like a reptile's, green with a yellow pattern. But her serpent hair stares back at you, and you just look away and leave her be. You don't know how to deal with creatures like that anyway.

"All loaded!" another voice yells, and the cart lurches forward. Your journey begins..

***

The road you take leads you through a grassy expanse, nothing but a sea of yellow and green as far as you can see. The sun rules the skies without pause, and so you travel in sweltering heat, particularly keenly felt in the exposed cart housing you you. You think that the gorgon must be suffering the most; the guards never remove the mask from her face, and while you receive food, they only give her water, and a straw to drink through. She swallows it so desperately that you pity her, and wonder if she will make it through.

But it is the feathered serpent that dies first; one morning you awaken to a stench even worse than usual and see that the creature has ceased its movements, it's once-vivid feathers now appearing bleached and filthy. The guards realize what has happened when they come to feed you in the morning, and when they do, the entire caravan is dragged to a halt. You don't make distance on that day.

What happens next, you are not certain, although you gather from the conversations you overhear that the restraints the serpent was put into must have given it a wound, and that the wound got infected in the crust of filth that covered the floor of the wagon. Or it just snapped so hard against its overtight bindings that in the end it broke its own back. One way or another there is an atmosphere of fear over the people guarding your cart that even you can taste, and you soon learn why.

By the evening, two of the attendants have been flogged to raw bone, then expelled from the caravan on the orders of the esteemed mestre. You hear them beg not to be abandoned when they are driven away from the camp. From the way their companions talk about them you understand that they were meant to be simply killed for failing to see to the esteemed mestre's property, but Salt-Upon-Wounds demanded a crueller fate to be inflicted, as an example.

It works out for you. The serpent's carcass is removed from the cart, giving you far more room, and a cover is thrown on top of the cage to hide you from the worst of the sun. Your next meal is richer than usual and the gorgon is given an abundance of water, so much that she splashes some over the mask and beneath it, when she can drink no more. You follow her example and use some of the rations to try to remove the thick crust of sweat and dust from your face. In the end, you smear it more than clean it, but it does make you feel just a bit better.

Days pass slowly.

The cart is caked with your - and the gorgon's - filth. The weather gives you no reprieve, and even with the new cover installed overhead, you burn during the day and freeze in the night as you are given nothing to cover yourself with. Yet, none of it gets to you. You have never once grown sick in your life. You have seen your blood eat through iron. Even as you spend your days ankle-deep in piss and feces, and crusty clumps of the dead serpent's blood, you feel no trace of illness nor nausea. The heat is harsh, but you have shade. The cold bites deep, but you have lived through northern winters.

But none of it readied you for boredom.

All your life, there was never a shortage of duties for you to attend. Without your father… your other mother… there was always something to be helped with, something to be done. Your days were endless strings of busy-work and motion, dusk to dawn. You never felt an urge to complain. Even as a child, you understood that living meant putting your back into it. Into every part of it. And now…

It's such a strange feeling, being trapped and forgotten. Having nothing to do. The cage is mercifully tall enough for you to stand, but the cart rocks so hard you don't have a good opportunity to pace unless durings stop. All the time, you move from the edge to the edge like a trapped animal, tail lashing nervously. The guards ignore you. They never look at you or talk to you, and although you thirstily catch every fleeting bit of conversation you can, it's not enough to keep your mind from stillness. For the first time in your life, you learn how it feels to have your thoughts wander, and discover how little you appreciate it.

You think if you were ever a good daughter, and remember every little thing you did wrong as a child. You think about everything you could have done differently, all the choices that could have changed this situation. Maybe if you were better at noticing how sick your mother was getting, maybe you could have intervened earlier? You think about the village, and what it thought about you. Did they really see you as a person? They acted as if they did. But here, people look straight through you, as if at a piece of cattle. You can't help to wonder if Aker people were really all that different. You try to remember all of your mother's tales about the wide world, and instead remember all about your mother, and how you always felt safe with her, but also lacking, as if there was something missing…

You think and think and think yourself in circles, until you wish you could just reach inside your skull and rip all the thoughts away, leaving behind only a blank, empty room, and calm. This is also how you learn to envy the gorgon.

As you pace around nervously, she spends entire days perfectly still, pushed into her corner of the cart; if not for the serpents moving about her head, you'd easily mistake her for a corpse. But the serpents are hard to miss. You have always thought that snakes are gross creatures, violent and evil, but those seem nothing like the vipers that would sometimes lounge about your village's hayfields in the summer.

At first you thought them jet-black, but as you observe them you realize they are instead opalescent, each individual scale glistening rainbow-like as the sun shines on them. They used to hiss at you when passing close, but after a time, they get used to your presence and pay you no mind, choosing instead to sway in the air and bask. When they move, there is a sinuous grace to it that you can only imagine would be so much more striking were they not growing increasingly listless, if the gorgon's body was not growing more pallid and sickly with each passing day.

Initially, you assume that the guards must be seeing that, too, and that eventually care will be taken for her. But none such thing happens; she receives her water and that's it. From the bits of their conversations you gather they are wholly unconcerned or, and you don't know which is worse, entirely unaware. Just like with the feathered serpent, they ignore the warning signs. You think about her dying because of the neglect like that feathered beast, passing away in filth and solitude. The thought hurts.

And so, you choose to intervene. On the next morning, as one of the guards - a greasy-haired youth no more than your age - passes you hardtack and water through the bars of the cage, you ask.

"Shouldn't she be getting food too?"

His response is a shout.

"It spoke!" he yells, making a warding gesture and dashing back as if burned. He trips over his own legs and lands ass-first in the dust, eyes wide in shock and terror. "It spoke to me! A curse, a curse, please, help, a curse!"

Within moments, more guards and caravan hands swarm to the side of the cage, holding the boy and calming him down. They are talking fast, and in an accent unfamiliar to you; you can barely follow the thread of their arguments as they explain to him that he doesn't have to fear your evil eye as long as the esteemed mestre is here to ward him, and that your words probably don't carry a curse.

Eventually, they manage to ease him, but you can clearly see that they are all concerned; they keep shooting you sidelong glances, as if expecting that you were about to lunge at them at any moment, or worse. Their hands come close to the cudgels and knives at their side and there is again tension in the air.

Then, as if attracted to it, Salt-Upon-Wounds graces you with his presence, for the first time since the journey began. You avert your eyes at first, but then quickly steal another glance at him.

"What's the commotion, good men?" he rasps, tone dangerously pleasant. "Has there been another unfortunate accident?"

He wears more modestly now, a plain robe tied with another of his chains. Without the opulence of his previous garments, he looks even more as a desert father, lean, angular, fire-eyed. The crowd at bows at once, some going as far as to fall to the ground and genuflect.

"Men?" he repeats his question. "What is this all about?"

The guards look to themselves, giving the boy a few stern nudges. Finally, he speaks, his voice trembling.

"Mestre, it… it spoke… spoke to me! Am I cursed now? Am… I?"

The wizard inhales, then leaves out a sharp, pained wheeze.

"You absolute imbecile," he says. The boy presses his forehead even deeper into the dry soil in response. "What did it say?"

"It… it... said... " words die in his throat. Even from the distance, you can hear him gulp. "It said…"

"It said that?" there is a smile on Salt's face, and now everyone is burying their foreheads in the road's dust.

"If the other one should be getting food," he finally spits the words out, so fast as to almost choke.

"Ah," the esteemed mestre's tone only lightens. "So I take you have not been feeding the other one, yes? Don't answer me, boy," he adds, his eyes moving towards a burly man in a red cloak. "I'd like to hear it from the good captain."

There is a brief moment of silence, heavy as led.

"It was masked, my mestre" when the captain speaks, words barely coming out from his mouth. Even from the distance, you can see him sweat. "We thought that…"

"Go ahead," the wizard encourages, his smile now a very thin, very sharp line cast against wind-chiseled features. "Explain your thoughts."

"That if it had a mask, then… we didn't have to… because it has a…" he pushes his head harder into the soil as he speaks, and likewise rakes the dirt with curled fingers.

"I see," slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, then sits on folded legs, in front of the knelt men. "So, correct me if I am wrong, good captain. Have you ever had a dog that you've had to muzzle?"

"Yes, my mestre."

"Good, good. Dogs are wonderful animals, far smarter than most chimeras actually. But that's beside the point. What I am asking is if you ever had to muzzle it?"

Behind you, you hear something like a chuckle. Quickly, you peel back from the bars of the cart and look - it's the gorgon.

"Yes, my mestre," the captain's voice is pure ash now, no heat nor life.

"Ah, good. It's prudent, for some dogs have the habit of biting. But my question is, have you fed your dog?"

"Yes, my mestre."

"Marvellous! So you were a good owner, caring. And now answer me, when you were feeding your dog, did the fact that you had to have it muzzled mean you never gave it food, because it couldn't eat with the muzzle on?"

"No, my mestre."

"Do you see your mistake, my dear captain?"

"Yes, my mestre."

"I love it when you learn. Now, obviously, there will be consequences." His smile vanishes, and he raises to his feet. "We will go over them once we arrive at the manor. Until then…"

He comes closer to the cart, ignoring you for the time being, even as you recoil away. Instead, he squeezes a hand between the bars, and extends it towards the gorgon, chains hanging loosely from his wrist. She reacts more than you do. Her mane of serpents raises into a reptile halo, dozens of hisses at once. As his hand comes closer, a few of them snap. None reach his hand, but he still flinches.

"So fierce," he muses with false amusement, and clenches his fist.

A twitch shoots through the chains around his wrist, and the scent of smoe fills the air. The mask on her head ripples and twists, the metal flowing like water. After a moment, the crude, iron muzzle is gone, replaced by a sleek plate adhering closely to her forehead and eyes, as if fused to the skin, and freeing the rest of her face. You watch her lime-green lips move and gasp for breath, her hand shooting to the now-exposed skin caked with a thick layer of greasy gunk - dust and sweat mortared together. Serpents coil around her fingers as she feels her face again.

"Now you can feed it," he says contentedly. "Punishments will be meted out in due time. And you..."

It takes you a moment to realize he's addressing you; no one has for many days. You turn to face him, briefly forgetting to keep your head down. If he notices, he doesn't seem to mind.

"Interesting ploy," again, the razor-sharp smile flickers through his face. "But don't assume I haven't seen right through it."

Before you can ask anything - not that you were going to - he turns and marches off. The guards wait for a few more moments, and only once he is out of earshot do they lift themselves from the dirt and dust off their clothes. The captain is the first one to rise, and what you see in his face when he surveys his subordinates is the sort of pure fury that can grow only out of abject fear.

"You," he grunts, pointing at the boy that fed you, and spits right into his face "Are dead."

The boy says nothing; he doesn't even wipe his the spit. You see tears well up in his eyes, then just flow freely.

"I… I…." he stutters, and the captain responds by punching him in the gut. Hard enough that even you wince. He crumples, sobbing openly.

"Get this trash out!" he yells at the others. "And someone feed that fucking creature!"

***

As if to make up for days of starving her, the guards heap food into the cage, hardtack and nuts and dried meat, and jugs of water. She doesn't waste a single moment; you watch her gorge herself as quickly as she can put food into her mouth. All too soon she gurgles, presses her head between the bars and vomits. However, she goes back to eating immediately, only this time more slowly. It stays down.

Her corona of serpents slowly settles , reptile bodies coiling around her temples to form something like a black wreath. She keeps on eating for a while longer, and drinking, then pouring what's left over her face, wiping away most of the grime and gunk that gathered beneath her mask. When water drips down her cheeks and chin, it is dirt-brown.

You watch that all curiously, a sense of relief growing inside. Although still sunken and pallid, there is a new energy in her, and for the first time you see her move about the cage, almost agitated.

"So you can speak."

Her voice catches you unaware. It is such a normal sound. Casual, a bit deep, perfectly human. But you have not been addressed like that in weeks, and she wasn't even looking in your direction when she spoke.

"Uhm?" you grunt, confused.

"You can, right?" she asks, head turning in your direct. A few of the serpents eye you curiously.

"...why wouldn't I?"

"I assumed you weren't of the talking kind," she replies with a shrug. "Few chimeras are."

Truth be told, you can't blame her - you have not realized it before, but you have just kind assumed the same about her. She is a gorgon. You didn't expect one to speak. The irony strikes you after a slight delay, and you chuckle.

"Anyway..." she pauses. "Thank you."

You smile, even if you belatedly realize how pointless it. A warm feeling spreads in your stomach. You have helped someone. And so, just as you were taught, you say nothing. After all, to admit one's goodness is a mark of vanity. Silence follows.

The gorgon finishes her tour of the cage, and returns to her corner to catch some more of the morning sun. You continue to watch her, contended. Hopefully, this will make the rest of the journey easier on your mind. Yet, she doesn't break the silence again until longer after the caravan has left camp.

"So, you're the demon one?" she asks, snapping you out of considering how your mother will fare without your help.

By sheer force of habit, you nod.

"Did you hear me?" she asks again after a moment, and you blush slightly, feeling like an idiot.

"Well," you say. "'I'm from the Aker people, I'm the daughter of a..."

[ ] ...herbalist. You always paid close attention to your mother gathering and preparing herbs. You learned from her the basics of medicine, and a wealth of knowledge about herbs, both local and exotic, medicinal and magical and what can be prepared from them. Once the prologue ends, you will unlock the Herbalism advanced skill.
[ ] ...witch. Your mother was a hedge magician, practicing a form of magic that is a far cry from the powerful sorceries available to true wizards, but nonetheless very practical. She prepared love charms, helped in finding lost items and animals, and placed small blessings on homes and people. Once the prologue ends, you will unlock the Hedge Magic advanced skill.
[ ] ...mystic. Although she never demanded you do the same, your mother followed the high faith of emulating Heaven in deed and principle. Just by living with her, you learned much of the Ascending Philosophy, as well as picked up some practical techniques developed for the adherents to better rule their thoughts and body. Once the prologue ends, you will unlock the Focus advanced skill.
[ ] ...tinker. While your mother specialized in no particular trade, your mother knew a plethora of crafts, from metalworking to saddlery to glass-blowing. Most of them, she practiced only in her stories, but she taught you some others, giving you a fair bit of practical knowledge and an ability to come up with unorthodox solutions. Once the prologue ends, you will unlock the Tinkering advanced skill.

She listens to you explain with a bemused smile.

"Impressive. But you are that demonic chimera who gets off on hurting others, yes?"

Your heart sinks a bit. Your tail again curls against thigh, defensively. You remember your mother telling you that you don't have to be that. That you can be whoever, whatever you desire. But now, her words seem so very distant.

"Well, yes," you murmur. "But it doesn't mean that I'm cruel, it's just…"

"Just what, demon?" she grins, not without malice.

Her words remind you of dealing with Fleda's kids. But if she, for some Heaven-forsaken reason, thinks that she will get a rise out of you, you will disappoint her. You've gotten riled once, but never again. You do as you always do, exhale and calmly reply.

"I'm not a demon. I have a name, and it is…"

Briefly, you consider. Names are important, and you are about to give her yours. It is…

[ ] Alienor
[ ] Rain-Follows-Thunder
[ ] Imeani
[ ] write-in

...and it's…

[ ] ...the name they gave you.
[ ] ...your favourite byname.
[ ] ...something you came up on the spot.

Her response is a dry chuckle.

"Hells below, they even gave you a name! Well then. In that case, I'm…"

Her voice trails off. You wait a moment for her to finish, but she goes quiet and pensive.
"...Virss," she says finally replies. "I guess. It does have a nice ring to it,doesn't ? Anyway…" she turns her head in the direction of your voice. "So, you, Aker daughter, not a demon. That thing they have said about you at the auction, is that true?"

You blink, unsure what she is talking about. For the third time, you catch yourself realizing she can't see your gestures.

"What thing?" you ask, feeling a bit stupid.

"That you have sold yourself willingly."

"Yes," you say resolutely, trying to sound proud, to remind yourself that you did a good thing, for a good reason.

But Virss is not impressed. She explodes into spasmodic laughter, so sharp it knocks her on her back. The guards outside stare confused and afraid, and you hear them ask if they should call for the esteemed mestre. She composes herself after a moment, bringing herself to a crouch, hand on her stomach.

"I can't believe it! You are such a… such a…"

There is a part of you that expects her to commend you next, to tell you just how great and noble your action was. But you hear the derision in her laughter, and her face, obscured as it is, is without pity. When she speaks again, you are not surprised.

"...such an idiot."

Ready as you were, the word still hurts, it really does. You open your mouth to protest, to defend yourself, to call her out for ridiculing your sacrifice. But in the end, you don't; again, you refuse to be self-aggrandizing. If she doesn't understand, it's her fault. Maybe she just can't, maybe her gorgon mind is without compassion. It doesn't matter.

She, however, doesn't relent.

"You've had it all. A home. A mother. A place where they… they called you by your name. And you gave it all away. All," she throws her arms up, and a new emotion emerges in her voice past ridicule - a raw kind of anger. "Just to become some mad wizard's newest beetle in a bottle. You know what? Good luck is wasted on the stupid."

She wins, and you get baited.

"My mother was dying," you allow your voice to drop to a sneer. How dare she?

"Everyone dies," she just shrugs contemptuously. "And you know what? Soon, you will wish you had, too."

Your fists curl into balls. You helped her. Saved her. And she gives that back? Just how ungrateful and inhuman one has to be?

And so...

[ ] ...you drop the argument. If she has no soul, she will never understand anyway.
[ ] ...you press the argument until she gives ground. You are angry at her, but maybe words will get through her thick skull.
[ ] ...you slap her. It's the simplest solution.