Darkness maps the land. The night was at it's nigh, populating the cerulean in a blanket of black. Pockets of light deign to resist its dark embrace, burning within the inviolable windows of a street. Streets of a settlement. Settlements of a land. A land that boasts its ancient purpose no longer.
The streets no longer decorate statues of war. Barracks no longer present their inhospitality. And the people who live within...heroes, knights, squires, soldiers...war is no more in their minds as the creatures in their arms. All was at peace...or, almost.
A shadow drops to the top of a church. A shadow unlike the rest of the shadows of the old city of light. It was jagged and plated. Any hindrance to the humanity behind the figure was removed, a clear opposition to the fallen who now live within the place with no more to hide.
A shadow that did not belong.
It swirls in its muffled plates, a hint of light shimmering behind the helmet's eyesockets. From roof to roof. From street to street, the sight of the Lescatie castle growing larger in its sight.
The patrols of the night are surprisingly honed, considering the people who used to live here with a hint of guilt toward the people they thought they neglected in the past, coercing the lone figure to keep to the darkness. Fighting one of the fallen heroines would be daunting. Fighting a dozen, impossible.
That wasn't it's objective...
Finally reaching the top of the castle it slips through a window left open leading to the ceiling. Inside the abandoned-looking place, it rests, looking on with an expressionless gaze at items mounted in excess int his place. Idols, artifacts, anything and everything that didn't fit the new face of Lescatie. Relics of an oppressive past.
Gradually, the lone figure makes its way to the throne room, besieged by countless doors leading to rooms. The light of the crimson moon shines upon it, revealing a complete array of plate armor. Pure white and elegant rims of gilded origins. Leather strips holding it all as inner layers.
All of it, smoothened, curved along the edges. A knight turned assassin. On a singular task. And a sole target.
"And she didn't move an inch since my arrival..." A feminine voice breaks the inhuman standing of the armored individual. Her ears and body stoically ignore the unmistakable whispers behind the doors she crosses. Men and women, once heroes of this forsaken land, now...
She burns her thoughts free of the fallen, continuing on deeper to the halls, soon to reach the throne room. A lightless, dark place, besieged by dozens of suits lingering in the abyss. Whole plates of armor, all of them, holding down a selected weapon. Each was unique to a wearer currently not present.
One of them had distinct wings of armor. The leather they were designed to shelter. This one is utterly covered from head-to-toe. Well, all of them are, but this one, in particular, is prone to erase any woman behind it.
Another one had no legs, but an elongated swirl behind, as if the wearer was some serpentine entity. A massive polearm rests in the suit's hands.
Yet another one had the mantle of a war priestess...if said priestess had rescinded the more violent aspect of her apparel. Approaching it would cover any attacker with a nurturing aura, attempting to convince them to lower their arms.
Many, many more unique sets were idle, their wearers, absent. Likely, in the rooms. None of them had her interest over the returned glare far on the throne itself.
Dual scarlet gazes looking back to her in a room of darkness, scraps lit by the ever-present moon. Another light takes hold, this time, from the side of the glimmering orbs. One clinging to the use of a room.
The armored woman begins pacing, walking close to the throne and its occupant. The distance decreases, as is the dark of the room. the light, assimilated better in her eyes. The surrounding, more easily visible. The throne-sitter, unmistakably a woman. Silver hair coursing behind.
The distance decreases...
Black sclera. Scarlet gaze. Slit middle. Black horns.
The distance decreases still...
Oddity. Her target seemed...different. Her stare, her aura, her atmosphere, all seemed to be the same. Yet, it was as if she had changed...in some manner.
To begin with, the stare showering the lone knight assassin was not so much that of a seductress as it was a welcome to a friend. Wholesome, alluring, yet, with a set limit. Even the impending smile on her target's lips was more of a comrade seeing another as opposed as another creature to seduce. The assassin's trainer had spoken of her attempt at alluring anyone coming under her sight.
Then, apparel. It was...humble. Still asserting the assets of a child from the demon lord, yet, at the same time, the fabrics on her person seemed more reluctant to showcase them so easily as before. Instead, a black outfit befitted her person. Top, bottom, moldy clothes to a certain effect. A line had undeniably been drawn, not unlike one of her close subordinates who decided that naught but one would be allowed to see her wholly.
With the distance decreasing still, the knight assassin couldn't avoid the unremarkable set laid on a miniature table. As well as what looked to be another seat. The table was populated by a single tray. One featuring two teacups and a container holding the much warm liquid.
It was then that the errant assassin withheld her pace. Still, in spite of all those subtle changes in sight and sensation, there was no mistake as to who she was gazing at.
"Ahh, you're finally here. Welcome, welcome!" Rising from her seat, no more than two steps forward. Straight into one of the many windows gleaming with moonlight.
The fourth princess. The direct lord of the fallen Lescatie, blessed by her mother to end it's warring production. The harbinger of the second wind to a place no longer warlike.
"Druella..." The hollow knight whispers.
"Why, yes! That is indeed me. I take it you are here to meet me". The fourth move her hand. Not to the silver elegance idle on her hip...
"You must be tired after this long traveling". It presents the tray she had placed between seats "Come. Take a seat. I'm sure it would do you well--
"Enough of your false hospitality, demon spawn!" The knight screams, a voice, separated from her feminity "You know the reason I stray in this damned city of yours!"
"As a matter of fact, I think I do" Druella glances to a cup, prompting the thing to fly to her grasp, alongside the container "After all, this weapon you've been carrying on your person is a staunch indication..."
Pouring liquid fills the silence of the room, amidst the drawing of a gilded sword from the knight assassin. An inconvenience to the fourth, reaching out to a would-be enemy with the cup, now filled with steam and boiling liquid "And I also believe holding this bundle of metal and gold is a stern obstacle to a much more desirable cup of tea. Please..."
Her eyes showcase no sense of hostility. No underlying tone, no spell, nothing "Be my guest. He tells me that I'm gaining traction on the art of pouring tea. I would love a second opinion--
Her smile is wide, as wide as it is bright. Yet, it falters at the sight of the knight leaping meters in the air, her golden sword ready to slash downward.
"Be gone with you--argh!" The gilded sword, wreathed in holy light, collided. Not with the fourth princess, but a wall. A wall of shadow and transparency. One that connects to empty space in the air, the spot where her blade should have fallen.
A crack in space, denying her downward slash. Instead, the kinetic mass reflects back to the attacker in a majestic explosion, repelling her backward halfway through the throne room.
Her helmet buckles and snaps from the repercussion, faltering from its stability. The hooks keeping it in place break, leaving it tumbling on the velvet carpet.
"Uhh!" The knight tumbles halfway before steadying herself on the carpet, her glove and sword scraping pieces of it alongside the knee to her greave. Her autumn ponytail trails beside her head, faltering with the loss of momentum.
"I guess not". The cracked air in space recedes its wound, disappearing as if healed. The lower dreg of energy remains a testament to the protective wall. Druella's hands dissipate the cup of tea back to the table, taking a few steps forward. Just like her attacker, her knee now rests on the carpet "Tell me, Sabrina..."
Her stare shifts to a sterner side, one that refuses never the less to cross the gap of hostility. A sight eluding the knight, more disturbed at her name being so easily called "How?! How did you find my--
Her sentence freezes in place. Her target had a finger lifted up to the shoulders. A call to silence, accompanied by her head shaking and scarlet gaze briefly closed. Only so long before her other hand joins the first one, both colliding in front of the lilim "That isn't the question, Sabrina. The question is..."
The knight feels her heart skip a beat, her air cut away from her lung as both of Druella's fingers, joined, now points back to her "What are you doing here?"
"W...w-what?"
"I am asking you..." Her voice had exchanged the warm welcome to a friend to something akin to a parent ready to scold her child for a misbehavior "...what are you...doing here? Should you not be with your Harold?"
Sabrina finds difficulty breathing, another veil to her life unwrapped. By her target, most of all "W-w-what?! How!? How are you--
"Again". The lilim's voice cuts her short, this time, a subtle quake of the throne room griding the knight's lowered balance to a test "That. Is not. The question. My question: what is a woman. A woman, with someone in her heart, doing here, miles away from said person, cosplaying as an assassin? Do you not think he would be distraught to see you like this?"
Her eyes widen, prompting her to rise in outrage, her sword, again, at an attempt to cross the veil. It sparkles with holy magic, honed by her anger. A lilim, acting like she knew better? A creature spawned straight from the demon lord, wholly anathema to humanity? Currently, talking her down for her deed?! When she was the reason for her being here?! Far from him?!
"What do you know about feelings like this?! Huh?! How are you even tainting these pure emotions with your foul tongue?!" Her sword once again collides with the wall, the fourth, directly behind, looking back, a mixture of disappointment...and empathy.
Empathy taking the whole as the knight collapses a second time. Her pride prompts her up. A monster, calling her out as if she had forsaken her heart? No. Attacking again, and falling. Attacking and falling. Attacking, and falling.
Attacking.
And falling.
Her teeth grit, shaky from the repeated failures. Once more, as always, a knee on the carpet, catching her breath, catching her footing.
"I would know, simple as that". Druella's eyes were closed, one hand fiddling with another. A finger, in particular, ears snuffing out the repeated attempts as hollow noise. Hearing the end of the knight's broken assault, she finally opens them, looks straight at Sabrina's hunched stance.
Her hand pulls out the glove that concealed her pale skin. Sabrina's air completely burns out, unable to conceal a gasp, her emerald eyes catching the shine of a golden ring looped around her ring finger. The lilim. The princess. The one, known as the fourth. Married.
"I would know..." Druella opens the palm of her ringed hand, spreading her fingers outward, dauntingly visible to the knight assassin "...because...I have a man to call my own. Hailing from unremarkable beginnings...just...like...you".
With that said, her sclera is overwhelmed with the scarlet of her irises, drawing in the knight assassin. A mesmeric gaze drawing in the pool of flashes and sights. A stream luring Sabrina close, on the edge of the wall. Her psyche, lured deep in the gaze of her target, lured deep in memories...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The gray skies wash over the land. The sun avoids peering through the gaps, as they are to tightly sealed. No issue for a lone figure standing over aimless green fields. A gap between two distant cities.
"Well, come on. These won't deliver themselves" Wind bats over the grass and lockets. His black coat dances alongside sealed tight at the neck area by an elongated scarf. His only companion was the wind fleeting in constant movement.
His cargo finally secured, the hooded man fastens belts over his chest, linking the goods to his back. He rises with great effort, the merchandise, heavier than it looked.
His march begins anew. Hours of pace in empty plains. The winds persist, knocking off the pendant from his chest. A drifting piece featuring a gem. One of amber colors looking particularly cut, as half of it was missing. Amidst his run, the porter catches sight of it and promptly grabs it before putting it back in the folds of his coat. Under the black apparel.
A city begins to appear in the distance, his delivery point. The winds make his traveling hard, pushing against him, forcing his feet to greater effort. His hood flaps, struggling to keep itself attached over his head, concealing the mask he bears underneath. The goggles shielding his eyes. The benny sheltering his brown hair, cut reasonably short.
The more he approaches, the more clearly he can see the city. Its walls and towers. The homes that circle around and underneath. The venerated castle that dresses as the crown to the kingdom.
However, the distance meant for at least a few more hours. Hours of energy he surely had spent. Or not "To be honest, I could just walk it, but..."
His heart beats a little faster, burning his will through whatever exhaustion might be coursing inside. He had the means for one last trek. His body did.
"...well, never been one to make Mimi stand out for hours..." His eyes, behind the goggles, they cross, hardboiled in thought. Standing between two possible ways. His footing stops amidst it, fully focused on his thinking.
"Aw well, I can just ask for one more bun..." His hands no longer rest on the wraps of his belts, aiding each other at grabbing the sliced gemstone from under his scarf and coat, now gleaming.
As he takes hold of the chain clinging to the small mineral, the air around him becomes dense. Natural detritus floats in the shape of pebbles. The porter's immediate surrounding laces in small jets of coursing amber lightning, all steeming from the gem itself.
"Alright...as always, focus on your destination. Focus..."
[Focus]. Her voice echoes in his mind, recalling the manner of utilizing the gem. Soon enough, his body tingles, feeling the ions around him disassembling. A bridge between where he is and his target destination.
Lescatie.
His surface flashes briefly. Once. Twice. And then, a murmur. A whisper. The quietest of a burst. And he was no more.
"Not sure I'll ever get used to this..." It was a second, at most, for real-time. The beach he transported to, a gap between worlds, coursed through a few, no more than ten. A place where velocity was on his side, enabling him a rapid dash to a gap back to reality. Sights like this might have looked alien to him, if not for the repetitive number of times he used this teleportation spell over his years transporting cargo over the land.
The front of the gate oversees a dozing inspector. One hunched on his spear, awake and sleeping. Today had no reason for him to remain awake.
Or so he thought...
"Ahh! What?! Who? Where?!" The sound of a bursting bubble plucks his sleepy gaze wide open, prone to swing his spear around. At the grass. On the road. On his miniature post.
On Boris.
"Woah Woah, friend, relax!" His reflex hadn't dulled, giving him ample room to duck long before the sharp edge had a bite on his throat.
"Oh sh--sorry, sorry!" The inspector immediately pulls his spear back to his side in a non-hostile manner "Very sorry!"
"No, no, that one's on me, friend. I sort of overfocused and ported here instead of a few meters away". Boris keeps hold of his amulet, showcasing the dull gem as a testament.
"Ohh. Ohh, you're a porter. I didn't expect you for at least a few more hours". The inspector pulls out a notebook, flipping through pages.
"Yea, I sort of have a quick something to go about before going back".
"Hehe, I can imagine..." The inspector's gaze gets chuckling "It's not every day anyone gets to take a view of a lilim, eh? Always gets the boys moving". The man's cheeks grow crimson, reliving the sight he had taken in. He and many others.
"A lilim? Ohh, so, that explains the changes, then". Boris takes a few paces ahead. His cargo had long been removed from his back to allow the inspector a verification. He looks to the new Lescatie, looking and feeling more...welcoming, in a way. His senses feel the faintest of pulls. An atmosphere's whispers, far too dull for him to properly reel in, more akin to a buzzing, one only audible if he focuses on it.
"Well, yea" The inspector's head pivots to where Boris stood, looking at a city he hadn't stepped foot in half a decade "Surely you must have noticed. but then again, according to this..." He flips another page, having finished his little examination "You're been hauling quite far anyway".
"Yes. I did. It's quite amazing the work a guy carrying things can get far from here".
"Well, you must be exhausted. I won't take more of your time. Things are looking fine". The inspector nods.
"Well, that's fine. And, a bit, yes. Bandits are still teeming the place here and here. Brawling with several kilos on your back isn't a fun endeavor, trust me". The leather belts and harness fasten on Boris once more, stiffening his body for a second as to get familiar with the weight of his cargo.
"Of course..." The inspector's tone drones in exasperation, waking under a lower whisper "...I could have sworn I've sent a message for..." He shakes his head, instead, opting to put a note on his book "I'll send a word to the district. My apologies for that".
"Eh, don't worry about it. Can't be easy having to tell them over and over". Boris quite remembers how unsafe the long roads to and from Lescatie can be. Merchants of wealth often span away, though bandits obviously avoid heroes and heavy escorts. The rulership of old thought it enough, adding to a pile of reasons why they so easily gave in to their new 'conquerors'. It looks like they haven't changed their habits.
"Ugh, tell me about it. But anyway!" The inspector circles in front of Boris, fondly shaking his hand "You have a good trip now. And rest. Ohh, and, try not to miss her, though you likely won't anyway".
"Yea, yea. If I'm lucky. But, yeah, good luck out here". Boris sidesteps and resumes, a small road before the gates. Far from the toll inspector. Far from his sight as he plucks a gem from his pocket. One metamorphosed as a transmitter soon humming, soon active.
"Ma'am...you asked me to whisper to you the arrival of a porter..." He speaks to the ear that listens on the other side "Well...he's just passed the inspection booth...yea...yea, just one...hum, no, I couldn't really, I could barely see beyond his hood...seemed friendly though...hum, yea...yea...really? Rest of the day off? Thank ma'am, I'll take it! I have a little someone to go back to..."
---
"Yea. That place definitively changed" Boris looks on to the gorgeous streets, remade and re-worked. The houses and their pieces looking to have been tailored by hand, washing off the remains of the withered homes.
Senses and colors now parading the districts. Shop littering every corner. A place looking to be invested in those who walk the neighborhood.
"I don't really see dilapidated houses and those were the first things I'd see". Boris looks now to the people. About as color as the place itself. Monsters. A lot of them, in fact. Many, intertwined with a man.
"Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect that". Boris's traveling had already familiarized him with monsters and the such. Their appearance, their mindsets, their goals. Fortunately for him, it meant little in the way of danger. That and most he delivered to were already taken.
"I guess they're the reason why this place looks less like a bland texture of gray, brown and misery". He walks amidst the crowd of people, straight to the post office, right at the heart of the jewel of this city, once of light. The townfolk scarcely ever had the pleasure of letters, the 'privileged' being reserved for the more wealthy. It made sense to place the posting and delivery to a place they would never see.
Boris continues his pace, seeing many changes. The cathedral, once golden and white. Now black ad teeming. Statues of heroes, gone. Once sought out as a place for the common to pray and adore. Now only the plaques remain.
So many changes. And so many similarities. Boris continues on, driving himself into the maw of the castle. Gate door. Gate guards, still ever-present, even with their armor blackened. They reflect his sight, waving with the same friendly demeanor of the toll inspector.
"Hey". His hand sends it back with his own flavor of greetings as he passes through them, one of the two, somewhat impressed with the haul on his back.
His ascension in the maw is a quick one, diverging to the post office. "Yea, laced with gold. What did I expect?" Vents designed to eat and hold letters. Bins for larger outputs. All elegantly ornate in gild and inscriptions, looking to boost the self-confidence of whoever happens to be grazing the place for some all-important mail.
"Hmm" Boris unfastens the cargo on his back, knowing one to be destined for this castle. A glittering package, meticulously assembled and ornated, looking to hold something of extreme value within. A ward conceals the already sturdy container the size of a small box.
"Whatever lies inside must fetch a pretty penny to be this guarded" Boris carefully places the box in the bin and hears it being immediately taken by magical means, seemingly aware of who was to receive it.
"Ohh, that makes more sense" A voice calls out to the left, full of contempt. The hood over Boris strafe slowly to the direction of the derision, unsurprised to see a man of onerous clothing.
"I was wondering how is it that a discarded such as yourself had been able to get his filth-stained hands on such a jewel of a box like this..." The porter already rolls his eyes. Well, the more things change, the more some stay the same.
"...but now I see. The little mule is but some insignificant delivery creature. Makes much more sense now, don't you think?" The voice of this man matches the disposition of his facial features: beautiful, tended for, yet also twisted in arrogance, not unlike before. His attire was lavish, also no surprise. As was the sword on his hip, radiant with the material of their newcomers. In short, a noble before, a noble now. One of many individuals with a disdain for the changes brought.
Boris closes the bin and turns away, giving no word to the man leering at him. His grin somewhat falters "You know, I've always wondered what made the fair lady revoke the restrictions to the castle. Especially now that it's crawling with vermin going about looking at its inside like they never saw a castle. Or the donkeys gawking at things they'll never grasp in two lifetimes".
Again, his smirk further chips down as Boris now pulled out a letter, one detailing the spots of his deliveries. A red pen crosses what sounds to be the most annoying part yet, judging by the increasingly peeved noble.
"I'm sorry, are you having difficulty following any of my words? Or is your mind this sluggish to respond?!" The regent Duchamp bellows out at Boris, the latter, still relegating every word of his as background noise. He literally has 'been there' and 'done that' when it comes to the nobles' sense of entitlement, having heard anything and everything they had to say amid his travels.
"Nah".
"'Nah'?!" Is this some slang--hey, I am speaking to you, you scum-covered piece of ridden filth--" Boris fastens his harness, once more bringing the hefty cargo, now intended on circling Lescatie for their belonging. All under an array of continual bellow from the scorned regent, sometimes threatening the porter by his glancing hand rubbing the hilt of his rapier.
Right at the main hall. Amidst a road of individuals. Nobles. Knights of power. Fallen heroes. Legendary figures. All converging to a singular spot. With haste. With enthusiasm, notably, from the men. An overwhelming amount had weapons of choice to bring along.
"Hmm?" Boris' surprise is whole at the painting of dozens wandering with speed, looking like they were anticipating showmanship.
The regent Duchamp, however, had no reservation to be merely curious like Boris. He was whole in ecstasy "Ohh! How could have I forgotten? The fair lady is present!" He turns, seeing the gates to the main throne room opening, furthering his rapture. The glint of his rapier shimmers in the daily ray "My lady, your regent awaits! He shall be the one to string a direct performance to your rapturous heart!"
Utterly forgetting the 'mule', the regent wanders into the fray full of individuals drawing their prized weapons, embedded in their praised armors, looking to be noticed. Many also bear boxes. Peerless containers looking to hold within even more valued ornaments of size and shape.
"I'm guessing it's that new ruler that's getting everyone in such a hurry". Boris lets his voice out, drowned underneath a legion of hurried stomps. Or almost...
"Quite so" A feminine voice lures nearby, just about as quiet as his, clear enough for him to acknowledge responses to his thoughts "Lady Druella's mere presence is often a cause for the most esteemed to draw forward with items and trinkets from their lands. Always in hopes of finding a spot of notice".
Boris turns to the speaker. A demon. Unsurprising considering the new face of Lescatie. She was dressed in somewhat of an aid. A secretary, sporting humble apparels of a manager to the palace. A demonic secretary, her attire sporting the seductive stance of a woman.
"A lilim, I presume?"
"Yes indeed. Quite astute for someone who travels a lot". A small smile notches on her blue lips.
"Well, Lescatie's facelift was pretty detailed. Just about anyone would have heard of it". Boris shrugs, dismissive of his faint knowledge.
"And humble as well. Glad to breathe a bit of it. The self-assurance here can be choking at times, even with their enthusiasm".
"You'll get used to it, don't worry" Boris turns to the opposite direction of the marching notable. If the sense of self-importance was something of an annoyance to the demon, Boris had long learned to let it slide, preferring to minimize contact with them. Like right now, with a step forward. And no more.
"Courier, you are you not going to go get a glimpse of our lady?" The demon interjects to him, a hand on his shoulder "I'm sure it would invigorate your weary shoulders with what you bear on".
"Nah, no need for that. I've got deliveries to make and--
"Oh come now". The demon snaps her fingers, snaping his harness away, lifting down the cargo as light as a feather under the work of her telekinesis. Without waiting, she presses the freehand on his shoulder, making them two following a quick pivot for him to face the same side as those marching "I've been told you haven't returned to this land for quite a bit--"
"Ok, where did you get that--
"--a man with a name as a citizen of this place. And no eyes on the new ruler of this domain? Nonsense! Our fair princess does enjoy meeting unfamiliar faces. Especially the ones have a claim on a domain". The demon continues on, edging him forward with no thought to his dismissal.
"No, seriously, I have deliveries--
"They can wait. Compensation shall be given should you found out to be late".
"No. Really. It's fine. It's not like a mighty lilim is itching to look at some delivery man--
"Nonsense. If that was the case, then the door to her castle wouldn't be open for all. Now, come. Let me show you what you have missed all those years. Perhaps, you could even get a spot to speak to her, hmm?"
"Ok...really, where are you people getting your info?" Boris found himself under the unfamiliar strength of a demon casually pushing him ahead of the curve. The men, teeming to flood the gate, couldn't help but make way for one of the princess' aides. Just the right moment for the secretary to suddenly close her lips under a frowned duty.
From those who were at its court to the most distant of travelers, anyone and every with history to Lescatie as a citizen had an opportunity to gaze upon the visage of the fourth princess, as an effort to see the 'faces of Lescatie'. Especially during a 'better time'. And now, come Boris, the most distant of them all, occupied for years in delivery. Looking to step out by admission of his profession.
"Unacceptable..." mutter the demons, pushing him further. Some from the mass of enticed men of wealthy backgrounds stop if just for a moment, looking at the incomprehension staging beside them.
"That's one of her aides..."
"Dragging a..." The speaker's face lights in incomprehension.
"A carrier?!" More of them stare in disbelief, looking over Boris with the same incomprehension, one swift to turn to a semblance of indignity. The demon seemed uncaring of the on growing mass even as they mount the pace, their shrieks of promise turned to grumble curiosity.
Ever pushed forward, Boris simply crosses his arms. Locked as he is, there was little contesting the arm strength of a demon, watching the path of confusion he strings in his wake "Hum...just so you know, those suitors of yours are making a ruckus".
"I am aware". The demon pushes on, breaching the already open gates to the throne room. A gleaming white permeates through the windows, shining as bright as the day instructed it to. As soothingly as the sun had taught the moon to.
Here, displays. A man in particular at the front of the row. Enthralled without reserve. Just as much as the others, bearing their most prized possession.
Gilded armor, decorated in ornaments. A mithril sword left without a sheath, openly shining his potent mana across. One of the very best among the privileged, holding the hand of the very woman they all seek to woo. Her touch through his gauntlet had his will in disarray, swooned over to the fourth princess.
It was obvious for Boris, looking over to the drawn mass of men. Even the few women who came in the admission of duty, aid, or otherwise, had their senses lured in, only slightly less than the male counterparts. Even more for those who already sported someone to call their own.
And there she was. The fourth. The true ruler of this place, who had sent her ruler regent to a fruitful rest as to instigate the reigns for this time being.
"So, that's her, right?" Boris looks on, peering through his goggles. Darkened for protection against the sun, it was complicated for any on-looker to decipher his expression via his eyes. Interest guides his features.
"Yes". The demon had long ceased, standing next to him, the two of them watching the grand Druella wooing yet another of high hopes to a drooling wreck with the benign singularity of touch, pleasure addled.
"Well, I have to admit, she is a very beautiful woman. As expected of word-say. Though, at the same time, I feel like..." Plunging a hand in the darkness of this hood, Boris can't help but feel familiarity toward this lilim. Was it the way she was mischievously smiling at the man who felt his strings pulled to her will? How she sat, blurring the notion of nobility? Or perhaps--
"Well, there's that". The porter shrugs amidst a sea of looming enthusiasts. He saw what they did, charmed by the peerless appearance of the long-standing ruler. Only "I'm glad to have seen her indeed. But, I kind of have certain things to--and you stopped listening to me again".
"Now, now, the man at her side is just about done with his edict. I think it is a ripe time for you to get close and personal". The demon had seen to his body movement, sensing his imminent retreat. Demanding as his work could be, a minute or two wouldn't be the end of him. She personally tends to push him close, once again, clutching his shoulders.
"Ma'am, seriously, I am grateful that you want...well, I'm not sure what you want from this...but, really, there is a line of--
"Madam! A porter to greet you!~ The demon bellows. Stared at by the swooned man, all-too altered in sensual touches of his hand to notice. His face contorts, overwhelmed by the senses still pulsing from a hand no longer in his reach.
His fall only becomes apparent under the loud rattling of his heavy armor stroking the ground as the abandon of his body, the mind, bound by the overwhelming aneurysm of pleasure washed over everywhere. Under regulars circumstances, that sort of failure to uphold oneself would garner mockery from his peers shooting for the same goal. However, the hall's collective eyes traced away from the twitching man, barely able to contain the 'feel-good' coursing in his body, all redirected nearby.
"Hum..." Boris was in an all-honed sense of center, now followed by eyes. None of the crowd, as stunned as the nobles were, to see her majesty so easily curious toward him. But hers. Druella. Reflecting a sort of...attention.
Briefly looking back, his witnessing is astute. Scores of incomprehension. Save for the blue-skinned woman, a contrarian's stance on the matter of the ordeal "Madam, here is someone who has just returned to the place of his birth!" Her hands no longer anchor his shoulders, knowing their purpose to be done. The streak is upheld.
The courier's body is rattling under his coat. Uncertainty, surely, up to the return to her expression "Really? A returned face? So long gone, no less".
Well, that was to be expected from a lilim, staring down a man's soul with an easy knowledge of his long departure. Unless someone went in and whispered to her. Regardless, her hands come cup Boris' hand, acting as a sovereign coveting the homecoming of a lost civilian "Welcome back! I'm sure you had a gracious look-around to anything and everything. I do hope you find it more to your taste. Your fellows seem to enjoy themselves plenty with our little changes".
So her mind drifts to the mundane, huh? Well, she wasn't wrong. Looking around, Boris saw improvements. A place someone like him could very well live. Even if most leaned toward the more...enthusiastic display of feelings. Smooching couples, stores dedicated to 'intimate' playing, furniture designed for short reach, all couples along with the more earthly stores. Cafes, restaurants, clothing, it was a sight for a city who once reserved those for the more wealthy.
"Well, I saw a lot of happy faces, if that's what you're asking, ma'am". The more the mule gazed upon the princess, the more he felt at ease. Somehow, with royalty doubled with the epitome of nepotism as a daughter of the lord of monsters, Boris had no reservation making himself at leisure, his stance gained in assurance. A feeling not often experienced around the wealthy, least of all, royalty. As it stands, she was the second one to see the man unravel in casual standing, almost forgetting the spotlight hanging over his head.
"Though, I see today is supposed to be something of an offering to you. Unfortunately, I do not carry much on my person". Boris' shoulders lift in a fleeting behavior, his shrugging shared with the fourth.
"Oh, do not worry about that. Your honest presence is more than enough for me". Surely she must be aware of his ease, looking more than slightly grateful for the distant commoner's opinion. Though, it likely had something with the way one of his hand was creeping on his back.
"Well, I'd be something of an impolite creature to meet someone of your standing without recognition for your alterations. I honestly wouldn't want to lose the opportunity to offer my sincere appreciation. Good thing I went and clipped two over one". Boris slips a miniature box out from a fold of his coat, easily catchable without the kilos of cargo weighing down on his back.
One black box, the size of a rectangle. A surprise shining in her eyes, as well as the crowd of once-impatient suitors, peeved at what they'd describe as some dirty traveler in a profession of failure. Whispers come about, pondering of its content. Mostly due to the lilim's own sense of engagement protruding.
"It's not much, but, I managed to get myself into the river falls of Ascalon, somehow. I found these the depth of its many waterfalls while seeking shelter from a heavy storm". Anticipation had grown. For the disinterred, looking increasingly curious. For Druella, reasonably, but openly teeming. Not for Boris, already knowing its innard. Nothing close to the array the line had to offer.
Flower buds on the cusp of blooming. Ascalon roses, in the color of their original siblings. Exactly like their original siblings, save for one feature "I had the intention of offering the two to a friend I am to visit later on. Being a capable magic-user meant a faster bloom for these, with the dance of wind accompanying her. These little ones also have the quirk of spurning small particles in their wake. And smaller scents. The more one is affiliated with them, the more they show. Considering the rumors about your magic potency, I'd think it a gracious enough offer for you".
The whispers had grown larger, all bouncing around the potency of the porter's gift. A potency to outclass anything they would ever display. Arts, weaponry, armor, magic, all, outclassed. Just like that. Unless "It that it? Does it boost the wearer's strength in the occult?"
"No. It does not. It is but a bloom. One spreading particle petals wherever one goes". Boris turned to the most probable source of the voice, one amidst many. Unsurprisingly, it turned to derision, as was the collective eyes.
"Just a flower. Best throwaway gift a sickerning carrier could hope to obtain. On the ground, in some abandoned ruins".
Mocking voices, leering glares. All obvious. What wasn't so expected? Her gaze "Oh my. This little bud matches my irises perfectly. Ascalon flowers, you name them?" Her voice is sweetened, even for but a brief time. Slowly, carefully, the lilim cups the delicate bud in the palms of her hands, looking at it with unseen fascination.
A tide of incomprehension sweeps the place, sparring but the demon aid, looking more prideful at her bringing the man here than anything. Boris himself hadn't expected a strong reaction. It wasn't enough to actually deter him "Well, you do have the same eye, color, if I may, madam. She once said how curious she was about these. I thought to bring it...well, one of them to her".
"My, my! What a friend you must have, then". Druella looks back to the bud, the spec of warmth burning soothingly in the depth of her palm "I've heard that the Ascalon falls were not particularly forgiving to just anyone".
"Well, they aren't. Between the rain that drops like anvils and the fall themselves, it's not a place I'd go calling relaxing. Even with the deceptive beauty of it all".
"Ohh, you simply must give me the details of this little adventure of yours. The struggle to bring something this endearing to a close someone, how it is so..." Her strengthened expression coalesces with a glimmer between. One, again, teeming in this familiar sense of comfort. One breaking lines that would keep his words to a minimum.
Of course. Why not? "Well, if you wish to know--" Ohh, that's right. He had cut a line. A file. They saw it. A simple flower bud, leagues of insignificance under their trinkets worth entire cities. Drawing the venerated princess to this depth. Almost enthralled, glimmering with the surface of joy.
Boris hears their voiceless outrage. Hears their thoughts, angered words stringing out their faces 'How the hell?!' 'Really? A dirty commoner's flower?!' 'What spectacle am I witnessing?!!' 'It's a goddamned flower! Why does he sound so proud of it?!'
"Actually, sorry, ma'am, but I just remembered. I've got delivery to make. This is just one among many" Boris turns away from the ruler, catching a glance of the demon who's own prideful expression of her mistress' bliss had turned to a stare of confusion behind the glass of her glasses.
The same one he walks past, a hand on her shoulder "I appreciate the consideration. Today's just not the best for a meeting. Sorry". One of his hands clutches the sliced gem medallion, instantly disappearing in a puff of particles, turning a blind eye to the sea of leering grins at his departure.
The eternally confused demon, unsure of how or why a man would so easily discard a close-up of a mistress like hers. Or even the same one, luring her aid closer, whispering deep in her ear. Whispering as her finger points in a specific direction. One an individual would recognize as the delivery man fastening his cargo, knowing the day to be gone.
Surprisingly, telling day from night in a demon realm was as easy as telling day from night in an unaltered. A white moon or a scarlet moon. Obviously, even for monsters, a scarlet light is a sign to remain indoors. Their own night light.
"Well, delivering packages at times like this isn't going to fit many. I know I'd be annoyed having to open a door in the middle of the night". Boris looks around, his head notched up. Somewhere not far, there is an inn, one likely still hauled up by the same man of before.
So, he walks, seeing the populace of the streets gradually emptying, leaving naught but the guards of the dark. Here as well, they mingle with their long-arrived neighbors. Couples wandering the street, pairs of weapons poking upward, crossed as their minds and hearts are. Vigilant as much to the streets as they are to each other. Some take the time to wave at the lone Boris, to which he waves back, ever closer to the Weasel's Hay.
"Or the Lass' Corner now, I guess". Finding it ironically has been somewhat of a search for the porter, constantly passing through it with no notice of its change. At least for ten passes "I take it he's also taken, then".
Stepping inside gives validation to his words, as the first individual he spots by the counter is a wooly woman, bespectacled. They shine a small piece of candlelight nearby, permeating over a tiny booklet.
Her ears perk up at his footing, prompting her hands closed "Welcome tot he Lass' Corner. Currently, our king-size rooms are all rented for the night. Sorry, but I do hope--oh my. A porter How rare of you lot to come around here".
"You were saying something about the rooms being rented?" Boris makes no qualm prancing about to the counter with a sum of coins in a bag. A bag immediately pushed back to his side.
"Ohh, you won't be needing this. Someone has been asking to give you this". A key dangles from the tip of her wooly palm. A golden key hanging from a pink plastic noting a room for him. One shimmering with warmth in the surface of his palm, paddled as it was "Someone has asked me to watch for a man sporting a white scarf around. Seeing how you're the only one wearing winter apparels, I figure she's speaking of you".
"Well, she offered it to me. It's been surprisingly comfortable all-around".
"Oh yes, things offered by a close one always are the most comfortable ones. My Henry persistently carries the tiniest of hats made specially from the wool that clings to my body. It just compliments him so much". The woman swoon, hands on her face, forgetting the stranger still leaning over the cupboard.
"Oh, yea..." Boris acquiesces "I always said a hat would complete his 'assembly'. Always thought he was a hat guy.".
"Right?! I'm so glad someone else sees it" The sheep woman giggles, nodding approvingly.
"It seems he finally decided to embrace it you around, huh? By the way, where is he anyway? He doesn't look like the type to shy away from late hours".
"Ohh, yes. With me around, my Henry can finally get some well-deserved rest. He doesn't have to wander the counter as he did before. Not with a custom-craft pillow at his side, hehe".
"Well, that's nice of you. Then again, I expected no less, from what I saw so far. I'll see you later". Boris turns and walks, the stairs in his way.
"Hold on, now". A giggle resonates in his head, his eyes shifting her direction. His bag of coins drifts in her grasp "Someone forgot their purse".
"Keep it". Boris sways his hand, taking another step up.
"Now, now, I did tell you the room was free. Someone else already went and paid up for you. I don't feel all right taking money like that".
The strands of fatigue finally wash whole over the courier, so close to a potential bed. Even without that factor, he had amassed coins for a night in. No use keeping something he already spent "Then use it for a free night on the next man or woman that could use a room. As far as I'm concerned, it's yours".
"Are your certain--
"It's yours, ma'am. I know you'll use it well. Haven't been disappointed with your kind yet". Boris moves on, his voice distant with time. The last thing he hears is a sight. Not so much of annoyance 'The lady will be fond to hear distance has not changed him much'.
The more steps he closes in, the more tired he feels. He did trek miles between cities on foot with at least a hundred kilos worth of goods. That he didn't collapse anywhere up to know was a testament of the fortitude cultivated through thousands of steps. Though this was but the least of his thoughts.
Unlocking the ward to his door, Boris drifts aimlessly through the surprisingly well-endowed room. A room many would claim as fitting for a man with his journey behind him. None of it. Not the miniature container for beverages in which he drinks from. Not the elegant pantry for his weary coat, on which he hung it. Not the bathroom, assorted with gilded frames and pristine elements, in which he bathed, brushed and changed himself in. None of it had caught his eye.
Not even his exhaustion and withering eyelids to the lull of sleep had his attention. For all of his awareness was spent in his hand. The same hand the mistress had held. Familiarly. Once again. Same touch, same mannerism, same as hers.
"I wonder, do they all act the same? So strange and yet..." It was warm. More than what he had seen toward the previous man. His mind re-injects the memory of ease. How easily he was swayed to speak so carelessly...up to a point.
"Probably her overwhelming..." His sentence is left unfinished, snuffed out by the night and the dream. Both, coming to borrow the man. The former, his body to a cool shiver under the sheets, shutting down anything but the necessary. The latter, his mind. His thoughts, to the dreamscape. A dream reuniting him to her, the friend he left so long ago. Hand in hand, embedded in halcyon rings. A dream he would never speak of or even acknowledge. no matter its repetition...since his departure.
---
---
The night churns as he does, tides of ruby waning so soon after waxing. It presents its more benign face, the snow-white moon. It glares, peers into the window of the courier, sleeping with no cover. Years of solitary rest on sullied soil and hollow caverns had nurtured his sense of minimalism. Hunched somewhat on the bed, Boris slept, a hand cluttered on the pendant. His position was no comfort, but alertness. One quick to spring his eyes awake behind the reinforced goggles.
"Still so dark outside..." They blink a few times, the dark tint masquerading his groggy senses in a falsehood. One standing for seconds at best as more of his mind awakes from the lull of dreams.
"Ohh...right. Demon realm. They don't do sunlight, here". He wakes unceremoniously, sitting on the edge of the bed. Even not looking outside the window, the courier was aware of how 'early' it was. Guards still roamed the outskirts and inner streets, minutes away from the official end of their patrols. A scarce amount was wandering among them, likely opening their stores with more than a few yawns.
He sits, stretching his arms outward, his mask still on. As well as the elegant scarf dangling from around his neck. The pendant shimmers dimly, hidden by its layers.
"Well, might as well start now" Boris rises, promptly went to the bathroom, the first thing he always did, in or out of cities. Hygiene never changed in its importance, after all.
Armed in his coat and utility, the man was already stepping out, reaching downstairs, the key bundled on the counter, seconds from the door.
"Hey, hey, you're seriously not considering a welcome?" A voice strings from where he had tossed his key. A familiar voice, another.
"Henry? I didn't expect you to be awoken so early". His feet dart back to the front of the counter, firmly clenching a hand offered his direction. An unmasked hand, unlike his, clad in gloves and long sleeves. Having their palms bound, Boris lifts his eyes.
Henry stood about his height, slightly taller than him by a difference of a few centimeters. Currently, the top of his head is decorated by a sublime white cylinder thicker at the bottom. Looking at it, Boris' eyes discern a trace of lace dangling at the left gold-trimmed white the rest of the hat had a wooly white color to it. Despite looking easy to forget balance, the hat itself had no problem keeping its form comfortably over the man's cranium no matter how vigorously he sways.
"Nice hat. I told you that you were a hat guy". The courier nods, a sly point to the soft cone protruding out from Henry's top. The dress of his mustache and hair really had their combo endorsed by its presence.
"Hehe, I guess you were right, ol' chum" Henry cackles, firmly holding their handshake when he notices the key close "But anyway, you know that key is available for more than just one night, right?"
"I'm only here for a few days, friend. I'm just delivering".
"Oh, come on, ol' chum, you're really not just going to throw them and bolt, right? Stay a bit. Lescatie has had a new lift. More than you think". Henry moves his arm from Boris', spreading it alongside its twin outward "No more dreary dull and people in need of basic necessities. Now, it's all about learning what trinkets they came down with. Just like the wool, the very one my dear has brought to this fantastical hat currently sleeping over my head".
"Sorry friend, I'm not really in the position to just 'lay down' or anything. Gotta make those deliveries". Boris shrugs, a hint of his eye wincing, impressed by the persistence of the inn master.
"Oh, come now, they won't scold you if you make it a bit later than usual. This isn't old Lescatie anymore, chum. From where I stand, you're just on time anyway. What's a day or two?"
"Well, a day I could be going for another delivery".
"Ahh, shame. I heard you were also visiting". The inn keeper leans close, a whisper to the courier "You know she's really been looking forward to it. Heck, my Wendy told me she's personally handled the terms of your stay...even though you dropped fifty coins here".
"Well, I am, but only for a brief moment. Probably just saying 'hi' and, well, nothing more. I'm sure she's got better things to do".
"I wouldn't count on it". Henry winces his eyes, the smirk of a married man adorning his expression. It was dubiously clear he had the flair of a married man. Saw what Boris couldn't.
A sight, quick to materialize as the courier stepped out. "I'll keep this around for you, eh?" The last words of Henry drifting out the door as well.
He paces to the cargo. Goods in need of delivery among this place. A belt opened, a second ready. and no more, the vague sensation of an approach closing in.
Boris turns, not exactly in hostility, but merely on guard. All too late.
"Borissy! You're finally back~ A pair of arms collide gently around his scarf, and neck by extension. A crimson top presses against his jet black coat, laced in gild trims and buttons. A regent's attire. A badge of a noble sigil is present, pressing its metallic source on his chest in the shape of an eagle. Her bottom is a black pair of pants, just as decorated, yet molded to her body, unsurprisingly flawless as any aristocrat.
"It's been so long. Too long" She whispers, her head moving from his shoulder. Features he hadn't forgotten. The ruby eyes that shined as brightly as diamonds. The river of hair, fencing her face by both sides. The tiny beauty mark that idles on her caucasian complex. The strong exotic voice that perfumes her personality. He remembered it all.
"Yes, it has". Boris lifts a hand, hoping it to be enough for the aristocrat. They had appearances to keep...in his mind. Mirandelle never was one to care much for those. Not even in their younger years.
"Borissy, you know I don't do handshakes with friends. Much less..." Once again, she embraces him, perfuming his odorless body with hints of cherries and a huff of sweet "...with a close friend~.
"Well..." Staring in his goggles for the second time, Boris had noticed his hands, so intently clad on her waist. They immediately move apart "...I'm not surprised".
"That, and a five-year gap is going to make any gal longing for a friendly embrace. But, anyway. I'm here to take you away".
"Me? Away? Really, Mimi?" His head leans slightly left side. The mask he bears hides his disbelief.
"Hmm, yes. It's been five years, Borissy. You think I'd just let a very good friend of mine just come along, say 'hi' and 'bye' so easily? Nah-ah, mister, you're coming with me. This place has too many goodies for you to skip out on". Saying that, Mirandelle coils on Boris' arm, a wink his direction and a sight for a direction. Or, directions.
"Frankly, Mimi, I'd like to, but..." Boris' hand reaches back, knocking on a piece of delivery. The woman's expression is a fleeting sense of confusion, looking to his back and the cargo piled over. She nods, triggering a response "So you understand? I don't have the luxury of--ok, Mimi, you're really selling this tourist guide pitch, are you?"
His back is slipped free of the heavy goods, the crate underneath softening their fall as they no longer link to the straps on his front. All with the everlasting smirk of his old friend "Borissy, you worry too much. I'm sure that kind inn master explained that those looking for your deliveries aren't going to be offended by a day or two. We've not met in years. That's much more important".
"I've sent letters".
"Pff, letters are just paper, Boris. I have the man right here, ready to share his adventure since his departure. With his tone, his expressions, his...personality".
"Ok, then". He shrugs, his mask masking a hint of a simper. His feet move, leading her on as she still attached herself to his side. She wants to grab his time, he might as well take lead.
A surprise is purchased on her lips "Borissy, you're earnestly this eager?"
"Well, I'm sure you hadn't had breakfast or anything. Which is fitting since I did not have either..." His stomach acquiesces his thought, grumbling.
"So you're bringing me to..." Her sentence parts, drifting away from their pace, the streets growing more populated.
"...that place you always enjoy". The noblewoman thinks it over. Her mind sparks to a place in particular. One so often visited. The Crescent Croissant. A humble shelter of croissants, morning sweets, and plentiful mugs.
"Hehe, Borissy, I didn't expect that you would remember so fondly". Gladly led forward, Mirandelle clenches on his arm, following closely with but a cheeky smile blossomed.
"Well, you often said it was a place where you could relax. 'Enjoy commonality', so you used to say".
"Oh, heavens, yes". A subtle change in Mirandelle's voice, one clear to Boris who winces his eyes to her, sharing a glance of worry mixed to responsibility. An opportunity for him to alleviate her of whatever woe she might be in gripes with, as convenient the timing might be.
"You have no idea of the numbers that came to me in search of a lass to woo over". Her gloved hand rubs over her forehead in spite of the dryness of the temple. A semblance of migraine. A feign, somewhat.
"So, that hasn't changed, then? I'm sorry about that, old friend".
"Don't worry about it, Boris". This brief cloud soon picked up in the wind leaving her psyche in place of relief "It's a good thing you came along when you did. Finally, some downtime for me".
"Well, I'm glad to be of use, then". Their joined walk closes in on the glass entrance of the Crescent Croissant. It opens with the scent of brewing comeuppance to their nostrils. Sweet moist tingling in the air, luring anyone with a taste for coffee and morning sweet to a seat, as are the two.
"Yea, you just sit around, I'll bring us something". Folding a hand in his pocket, Boris presents his old friend to a seat by the window, remembering the long gazes outside and eyes drifted in pondering.
She turns to him, a grin of anticipation teeming at the surface "Hehe, a fine time for me to see how far you can scratch your mind, Borissy~.
"Oh, don't worry about me, Mimi. I have quite the extended remembrance". Boris waves and shifts to the counter. A drop of coins, a try of goods, a return to the window.
"Extended, hmm?" Mirandelle's eyes follow the trip back to her table, spotting a particular piece for her. A half-moon baked from snow-white flour to a flourished croissant. One as plum as a connaisseur of croissants would expect, with the twist of color changes. The top is glazed with sugar, distinct enough in its slightly brown powder.
Its insides are as juicy to the beholder, for holding it would reveal a substance. A caramel taste within to complement the sugary touch without. Besides it, no mug, but glass to accompany it. The frosty sugar wouldn't be enough to slake its brethren, the steaming caramel brewing within.
There, a cold glass of vanilla milk laced with more caramel was of necessity. A combination of warm and cold, a favorite of Mirandelle "My, oh my, you really do remember. I'm quite grateful for that, Boris".
"Yea, I told you I had extended memory" He sets her things to her side, privy to her impatient hands already glazed with the sweet at the tip. As for him, he went for a blend. Chocolate and vanilla, separated by nothing. Merged together in a seamless mix, bringing the best of two worlds. By his side also stands a warm beverage unlike hers. A coffee mug steaming with chocolate flavors and a hint of mint.
"I believe you. Good heavens, this is exactly what I need. Always what I needed". Mirandelle takes a bite with none of the hesitations one would find from a noble "You are a fountain of relief".
"Eh, you're exaggerating. I just happen to know what might get you to relax. High in the morning, looking to face your daily grind, I figured that since none of us ate anything, this would be a pick-me-up for you".
"But I'm serious". Mirandelle stops between bite, looking back to the masked courier and his constant lowering and rise of his mask behind the dark hood "That was something I needed. You have no idea how calming it is to be here. With you".
He stops. His hand halfway down. A nod spills from his hidden face "Yea. Glad I could provide, Mimi. But, honestly, you always said you had a penchant to get someone's attention. I mean, it sounds like they finally noticed you".
As he speaks, Boris notices people passing by. Most, in couples, holding each other close with some entering to spend the morning in each other's throes. Others, lone walkers, merely passing by. A few, however, stop. Monsters, in particular, looking at the curious mix of commoner and noble. Mostly to him. Some wink. Others wave in a sultry manner. The majority of the onlookers, however, display a thumbs-up, with some more, even making a pushing motion, attempting to goad him on. Goading him to Mirandelle, it seems. He shrugs, thinking it nothing.
"Well..." The woman takes a sip, calming the rumble of hot caramel in her buds "...I did. I still do. But, the gifts they are prone to hand me in their display of wealth. The glamor doesn't last long, I'll tell you that much".
"Huh. Strange. I must be missing something, then".
"You could say that. Glimmering trinkets are often just that. Glimmering trinkets. To someone like me, it doesn't mean much, if anything. I can simply get myself some ultra-rare, limited edition gold sword grafted in diamonds whenever I want. Heck, I've had a man offering me that yesterday".
"So its just gifts, then, huh? Well, have you ever considered heroes? I mean, they're the paragons around here, even with Lescatie's face flipped. Everyone would kill just to get a glimpse of a hero's gaze directed at them and what they mean. Valor, strength, martial skill, magic. Anything and everything, really. I'm sure one of them would make you happy".
"I thought so too. Alas, they're not as what you expected them to be. Well, most of them. Those who do are already taken and happily so".
"Ok...? Not sure I follow, Mimi".
The woman simpers for a second before taking a bite. She chews quietly, her stare focused hard enough to miss the spec of caramel longing on her cheek. Boris sees it, seconds after seeing yet another monster passing by, stopped to watch the two. Again, motions to 'go get her' were sent his way.
A deep breath further calls to his attention "Well, how can I say this? The more things changes, the more some stay the same. The majority of heroes that linger are from the old school of thought. It's not particularly charming to see those so-called 'paragons' wield their status like a badge. I'm sure you can understand what I mean".
"Ohh..." Boris remembers of the regent that tried so hard to get under his skin. The files that rumbled at his center. He dismisses it from his mind "So that's still a thing?"
"It is so. Not the kind of attention I want, though. Far from it. Especially with them around. With our new neighborhood".
Boris looks to a couple just as she sighs. A man and a demon, both in hand, likely going to their distinct professions. No care for their title, nor anything else, but the one they hold on to, an endearing stare.
He looks back to Mirandelle, looking the same way, a much more longing gaze distancing her eyes. An old stare between her glance, older than what he expected. A stare repeated countless times, likely in his absence in greater amounts.
"Well..." He joins his hand to hers, from the tip to the depth of her palm. Her reaction is immediate, swiftly converted to the man who holds it, his face, indiscernible by the mask that cloaks his lower jaw up to the nose. Boris had taken a habit of keeping it on.
His eyes convey his whole. One stretching wholly to Mirandelle, who can't help but quail slightly "There's bound to be someone going for you. A real hero. I mean, why not? You've got everything to be the centerpiece of one's heart".
"I hope so too, Borissy. But, I think he might be closer. Perhaps, he might..." Her eye turns to his hand discarding itself from hers, a bit queasy to see its distancing.
Boris moves upward, departing. His mind is populated by the thought of his package. Goods he needed delivering. If he rushes, he might make it. But then, that would mean...
"Well, I guess I'll catch you another time, Mimi". He says without turning, sliding his hood on.
"Oh, yes, we're definitively doing this tomorrow". The scarlet-dressed woman takes a sip of her cold beverage.
She didn't get it. It was fine. Boris sends a 'bye' through his finger, copied back by the aristocrat and promptly exits the premises. His hands in his pockets, he pulls out the miniature box. Heh, it looks like he forgot to actually gift her.
He turns, looking to retrace his steps. He does but sees another already. A man sitting face-to-face with her. Plates. A majestic greatsword. A powerful presence, akin to hers. A hero, no doubt. And a strong one, at that.
Mirandelle seems happy for one. Smiles she often shuns from, now whole. Laughter, giggles, an overall good time. One he wasn't willing to interject into, looking from the other street. At least, not with such a paltry gift, not while she may be getting her breakthrough.
"Nah". He puts it back to his pocket and turns with no second thought. He had a delivery to manage. If he goes fast enough, he can pick up another one before the end of the day. Conceivably depart the place at dusk.
His refusal to spare a second glance blinds him to a withering smile strung his way, far from Mirandelle who had spotted his form through the corner of her eye. Something she was awaiting from him?
The voice of the man calls back to her, prompting a more plump smile back. Though, not as bright...
---
---
Boris moves regularly. Straddled by hundreds of kilos on his back, he makes his way to one of the destinations. A lone walker amidst countless. Walking all the way to a garden of sorts. It hums in a greenish shade, illuminating fashionable writings against the night day of the atmosphere.
Bonita Garden.
Some of the cargo is wrestled to the side, the non-related. With that done, Boris enters with a hefty load dancing in his arms, almost topping out the upper frame of the door.
His heavy pace, encumbered by the strain of total weight, is easily made to the owner of the shop.
"Welcome, welcome--ohh? My delivery?" An enchanting voice comes along from downward stairs leading to am underground gardening. A woman makes her appearance behind the counter.
Unmistakably monster-like to Boris, her hands several times larger than his resting on the counter. A brown pigment maps them, more chocolate than any human would be. Hers clings closer to the earth she cares for.
Her pantaloons are blemished by specs of dirt and dust, mostly at the knees, and perhaps, on her skin, if not for the indiscernible scope of her skin blending in. Never the less, like every monster, the woman's features are unbearably feminine, especially for one attuned to the earth. A generous portion of a chest, bountiful hips, and a face to make even the most rigid of men melt with a smile their direction.
And Boris had no qualm facing her traits, feeling no sway but the faintest of visual attempts. Regardless, he approaches her, A note to confirm the case "85 kilos of seeds and raw ingredients? All here".
"That's good to hear--hey, now, you're not going so soon, are you?" Bonita hops up the counter, quick to catch the arm of the porter who already was on his way out, his march, halted.
"I've still got another delivery to make, sorry".
"Well, hold on. I thought, maybe you could help me unfasten these". Still holding on to Boris' arm, Bonita the gardener projects her other enlarged hand to the twenty or so boxes still plucked in an orderly fashion, waiting to be pulled out from within "I didn't expect you to be here so soon and it has kind of caught me without preparedness".
"I would like to help you, but--"
"Then it's settled" The gardener pulls him back from the exit, sly earthen magic humming. Tiny pebbles, floating from the pit of nothingness, eager and impatient. They floating briefly around the straps of the boxes, closer and closer until one of them finally flies too close, cutting one of the leather belts holding the whole together. More and more sink into them, cutting them in one swoop until all of them had laid on the ground, inert.
"Ma'am, I really cannot afford to be late". Bonita's hand that so enthusiastically held Boris felt empty air fill her grasp. Her head turns, seeing the man absent. A puff of magic replaced him. A burst of air remade with him closer to his remaining goods.
"Oh really?" She skips close to the exit, a hand on the hefty boxes display a jar of liquid under a sitting woman, her skin, a healthy spray of green "Liliraune vial, hmm? So, you're going to the perfume store".
"Yes. My last delivery spot". Boris looks back to her "It's on the other side of the city. I've spent a bit of time getting here and have little time to idle here". Boris takes a step through the door, a hand on the address of the place in particular. The Daunting Dame.
"But, you know she's not open today, right?"
Boris stops "...what?"
"I take you haven't been to the castle today, have you?"
"Well, I actually have. Long file". Boris' thoughts are clouded by the array of glares in his wake. At least a hundred angry stares for the crime of insignificance in their eyes.
"Yes. A lot of men looking to hone their worth to the lady. A lot of trinkets and much more perfumes clouding the area".
"Perfume? Ohh, I was masked this day. Must have slipped my nose".
"Well, as I said, she's not open. They've literally raided the place and Jenny is currently preparing more. That is to say, don't expect her until at least tomorrow Whole store is locked and closed, as well. And seeing how she prefers taking in the good by hand, well..."
"So I'm late anyway?" The man passes a hand on his head, his casual benny off at the time.
"No. If you were, at least two days would have passed. As it stands, she's not expecting you until then. Which is an impressive pace you walk into, especially the roads teeming with danger and all that".
"The fact that I'm held finishing off until tomorrow is a demonstration of the opposite if I say so myself". Boris rubs his forehead.
"Ohh, you're too hard on yourself. Come, come". Bonita takes his hand in hers "I still would like a second pair of hands to help me, if possible".
"Might as well". He bends his knees slightly, pushing a button. In an instant, the straps are rendered from his chest, leaving his goods inert, stacked on a corner "It's not like I'm going anywhere today".
Boris' unrelenting stamina in unpackaging and sowing the fresh seeds of exotic fruits is a sight for the gardener, hands moving with surprising dexterity where none was to be found on a delivery man. These hands definitively had experience in the matter before.
A curiosity she is anguish to satisfy as the day turned to an evening, deep in the underground garden of her making. Sun crystals for their growth. A basin for their thirst. Her hands for their care. And a table to rest. One she sits on, an iced tea his way as the delivery man many times refused her seat offer. She looks at him, impressed with the speed and delicate manner of his work, having done in a day what many would have in many more "Tell me..."
"What is it?" Boris turns to her, the glint of the crystal exaggerating the dark in his hood, cloaking his face within.
"Delivery men don't usually have an acute touch for the earth as you do".
"Ohh". Boris takes a sip, his mask lower just for that bit "Well, I used to work the land alongside my parents here".
"Really? That is fascinating. Another farmer here. I take it you have experience with cooking as well?"
"I do. Everyone in the family knows their way in a kitchen".
"Very fascinating. Do they still do business here? I'm sure they are well-beloved by the surroundings".
Boris stops. Halfway through his drink, he halts "They don't".
"What?"
"They don't live here anymore..." Boris gently places the glass on her table "I thank you for the drink".
"Wha--did you have to leave? Did something happen?" Bonita leans in, seeing the empty glass.
"Yea. I'd rather not dwell on it if that's fine with you".
"Ohh, of course, I'm sorry" Her nod had lowered to a bow, apologetic.
"It's no biggie. But, now I have to go. Think I'll go rest". Boris rises, looking to the stairs
---
Boris had retired, back to the inn room left by his since long seen friend, Mirandelle.
He returned, quiet like the grave and equally as morose. With nothing but a handwave to Henry's significant other in the dim light of the encroaching scarlet, he picks up the key he had promised to leave for him and mounts the stairs.
His back crumps to the edge of the bed, discarded from the coat he held for long, blemished by the passage of time. It looks back to its wearer, idle in the still open wardrobe.
Looks back to a man affiliated in a gray sleeveless shirt, which's collar extends still to his lower jaw up to the top of his nose. His sitting is hunched forward, only enough for one to notice, his eyes focused on a picture. Blue hues of a clear sky, white wooly clouds drifting amidst it. A man standing in full center, stained from the feet and boasting a sky-wide grin.
At his side, a diminutive version of himself, younger. Unlike the man, the young man sports no wrinkles, as benign as they already were on the taller man. He bears the man's arm on his shoulders, equally as smirking. A chirpy memory of the past, stained by, once again, the passage of time. A memory carrying to sleep, leaving a fervent refresh of his reality.
---
---
The light of the white shimmers from the moon, touching every home with a window and the residents within. Boris, however, as always, had already awoken, wandering the streets by himself.
His walk is as hushed as the one he takes on empty plains, beset of anyone or anything but grass and mountains. A lonely traveler in a city yet to be fully recognized, easily drawing eyes of other early passengers. Mostly at the size of the load hinged on his back.
He makes his way, through corners and detours, to the Daunting Dame, an establishment mounted in great heights, mantles in white and black. The insignia was of a woman portraying her back to the typical viewer, a sultry smile on her cheeks and a gilded vial by her hand. Her other hand seems to be beckoning to any onlooker, leading them closer. An invitation to a world of different scents and aromas.
An invitation he accepts, passing through self-opening doors of magic. His mask, ever-present on his lower jaw, blots out the scent's more extreme contours, leaving but the faint fragrance of a bundle. All pleasant to smell.
"Ahh? A new visitor?" A woman by the counter, in front of a dressing of a literal hundred and one types of perfume, all set individually on their own little stage, front, and center.
A woman offset by stripes of black and white. Black glasses, white hair. Whitetop, black skirt. Black boots, white gloves. A mix of two contrarians, further blurring the lines at the massive tail straddling behind her, thick as it is long. Boris' first seconds would have had him ask how the enlarged patch of fur hadn't caused any mishandling of the fragile bottles of perfume, but her movement toward his and his goods was an answer itself.
It moves, almost sentient, marrying black and white as much as her sleeves' fur, coursing its excessive size along with the utmost delicacy of passage, always behind her closing steps.
"Just a delivery, ma'am--
"Yes, for my liliraune nectar". The closer she got, the more the blur of distance clears. The eyes that see behind her dark frame bathe in the opposite spectrum, unlike the gloss to her lips, dark as the night. The smoke that pours from them, white as well. A faint of vanilla steam from the pipe held firm by her mouth muscle, the inside, in brimstone and exacerbated from inhalation.
"But, I did not expect delivery for at least another day. Which is to tell me that you're quite the astute worker". Finally, within reach, the woman offers a hand to Boris "Pépé La Dame, landlord of the Daunting Dame, districts stringing across countless cities and countries all over the known land...the ones that don't mind seeing a lass sporting a tail, at least".
"Hum..." Another well-endowed businesswoman. A lot in the ramparts of Lescatie. He wasn't surprised.
"Oh, come now. Don't be shy. I won't bite~. She holds her hand firm, waiting to receive his.
"I've walked quite a bit. I'm not sure you want a sweaty palm to blemish your stainless glove". Boris waves off her offer by his hand, only to feel his it clad with hers. A lie of insignificance he had to bring, unsure of her angle. Just like the demon, it was nothing more than a humblebrag, quick to dismantle over a more approachable demeanor.
"Nonsense. A handshake is a well-known requirement to know another better. And who better to learn from than a man with your valuables..." Her eye drifts tot he side, looking to his back encumbered with her wares "...which look to have no spec of tear".
"It wasn't easy". Boris shakes as well, the next seconds spent watching the woman look the wares over. Vial after vial of liliraune nectar, the product of twin ever embracing the other, making their scent and taste sweet to both.
"Hmm, I've noted this version being lighter in colors. Aren't liliraune nectar usually thicker in orange shades?" Boris looks over her examination. Her hand shaking the liquid slightly within.
"Of course. That is by design" Pépé looks to the courier, a honed pride on her expression hidden by a puff of smoke "This batch is collected by twins who have yet to gain a man between their bosoms. For a particular line of perfume for ladies who have no husband to hug and cajole".
While speaking, a man comes out. Up from a basement door, he climbs, sensing her despite the muffling floor. "Speaking of which..." Pépé runs over to the individual, arms reaching out for an informal hug. Her composed elegance is reduced to a teeming glee.
"Thank you". Her whisper to his ear, warm in all the right places.
"Of course". Their hands exchange the raw product, their others play together, if for a brief moment.
She turns back to the courier, her composure returned with a hint of fervent blush on her cheeks, betraying the theme black and white on her person "Behold, our greatest and most popular product. The Maiden's sigh!".
Boris can't help but study the bottle. It was surprisingly modest for a monster's line, depicting the glass form of a woman. Well-endowed, curvy and presentable. Yet, a long coat afflicts everything up to her head, shrouded in a benign hood. The expression of her visage is one of longing want. Looking further would have him mistake a sigh coming from its inert glass lips, positioned in a sitting form, looking behind her back, seemingly awaiting something or someone.
"Do you see the bored gaze the bottle gives you?" Pépé speaks in theatrics, looking at the perfume industry as another piece of art "The longing her glass eyes sends to a potential suitor? The lips, shaped in a parting sigh-like manner? Her welcoming and lonely squat, looking to see another sit closeby? This is the perfect representation of many a-woman who have yet to lean to a shoulder, still sitting by their vacuous homes".
"So, what I've brought are the foundation for the celibate?" His first impression had definitively been false. A reversed mirror to the human nobles that teemed the castle to get a glimpse of lady Druella "I have to admit, that is not what I expected from a place swimming in luxury".
"Of course! What good is a large sum of shine and trinkets when so many still drift alone?" She speaks, slowly receding steps toward the man beside her. Drifting to his arms, a remembrance to her more lonely times perfumed by her colors. A pointless counting of gold and silver collecting dust elsewhere.
"Walking in lavish ornaments is a dulled experience when surrounded by lonely lads. So over-encumbered by those fallacious notions of title and rank that still cling to this place despite our fair lady's efforts. Which is why I chime in with this".
Her voice cuts away the modest sadness that pollutes its tones, switching to an arisen sun over the cloud of melancholy "Research production has already been yielding results for the better. Although, I and my André over here have had the unfortunate obstacle of empty isles with so many looking for a fleeting impression on the lady".
"I don't suppose you've been visiting the castle recently?" The man looks to Boris, still clutching the aristocrat dearly in his sleeveless arms.
"I have. It was filled. I've been told they emptied your isles".
"They were. We had to close early to make new batches. Shame".
"Quite. I was supposed to have given you this yesterday".
"Oh goodness!" Pépé La Dame gasps in embarrassment "I am quite apologetic for this unforeseen closure, then. Hold on".
Her pocket is filtered by her sly hand, rummaging inside it. The man who was by her side saw this as a cue to resume. There was a probable legion of other distant nobles looking to use this one-of-a-kind day to meet a lilim in the flesh. Perhaps, woo her.
"Here. A pretty sum for a handsome man" Pépé leaves a hefty bag counting a rather large sum in Boris' hand. A very generous sum indeed.
"Ma'am, are you sure--" He had his doubts about accepting this. Porters never received any tip, yet there he was, given the most of an approximate two thousand gold coins. A very giving compensation.
"Darling, I wouldn't be so sure if I didn't place it on your palm, would I?" The Ratatoskr lift the dark round frames before her eyes, showering the courier with a single white wink "Even before this unexpected mount into wealth, a helping hand was always part of my edicts. Especially toward diligent workers. Not seeing the reason to change that, especially now".
"Well, I've seen more than a few with the idea to throw it away".
"Those individuals are damn fools, then, asking for their wealth to be their only worth. I've seen then as well in a meeting with the fair lady. I'd like to give you a little word in before you go if you ever happen to ake a delivery in that castle..."
Slowly, Pépé approaches Boris, her pipe steaming a faint vanilla scent "Unlike what you may see, lady Druella isn't utter charmed by the ceaseless onslaught of suitors and their trinkets".
"What? Really?" Boris somewhat shakes his head "I've been here and she looked pretty glamorous to have their greatest displays to offer".
"Ahh, then you haven't stuck around long enough".
"...huh?"
"Oh yes. A random man coming on, pushed along by one of her aides. Maybe you didn't take a second glance, but whatever you offered seemed to have had a greater impact than whatever magic sword or legendary item number fifty-eight they had in hand".
"Really? All I saw was a crowd of angry men".
"So they were, apparently, the lady had honed a heart-melting smile at this simple flower".
"From the Ascalon falls..."
"Why, yes, that's what he said. It was a shame he had dissipated so soon after. It was...amusing to see a row of nobles so peeved by what they claim to be an 'upstaging'".
"Upstaged? By a tiny flower? Really?"
"Why, yes. Nothing passing after that man had her simper this brightly. It was a polite greeting, and nothing more. And since that, they're currently doubling down on rarer trinkets. Things even I've have yet to see".
"I see" Boris turns to the door. His harness empty, he piles it to his back, feeling pretty light "Well, thanks for the word, ma'am. It is hilarious to hear that happening".
"It truly is. And...courier, one last thing" Pépé looks at his exiting pace, halted as he turns his head to see a sultry grin across her black lips "I honestly think the fair lady would be more than willing to open her door to you if you seek it".
"Well, if I have something to deliver, probably. Laters". Boris exits the premise, turned from Pépé's teeth-gritting chuckle, looking back to the man previous present walking up to her with a batch of 'Maiden's sigh'.
---
Being without the back-breaking goods on his back had made the porter more seamlessly blend to the crowd of morning wanderers. Work, school, hobby, leisure, all were included. Of course, the most prevalent was the sight of couples who really couldn't get enough of each other, walking hand-in-hand while whispering to the other's ear.
Boris keeps his eye on a particular duo, his thoughts playing tricks on him. The woman was bovine, the man, looking like a knight off-duty. They walk in unison, the man holding her close in a protective fashion, his skills at the blade, bent to her side. And Boris's mind thought it funny to project an illusion. One of him and her. Mirandelle, one he had known since their teenage years, a woman he had come to fall for.
The edict of Lescatie back then had made it clear that it was never to be a thing. And so, he turns from them...
...straight to Mirandelle "Mimi? What are you--
"Hah! There you are!" The woman immediately takes hold of his hand and starts running.
"Mimi? Mimi--where are we going? Mimi?" Boris can't help but run alongside her, pulled by an immeasurable strength. One she never demonstrated before. He draws from the depth of his memories, leaving his feet to follow without his thought. Nothing returns to the whereabouts of this insurmountable strength of hers.
One that drags him through the horde of people to the much less populated segments. Nature.
"Ok, Mimi, where are you taking me?" Boris finally catches his breath, their feet no longer sprinting under the lull of her flight. She spins, hands behind her back to meet him with a grinning expression.
"Oh, nowhere in particular. I just wanted my best friend's time somewhere away. I've indulged enough in self-confident nobles and heroes who look more interested in measuring the shine of their trinkets and try to woo me to the nearest bedroom" Mirendelle voice is a mix of enthusiasm, still holding on to Boris' hands and a bit of annoyance toward the latter segment of her words.
"Really? Well then..."
"Borissy? Borissy?! What are you--" Boris disappears through his amber gem, her gift. Only to re-appear behind her, hands cladding on her legs as to lift her on his back. A piggyback to which he starts running further, deeper in the urban plains.
"If you want some time away, we might as well go all the way. Don't worry..." With the weight of a woman on his back, Boris was surprisingly adept and dexterous in his movement, strafing and shifting as if she was barely the mass of a feather. Her hands cling to the top of his head, fiercely holding on. Nostalgia perfumes her expression, taking on a more fond cling with the countless times he pulled her away from what sounded to be choking attention of the shallow type.
"...they're not the kind to wander so openly tot he urban plains anyway". He shares in this remembrance. How many times had he plucked her from her feet to bring the noblewoman to a less populated sector? He wasn't bothered to recount, instead, re-constructing the path long crossed to a more intimate spot, the play place of his childhood.
Through the fences to the trees. Over the hills and across a small riverbed, they pass many farms and windmills, accompanied by the dwindling day of an orange summer. There was no word between them. No thought, no sigh. Only the breath-taking atmosphere and sights of the green lands, gently dancing along with the winds.
Mirandelle has taken to a sleep-like gaze, lowering her head over his with a content sigh ~Hehe~. A sound sure to agitate his body, if he wasn't sporting his long coat.
He does stop, however, on the top of a hill. Mirandelle hops off his back, the sign of a very comfortable place to sit present. Of course, not without taking his hand in "Well, come on, Borissy. Enough place for two~.
"Sure. It's kind of why I've even gone here". Her smile shimmers his way, leading the duo to the edge of the hill to allow their feet to dangle the cliff's edge as they take a sit between the grass. Their sight is populated with farmhouses far and wide, split by a crystal clear river bed. The sun glimmers like an amber gem, softly dousing the plains in its rays, sometimes obscured by the passing cloud from time to time.
Mirandelle sighs in contentment, stretching her arms all the while "Ahh, Borissy. Did I ever tell you how soothing it is to be around you? It's so easy to be candid with you nearby".
"I have been told that a few times, Mimi. By you, most of all". Boris looks at her, a sure grin if he had his mask off.
"No, really!" The scarlet-eye woman scoots close, an arm on his shoulder "I feel more at ease here than in the gilded contours of my mansion. You're like a walking, living serenity dispenser. I know a lot of fellows that could use someone like you, just bringing them to places like this. Or just overall taking them from their burrowed surroundings".
"Well, a day at the farm is a good humbling process. One prone to bring people to a more ground view".
"Well, I do like the result, Borissy. It seems to have put some toning on you as well". Mirandelle winks at him, prompting a queasy glance from him.
"Not that much".
"Only because you're so bound-up by all of this attire. I'm sure you're a real natural adonis underneath. And a gentle one, at that. Shame you weren't present when the fair lady approached this country. I'm sure more than a few of her aides would have wanted to know a gentleman like you~. She leans, a soft purr whisked between the last words. Again, making him somewhat hot and bothered inside.
A feeling that always was hinted to the surface. A feeling he had always felt towards her. His hidden hand slowly creeps up to his back, poking a black box of rectangular shape. A bud concealed, waiting to be parted to its true withholder.
"Which makes me wonder. Borissy?" Mirandelle moves from the man, a pondering state.
"Yea?"
"What made you leave?" A serious glance from the noblewoman.
"Made me...I'm not sure--
"You had a farm somewhere here, did you not? You and your parents. Why did you all leave? What happened?"
Boris's hand stops, midway through pulling the tiny box. Whatever encouraged him to offer his gift...
"Ohh..." His hooded face looks down, trying to come up with an idea, anything. His chin is cupped delicately pivoted to face Mirandelle. Her eyes, deeply worried, shimmering behind the sun's ray, almost as if they stared into his character, pulling, asking again to his depths.
"Tell me".
He remembers what had brought him to carry the deliveries to far from home. His mother, his current domain. Everything. All of them reminded him of his station.
"Ok". Boris gets up to her surprise. One of his hands moves to his necklace, the sliced gem of her hand. His other hand spreads tot he outstretched farms, seemingly stopping at one far in the distance "Follow the trail".
"Boris? Boris, what do you mean--
'Puff'
Boris disappears, a faint trail of particle spreading and dancing in a line.
Mirandelle grins, her eyes flickering with a bright scarlet shade, piercing gaze bringing a short burst of an overwhelming aura. "Ohh, you're on, Borissy~, in a short snap, she flickers out of existence.
Back to another piece of land. A much more obscured place, clouded by trees and clouds. Boris is nearby, looking at a decrepit land. He remains fixed as Mirandelle appears in frights of luminant treads, still sporting her grin "I didn't expect you to grow so eased into its delicate transportation, Borissy. Unfortunately, teleportation like this is nothing I can't--Huh? What...happened?"
Slowly, she approaches the derelict farm by the fences. It was in a pitiful state, to say the least. Her gasp, a shocked one "Boris...what happened here? Your parents never struck me as negligent".
"Simple..." He walks as well, joining her by the fence, his hands still in his pockets "...we left. Well, not exactly..."
"Not exactly?!" Mirandelle looks at him, incomprehension in her glare.
"Yea. Things got a little overwhelming since dad passed away--
"Your father di--oh dear, I'm sorry..."
"It's fine. That one was on no one. But anyway...things got harder since..." Boris knocks once of a fence, quick to attract Mirandelle's confounded gaze. An old fence, planted since their depart.
Closed.
"What..." Her breath can barely make its way to her lungs, burned at the front by sheer shock.
"Most of our savings went to bury him. To give him a well-deserved rest, which was, unsurprisingly expensive. And of course, it wasn't enough for them. They came while my mother still sobbed. They still wanted their monthly tax".
"And...you couldn't pay it..." Her stare turns sour. Fists bowled unto themselves, a long sigh.
"Yea. That we buried dad wasn't a plea of mercy for them. They took the animals, took the supplies, took everything and left. We had no coin and not much to gather more. They said they would come back for the farm, put it for someone that can actually 'utilize it'".
Mirandelle turns to Boris, his expression, concealed still by layers of covers "Boris...why didn't you come to me? I mean, good grief, I could have--"
"With your parents part of the nobility? Nah. An aristocrat offering a large sum of coin to a common folk? That would make people talk. And not in a positive way at that".
"..." Her fists clench strongly, also pouring with her innate magic. All those years. This sudden disappearance for the better of five years. Here was her reasoning, ever-flowing as he continues.
"Someone came soon after all of this, offering work that nobody would take. That Regent Duchamp guy. And, well, here I am".
"So, for five years..."
"Yep..." Boris nods, slapping the side of his shoulder "I am a porter. Drifting to the most dangerous roads carrying items en masse, I have been for those years. The overwhelming majority of my pay went to my mother so that she can live at least somewhat. Of course, the most loaded hauls are what I go for...if I am to get a hold of our farm again...or, well, what's left of it".
"Roads? So, the places you go, alone and isolated--
"Teeming with bandits. Teeming with pitfalls. Extreme conditions. And the shortest ones. They allow plenty to deliver". Boris backs from the fence.
"Good grief, Boris, I've heard too many travelers die going through those."
"Yea. I did too. But, hey, what choice do I have? I have a mother to provide for, her anguished heart still reeling from dad's passing. A farm to save for. A living to make. This is the best option I've had all this time. And still, have". The porter turns to the sky, seeing how close the sun was to disappear "At the very least, it pays, so there's that".
Mirandelle takes a tempting step, opening her palm, looking to take his in hers "Boris..."
He moves away, instead, putting a hand on her shoulder. This slight. These unchanged titles. It brought him here. It blotted him from looking back to her. It halted his intent still quivering on his back. The gift he came to offer, he might as well forget about it "I have to go...maybe I can get a shipment going before the dark comes. I'll...I'll see you later, alright? Maybe in a year or two".
"Boris?" Mirandelle senses a flight of magic. His transportation is enabled. He flickers to dust, quickly disappearing. "Boris?! Boris wait, you had something for me--"
Her pace was hurried, frantic in this contest of velocity. It wouldn't be enough. Far from it, his teleportation, far more honed than his previous shift.
Her appearance shifts rapidly. Black to white, the mane of her hair, radiant with royal power.
Humanlike to demonic, her gaze turns, burning with the sight of mana. Scarlet, surrounded by the darkest void.
Her skin, pale as the moon, bright as royalty.
Hands. Gloves. Greaves. Appearance.
All shifts to a greater whole, peeling off like a cloak of deception. Power streams to her hand, attempting to clad into his flickering presence, already turned from her. It accelerates, intending on interrupting his shift...
The courier dissipates. This time, at a great distance. One fiercely untraceable before she could even grasp at the man, instead, swiping at the air where his wrist should have been.
Her sigh is changed "Oh, goodness...you're not the only one who has been sent like this, have you, Boris?" Her hand still trembles at its utter failure, now brimming with power, power it slams at the ground. A pentagram shapes from it, materializing one of her precious aides...in pajamas, a piece of bread pilfered on her azure lips.
"Madam?" It was the same woman that pushed Boris to her throne room, readily preparing for a cuddly session, judging by the pillow on under her armpit.
"Oh dear, sorry, sorry. I forgot this was about the time you hung up for the night".
"It's fine. Surely you must have--hold on". The demon spreads her arms outward, dissipating her items and attire to a more formal tone. She clears her throat "As I was saying, surely you must have brought me here for a reason?"
"Well, I need you to call a few people for me..."
---
---
Boris sighs, having exited the premises of the post office. Another cargo to bring pronto somewhere else. The heavy kind, as usual.
"Well, at least I can get moving this night". His pace, in the den of the night, seemingly attracts the attention of guards wandering the place in a patrol.
"Oh hey, going out so late?" One of them catches him in his sights "Be careful. I hear the roads are dangerous at night. And, not the monster kind, either".
"Yea, don't worry" Boris walks past the man, hauling kilos on his back mounting at least twice his height.
He walks through the increasingly empty streets, marching his way to the inspection booth beyond the gate. Marching up to the same guy who had welcomed him a few days ago, perking up as he spots a marching porter wandering out "Oh, hey! Going out so soon, huh?"
"Yea, you know how it is. Got another delivery to make".
"Really, now? Good thing I stuck around for a bit more, then". The booth inspector places his spear against the glass of his booth, rummaging inside.
"Oh, yea?" Boris looks to the armored man searching for something. His pace, coming near him "How so--" He feels a small box placated on his hand.
"Because that's two deliveries you have now". The inspector gives him a note as well, plucked from between his fingers by the curious Boris.
He reads behind his hood, his eyes wincing "What the--? You know that's something due for the castle, right?"
"Yep".
"No. Really, the castle".
"Yep".
"At night".
"Definitively".
"A delivery that's literally a few paces away for anyone else to do. Literally anyone".
"Oh yea, miss Druella has made sure to keep it centered for tourists and visitors".
"Ok, so, why here? Why me? Why now that I'm about to hit the road?" Boris shrugs, unsure of this unexpected extra.
"You're the only porter around here. Everyone that would have done it is already asleep. Heck, I'm only here out of overtime for this. By the way..." The inspector presses his finger on the note to the bottom "They said it was of immediate importance, so..."
"Ohh, Alright then. I suppose I can--"
"Oh, that's great. Let me just..." The booth inspector ushers in his surprising strength, his eyes, flashing in a brighter shade "Oof, man you sure have a strong back, friend. I can't imagine a man carrying this throughout a city to another".
"Hey, hold on, what are you--
"Don't worry..." The inspector moves his hefty goods from Boris' back, installing in the warehouse next to the booth, safely contained "...It's not going anywhere with me around. Now, I doubt you'd be comfortable waddling inside with this on your back anyway".
"Hum..." Boris looks at the man leaning on the corner of his booth, picking up his spear "Sure. I'll be back in a few, then".
"Cool, I'll wait here. Go on. It won't be long". The inspector watches as Boris takes hold of his necklace and promptly dissipates into thin air. But, with the porter gone from sight, he simply locks the warehouse down, pulling his key back to his pocket with a whistle, slow to walk back to the confines of Lescatie. The man had a special someone to return to and no more obligation to tie him here...
Sigh. Silence. From him. And from the castle. "I wish they had given this earlier". Boris walks to the delivery post. The gild and glint are absent from the scarlet light, masking the ornaments to a much more mundane sight.
"And...it's closed. Shame". The mailboxes are closed by keys. The vent is sealed. Everything closed. Meaning a slip to the actual room was in order. At least, the address was on the paper, written with a surprising amount of care.
So he goes, taking to the main halls. The last time he was here, the massive doors of white pantries were blotted by the mass of heroes and merchants, all bearing fashionable trinkets. But now, they lay bare for him to see, all inscribed with a particular sigil of its own making.
"Looks like they're all here". Boris continues his quiet stroll, sometimes looking down the doors, seeing flickers of light underneath. Night lights. Voices. They seem ready to sleep.
And he continues, pacing, walking, generally sight-seeing all the way to the second floor where more rooms are present. All closed, obviously. Save for one.
"Ohh?" The last door. The furthest to the bunch. Just ever slightly open, more than enough for him to push, more so with inches from it. An ominous red light pours from the frame, beckoning him closer.
"Hmm". He stops and wonders "I shouldn't really be intruding. Just here for a package". And he wouldn't have...save for the sense of familiarity. An aura he could recognize. It was friendly to him. Inviting him to a cup of tea.
"Mimi? No, can't be..." Boris pushes the door to a room of black furniture. Red lamps, red candles, all bathing the room in a relaxing aura.
"Well, that's quite a humble place". It was. Despite looking like it was made to invest royalty, the room was anything but the such. The furniture was beautiful, but not lavish. The mirror, it was peerless, gilded, but not ornated in diamonds, nor in any overly gaudy sigils.
"It feels like someone isn't too taken to lavish styles". Boris takes a long look, feeling pretty warm towards the place. It was a formidable blend of luxury and humble, a rare sight for a noble, let alone, royalty.
He approaches the counter, the box now installed on the border. The red was a soft glimmer to perfume the violet walls. A place someone like him could easily get acquainted with "Whoever has this room surely a taste for comfort".
~Why, thank you! I had it arranged, just like home~. A voice seeps behind him, prompting a hurried turn.
Well, now he knows what the red lamps and candles are here for...
They compliment her eyes, as scarlet as the shine of the streets. And the walls, so intently similar to the velvet gloves and boots. "Miss Druella, I wasn't aware that..." Two steps backward from the messenger.
"Well, yes". Hands behind her back, the white-haired woman takes a step forward, a casual demeanor in her footing "This is my humble room. As I've said, it's just like the one I have at home. Feel free to look around, it's why the door was open...~
"Sorry, madam, it just felt as if..." Boris' had little on the spot for any justification of his entry. He didn't expect that the only room open, much less the one with the delivery note, to be of the castle's ruler. And even less the words flowing from her lips.
"...you had a stroke of familiarity? Well, of course! Fixing my previous room to look-alike this one always has been so easy with a strong man like you to move the furniture~. Her voice is scented with warm intimacy. A tone always echoing in his mind.
"Wait, what--hold on..."
"Although..." The mistress's wings, once spread open in confidence, now receded to her side in a more abashed manner. Her smile takes on a more bashful shine "...I might need a rehearsal on the matter of boiling flavored liquids".
"Liquids? Tea? Wait, is this a thing royalty just has difficulty with? I would have thought lilims to be able to conceive a fully brewed set". Boris scratches his head, the sudden mention of tea being a distraction to his mind, honed by how awkwardly he scratches his hed behind the hood.
"Ohh? But that's some of the least interesting ways to make some. Isn't that what you often told me, Boris?~ Her eyes line up with his, sharpened to a matriarch's confidence, smoothed with her warm tone ~And I couldn't agree anymore with you on that. Although it might be how closely your hands guided mine in the den of the night~.
"In the den of--at night? Ma'am, I believe you must be mistaking me for someone else--
His words freeze in place, eyes staring down her wagging finger "Oh, no, no, no, my sweet farmer, I never forget a face. Much less one who still wears this pendant of mine". Her majestic presence takes to her heart, moving underneath her cleavage as to pull something out. Slowly, ever-smiling, anticipating.
"Pendant? No, no, this one--" Boris pushes his hood down, giving breath to his mundane brown coating his head and brows as he places a hand under his coat, looking to pull out his pendant. The ember gem he never parted from. One he holds dear from an idea he long-abandoned "--this is a gift. A very good friend of mine has offered...this...amber..."
His eyes widen, pulling away from the goggles that protected them, further revealing another trace of his facial feature. They reflect the shine of another pendant. Same color, same shape. Cut at another dimension "...she...had cut it... into two...as to never...forget..."
"A gem that longed to be whole again..." The mistress whispers, a much more sincere pitch, approaching the courier mired in disbelief.
"No..." Immobilized, not by her overwhelming aura, but the tiniest part of her apparel. It was exactly like Mirandelle. He saw the pendants' shape. It was exactly like hers.
"Fufu, mine has been quivering since. I take that yours has been no different?" Her voice, a parallel to his friend.
"No way..." He finally feels it. The tiny stone, trembling, shaking. Its other half was close, further approaching via the will of her hand. Until...
...they connect. A perfect fit. Perfect, even after so many years. A chuckle from Druella, A bewildered stared from the porter, prompted to pace, pace around the lilim in his utter incomprehension.
Urged to look at her again. So close to the fair princess. Her eyes, as red as Mirandelle. Her hair, the same style, recognized so quickly, even in its purest form. Her face, as easy to lose himself to, noting how Mirandelle used to smile. The same one Druella was making.
"What..." Again, he walks in circles, bearing no exasperation from her, all too busy feeding the creeping acknowledgment to his expression. Her stance, her aura, her...everything. A copy. A Gemini to Mirandelle, as if she had taken to her demeanor. No...there never was a Mirandelle...
He stops, facing the overwhelming woman, alone in her den, strained in the epiphany of her sudden presence, her words and, the pendant. It bounces on him, leaking a simple word from him "Mimi?...Mirandelle?!"
"Please..." The glee the mistress tasted from seeing her quarry collecting the puzzle pieces turned to a longing for a less titled communication "...I've never been one for obtuse titles. Much less with a close one".
Though he wasn't as elevated as many in Lescatie, however deceiving she might have been, the warmth of modesty still teems on her. It would be a shame to see him bow so earnestly like the rest. Her exterior hadn't changed that.
"Well..." Boris shrugs, having mostly gotten over the revelation. Hard to remain surprised over someone that basically just changed wardrobe "Druella? Dede?"
"Dede...I already like this one, Borissy~. Those words had touched his cheeks, blistering them in a strong red. Good thing his mask still was on. Although it didn't help the heat on over her wink.
"So, Dede. Mirandelle was just a disguise, right? A wardrobe change?"
"Hmm-hmm" Her steps echo through the room, going for the nearest chair. One that stands before a body size mirror "A wardrobe change is exactly it. A little change here and here, a story behind the character, and 'voila'!"
"Then I really have to get that make-up artist's address. That was some convincing facelift". A slight blush on her face, bewildered at the unexpected compliment to her less glamorous magic. Seeing her stare has he realize it. Silence.
Then a chuckle from the duo "I'm sorry, Dede, I keep forgetting you're supposed to be a paragon of magic".
"Oh, oh, oh, it's alright, Borissy. I see it as an accomplishment to have the man I've waited for so long see me as a familiar face more than a ruler. It would have made quite the dent in our relationship".
"Really?" Boris walks away from the door, feeling a need for a seat. The queen size bed looks inviting at the edge, bearing the whole weight of a harness installed on a man's back "I expected that the fourth would have preferred someone more...higher to enjoy her company".
"Many would think that. I'm sure you have seen them bringing their invaluable trinkets in the hope of being lulled to my bedroom". Her head shakes, inadvertently chasing her sultry smile away to a more regal stare "I simply do not share that sentiment. And, seeing how few of those men actually share a bed with my subordinates, they all think the same".
With a snap of her velvet finger, the fourth princess dissipates in thin air. Much acrider and focused than his own transportation. One snapping her back to reality...next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, a quaint smile to shine.
"Thing is, they're boring". Druella flatly drops as easily as the second of a comforting smile, exchanged for a flat expression.
"Boring?" Boris raises an eyebrow "They're boring? The halls of heroes, and nobles, and merchants, boring? All their trinkets, their magic, their weapons of peerless master crafting, boring?"
"The charm is quickly lost, trust me". A sigh peers from her pale lips "So many countless artifacts, armors, weapons and anything in between. All offered in gleaming baskets and sheathes, glimmering boxes all in diamonds and invaluable. And yet, all I see when they present this to me is how half-heartedly they do so. Either giving in too easily to this charm of mine or just thinking about the prospect of having one of us allure them to our room. I see it all, Boris, before they even step out the door".
"Well..." Boris turns from her glance, a curious one at that. The heart softens hearing him see similar "...I'd be lying if I said I didn't see it. Though, from my point of view, it looked more like that they were excited to show you something they thought would enchant you. But, there were heroes amidst them. I always thought powerful being would have a thing for similar opposites".
"You thought so. But, we both know better, don't we?"
"We've lived in this city for quite a bit, so, I can't say I don't".
"Then, tell me". Her eyes are focused on the courier, looking to hear what she often confessed in her human disguise. His response comes in the shape of Boris rising from the bed to her surprise. Slow to walk out the door, slow enough for her to catch on, taking to her feet as well.
They walk away from the room, passing through the rooms of others, all tightly closed. Boris passes his hand through a door once in a while "I do see it. Heroes, paragons, champions, whatever we call them. The best our kind as to offer, blessed by some divine entity. Potency, strength, martial art. But, that is all you saw, right?"
Boris didn't need to look back, feeling the fourth nod subtly, looking to the doors with a longing gaze perfuming her scarlet eyes. Behind them, the best of her underlings. Generals, champions, heroes. The kind she could have clutched amidst her invasion.
"Of course. They were called 'hero' for a reason. And a lot of them lost that quality that really made them stand apart from a simple powerful man or woman".
"I fell in love with the idea of seeing the human heroes stand in the defense of the ordinary. Talk to them, eat with them. Have their title being nothing more than recognition as champions...even while they misunderstood our intentions". Faint laughter flows from her lips, remembering the number of times one had come bearing a weapon against her.
"And they've all been taken". They walk downstairs, Druella following the courier with no true aim. Walking helped his ideas flow, all from the years of delivering.
"By my subordinates. All the men were married to one, some to their sweethearts of before. All the while I was finalizing my hold on this prestigious city you call Lescatie".
"Hmm, reminds me of someone else". He finally stops, dead in the throne room, where he once stood "But anyway, yes, I see what you meant. You've spoken of this a lot back then, Dede. Those that came didn't have this quality all your friends' husbands had. I see it. Always did. And, why would they? Those that did, they're already taken, leaving the more selfish. I mean, it wasn't hard to see, even before you shook the tables from them".
"Yes..." The princess fourth paces to her throne, passing under the crimson light of the night moon, sitting with another sigh "...rows and rows of men who were only shadows of what I saw joined to my cause after a little convincing. I am not interested in paltry gimmicks and petty displays of magic or the sort. This sort of thing is boring to me when I've seen less gifted individuals give so much more than what their narrow minds could conceive. If I wanted the most powerful, wealthy, or otherwise handsome man around, I would have stayed at mother's, where they keep sending their best in vain hopes of slaying her and father".
"They bore you". Boris stands in the middle of the empty halls, the silent throne room, only betrayed by their elevated voices.
"They don't just bore me, they offend me, Boris. They offend me in thinking me some wealth-thirsty woman. One can only admire a piece of shining metal before it gets dull. If it was the day, I would have offered you a tour of my underlings' quarters. So many fun things they have to share. Herbs, gems, art, fun hobbies to dwell in as a couple..."
Her eyes lower, again, breathing in the longing in her voice, let alone, her expression. Years of seeing one's underlings indulge in simple mingling are bound to make a king or a queen yearn for the same "I had this taste as well, once. When I discarded my wings and my pure snow hair, and my royal blood to that of a simple noblewoman. Wandering the place, looking into mingling with the populace as I looked over Lescatie's walls and their interior. Throwing my subordinates into this wasn't really a thing I wanted. Not with how dangerous it was".
Her eyes look back to Boris, who had a knee on the ground, listening. One of her hand coils and points to him, before beckoning him closer. Only, with the faintest of charm to her gaze. One guiding his steps, somewhat in confusion. Her hand, leading his to it, holding it. Warmth pours between gently hot to both.
"Somewhere amidst the suitors that sought to woo me, there was a man. A man walking away with a haystack on his shoulder. Back then, I didn't believe he was going to walk all the way back to his rural home with it on his shoulder".
"Yea, I remember. I also remember proving you wrong". Boris nods, ushering a chuckle from her.
"You did. I was pretty impressed".
"If I had siblings, I would have told you that he and mom built us strong".
"What I find funny is that you thought me lost". Druella shakes her head, looking back to the man with an incredulous expression.
"Well, nobles usually didn't wander this far from the city, so I was wondering whether you were visiting or something".
"I suppose I should be glad since I got a good view of this family of yours. Very friendly people".
"Yep. No point shunning anyone. I wasn't sure you would have taken me on the offer".
"Hard not to when the smell was so enticing. What a surprise to know that it was all you doing this. I simply had to try this soup of yours".
"And you kept coming back for seconds". Boris shrugs "Enough that I thought to teach you a thing or two. Didn't you have people for that back then?"
"I did. But, most of the meals at this pretend domain of mine didn't have any handmade flavor to it. You understand what I mean? Since they worked at a noble's, they were more concerned at making it look good than making it good. It was, but, something was missing..."
"I see..."
"The same something that was dreadfully missing from the armies of men coming down my doorstep with petty trinkets. They were shiny, they were powerful. None of them had what people like you had. What you had".
Her impromptu rise breezes Boris in a different warmth. One he had ignored under the skin of Mirandelle. Just like that, it had his heart scolding his mind relentlessly. The woman he once loved, that he still loves fiercely, was now looking to make a confession. Yet, his mind was too busy choking itself with 'why' and 'how'. He was a courier, and nothing more. She was a lilim, just like she was a noble back then. Why go for the small man when a hero could--
"Borissy. This doubt that fills your face, it's not a good look. Let me just...~ The courier's eyes wince, unsure of what was to happen or why was his mask suddenly swiped down, by two delicate fingers. It was a strange sensation...for his mind. His body, however, seemed...anticipating.
"Look? Dede...what are you on about--" Her scarlet eyes sharpen, sporting the abyssal power of a lilim. The entire room flickers to a crimson tide washing over the walls, the ceiling, the floor like a flow of water.
Boris was confused, unaware of the unconvinced stare he was sporting. One he always had, announcing a hurried departure from her back then. All born from the wall of titles. Not unlike so many of her subordinates, the demons that crawled in their shadows...
In one fell swoop, Druella washes it away. A mental cleansing, so to say, as she uses a fraction of this power coursing the interior to hold the frown on his eyes, and likely, the rest of his face. And just like that, it is gone, replaced by unrelenting confusion. Surprise, shock, delicacy, on either side.
Five years of absence caught up in one kiss. One that was long overdue. One that only compounded its fervency with every single dismissal, direct, or indirect from the courier, still caught in his 'human' thinking. The very same one that had too many men questioning the reasoning of her kind and surrounding's decision to drift to them for companionship.
The very same one that thought it had a chance of standing against her very presence, burning into the conflagration of a roaring confession. It was in her way and therefore, burned in every corner of his mind, spreading its non-existant ashes to the void of memories.
Having seen couples and the atmosphere and some of the monsters' enticing words and appearance as a mild sensation, Boris couldn't quite sport any resistance against the more direct, personal and infatuated smooch of one of them, let alone, a close friend. Once.
~Feel this?~ They finally separate, his mind, set ablaze by the act. His lips still tickle, lush with an almost starved fervor. A fervor strongly beckoning for seconds. Perhaps, thirds.
His senses brighten, exalted beyond even what he thought possible, close on verging out of control. Luminescence in his eyes. A singing caught in his ears of soothing bells in his mind. A streaming warmth coursing through his entire surface, threatening to overtake him. His nostrils are perfumed in soft and small hues of sweetness.
All on a smaller scale compared to the coalescence imparted on his tastebuds. A blend, aged like wine, of longing and relief. A longing aging through the years, now fulfilled to the relief of finally expressing it with no reserve. Love brewing on her mind as desire teemed on her corporal form, waiting on this singular moment.
Boris experienced it all in one fell swoop, lighting his own sheltered affection, adjacent to hers. His body, unwilling to wait for the mind to acknowledge the fierce heart under his ribcage, had already clad his hand on her delicate waist. His other hand? Guided by hers to lay at a special spot, where the palm of his hand feels an equally quivering heart to his tempo. Or, was he beating to hers?
~I saw how they looked on, beguiled by the illusion of worthlessness. They could never understand how deeply this 'insignificant' flower of yours touched me~.
"Is...is that so...Dede? This much?" Boris still burns with her taste dancing in his mind. Gradually, slowly, their foreheads connect in the middle.
~Yes...~ Lingering irises downward, honed by a faint smile, her hand reaching for the other, behind the scarf where his nape should have been ~Even now, I feel it as you felt it. Your mind opening its scars to me, whispering of its wounds. The weight of the merchandise constantly verging left and right~.
A deep breath, her majesty's eyes closed, speaking through her voice. Neither holds their pupils open ~Your hands, digging deep in this mountain of ruins, fighting the uncertain grip of the rainfall alongside the weight you bear. One false movement and you fall~.
A hint of worry breathes in Druella's tone ~Tiredness spreading from your feet to your arms, both strained. The rain constantly pours, absorbing into your coat, more weight you don't need...~.
Another deep breath ~You just manage to get yourself up, rewarded with more of the cold pouring through the ruins. And you see them...~
One of her hands briefly leaves the comfort of its spot to brush away one of her side hair. Two small strands accompanying the long and elegant river reaching down to her back, revealing one of the Ascalon flowers already shimmering in a docile fog of red ~Two little red buds among a few. Colors of sky, emerald, and sundew. The rain gets heavier, cutting off your path until it recedes~.
She chuckles, returning the wayward hand, busy with toying at the blooming petals of the Ascalon bud, back to its intended place. Her gleaming smirk is visible to the closed eyes of the courier, listening through the soft whisper of her breath adorning the surrounding ~So, joining our hands, drinking in this memory of yours, it was enticing to see the trial you went. All of this, simply to get me matching bulbs to my eyes~.
"Well, Dede, I wanted to emphasize your eyes. What better way to do that than a bloom from a slightly unhinged piece of--hey, hey, Dede, what are you--" Boris opens his eyes, looking deeply into the mimicking lilim's pair. A deep, vibrant red, supernatural to the beholder. A friend's gaze he stared into, uncaring of the deep black horns ornate on her head, the white wings spreading their scarlet light, the unnatural touch his body was currently feeding his nerves.
~Yes, and that is quite the piece you have gifted me with~ Her arms re-affirm their grasp, slightly taken into flight by the dusky increase of the blood shade surrounding her wings. With a little more insistence, Druella now enjoyed the red painting his cheeks as they contrast on her bosom, chuckling all the while. Her head softly leans over an airborne gap of their height, giving him the slight advantage otherwise ~A marvelous simplicity. An intimate offering, one that touched me deeply. The heart you feel bouncing from bosom of mine is still fresh from this considerate way you went~.
A glamour gaze hones her stare, looking down to the man who offered a flower ~And...this is why I sought you for so long, Borissy. Waiting, gazing, watching from my window as my subordinates enjoyed this path I longed to step into. For all their weapons, and armors, and ornaments they boasted, to the powers, martial and prowess they threw at my feet, none of those high-born them could ever hope to make my day as brightly as the lone, lone man who went so out of his way to compliment me with a gift as old as time. Ohh, how I would have enjoyed asking you to place it on my hair in front of them. A shame you had to leave before even offering me the second one~.
"The crowd already seemed peeved by my presence, Dede. I didn't want to--??" A press of a hand sees Boris' face further bonding to the lilim's chest, a very...convincing manner of shushing any more persistent discord.
~No, no, to irritate them would have been flavorful. But, it matters little now, my little courier. You're here now, by my side. And we have a lot of catching up to do. A. LOT~.
"Dede, you know I can't. I have...I...I need to go..." Boris only now realizes how comfortable the bosom of a monster is, let alone that of a child of the demon lord. And a friend's. The more it welcomed him to a wrapping kingdom of clouds, the less he felt his eyes awake. If he had the strength to look up, he'd see her shine her scarlet gaze glowing in the dark. A sleeping spell spreading hushing powder, not unlike the fairies'.
~Oh no, you don't~. Her whisper is a quiet one, withholding the strong spread of her chantilly lacewings toned with an ebony edge, splashing the ground in the wind of her flight. The courier had no strength to keep himself awake, his eyes, close to a woman's quiet success branded on her face ~I'm not waiting another five years for you to come around. Not after this~.
Druella's flight is delicate. Her arms hold on to the dozing courier like the most fragile object in this world, breathing the telekinetic scarlet on anything that might be daring to think to be in the way. Far from her flight, they remain, only landing back to their idle stillness meters away from Lescatie's monarch.
All the way across the stairs. Far into to her personal room. Within, here her hands carefully roll away the scarf of the sleeping man. His coat, his boots, all pulled away and set in folds. Ultimately laid to the queen size bed, his face, still so comfortably lodged in her bosom, cradled by her swarming arms and wings soon after a wardrobe change. A sleepy gaze taints her features, calling the ruler to rest.
And she does, gently coiled around the man. A letter laid on her cabinet, likely from her aid, speaking to her peculiar task. ~Tomorrow...~, she whispers, drinking in this rare momentum of a man beside her. So many coveting the spot, this one, holding the sole rights to it. Unaware of this imminent announcement...
---
---
The morning wakes, subtly rumbling around the castle. The red light turned its face away as the night slumbered into obscurity, replaced with the white of the moon.
Boris slowly wakes up, the perkiness of a full awakening waiting on his end. Sleeping under the lull of a dozing spell had unexpected benefits.
"Hmm?" He stirs from his lull, lounging at the edge of the bed. Manual stretches raise upward along his arms. The white of the rising dawn rises closely, increasing its pouring light through the window "Window? Huh, didn't see it here. Must be the day--wait, day?"
Boris' body stiffens, taking a second glance at the side window. A four-square frame permeating the unnatural blackness of a demon realm's day. Of course, with a dim white slowly ramping up in brightness, the moon's practice as the sun.
He approaches it even as he was dressed in nothing more than his black pants and gray top, the mask collar, receded to his neck. His forehead briefly taps on the window, looking to get a good view on the outside.
It was a bit later than his usual awakening, but "Can't really complain. Although, I wonder where Dede went". He shrugs going for the nearest wardrobe. Opening it to a surprise.
"Wait, this isn't my coat". Boris takes a good sight of the trench wear standing idly face to its new wearer. It had the esthetics of his old garb, sharing in the jet black color and the thick touch dressed for winter and overall harsh condition. Heavy at first, this one would prove easy to fit into as the courier's body had grown accustomed to the weight.
However, the color and similar shape were where the similarity ended, the first overlapping difference lined on the coat. Streamlined, stainless, light and somehow, hardened, metal courses over the softer fabric, grafted seamlessly like plates to armor. So benign it was that only the reflection of the moonlight aided Boris into seeing it.
Secondly, the hands under the sleeves had the same trace of metal. Soft and malleable, almost recently crafted by how highly they glimmered.
Boris takes it, admiring how huggable it was. The metal, much more approachable than he anticipated. So many times, he was told of the cols sensation of plates on a knight's armor, a sigil of their reality. His seem anathema to it.
He puts it on, feeling it perfectly shaped to his size. Underneath the trench coat, a sly piece of top wrapped itself around his torso. A comfortable addition, proving to be an extra layer.
He takes to the mirror, sliding his collar mask and hood on "Hmm, Dede sure did a bang-up job on the coat. But, why replace the old one--Ohh?" Looking over the details of his new coat, Boris' eyes briefly widen in slight surprise to see the sigil of a mule. A donkey in a view from the side. This one was proudly gazing the same way he was, wrapped in a stern helmet custom-made for its head. The sigil is metallic and painted in white.
"Huh, I don't remember that being a design of my old coat". He looks at it, an idea prompting him to turn to the other side. Another sigil, this time, of...her.
"Dede?" Druella's facial feature, on the side, just like the mule. Her expression, a saddened touch, woven from silky threads. The red eyes, the icon of her lilim species, are null, closed by her eyelids. It was a dull and sorrowful gaze the sigil portrays on the side.
Boris wasn't sure what to make of it, though his heart had the answer, waiting to usher it. He wanders away from the room, walking past the other rooms. Open doors to others. All busy waking up themselves, no less than two inside. Some, however, looked to spend a late morning, grabbing their husbands back inside. The few glancing in his way offered waves, ones he returned.
A second rumble took to the place, slightly unhinging his balance. A faint one, judging how quickly he re-assumes his footing. Down the stairs, he goes, now hearing a plethora of voices. A mix, indiscernible, save for two. Two opposites.
"Please...let me explain--" A quivering tone.
"Yes. Please, explain". Another voice, stern. Strong enough to rattle the foundations for the third time.
"Explain?" Boris speaks to himself, submerged by a startling curiosity "Explain what?"
His whisper does not go unheard, returned by another "Your departure".
He stops midway in the stairs. The aide continues, stepping down to size. Dressed in her casual uniform, she also stays, a clipboard held firm on her bosom.
"Ohh, good morning". Boris bows slightly, receiving one in exchange.
"Good morning to you too, porter. I take it our fair lady's tone is intriguing you?"
"Ohh, that's Dede? I wonder what--you said my departure".
"I did. Let us join the throne room so that I may explain in due form". Her steps resume, followed by the all-too curious porter.
"Right".
They step down the spiraling staircase, hearing more of the feud brewing at the throne room. No shouts, but one quivered still. The other fumed yet.
The duo's walk is made stringent. Harrowing with every step. The light dims slightly tainted by the scarlet touch. The atmosphere, betraying the sense of a day. "Oh dear...", the demon notes, a hand fixing her glasses "...the lady really isn't taking the regent's confession well".
Boris follows, feeling the weight of the climate as well as a pack of brick stacking on his back. The indirect taste of someone's output often makes for a stronger impression once they realize it. As he does "It feels like he insulted her in one way or another, honestly".
"With what he had to say, the regent might as well have". Her reply comes with her advancing pace, breaching the main gate to the throne.
"I don't suppose it has anything to do with what you just said?"
"I said I would explain..." She steps in the densest area, the source of the triad rumblings. The gentle moonlight is erased from the throne room, devoured by a more malicious density "...but, I think it better to let you watch".
He takes a foot in, besieged by the weight. If Boris ever was to know anger, that is how it felt. Pouring from her closed glare, a scowling shadow cast over them. Leaning on her silky knuckle, the lilim broadcasts a smile. The most insincere one Boris had seen so far. One to match the groveling regent and his agents dressed in cloaks. Only, hers cuts to sharp turns, twisted by tranquil wrath.
Whereas he was wobbly, fearful, ushering a smile many nobles had when confronted with a higher rank displeased with them. A begging smile failing to reach the fair princess, demonstrated by the unrelenting pressure pushing down crimson tides on everyone present.
"Well?" Druella's heel taps on the marble floor, a glaucous toll to the regent Duchamp's ear. Even with her scarlet irises away, his psyche was entangled by her glare "I await an explanation, regent".
"W-well...my lady". His voice is a trembling wreck. Sweat amasses on his forehead, rendered heavy by the pressure. It drips ferociously. One of his agents is tempted, his hand reaching for an elegantly laced napkin. He takes a step forward...and no more, frozen. His body stiffens, feeling the all-encompassing glare sink on his shoulders. Regret pushes him back.
"A city this venerated, even before your graceful arrival, had to cut corners to remain as such".
"Corners?" Her voice comes off like a snap, inadvertently clenching the regent's muscles in a flinch.
"Y-yes. You see, Lescatie was...is the crowned jewel of our settlements. A monument to the best of our kind. But, with this prestige, comes sacrifices. For we had...many hands holding it afloat".
"Yes. I've seen them. Quite the saying you're giving me, regent". Druella's expression is frozen in placid anger, fingers tapping on the armrest of her throne "I've seen this 'sacrifice' in you and your fellows' vaults. Collecting dust. For your sake, I suggest that you keep your mind on this explanation I'm still dying to hear".
A heavy breath steams from Duchamp, feeling his footsteps surrounded by fragile eggs. One wrong step, and..."Well, as I've said, my fair lady, we needed to keep the city's image as that of prestige and heroes. Having them languish in the street would have proven to be a stain".
"A stain?" The horns bolted on her head nod alongside it "Go on". Her voice is dry.
"So, when one...collapse from its inability to contribute, we give them an opportunity. A way to continue even as they lost everything".
"Yes. Sending them on an exile to deliver goods that your betters wouldn't want to bother with".
"It was the only resolution we had. Sparing charity to the destitute--
"Oh yes". The ruler shifts position, her velvet hands joined under the pale chin "All those funds to train and arm wandering murderers. It's not as if you could have spared a few for those who you've overly burdened with your taxes. But..."
Her eyes open, drawing in a few of her atmospheric pressure. Druella's tone takes on a slight decrease "I understand. You worked under the notion that you needed an extra, just in case. Maybe the food stock would have collapsed. Maybe a depletion of resources somewhere. I understand".
"Yes, yes! My lady, yes!" Duchamp joins his hands at the middle, a prayer of praising "That was the case. When you're one of the best cities--
This bit drones off from Boris' ears. Even someone removed from the main capital like him could spot a fallacy when he saw one "Don't tell me Dede is actually eating it up?"
"She isn't". The demon aid shakes her head.
The tone darkens again, her voice, rising anew "With that said, tell me..."
"Yes, my lady?" Duchamp had taken relief, looking to a conclusion. His napkin parches off the sweat that flew in abandon.
"Tell me, sir Duchamp..." A faint smile hones on Druella's lips. The most fallacious smirk she could portray, a contrast to her scarlet irises projecting the family death glare, as frightening as her mother's upon the ancient forest of tendrils "Why is it still going?"
"W...w-wha..." His eyes widen in question.
"I'm asking you: why is this initiative still active? Why haven't I or any of my subordinates been informed of this?"
"W-well, my lady..." Sweat pours again. His agents, once prone to relax, are just as frozen. Her voice booms quietly, a murmur. Yet their bones rattle in its projection. Most of all, Duchamp "...it just wasn't worthy of your concern. I mean...it's just the common folk. Surely, our benevolent ruler had no need to look over unimportant affairs".
"Unimportant affairs, hmm? Is that what you call it? Hmm, hmm". A chuckle void of any sincerity, her eyes, closed momentarily, refreshed with a stringent death stare "The aides that brought me news of this exiling decree looked anything but apathetic, Duchamp".
Her tone is calm on the surface. Only the surface "You feed me this sanctimonious notion of a need to keep funds for a crisis. I would have understood this as a brutish method of the past. But, the lies that dance in your tiny mind tell me oppositely. Otherwise, why would you so eagerly send those you've robbed by the hundred to death sentences in delivering goods in avenues they couldn't hope to survive?"
"No, no, no! My lady, you misunderstand! We never thought to cast them in the harshest winds!" His napkin drops, dense with overwhelming sweat. His face is twisted, coerced to a withering smile, trying to keep himself composed.
"I misunderstand? Perhaps. However..." Druella leans in from her seat, a scolding tone biting his ears. One of her hands draws from the other, pointing to a corner. Darkened by her sheer state of mind, the blooming light of the moon day shines on men "...they don't see it this way".
"Ohh, those guys..." Boris, having listened, and, admittedly, enjoyed seeing Duchamp squirming in his spot, had instantly recognized the five others. All of them, sitting, silent, dressed in the same exile coat as he was. And, renewed as his.
"They're still..." Moving from the side, among the increase of a few stragglers with an inquiry about the gleaming red light, he approaches them. Five hoods, five men, now six with him nearby. They turn to his sight, recognizing him as one of their own. A friend in a clique of rejected.
By their side, a woman. One for each, showering the regent in scowls and glares. Loved ones with an ax to grind.
"It was a miracle they were found alive. After all, sending those you robbed blind to death roads is a sure way to make sure they don't come back. Or at least, deliver this unimportant bundle of lavish to other pretentious individuals. And, oh, my, Duchamp, they had quite the tale to tell me".
Duchamp looks back at them. Faceless individuals, hidden by their hood. A design to distance them from humanity. Nothing but delivery men. His design from past times.
The first one, bearing a sigil of a wrench. A tool. The 'janitor'. A man who once worked Lescatie's aqueducts. Diligent, yet often injured to his line to work. No quarter was given once he was proven to be unable to continue, his health, deteriorated by the unrelenting strain. Banished to the death road with tools, his sentence, to fix their relays, leaving his fiancee alone to cater to a house, knowing he likely would never return.
A woman dressed in a typical city maiden. Blond hair, freckles on her cheeks, once, withered by her unending sobs over countless lonely. Human, fiercely clinging to the 'janitor'. Her face adorns one of his shoulders in a saddened expression.
The second man, sporting an animal sigil. The 'hyena'. Scavenger, once, an all-purpose store owner. A story as old as day. He had a waxing business, so they heightened his taxes. He crumbled under their notion of 'individual tax', so he was banished. Forced to pick up what other porters had lost or dropped, either left in unsavory spots or withhold by bandits...
Scars cover his body, if not hidden by his black coat. His hand held firm by the woman at his side, even at the apex of his recovery. A delicate maiden, the raven lass, ever worried by the request of his presence. Her eyes do not stray to the loathed Duchamp, instead, honing her amber gaze to the man she serves. Even them, her contempt can be felt, much like the rest.
The third man, the 'raven'. Gold collector. Gold jewel master. A practitioner of jewels smithing. Affordable business was his mettle. Affordable business soared him in esteem and finance. Until their greed sunk him. Bound to their riches as his sentence, the 'raven' had the burden of carrying hoards of riches, besieged by things obsessed with shine.
How fitting it was for the 'raven' to have fallen near a Danuki, exhausted by the boundless greed of others. The same woman sporting a chilly apathy to the man at the center, hiding hints of disgust between. Even the most greedy of their kind had a more selfless atonement to their false cupidity. A trait he had spat to her husband's face for the last years.
The fourth man, the 'wolverine'. The outcast. An explorer with a heart for the wilderness. A love to bring items from the deep. Nowhere close for a luxury lifestyle but, more than enough for him. A formidable gatherer and scout, trailing maps of severe faunas for the less inclined.
It wasn't enough for them, counting losses of their more prized items. Their mistake for inadequately preparing. Yet, the blame fell on him. Robbed, exiled, he was confined to solitude, condemned to weave absolute paths for the wealthy. Or die trying.
Is it any surprise that the elven woman, glimmering in her ward, is spitting such scorn at the regent? Someone to speak to amidst their impromptu meetings, to share a few minutes, elongated to hours, found withered, at the door of death in isolation.
Bile streams from her emerald eyes, twisting her peerless features. Even the blond that ornate her head isn't enough to contrast her spite in his direction, all while holding the 'wolverine' to her bosom. A tender grasp. If there ever was a reason for her kind's loathing humans in general, the man who thought is entertaining to send her half to death paths was all of it personified. A walking beacon of everything she hated.
Unlike her actually expression, the sigil of her side view was that of a sorrowing elven, much like the rest, having their close one come to terms with his close rendezvous with the grim reaper.
And finally, the bandaged man sporting a sigil of a hooded individual. The 'leper'. The sick made sicker. A harrowing ruin to his body, once. A man working with the more dangerous material. The people who enjoyed clean streets and a cleaner city never had to worry about where the 'rejects' ever went. Never spotting the caravan that often left high in the morning. Of course, his diligence in dispatching the scraps of men and districts would not be enough for the obsessed higherups.
Not fast enough, as they would catch the smell and sight of the city's indigestion of resources, turning their nose in disgust.
Not sturdily enough, seeing an impossible spotless sight as his standard, as a city would ever fill the bins with more to dispose of.
Not frequently enough, disregarding the unfathomable distance he marched for safe disposal.
His sickened state, an excuse to see him ousted. Ousted to pile on more, drift further. A revolting fate for the woman who once was of the church. A sister who had taken to caress her prayers on the caravan carrier, giving deeper supplications to his safety even as it was continuously angering the local bishop. So many times was she told to 'stop wasting the chief god's time' with prayers for the worthless.
It was no surprise that all of this had snuffed out her faith. His kind voice, in spite of his clear acknowledgment of his treatment, had turned her to a patron that shared the same thought.
And so, that the 'leper' had her saddened expression on his shoulder sigil, was expected. Crowned with an upward horn. Adorned with a cowl of faith. A contrast to the actual sister who, while holding the bandaged individual close, had none of the chaste love to hone toward the responsible for his once-degraded condition. Not even a pitiful glance in his way, busy shimmering her faithful half in a mumbling prayer, softly whispered in an inaudible murmur for all but the two.
All of them stare back at Duchamp. Their hooded eyes convey every bit of their trials. The misery. The struggle. The suffering. The countless close encounters with the grim reaper. Their bodies are snapped out of their limit, perhaps, as a testament of their survival instincts, yet, they would forever carry the wake of exhaustion. An echo tolling in their corporal forms.
Boris was no exception, emitting the same harrowing march. The 'mule', once, a farmer. Now, a porter to the inhospitable, bearing much more than what a man could content with. Besieged by wildlife, bandits, nature, and sometimes, all, he drove on, thinking about his mother. Hoping for her sake. Though to the mamono, he burned bright, they could easily see the scars that snapped his proverbial locks into shattering.
"Them...and so many more...years after my anointment as the Lescatian ruler...behind my back". Druella snaps her fingers, resonating in the air. Scarlet scars open, hurling files. A few in green, most in red, the rest, dark.
All spilled at the feet of Duchamp, frozen still since. He knew instantly of the symphony they brought with pics of few files seeping out. Faces. Those from the darkened files at the profile of men and women. Their eyes closed. Forever.
"You see this?" Her glare locks on the whimpering man, her stance on that of a judge.
"Madam--
"Look at them, regent".
"I know--
"I. Said. Look". A rattle in the foundation's bones. The five remains shackled in balance. As does their spouses, Boris and the demon aid. All but the man at the heart, the shake forcing his head down in an aim to keep his balance. Down and staring. Mortuary expressions, taken at the scenes of their discovery.
"This..." Her finger discarded any notion of elegance, pointing down at the files of the deceased and grievously wounded with unhinged indignity "...this is why I sit where I sit. Fruitless waste of human lives in attempts to keep the foreground spotless".
Finally, with a sigh, the fourth princess recoils back to the back of the throne "What point is there to keep a city pristine on the surface when its foundation is upheld by the mass you call 'unimportant matters'? By their dead hands?"
Duchamp had the stage, though, not out of excitement, nor from enthusiasm. Her glare is scolding. Her finger is judging. Her stance is indifferent to his behavior. Years, hiding this fallacious face of Lescatie to her. To her subordinates. But for what? Wealth? Dominion? Entertainment?
Duchamp takes a step forward, knowing them to further her ire, heightened as it already was. And, they were all true...and overshadowed by a singular drive, one desire.
After all, she was a mamono. A daughter of the entity that sent her here, to begin with with the singular purpose of ending the blood feud. Love was their weakness, a confession, their fatal infirmity.
He broadcasts a hand towards her, a theatric he played days prior among others like him...or, he would have. A hand mapped from hers truly halted his breathing. Swiped on the side like a rejection, she takes to the word again "I know what compelled you to withhold such info from me. I know what compelled you to continue in this unsavory deed of yours".
Step by step, the room seemed mesmerized. Her callous stance washed away by elegance. Her pace is graduate, dragging, toward Duchamp, the most captivated. The five men who witness, much like Boris and her aid, held no deep sense of allure, already held in throes.
A hone smile perfumes her face, ever encroaching on his position, glimmering stars in his sight ~You did this to obtain my favor. You sought to keep this stain hidden as to slowly approach me. You wish to end this lonely streak that accompanies me for so long~
"Yes...yes, my lady, I just..." His eyes flicker in a trance, completely overtaken by her alluring pace. From the soft smile shimmering his way to the sultry walk, her body was aligning his way, each step, a flirtatious commission.
~So, this is a confession, my dear regent?~ Softly, closely, Druella plucks the corner of his chin, lifting his swirling gaze to her seductive glare. The touch of a mamono personified clads on his cheeks with her hands taking a bigger presence on them.
His mind is in jubilation, heralded by the closeup of the Lescatie matron. Her face seemed so swollen in his words, bright with a smile...only.
Boris, from his distance, had too much knowledge about his disguised friend. From his spot, he sees the fallacy of her pace. No crimson cheeks the way she had flourished in yesterday. Eyes on the razor edge of sharpness. Lips not parted, but sealed, idle. Chipped.
"Is he aware?" He doesn't seem to be". His eyes wince, twisted to incomprehension as to how did someone of high-standing like the regent was inept at seeing the false play before his very eyes.
The demon secretary shakes her head, equally as somewhat appalled as the courier "He will right about now..."
"Yes, my queen! My darling! My de--" A finger on his lips. A shush to his ears. A disgusted glare to his eyes. Acrid air to his nostrils. And, a frozen atmosphere to his skin.
The matron had no warmth to shelter him in. Hearing those words from his voice...made her laugh. Laughter devoid of heat, as shivering as the demeanor of an ice queen. Rifts at the front of the throne room begin to bubble into existence, painting a distant scenery.
"A dirty little secret that you've kept from me, only to shower me with your worthless wealth". The matron's laughter is unrelenting, somewhat cruel to Duchamp's dismay.
"My queen--
"Ohh, little, little human. Are you so deluded? Your words are of no worth to me". As quickly as she whispered, Druella swiftly left his presence, walking past him. Somewhere between it all, her sublime velvet gloves burned in spontaneous combustion. A burning image to the increasingly distraught regent, a witness of their immaculate beauty decomposing into ash simply by the crime of having swept his pale cheeks.
"I--I, I don't understand. Did I wrong you?! Did I--how could have I--" Words fought to pass through his teeth, reverberating with the lash of rejection. Was it a first for the noble? To be so callously repudiated?
"That you ask only cement this annoyance I've suffered from you and your siblings, regent". Her eye still locked with the confounded man, an apathetic glimmer to its scarlet touch. Turning from his plight, her gaze focused on the equally and recently confused Boris, literally in her way, hands stretching his direction and a more alluring smirk...
"I don't...annoyance? But, the gifts, the treasures! The things I've gifted you with. The elite that stood before you, you're telling me that..." The more he thinks about it, the more he remembered. Her smile, much like his when speaking to the public, a fallacy. To him, to his equals, his competitors.
His words find no response from the ruler, blind to those, once gazing back to him, now focused elsewhere. The men of the discarded have long exited the premises, their spouses by their side. They've seen enough.
"Surely this is a mistake! Surely you do not mean--" Longing to perhaps correct himself, to garner what little of her favor he could parch himself in, Duchamp turned to meet the fair lady, a readiness to plead his case.
"Dede, look, I'm not sure right now--" Boris, unlike Druella, didn't have the luxury of drinking in this tiny moment as her. Five years of destitution coupled with archaic castes and ranks had his mind focused on the increasingly unnerved regent, now staring daggers at him.
~Hmm, hmm, nonsense. I've waited far too long for my little farmer. I'm not one to squander a gift this precious~. From her cheek, shamelessly rubbing on his average pore, overworked by a daily bath in the sun, to her arms, well within their power to keep the porter close, it was startlingly obvious that--
"My lady! What is--?!" His breath flees, unable to bear the scenery his eyes catch. The matron, the highest esteem of a city once thought impregnable, cuddling with a 'mule'. A vermin in his eyes, drinking in her limitless adulation.
"--still you must ask when the picture lies in front of you". Her voice is regal and feminine, sparing none of the latter in his direction "You, and the rest of your hollow fellows have lost the moment I was made aware of his presence. His humble approach 'sealed' the deal while all of you were busy laughing at what I can possibly call the best thing I've been offered since my incursion. Simply a question of when, rather than if~.
His haste breath is once again, of little purchase, too busy watching the indignation unfold "But, my--this mule--this peasant--a repugnant failure--a farmer boy who couldn't even muster the coin--why would you ever go--
"You speak so lowly of him, regent? Measuring his worth in coin? Frankly, I could the same and list every little insignificant claim you hold". A devious grin from the enamored lilim, clutching the ancient farmer close. Her glare is no more a heinous one, but a complacent stare.
"My lady--
"And yet you are, still claiming a delusional parcel on my person. Really? You? A man who literally has nothing to offer someone like me? A little maggot who thinks his blood-stained gold would be enough to claim someone like me?"
"But, my...I tolled to present--
"Yes, present a mendiant's sum to a woman who holds a nation worth of glimmering coins. How considerate of you. Truly well done, regent, you've proven to be incapable of making up the smallest percentile of my wealth. And what of the copper weapon you presented to me, hmm? An auramite sword capable of cutting through the hardest of armor? Please, you thought to present a copper thing to someone with the capability of crushing diamonds with a pure strength". Her hand regrettably quits Boris' side, if only to demonstrate the cruel clench of her fingers, sapping the surrounding air in its grasp.
"Worthless gifts, the lot of you have provided me. Parcels of so-called legendary weapons, armors, and artifacts that my mother holds in spares. Tsk, the same I just so casually throw down the treasury. Flattery so easily dies after seeing the tenth blind-sided merchant comes with his overrated toy".
Duchamp's heart sinks at the notion. So, it was all merely politeness. To see man after man, merchant, noble, prince, king, hero, all wandering in the bowels of the castle, their best proprieties in hands. All worthless to her.
His eyes drown in this realization. None of them were esteemed in her eyes. But, she was a mamono. Mamono craved affection. What better affection than the glimmering gold and diamond tributed to such a high-standing woman?
"I see the glint in your eye. Yes, we do crave companionship. Alas, having legions of short-sight men giving me luster isn't the sort I covet. Not when I have a copy of the exact same. Not that I would have taken yours if I hadn't. Not with your minds all lured to my hindquarters or my bosom. Again, if I wanted a meat puppet to satiate me in the cold nights, I could have taken the first gutter-minded noble that drifted in my direction. Truly, any of you would have been enough".
"Gutter-minded? Surely you jest! I would have never--
"Ha! You think I didn't see you map my feminine attributes? I appreciate the compliment, but women don't quite enjoy having the notion of being leered at as some funnel for the barest of lust. Again, not that any of you would have satiated me in bed, to begin with. Not with this 'worthless' farmer, you keep spitting at currently fanning me in the flames of an unshackled mortal".
"Wait, what?" Boris voices himself, confused by this snippet, his head, darted her way in snap speed. Her eyes turn to his side, a prideful smirk on her lips. A phenomenal catch in body and mind to someone like her.
~Is it any surprise that...~ Druella turns back to the bewildered regent, a glaring grin stretching her wide ~...you lot started rambling? Complaining? An 'insignificant' man, lower than the worm to your boot, ushering this prize you coveted to a boundless joy? With flowers that he suffered in blood and sweat to get me, simply to match my eyes. An attribute a woman enjoys, further when her lover cast their admiration to. A pretty...pathetic blindside from a pack self-confident nobles~.
"You cannot...be...serious..." Duchamp scowls at Boris, currently in the grasp of a woman many of his standings yearned for. Dozens, hundreds, thousands in the last years. Only for her to so readily cast them away. For a fledging. "A rustic...I-I can't believe it".
"Ohh, don't beat yourself so down, hon'". Her voice is a sultry mock. A reflection of the attitude she and many of her subordinates had seen persist in this place of hers "I am not so cruel to deny you the object you covet. In fact, I have a special group of gals just dying for some nobles...".
"Dede..." Boris senses the malicious grin stretched wide "...you're making that face again. He hasn't drawn anything right now, I don't think--
"Do not worry". The scowl endures whilst shadows now map the area, one of them converging behind the regent's unaware indignation "I am no scoundrel. Our friend here merely wishes to share in this boon I just acquired. Isn't that right, Raava?"
"Right!" A stern hand on Duchamp, immediately coercing a reaction out of his tense body, still mired in defeat. His upward spring is halted by the same hand weighing down on his shoulder. An ebony pair of fingers laced in white nails.
Many of the onlookers set themselves away from the increased newcomers in the shape of tribal women. Their ebony muscles are fiercely displayed, scantily clad by darker obsidian. What cloth wasn't allowed to cover, ornaments replaced? Gold and glint conceal their stomachs and skirts in ways more attuned to revealing teases with gaps between the ropes of metal.
Their singular horns match the shine of the gilded luster underneath the moonlight, indicating a dip in the precious metal. Each one of them is adorned in one, speaking to their royalty in their tribe.
Duchamp's sweat is splashing in vase quantity, the hand clenched over his shoulder, anything but a gentle brush. One of his hands coils on his mithril sword, waiting to gush out from its sheath. "...what manner of brute dares press a hand on my very shoulder?"
"Now, now, regent. Amazons don't take kindly to their husbands smearing them in such language". Druella smiles kindly...and mockingly, unsurprised to see the tallest of the Obsidian Blood tribe rip the scabbard from his side, earning a choked gasp from the man unable to pursue his only line of defense.
"Pale one, is this the tribute you seek to pay us with?" She speaks in a rambunctious tone in a close inspection of the man she holds. Her facial features share space in beauty and savagery in an untamed mix. She looks at him, not as a potential mate "Ohh, this one is pungent in royalty. I can smell the highborn children already. So ravenous to look at".
"What?! I am no one to debase myself with a savage thing--
"And he's a lively one. Excellent. The newest warriors to our castes shall have an in-depth lesson as to tame their breeding stock".
"Now, now...I'd be careful with how I'd describe amazon nobility, regent". The mistress wags her finger before opening it toward the Obsidian Blood matron "Surely you must have learned that no lady enjoys their husband speaking so ill of them".
"Nobility?!" Still grasping for his distant scabbard, Duchamp has a panicked gasp "Husband?! No, no, no, I don't--
"You wanted nobility, so I brought you royalty. Your queen already has taken a liking to you. Unfortunately, it also means filing a vacancy spot for your title since...you know..." A sultry gaze pours from Druella's very own eyelashes "...you'll be busy. VERY busy~.
"No, no! This isn't the sort of woman I sought--my lady, please--" His increased whine is ceased as the ornate collar to his uniform is holstered up, forced to meet the gaze of the burly amazon. If not for the fact that she looked at him as a potent source of high-born offsprings, Duchamp could have enjoyed the perfect marriage of warrior and maiden blended into one, neither stepping over the other's space, but both intermingling into a soft and stern visage.
"I like him. A lot. Lots of spunks. The loudest dogs often make the best of servants. But, I surmise that you have more for my tribe? This year is a year of harvest for fresh noble blood, pale one".
"Of course!" Druella steps away from the ever-confounded courier, a lithe step in glee, coiling her hands together to then spread them apart. The rifts, clouded in a crimson swirl, now present windows to domains, distant and nearby. Men under the regent's order. His agents, his siblings, anyone and everyone involved in this 'discarded' protocol. Ripe for the picking, unaware and unready. The Lescatie matron presses her hands together, a smile underneath a shadow scowl "I would greatly enjoy if you were to teach them that 'bones make poor foundations'".
"Oh...so it's THOSE kinds?!" The obsidian queen's joy immediately shifts to a stern glare to her future husband, the latter, squeamish in her grasp.
"Oh, why, yes!" The same grace returns her to the head-scratching Boris, wondering whether this was an intervention or a repay of a debt. Scarce information spokes of ebony and azure amazons taking to the more volatile defenders, gifted in pieces. Something to ask her later.
For now, her hands coil around his "My dearest over here has had no end of their little 'eviction program'. Him, and a few you've seen marching away, I'm certain. Survivors".
"So I did!" The Obsidian queen drops Duchamp down with a bellowing order "Run".
"What?! I have no reason to run--oof!" His hands rush for his sheathed sword. A thought too late, as his first step sees a hand shove him meters further from, the same woman now walking in front of it.
"Now, husband, I asked you to run. So, you will run. I have to ascertain your physical condition, simply as to see how much I'm going to take out of you".
"You do not command me, you--" A flying whistles close to his hair. A dart, lacerated, takes its spoils of hair as it flies past him to the rift. A rift of jungles and faunas.
His heart skips a beat. His agents, having long been pressed to flee from chasing Amazons, would not help him. The windows to others also see men sprint in hurry to the largest portal, hunted down by vehement women of the tribes, looking to stalk their prey in their territories. All of his contacts, fellows and otherwise, allies, now husband-cattle to savages.
Another dart flies near, cutting another piece of his blond locks, this time, lashing his cheeks. A faint blue seeps from the wound, leaking the power that man uses to magical ends. A step backward hindered in fear. He wasn't going to become the toy of an amazon. He wasn't...
Fear shrouds him, pushing his steps the other way. Through the rift, he runs, fearful of his fate, disappearing from sight.
The Obsidian queen relents from any commentary, her instincts flaring up at the prospect of her prey, aimless in the jungle. By her spear, she takes to a sprint, with an elegance to the thrill cast on her flawless visage.
Her departure sees the rift close, expecting a litter of servants walking up, confused at their masters' sudden disappearances, relocated to a distant parch of land.
Boris, quiet up to this point, couldn't help but ponder the scenery "So...amazons? Is this going to be a thing?"
His question returns with a smirk from the mistress, leaning onto the courier, this time, with little restraints. Her arms, once again, coiled around his nape. Eyes close to his face, lips, closer ~Hmm...nope! This is but a one-time thing...unless I hear of other nobles in need of a 'purge'~.
"Ok..." Without his mask, Boris had little to resist the fluttered lilim so inherently close. An undisclosed timidity he feels, sensing his hands guided close to her waist by the very wings that adorn them. It fades, replaced by the confession of yesterday, enabling his arms a better grasp.
~So, Borissy, you finally ready to discard this little rift between us?~ Her voice teems with warmth, a bright glimmer to the slit eyes ~Your body seems quite willing~
"Depends..." His mind climbs back to what was supposed to be his departure "...if I say yes, does that mean I don't have to go out for delivery?"
~What sort of woman do you take me for? I'm not boundless in patience, I'm not waiting another five years to your return, mister!~ Her words string a giggle from both parties.
"Well, if I have a day off, then..." As ever, he takes initiative, slipping under her grasp. One arm on her legs, another to her back, causing quite a stir in the lilim's composure. His pace isn't slowed down, the momentum spent in a sprint toward the throne's gates.
~Boris...~ Red cheeks burn her pale composition, re-gaining a grasp on his nape. Its heat smears the side of his shoulder along with her breath ~...where are you taking me now?~
"Well, my boss told me he was going away for a long time. As far as I'm concerned, this is grounds for breakfast. And I just happen to know the perfect place for us".
The guards that were escalating the marches to the castle's entrance got quite a surprise to see an unhooded man spill out in a far jump, holding their mistress in his arms. Some recruits were among them, present for a formal meeting with the queen they were supposed to swear to. The same queen, currently giggling in a porter's arms.
As it goes, they are found by the window. As expected, Boris offers, walking back with a tray of breakfast goodies. Her arms are intertwined on his, sitting by his side as he presents her the one thing she preferred above all. Caramel croissant searing with the warm liquid inside besides a vanilla milk glass.
Cheeky smiles adorned many onlookers passing by, seeing the touching bliss of their mistress. A smile she hadn't shimmered in for years. As wholesome as a maiden proposed to marriage was. One that literal tons of gold couldn't hope to bring, far from it...
...to the one Boris presented before her, a knee on the floor, in the depth of her room. Days, after she had pulled every stop to have his mother escorted to a more comfortable corner in Lescatie, far from the derelict ramshackle. A place nobody would call home.
A hand on her palm. A familiar sight of a golden ring flashing in the crimson candles. So close to her finger. Days passed together, spending the illusion of years, as it was but a catch up to their last meeting before he was exiled.
And, the man himself, having gone behind her back, asking her aid for a ruby gem atop the ring of the proposal. All of it revealed to the confounded lilim, unable to comprehend the sight before her. Many times, she had seen couples propose the same way. With how many dove for her bed so many times, along with a very few success, Druella had every right for the confusion of her expression.
Slowly, her heart begins beating a little faster every second, breathing in the presentation. A ring, perfectly shaped to her finger. An individual, harmonious to her side. her cheeks redden. Her breath falters, ceasing for a second. A second, and--
~iiiiii!!!~ Her pitch reverberates the castle's foundation, ringing strongly in Boris' ears. An unintentional consequence of her acceptance.
"You know Dede, you can just say 'yes' instead of screaming like that. I'm sure people are sleeping--
~No, they don't--but who cares?! Yes! Yes, I do, my tender farmer!~
"I just walked through the rooms right now, and one out of two--" Her arms immediately swirl around his nape in an upward lift. The white mantle presented as her wings move of their own accord, overjoyed at the proposal.
Boris makes an effort to catch his box midway, the impromptu take to flight, holding dearly into it while spinning in ferocious velocity. Her warmth spreads to his side, this discordant stationary flight turned to dance. Time becomes irrelevant to their conception before returning to their fold.
Amidst the glimmering red, he inserts the ring on her finger, standing atop the castle, bodies intertwined. The moon, the only witness to the fourth princess rescinding her celibacy. Eyes shining brighter than the celestial body, admiring the gold loop. Wind coursing through their hair.
A couple facing each other, closing in among a river of stars, their lips sealing at the middle, the first of many as husband and wife. No official marriage ever was to enter any time to announce their newly coupled lives.
The courier had no desire for an exaggerated celebration in overdone confetti and cakes.
The lilim had no interest in overblowing what should be a heartfelt deed into a festival of opulence. One that would see her swarmed with disgruntled individuals of close and distant lands. To see their unrelenting grumbles would be tireless, however...
With the discretion of her adorned subjects, Druella pulls hew anointed husband away, an ancient yearning awoken by his permanent presence. Another takes to the throne, ruling in her stead, so close to this secluded spot.
A grin plasters on the figurehead, all-too-happy to shoo away the fallacious nobles, parched with sweat, a glittering gift in their hands. Rumors stirring them so easily about her claimed status, blind to the soft light pouring from the left side of the throne room.
Never one with any appreciation for entitled royalty, Francisca, sitting in mild chortle, takes a sip of an ambient tea, waving the discontented Her unblotted eye catches in the view of whoever had the unfortunate reality of walking away with no chance of meeting a lilim "Oh, how I never get tired of seeing those moochers prance away in utter disappointment".
Giggles stem from the frame to the left. Were a few to stare inside, they'd see their ruler, closely standing to a cupboard counter. Dozens of miniature tissues populated by ground herbs.
Slowly, she'd pluck a few to mix with others, her pale hand guided by another. Boris' coat strays on a handle by the side, seeing no use for it. Already taken to the couple's life, he holds her closer from behind, a few accompanying whispers leading his hand leading hers.
A vanilla brew mixed with hints of strawberry was on her mind, necessitating careful measurements. All-day for days, he took to re-teach her what they once vacated to in the past years. Tea, in particular. Excuses for the lilim to partake in his embracing arms, more than content to simply feel them coiled over her waist, drinking in the days of before when she strode the world as Mirandelle. A...stuffy disguise, having to conceal her majestic horns and eyes. Wings and aura.
Until one day, one night...
The castle slept the night away...with some preferring to embrace their lovers. Boris stood by the kitchen, pouring a glass, the lights dimly awake. They await his leave as to quiet in the sleep as well.
This product was of his own, secluded in his own little pocket dimension. Turns out, his unshackled status had already provided him one. The place he runs when translating the distance, mapping a beach and a shore of everlasting light. Strong enough for farm and animals to live their day, soft enough for them to sleep.
Translating in and out with building material was somewhat of an expensive endeavor, one he does not regret, now a farmer anew. One to an enlarged domain.
Of course, not content with merely teaching him to better translate in and out, the mistress of the Lescatie capital brought entire schooling on the man, looking to extend the limitless stream rushing through his veins as well as getting his familiarized to his attunement. Lightning now courses as well, enabling and enhancing any task he might take to.
The same woman he was late standing on the kitchen for, a cold glass of milk to help her sleep. He walks the stairs, clothed in nothing more than a pajama.
So he wanders the halls, inhabited by many closed doors. Druella's own bodyguards. Unlike their appearance, they were very welcoming, all sharing a story of scorn toward the previous rulers. A common wound among them all.
He walks past their doors, going for the further one. The only one colored in black with a gazing red under the frame. Scarlet candles lighting inside "Hmm, Dede really seems to have difficulty to sleep tonight".
She didn't...
Stepping in, Boris is welcomed to an immaculate bed, seemingly untouched. Soft lighting decorating the atmosphere in an enticing touch. The furniture, as mood-enlightening as ever.
"Dede, I brought your...cup?" And the woman herself, hidden on the ceiling, waiting on her prey of a husband. The pale palms stick to the walls and ceiling, patient. Feeling her presence, Boris had prepared for a dropping lilim before the door, hands on her back. Her tail swirls around the knob, poking a lock in existence, only to pull a key out of it, slipping it on her nightgown's mid-section.
A sultry smile perfumes her steps, masking her stretching hands to the back of his nape. A mere glance at the tray and glass sees both brushed away in a gradual hover away from his hands.
~Hmm, thank you, but, I'm afraid it is not going to be enough to quench this fire. I'm going to need something more...potent~. Her whisper is a shiver to the man entrenched in her personal quarters. A delight to listen to, proving to easily seduce him to her side.
"Really? Maybe I can go get it for you?" His hands reach to her waist, gently closing the gap between them where a kiss awaits him. A regularity between them sealed close by her arms.
~Ohh, why, you've already brought it. I just need to coax it out~. Druella's whispers are lullabies to the ex-courier, touching every note to further entice him.
"Ohh? Well, I think I can help you in that endeavor. If it means helping you to bed". His hands lower to her rump, a strong lift to see her feet off the ground. Giggles spill from the crimson lips, clearly taken to this courteous action.
~Oh my, how initiative of you. To think I might have needed to coax this enthusiasm out of you~. Her tail swirls and wags, faintly laughing the way an impatient newlywed would be. A reaction, unseen in the few she once led to her quarters before.
"Well, of course". Boris takes no effort leading her bridal carrying to the supple bed, the impending victim to a sleepless night "It would be kind of boring for me to decide that whatever wall that was between us wasn't thoroughly broken brick by brick".
~It would have been. But...enough of metaphors. Give me what I have been missing for so long~.
"Gladly". And so, he does, placing her on the bed, welcomed to a hand from the fourth, a beckoning gaze duly answered...
---
---
~I didn't expect lovemaking to be so moving. It's so much more passionate than mere intercourse, and yet, so much more intimate than the same. It's like I've been working with only half the ingredient up to now...~ Gleaming in the darkness of the castle, bathed in the crimson light, Druella can't help but feel a swoon rendering her light.
Hands-on her cheeks, cheeks in red, even by the scarlet moon, her mind bathes her to the recollection of their first night of intimacy. A delight of a memory that robs her of focus. Her eyes close, looking to relive that particular time in her life. The emotion. The atmosphere. The lighting. His touch. Their caress. Anything in-between and everything beyond. She relives it with soft glee.
Only for her irises to spring open, directly staring at the would-be assassin. Sabrina, with a little more than just a faint brush of red on her own cheeks, playing a contrast on her pigmentation. One of her armored hands blots out her visage to no avail. The description of her target's honeymoon. It was too human-like, too familiar to them. It is exactly like them, playing nothing to her otherworldly abilities.
It was but a man and a woman, married, joining each other in an amorous night. It touched her.
Touched her the same way novels did, the same way she hoped to...
"I-is that it?" Furiously breathing in spite of her composure, she expected more, exactly like a novel. Details, the afterglow, everything. Enthralled enough to forget the line between them.
"Ohh? Ohh! Oh dear, I'm sorry. Got a little carried away..." The ruler had been sitting on her side of the magic wall, now rising to her feet. A surprise comes honing her eyes from Sabrina. Sweat, fluster a faint trembling, and an expecting gaze toward her would-be target.
Druella recognizes the stare as one she often made in her long longing, reading romantic encounters "Ohh, you wanted details, hmm? My, we have a naughty little knight here, don't we?"
"No, I would never--never--" She screams by the other side of the wall, an admirable performance of denial...if not so blatantly obvious.
"Oh, come now..." The wall dissolves. The lilim, utterly convinced of her attacker's withered resolve, approaches with a hand on her shoulder. Sabrina flinches, her instincts compelling her to strike. She had lost her heart into it, the telltale of her supposed enemy knocking too close to home.
"I can feel you no longer have the reasoning to see us as enemies. To be honest, I never really did. Not with that heart beating so strongly for a special someone". The land around the knight briefly shift, a tone she acknowledges as teleportation. Before any reaction, they both are at the edge of the throne room, sitting on the largest sofa.
Her fluster persists, the classic symptom of a reader barred from a book's ending. Druella knows of this, playing a little tease on the errant assassin ~You know I can't give you the innate details. You're such a delicate little flower, what would you have to gain from such graphic description of a man loving a woman so...~
Sabrina looks to the demoness, a cooing smile well into tossing her feeling left and right. The bashful knight shields her face from further embarrassment.
"Sorry, sorry, let me just..." Hands clenched on the knight's wrist. Her sight is no longer blotted from her 'enemy's' eyes, switched to a more understanding stare. That of a mother looking to counsel her child.
One of her hands passes through the knight's hair, long after having discarded her helmet "There, much better, don't you think?"
Free from the mantle of a war helm, Sabrina's blond ponytail sits out freely, emphasizing her feminity. A flustering prospect to the chaste knight, blushing all the way in increased embarrassment.
~And my, what a cute face you sport. Someone is pampering herself for a confession, hmm? Or you would be if you weren't here, to begin with...~ Her coo turns to a sour mood, taking to the knight's chin. A small lift to keep their eyes focused on one another "You didn't want to be here, do you?"
Hesitation bites the knight's lower lip. Her heart speaks long before her mind's entangled doubt by the fierce glare she gives. A nod from the lilim, an acknowledgment at the end.
"Right, right. I would have guessed". A headshake greets the distraught knight "You really weren't into it, to begin with anyway".
"That bad?"
Her silence is a deafening and glaucous response to ring hollow in her head. "Of course..." They drift from Druella's scarlet gaze, her irises.
"To think I thought I had the smallest meager of a chance..." Hands sink into her face, sighing in defeat. So close, she is to her target, the responsibility for the fall. So eased in her seat, vulnerable, a complete antithesis to what they described of her.
The fall... "Speaking with you, right now..." Sabrina is cut off from her agitated momentum, once more looking to the ruler "...it reminds me of why I've stripped this place of its previous occupants".
A placid disdain occupies Druella's expression, facing straight ahead. A quiet voice breezes over "'Speaking with me?' Because of me? Are you saying...what are you saying?"
"Simple". Docility returns to her fold, enabling the princess a soft gaze into the young knight "I look into you. Your eyes, your mind, your very presence. And I see him. Harold, right?"
Again, she is surprised to see his name spoken so early. As if it was plastered on her forehead "Y-yes..."
"Yes. A humble squire who caught the forbidden heart of a knight. Of you. Yet, you are here, away from him. On some fallacious task. A tale I see too many times among humans. A pretty tiring one, at that".
"Wha--
"You know what I mean, Sabrina. You should be with him. You want to be with him. But you can't. Your archaic titles separate you. Your father separates you, already has plans for you, if, by a miracle, you were to succeed in taking my head. You would have been married to some slob, or an uncaring figurehead with no wit to treat a woman, use you as some toy to discard, all in the approval of your parent. Or, you would have fallen in the all-too numerous wars you people keep initiating over each other, leaving him broken forever. Or he would have perished in a foreign war, leaving you shattered beyond recovery".
"Ohh..." Sabrina looks away from her gaze, a peal of faint laughter leaving her tenure "You know, all this time, coming here, looking to end your life here and here, I...he didn't speak of this side of you...I didn't expect..."
"I made mistakes. Mostly in handling those that serve me now. I understand how you see me as...less than what you currently look at".
"It's a surprise..." Sabrina's eyes lower to the ruby-encrusted gem her 'enemy' wears under the veil of a glove. It feels as if she's never removed it since he adorned her with it. A faint smile coils her chin.
Druella notices her stray stare. A cooing smile now inhabits her "I can help you, you know?"
"Help me? In what--
"You know what". Her cut is straight "You shouldn't be here. You know it yourself. I know the wall that keeps you from him. I can help you tear it down...and the man who maintains it".
"Help? You mean--" Sabrina's eyes widen. Every one of her underlings with the hero title had once been human. They now live as other species coupling their personalities.
"Oh yes". The ruler's hand comes on her cheek, softy idles upon its surface "I see your desires. You don't want to be here. You never wanted that task. It's but another ploy to keep you two separated. And you, miserable. Your ties prevent you from acting out in your heart's name. But, a monster's heart cares little for a parent's selfish interest. I sense one stirring within you".
"B-but, a monster?! I mean..." Hesitation keeps her from a forward answer...and from retreating. One story wasn't a stray from another. Both coveted a man born in the common line. Both expressed loathing toward the elite they walked in. But, only one managed to make away with those that sought to see their beloved dead. And it wasn't her
Perhaps she wasn't wrong. Her husband is a common folk, his worth outshining those who's blood languish in nepotism. Just like her Harold. Her Harold.
"You feel that, don't you?" Druella long had a hand placed on the knight's breastplate, a knee on the floor, a visage looking up "The fierce heart of a protective dragon".
"A dragon..." Her idle motion is a certainty of the word's ring in her thoughts.
"Yes. A dragon. Titles mean nothing to them as they carry the highest of badges. Not unlike mine. You have the potential, if only you let me..."
"Dragon..." Her stare is peaceful, yearning. Her entire life has been spent listening to the father figure of her father. Training, discipline, lifestyle, everything, devoted to his word. All save one. The only obstacle that sacrificed his well-being merely to bring her a solace of comfort in her stringent life. The one thing her father wanted away. But, as a dragon, as a mightly wyrm...
A coy smile paints the lilim, taking her repetition as acceptance "Very well. I will oblige! Now, stand still for but a moment..." The surrounding becomes a blur. Then, purple. Shapes of arcane. Shapes of magic. A space, black in the sky, a litter of stars. Purple at the abyss, a welcoming world in the distance.
"Huh?" Sabrina's tone echoes through this empty pocket. Some of the glyphs converge before her, dancing in shapes. A pack of an oval. A pack of legs. A mirror. A chair.
And Druella, mapped still in her modest attire, this time, with a make-up kit. Hands dipped in concentrated demonic essence, she circles the knight, infinitely younger in comparison.
Her hand pushed the case it carries, only to see it hover by the yield of her mind close, open. Every tool it has inside is that of a true artisan's kit, literally missing none. All of them are soaked as her fingers.
"First of all..." A faint sizzling noise buzzes at metal. Sabrina's armor, surgically cut away at her dismay.
"Hey, what are you--
"Sorry, hon', can't have a makeover wit this bulky thing in the way. Not that you'll need it afterward, but..." So soon after the pieces are dislodged, her mind casts them adrift, seemingly ready to be repaired at her leisure.
Underneath the steel and chainmail, a supple body yielding muscles. Meticulously honed for battle. Sabrina was strong, especially for a knight. Alas, part of it had come at the price of her womanhood, a shame she covers even in this lonely pocket expanse "Don't--d-don't look!"
"Aw, honey, don't worry~. Arms come embracing her surprisingly timid mindset. At last, that's something left intact. The warmth of a lilim's bosom has yet to find another defiant to it, instead, tallying an additional victim to its comfort. An effort to see her calm, breathing in a regulated manner.
It works, the knight taking in seconds of ponder, seconds to recede her initial stance. Slowly looking up to that which she should have killed like an infant might a mother.
~Much better. Now, let take a good look~. Hands course the shoulder they idled on all the way to her palms, unfastening them from her body. holding them close. More than enough for Druella to inspect her quarry.
Sporting the color of her irises, Sabrina bore an emerald top and a snow skirt. Elongated as much as she could. Where many saw efficiency in her attire, gleaming with bits of metal as to serve as makeshift armor under her armor, the lilim saw what she saw on her subordinates before their change.
Shame. Sabrina was ashamed of her body, no longer able to enjoy her feminity. Trained utterly as a knight with no space for her personality, nor say in anything. She was ashamed, as she is now, fidgeting under Druella's scrutinizing gaze. If she ever was to let go of her palms, the knight would surely seek to cover herself anew.
"Oh my..." Her voice is disdain, but not toward the female knight-errant "Look at the damage they did. All the while he blotted you from your Harold. I am not at all surprised you stopped smiling..."
Sabrina's eyes lower. Another price for her nobility, inserted as a knight. A sacrifice for a parent.
"Well, don't worry. It's why you're here. Why I'm here". Guided to the only seat in this existence, Sabrina watched as a brush flew from the make-up kit to a gloved hand. The other hand cups her chin, to keep it still.
"A little brush here and..." Druella passes its surface through her quarry's visage. Stripping her of what made her what she is wasn't on the menu. Instead, she would teach it to share and marry with her feminity, shaping demonic essence on her as to elevate the two in a monster bath. Autumn horns protrude in quadruplets over her head, all point backward. An ethereal flame immediately lingers in them, the same exalted color as their hardened protrusion.
"Aw, look at that, you're already looking much better!" Druella clasps her hands in the middle, pulling the mirror in.
"What? Better?" Sabrina was somewhat confused. The brush had introduced her to a preview of monsters. Mamono. It felt...good. Even now, she could already decipher and enjoy words as genuine as they could be.
"Why, of course! Take a look at yourself!" The mirror faces Sabrina, who, in its reflection, sees herself...and another. The horns, they didn't cut away from her like her body did, instead, emphasizing her humanity. Her eyes, a gentle sit not unlike the lilim, the foremost mark of a mamono. Easy to turn against neer' do'wells, easy to shimmer them in the gaze of a loved one.
Lips, now taking an autumn twist, mapped in the matching color of her ponytail. Unlike the pair of before, scarred somewhat by years of battle, they obfuscated its presence, returned to a wholly feminine shape.
She takes a hand to her cheek, feeling soft and hard. Not one against another, but both intertwined. She could be the warrior and the woman. His protector and his woman. Treasures of human worth gradually lost their appeal to her. The blood-soaked end to which they were acquire made them worthless. A symbol of weakness, to be so incompetent as to need the murder merely for a bed of gild.
"I'm so..." She takes a palm tot he mirror. She was immaculate.
"And this is but the face. You're going to be so much more beautiful once I'm done with you". Druella places hands on Sabrina's shoulders.
"I want to..."
"Yes, yes..." A pat calls the dragon-in-becoming to calm "...I put back what they pulled away..." And so, she resumes, putting much more to the chest, to the arms, legs, spirit, everything. In this pocket realm, a minute could become forever. Ample time for her to teach the newest of her subordinates to move and act in the lull of her new instincts. All save for her intimate spot, belonging to another...
---
Sabrina relinquished her armor. Relinquished her clothing. Relinquished everything save for the scale on her body, reinforced to immunity to steel and gunpowder. Anything the common man threw would no longer affect her.
"Woo!" Overtaken with new percepts, the nascent wyrm loops around the castle, taking to her draconite wings for propulsion. Everything was new to new: the rush of wind pelting her visage, the unfamiliar appendages, light as feathers, sturdy as adamantium, the pure strength coursing in her new blood, the--
"What?!" The lilim standing in her way? Catching her adrift? Using her own momentum as to spin the two back in the bowel of her throne room?
"Now, now, I know how much you're enjoying this new...tune-up I've bestowed on you, but..." Great winds kick the banners up at their sudden break at the heart of the palace, the fourth princess still holding the bewildered dragon knight "...I believe you are forgetting a certain someone".
"Ohh? Ohh, right...Harold". Her stare wisens up, longing at the distance "It's been so long since we even had a 'us' moment. I'm not sure whether he'll..."
"Oh, nonsense". Fingers pluck her chin upward to a bright grin. A lecherous grin to shimmer Sabrina's own face bright red ~You just need to 'follow your heart'. And he will follow. The only thing I'd see you need, well...~
Her sultry grin falters, replaced with a more endearing expression. A face the princess has been adorning since her true marriage. She bears it as her voice reaches for the kitchen at the far left ~Hon, get your coat! I need you to go somewhere for me!~
"Eh?"
---
"Going on a night out, are we?" The inspector was on his last-minute, having heard of a last-second passage. His eyes perk up with the presence of a large-winged wyrm "And a passenger as well..."
She bows, still taking into her previous edicts. Whatever armor she was outfitted in or scale now part of her didn't change any of that.
"Yep". Boris hands over his identification to the man seconds away from sprinting back home "Dede asked me to make a special run. The first time I'm going picking up someone from elsewhere".
"First time for everything". The inspector closes up shop, returning papers before his march toward the inner gate, leaving Sabrina's inquiry of a hundred questions.
Questions she is attempted to flood him with, only to see the man turn to her "So, assassin, huh? Well, well met, I'm Boris". He reaches his hand out for a shake, making little of her assassination attempt.
"Ohh, hum...I'm Sabrina, knight of the Cairn kingdom...well..." Her eyes lower amid their handshake "...was".
"Don't worry about that impromptu eviction notice. Dede's already clearing space for you two. Think of it as a transfer".
"Right! Sorry, it's..."
"As I said, don't worry about it. I've had a bit of an awkward time adjusting to a mamono domain. It's a pretty normal feeling".
"Right! Right". Sabrina looks to the distance. From here, she could see the path taken to make her way to this dominion. The road stretched out for what she remembers as days on horseback. Days...
"I can see you're not really looking forward to our run". Outfitted in his custom-made courier coat, Boris approaches a hand, lightning enthusiastically running over his finger. His mule sigil's eye button glimmers in a yellow wake, recognizing his impending deed.
"I do not. Even as I am, I doubt I would be fast enough to spare us a journey back. Even then, I fear a commotion if they see me".
"Don't worry, that's what I'm here for". Without hesitation, The ancient courier hovers a hand over the newly anointed dragon's forehead. Her eyes sharpen, catching the blur of his movement. She flings, however, a second after he had halted his movement.
Scrutinizing his motion, it was clear to her that it was no attack. She loosens up, unsure of what was to happen when the brush of his palm touches the surface of her hair, taking a faint heat washing over the bristles.
The world around them spins and decomposes, or at least, it is what she sees. From an outsider's view, they faded into particles, banished from existence to a beach.
"Woah...where are we?" Sand courses under Sabrina's talons, pushed by the wind. Water flows in its whim. The sky is a mix of clouds of large gaps between them, shimmering a bountiful ray of blue sunrays.
An opening to a clear blue sky gives her a direct sight of the sun. A deeper blue and benign hues, yet looking at it is a dangerous prospect, one coercing her from its direct brilliance.
"What is this place?" Behind them, in the distance, a windmill. Besides it, a farm adorned in gray stone and gleaming gems. The stones are polished and shaped with unnatural craftmanship, whispering of dedication.
Animals stand behind a static fence frozen a few centimeters from the ground. They frolic and play with no care in the world. Well, Boris' world.
The same man passes close to the wyrm, his hood up and running with static lightning. No longer does he spare a pair of brown eyes, but an illuminating yellow "Welcome to my little beach. A place of green and blue. Grass and water. A realm that lives with the stars, somewhere far from home, yet bound to it. The key?" Boris presses a hand on his sigil, the 'mule' "I am".
"A realm for yourself? Wha..." To placate an entire existence demanded an enormous amount of power and a greater knowledge. As far as she knew, not even the current heroes of the Order could pull a feat like this. And yet, everything she heard about the husband of Lescatie's ruler spoke of him as a farmer and a courier. A farmer capable of cutting a piece of the infinite to himself to dedicate a farm...
"If you want the details, I'll be glad to give you a rehearsal as to how and why. Actually, I can ask Dede to give you the theatrics, she taught me that. But, first all, see that portal over here?" His lightning-infused finger expels the excess discharge forward.
"Portal, what portal--" A swirl from a distance. Clad in stone, fashioned from Boris' very thought. The realm obeyed his will, breaching in a gateway "Y-yes! I do!"
"Let's run toward it".
"Run toward it? W-why would--we don't even know where it goes!"
A hand on her scaley hand "Yes we do. Actually, you do. You'll catch on". And he never let go, taking a sprinting form. His velocity adds strength to his run, dragging the strength-addled dragon behind him in a clumsy step.
His outfit begins to crackle with more and more lightning, the world around them distorting by the speed of their translation. The immeasurable gap of the gate becomes a few steps forward. Sabrina's surrounding is occupied with familiar sights and sound. Eyes widen, pondering at the impossibility of what she was seeing.
This man, farmer as he might be, was literally running her through days of distances in mere minutes, until...
A blinding flash closing her eyes by instincts. The water, the air, the sand, it was all changed to a populous night. The gate swirls and collapses on itself as hushed as the night itself.
"What?! What is?!" Her stare hinges on Boris, a man who directly dragged her to the inner confines of the kingdom where she lives, where he--
"I'm sorry! I cannot stay and ask you as to how you managed that! M heartthrobs--
"Yea, Dede, said it was normal. Means that guy you're swooning over is nearby".
"I must go! My Harold awaits!" Her flight is a quiet a the dark, though the radiance of her hair dims, far too aware of the present guard overseeing any sign of anything.
"Try not to take the entire night--she's going to take the entire night". Boris watches her fly away. Flustered, bothered, so close to the unsuspecting man. Of course, it wasn't going to sort and sweet.
Not that he minded. He expected that. He anticipated that. Boris turns away from the sight of her flight. Deep into the district where few guards patrol the night, the hooded figure takes out a note.
A pink piece of parchment small enough to fit in a man's palm. Looking at it, Boris can smell the Ascalon flowers he gifted her, propriety she carries on whenever they move side by side, day or night. On its fold, a simple sentence, adorned by the mark of scarlet lip gloss and a heart next to the last word.
Don't forget the milk, dear~
Boris looks to the distance, a tingling sensation in his stomach. His eyes, mapped by the strengthening affection of a spouse, can witness the faint purple pouring from a distant stable.
"She definitively is going to be taking her time". A smirk is formed behind Boris' mask, a small man-shaped gate consuming his hand to another place, taking him whole.
---
"Welcome to the milk jug shakes!~ A perky voice shimmers the courier standing by the counter, a voice belonging to a strongly energetic cowgirl behind.
Boris raises a handwave her way "Hey. Say, do you happen to have strawberry milk? I'm here to buy".
"Well of course!" The sole employee of the small scale shop waddles over the counter, opening a door to their main stocks. Hundreds of boxes containing tens of thousands of bottles. All filled to the brim with holstaur milk sporting a collective literal rainbow. Red to blue, through yellow, all insignia with their special flavors.
Boris taps on his shoulder, the mule insignia. Doing so enables the harness he brought on his back, kick-starting its metallic limbs in lightning rumbles. He looks to the myriad of boxes, checking over to see a particular flavor. His goggles lock on a set "Those ones!"
"Ohh? Strawberry?" The holstaur briefly scratches her head before "Ohh! You're here for the lady's personal stack!"
"Yep. I'm around the block, might as well pick up Dede's stuff". The distance of Cairn and this benign shop makes his words nothing but deceit, asking a horse for a week of travel to exhaustingly catch up.
"Well, alright then". The employee wrestles a ladder to her side, climbing to meet the strawberry boxes "How many should I--
"All of them". Boris slaps a hefty bounty of gold coins on the nearest table.
Surprise stuns her "W...w-what--
"All of them! I want. All. Of. them".
"Well, sir, I see you have the coin, but, I wouldn't recommend--
"Don't worry about that. I'll manage". Boris spreads his hands. Metalling rods fly out his back, all inter-connected by wires of lightning bound to his back. They deploy and extend, confessing their own stretched platforms, ready and willing to bear cargo.
"Ohh, so I suppose I needn't worry". Her green eyes catch the dance of the electric binds, so effortlessly weaving the iron platforms around, as seamlessly as extra limbs of unnatural origin.
"It's easier than it looks". He shrugs, his relaxed stance turned to a state of readiness to the first of many boxes, throwing them toward his platform. The lightning snaps them with delicacy. A process of minutes between the two.
---
"Stay close to me, Harold!" Arrows arc upward to fall down. Hunger on their tips, they break against wings of scale. Others fall inaccurate on the ground.
The stampede of heavily armored individuals rattles the ground behind. Sabrina is a few steps ahead, safe-holding the hand of a young man close behind her. A man just about her age, perhaps with a year of difference.
His face is split between worry and an afterglow, still unable to believe the touch of her lips on his in the aftermath of their delicate embrace. Most of him hadn't known about her feelings. Her longing, only manifesting after her shift as a more open creature. A classic tale of two hearts joining following a change.
The small remain, however, was laced in worry. Be it by the arrows. Be it by the spear guards rushing after them, unable to recognize one of their knights who was long ago sent for an assassination. All of this pushed his stress upward, more worried about his idol's potential wounds. That she bore dragonskin didn't change much in his view.
She can feel his worry, a burning tide bellowing in her belly. A desire to put them to rest, to conflagrate those corroding her significant other, the people who sent her to what was to be a death sentence, an impossibility.
She didn't, holding him close instead.
Her gaze in the night searches vehemently for the man who had brought her here. The promise of a safe return to the fold of what would become their new home. Where they could dissolve title and rank, forget the wall that barred them from the other.
As they turn corners to a dead end, feeling the rattle of greaves stomping close, a swirl snaps to life. Lightning crackles from beyond its confine, spurring panic from Harold.
"Hold on, now, no need for a fall". Hands come aiding Sabrina in keeping the wary man from a fall. Boris held him firmly standing, patting his shoulder "You must be Harold. Nice to meet you, I'm Boris".
"Hum..." His worry increased, seeing the dozen turn corners and rush at them, spears in hands. His worry decreased, seeing them collide against a wall. Boris had a hand removed and flowing tide of concentration, shaping a barrack of esoteric stone and thunder, the latter connecting the former.
"Yes, this is my sweet. The one I wish away from this detestable place". The courier loosens his already mild grip on the other man, leaving him to stray back to her side. As far as he was concerned, every problem she saw was the same in his view. The same as many, actually.
It wouldn't matter where the strange hooded man would bring them to, so long as he could follow her footsteps "She...she told me you have a place where we can...live together?" He was shy. Unsurprising.
Boris nods toward his expression, deciphering a similar comeuppance, a kindred to foster "You know of Lescatie?"
"Isn't that the city that--
"Yep, and that's where we're going. Don't worry, Ded had a few changes to it. Mostly toward the same people currently looking to skewer our little party".
"Wait..." Harold's expression twists to confusion "...Dede? Who's Dede?"
"You'll see soon enough, she'll want to meet a man of her subordinates. Now, into the rift, unless you wish to know how long it'd take them to pick away this Warden's Defiance". Boris moves his hand from the wall of stone and thunder, feeling its overall structure. None of them has any weapon willing to truly damage it, but he prefers not waiting for a mage to come around and test it.
By his words, Sabrina's claws clad him from behind, diving backward. The couple disappears, swallowed whole by the rift, leaving Boris to quite casually step in.
It collapses, leaving the defenders picking at his surrounding Warden's Defiance. Arrows, spears, steel, and powder. All unaware of the dragon's disappearance.
Back to his own little world, the courier immediately takes eyes on the flying dragon. The man, held close to her breastplate, moves to her steps and drift in an aerial swirl. An attempt to dance in midair.
Harold was by no mean left indifferent, enticed by this draconic alteration his idol had become. Neither takes notice of the courier bearing a metallic web of cargo on his back, walking toward a distance rift. No need to cut their fun so short, after all.
So he walks, making sure to occasionally send a pulse upward if only to draw her attention. The rift, waiting. His pace a snail crawl and impossible speedster, already close to the portal of his making.
Nearby stands his farm, populated by his stock. Playing around, with some approaching the fence, waiting to be caressed by his passing hand. Sensing how long the two would keep at it in their aerial promenade, Boris unfastens the hefty cargo on his back, leaving it to hover, his pace mounting the ramp as to welcome the critters.
His landing attracts little chicks that proceed to peck at his hand, seeking attention. "Hey now, you're all getting a turn, calm down" Boris laughs their behavior off as he grasps two, sitting by the fence. He was in no hurry, neither were they...
---
As expected, their adaptation to the re-shaped Lescatie was but with a hop. Their first step in saw them exchange a glare. A badge. Badges. Badges, now burning, crumbled to pieces on the side of the road. A depiction of archaic ranks and titles. Something that did not belong in a city of monsters.
Of course, Boris was all too willing to lend aid in setting them in their new quarters. Bew furniture, new stocks, a new living. Dragon knight and esquire, assigned to distant defenses. Powerful on their own, nigh-invincible together.
The passing year served to mend this rift between them further, incrementing a deeper grudge toward the wall that once stood between them. A familiar tale to so many living within the dark walls of the fallen city.
Until a certain white-haired someone came in tow. To her and her esquire consort. Accompanied by the same man who translated them to this very place, coiled around his arms, boasting a smile, unlike the ruler that meets distant merchants, even royalties.
And a spot for a more distant country. A country of dragons, waiting to take the strain off their backs. Waiting to drown Sabrina and Harold's ongoing sense of resentment...