Nether

[yli]

Some Time Ago:

"Breathe...Breathe deep. Savor your last one...nice and slow."

There was shattered glass and the dying echo of screams. Blood, still warm and sticky, ran from the walls, soaking into the floor. There was Count von Eldingham, crawling away, the broken bones protruding through his skin catching on the thick knots in the carpeting. There were the dead bodies of his guards, what was left of them draped across the expensive furniture in less than peaceful repose, many of them having been smashed into paste. And there was this thing...the Windwalker, covered in black fire, arms wrapped in white hot lengths of chain ending in spiked studded lumps of steel as big as watermelons. Blood soaked through the bandages around its eyes, running down perfect, alabaster cheeks as it drifted slowly forward.

"I'll let you take your time..." It spoke quietly, with the voice of a young woman, the intensity of its determination was almost palpable.

Von Eldingham rolled over onto his side, trying to open his mouth to speak, only foamy blood bubbled out of his lips. Gasping, he put his hands together and began mouthing a prayer. The Count's gesture elicted merely an amused grin from his tormentor.

"You'd think it's a bit too late for that." The thing, whatever it was, stepped on von Eldingham's wrists.

As he slipped in and out of consciousness, the Count looked straight upwards. Hollow, endless nothingness stared back at him, blood streaming down her cheeks and dripping into his face. The black crystal around her neck pulsed, bathing everything with a glow that seemed to drain light back into it.

She continued to speak, no hesitation, no gloating, only a quiet, solid determination in her voice. "Why weren't you praying when you were raping those girls? Why didn't you ask for absolution then? Why wait until now? The All-Mother has already turned her back on you, Trueborn." She almost spat that last word out. "In order to gain absolution, you must first repent for your sins. Now ask yourself this; do you really have it in you?"

All the Count could do was breathe in shallow gasps, his broken ribs tearing through the expensive silk robes he wore. His eyes moved up to the portrait of his family he kept over his fireplace. He could hear their screams for mercy, and then silence. The Windwalker's expression was unmoved. She grinned as she began wrapping the chains around his wrists. One of the spiked balls was thrown over the ceiling rafters. Carefully, she hoisted the Count into the air, the loose end of the chain was tied to the other steel ball, von Eldingham dangling in place.

"No, you really don't have it in you to repent. Even when you left their bones out for the animals to pick clean. Because they were only gypsies. Nobody. Would. Mind."

The Windwalker reached in and with a sickening crunch, pulled apart von Eldingham's ribcage.

"I am Sister Ayani Ghadnan, Priestess of the Forlorn Path."

She tore out von Eldingham's still beating heart.

"I speak for my people."