secrets and gifts
A small bird flittered around outside the window, hopping from branch to branch, pecking at leaves seemingly aimlessly, unaware of the predator that watched it until a bolt of twisted energy sapped its life, its corpse falling into the dirt. Celuriel smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. Her aim was getting better.
The time spent waiting for the adventurers to return wasn’t as agonisingly boring to her as the others seemed to find it. Being locked up in a tower with little to do had been most of her life, after all. This wasn’t very different. This time, however, it was a lot noisier. The spirits whispering around her, she was used to. The strangers they travelled with, she was not. She’d been accosted by a couple of their females, her hair toyed with and her clothing neatened up. They’d tried to paint her nails. She’d asked them not to. They’d insisted.
They had left her alone after tasting her claws. She had told them to stop first. They deserved it. The screaming and fleeing wasn’t surprising, she’d hit them, but the consequent lecture from Cyne had been unexpected and.. somewhat hurtful, actually. Her mother had just yelled at her, her sister had condescended towards her. The young lord had walked in after the screaming, sat her down and talked to her about why it’d happened, what had gone wrong.. had basically given her an almost fatherly lecture. She’d left that discussion feeling slightly uncomfortable. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened again, and she’d been able to mostly get away with sitting on her own, lost in thoughts and dreams, listening to messages given exclusively to her, embracing her role as an oracle.
The adventurers were not in trouble, she was sure, else she’d insist someone go and help them. It annoyed her that they’d picked a temple to heal the lost princess, a place she couldn’t go lest risk destruction. She hadn’t yet figured out how to possess a corpse without them noticing the difference, and they very clearly didn’t trust her yet. She’d keep them safe, anyway. Fate had a path they needed to walk, and she would ensure they remained on it. Her liege hadn’t entrusted her with these powers, these whispers, for her to waste them on futile destruction. She threw another blast of negative energy, claiming another bird’s life without so much as a thought. Death was a beautiful gift to give to those with little point for life, but her adventurers needed to cling to their precious lifeblood to complete their fated travels.
A snap rang out. The lord. Images came unbidden - his body, broken under the weight of a chandelier, torn asunder by abyssal creatures on a far-off plane, shredded by the orc’s greatsword, bare of all wounds but a slice on his wrist dealt by his own hand. His handsome face, pale in death. Blue from lack of oxygen. Charred black and lifeless by hellfire. Skeletal, reanimated, vampiric. A million fates, each as possible as the last.
He is necessary.
She knew not how she reached his door whilst the images plagued her vision. Her liege was likely responsible. Their contract allowed for it. She’d not ask. The opened door revealed an entirely alive and whole Lord, her sharp eyes picking up the source of the noise instantly. A snapped nib, nothing to panic over. The emotions around him, however, were harsh. Sorrow, frustration, bitterness, apprehension, desperation, love, and the faintest hint of hope, all drowned out by overwhelming disgust and hatred for himself. Nothing too far from his usual repertoire, just stronger, more intense. He’d been thinking. As he met her gaze, she sensed the shifts. Apprehension, curiosity, wariness, suspicion.
Her eyes betrayed her fear of him, even as she responded to her name. The young Lord, were he to disagree with her purpose, could be her largest challenge - could end her here. He was dangerous, but he was necessary, just as the adventurers and their pet drow-orc were. Just as Aniks was.
It seemed the Lord could sense her own apprehension far better than she’d expected - or perhaps she was allowing too much to show. Either way, he wanted to talk to her. Wanted her to explain - to share her secrets, for him to keep close to his breast. She sought permission as she sat, hair falling before her eyes to keep the flash of ruby from sparking alarm. No pain followed, nor bitter yelling. Only sharp approval. If anything, that had her more concerned. This was to be part of the plan.
Shyly meeting his gaze, she began, voice as soft and unsure as always. “...you are aware of my gift. how much do you know of.. and understand of... oracles?”
His sister was one, he explained. Gifted by her goddess, yet cursed just the same. The visions, he said, were the worst part of growing up with her. Celuriel understood. They always came unbidden, showering prophecy both true and false. She told him of hers, how death had twisted her gifts. How they arrived not like raindrops, but like a tsunami, flooding her mind - and how her undead powers fuelled this further, a prediction her sister had made. One that had encouraged her sister’s experiment, the one that had slain her.
Strangely, despite his nature, she found herself imparting more secrets than intended to the Lord, secure in the knowledge that he would, in fact, keep them. They had agreed to it. It had been sealed that way. In turn, he shared some of his own, even allowing her to see why fate cared for him. The mark wasn’t expected, and she’d looked at him with open curiosity - why Him? He’d weaved her a story of expectation, of loss, of secrecy and despair. She pressed the story into the annals of her mind, locked behind the safety of their verbal contract.
Neither was comfortable with the other, but both understood Hell and despair. It made sense that they found some comfort being able to speak somewhat openly. The conversation ended just as abruptly as it had started, both aware of the invaders above. He’d waved it off - “They can’t get on board, Pin’s made this thing fairly secure.” - and she’d lost her sight to visions of blood, bodies, gore and blades until he’d dragged her to the door for them to discover that one was true.
Kazric was far more trouble than he was worth, but at least she could tell he wasn’t harmed, and Cyne’s spell cleared up the redness before it could send her into a frenzy of despair. The half-orc was still different, somehow.
An agreement later, and she found out why, lips taking both prana and thought. Undeath had its advantages, and she left him sleeping - the Lord skulking - to ponder what she’d learnt. She’d share it with the Lord, as he’d share what he learnt. That was a Sight she already knew to be true.
She simply had to wait for him to grow tired of listening to the half-orc’s mutterings and retire to his bed. And so, she waited.