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| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Dark >> ID #1834034 |   |
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| [Introduction]
The night was cold and dark. Like many other nights before it, snow fell from the sky and lightly dusted the barren land below. It had been ages since the forest had seen a green leaf or a hint of a blossom that spring or summer was near. Deep within this land resound the Oni- demons- children of the Cursed Land. Here there is no humanity… For long, long ago the Oni were once human. Their ancestors lived in peace and prosperity in a beautiful, thriving land until they fell to sin and began to change. They became wild like beasts and began to crave power. Thieving came into existence because of these unholy ones. As did murder and mayhem. Soon they became all that was evil and impure. When the God’s saw this they became enraged and struck without warning. The lands tore open with the wrath of the God’s unleashed creating a jagged scar upon the land. From this wound mountains rose up into the heavens barring the rest of the world from the valley below. Those that were impure watched as those who had not forsaken the God’s rose up into the sky. Moments later the God’s appeared among the ancestors of the Oni. They destroyed their city with fire and lightning and cursed the land and it’s people. “If it is beasts you wish to act like beasts you shall be!” they roared, distorting the faces of their creations so that all who looked upon them would know what they were. The God’s then vanished, abandoning the impure creations, and all who were born of the Cursed Land’s to live a half life- with a fate as cursed as the land they walked upon. But what the God’s did not expect was for these forsaken to thrive off the Cursed Land. A thirst for blood swept over their people as they absorbed the curse and embraced it becoming the Oni- demons. Here there is only kill or be killed. Trust no one. Only rely on the strength of your fist and the power of your will and determination. While the impure ones were punished, those who had remained faithful to the God’s and their will were placed upon the highest mountain. It was there that Joudan was created. Far more beautiful than the city that the God’s had destroyed, Joudan would become known as the City of the Blessed Ones. The Gods showered the faithful with gifts, giving them technology and a Utopia on earth to all who remained worthy. Within the City, the Blessed Ones whisper among themselves of the demons roaming the lands below. Surely, they tell themselves, one day the Oni will rise up into their beloved city and cover its streets with the blood of those who are still in favor to the God‘s that cursed them to a miserable fate such as theirs. ... for somehow rumors had reached the city of what had become of the Oni. Their craving for blood would grow stronger and stronger, as would their need for power and revenge. It was true that the Oni craved blood on occasion… for now. It was also true the Cursed Land had changed them and given them strange abilities. They were indeed very dangerous... these were all known facts... somehow. So from the brightest, strongest, and best children a select few were hand picked every year to be trained as Oni slayers. And so the hunt would begin. Traits of the Oni- somewhat elongated canines, can see in the dark, extremely agile, fast, and strong. Their sense of smell is stronger as well. During specific lunar cycles a select few of them do have a blood lust. This is usually strictly connected with their warrior Oni who are in charge of keeping their clan safe and in charge of hunting and providing their clan with meat. Their abilities are connected to the nature. They can thicken the shadows around them in the dark. It is rare but on occasion some have been known to have an affinity towards one specific element. This doesn't mean they can throw balls of flame from their hands but they can sometimes manipulate an existing flame. Or perhaps drain the air from your lungs and slowly suffocate you (just a couple examples to build off of). This ability is also reserved for their hunters and warriors. These guys are seriously dangerous. Think if wolves were humans for a moment. Then think if they were cursed and given powers and had a bad temper. Now tell them they've got some hunters after them trying to eradicate them cause they think they don't deserve to live. Yup that's the Oni. These guys are kinda like ninja's, Native Americans, and Samurai combined... and on crack. The Blessed Ones- These guys look just like your everyday human. The soldiers need high tech full body armor to get around in the Cursed Land. They cannot touch the Cursed Land or the Oni directly. They believe the Gods will curse them if they do. Their military is just a lil more advanced than ours with the exception of a few really cool weapons you'll read about later. Its simple really. For the most part we're focusing on the Oni and their battle for survival against the Hunters. Although we'll also be discovering the truth behind the Cursed Land and learn the Blessed Ones aren't so holy behind closed doors. We'll also be catching a glimpse of the gods here and there... fill free to think up a character for each that way if you wanna switch scenes in your add you can. Just keep in mind- nothing is as it seems and everyone is dangerous in this story. We will not being doing bio's. However, i do want you to think about the following and somehow encorperate it into your additions so we eventually know it: Name: (The oni don’t do last names. Just first. Same with the God’s. Just the Hunters have last names.) Age: (only needed for the hunters and Oni. And yes the Oni are mortal and age normally.) Appearance: (don't do a full ninja suit for the Oni. They're like ninja NOT actually ninja.) Personality: (there are no cute and clumsy characters >.> so don’t even think about making a cute Oni or Hunter or God.) Weapon: (Oni deal with old school stuff- IE: swords, knives, spears/ They prefer to remain fast an unhindered. Where as Hunters gotta gear up. They’re more power houses with guns, grenades, and a few close quarters weapons too- think our military's soldiers for a reference. Gods don‘t need weapons- theyre gods. ‘Nough said.) Ability: (If ya cant come up with something or wanna make sure its not too cliché ASK ME) Any questions or story idea's/ suggestions you of course can ask. |
 Stilavon-BackFromTheAshes  Snow fell from the sky blanketing the earth with a fresh layer of pure white; a bold contrast against the darkness of the sky and the forest that surrounded Hassun. There would be hell to pay from Shiole if he were caught outside the village where his duties lie. That woman had a temper on her like no other. Not even his late wife Tsun had been that hot headed. He knelt down, the tips of his fingers hovering above the deer track imprinted in the snow. A bitter wind rustled his clothes and hair, nipping at his well tanned face. Hassun raised his head, catching the deer’s scent on the wind. It was close. His amber colored eyes narrowed as he silently moved through the forest. Meat was precious here and finding it was getting harder and harder as time went on. One day the Oni would be faced with the possibility of starvation; something neither the God’s nor the Blessed Ones would be too choked up over. For now though, he thought, the Oni would fight and they would survive. Coming up over a hill he spotted the doe further down in the softwood cover; a little over seventy meters away. Hassun slipped into position, his arrow already knocked and set in place. He raised the bow towards the deer and locked his arm into position as his other hand drew back on the bowstring. His hand rested against his jaw line as he focused his sights on the target.. A tattoo with thick tribal lines wrapped around his right brow, down the side of his face and across his well defined cheek bone. His back muscles tightened seconds before his right hand relaxed and the strings were released as his left hand simultaneously allowed the bow to drop forward. The arrow whizzed through the air and as the fawn straightened, perking its ears to listen, the arrow struck the doe straight in its heart. Hassun’s eyes gleamed and an instant later he bound down the hill and through the thicket, pulling out a knife he cleared the deer and pulled its head up, exposing its neck. “Thank you for your sacrifice.” he whispered, cutting the doe’s throat. The creature dropped to the ground as blood filled Hassun’s senses. His body tensed as he stared down at the dead animal. His hands tightened into fists, shaking slightly as a familiar roaring hunger erupted inside of him. All he could see was the warm dark liquid pouring out, staining the snow before melting it. His lips pierced together tightly as his amber eyes seemed to glow from the small rays of moonlight that reached them. …… Shiole stood back feeling she was missing something through all her rushing and business. The celebration would begin soon. It was Yaz and Yani’s sixteenth birthday and Yaz had earned the honor of going on his first hunt tonight after the festivities were over. The tables had been gathered and placed outside, the paper lanterns already glowing from the trees overhead. The tables had been set with cloths. Mick and Liv were busy setting the table with “chinaware” that was made out of everything except fine china. She smiled to herself as Brim eyed the contents of the pot carefully. The bonfire in the distance, directly in the center of the village brought everything together. Nearly everyone was here. Shiole smirked as she gathered up one of the children who’d run past her, blowing a raspberry on the little girls cheek and watching her giggle and squirm before she slipped down out of the older woman’s grasp. “No getting into trouble tonight Tin.” she said in a playful though authoritative tone. That little girl was forever getting into mischief and dragging the boys that foolishly followed her into it too. She felt an ache start up inside her before something crossed her mind. Her honey colored eyes narrowed as she made her way through the village, past the bonfire. A cold wind ran down her spine and she drew her cloak closer to her. An instant later she smelt blood coming from the house in the distance. Her eyes widened as she darted for the door, slamming it open, her loose braid draping over her shoulders as wild strands of hair fell down around her face. “Hassun!” “I’m here.” a husky voice replied in an unaccustomed deep growl from out back. She closed the front door and made her way to the back, opening it as Hassun dropped from the old tree that rested at the edge of the walled fence meant to protect their clan’s leader and his family. A dead dear was draped over his broad shoulders and when he landed he gently let it slide down to the ground before rising to his feet. A gasp caught in Shiole’s throat a moment before she scowled at the big idiot she’d known her whole life. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “I brought more meat for the celebration.” he growled. Shiole noted the irritation and his tenseness. Any sensible woman would know not to challenge a hunter and warrior after they’d made a kill, but then Shiole had always lost all senses when it came to the man before her- the widowed husband to a woman who had been her best friend when she had been alive. So, like an insensible woman, she put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You left the safety of the village to bring back a deer?” she asked. “and several rabbits.” he added, his amber eyes glowering at her as he dropped the extra haul from his back. His eyes scanned up and down Shiole with a fierce deadliness that sent chills across her flesh. “Your son and the rest our warriors have that duty. Your job is to govern your people. HERE. Not run around cause you’re feeling old and wanna reconnect to your glory days, Hassun.” it was true that if anyone else had found Hassun in his current condition, he would be doted on and tended to. He would be honored and thanked like all other warriors… but Shiole was not about to condone the clan leaders actions regardless of his intentions. His lips curled into a snarl. “I’m not in the mood, woman.” this took Shiole back. Usually Hassun quietly took Shiole’s scolding’s gracefully. Now he was three seconds away from biting her head off. It had been over ten years since she’d seen him like this. It was hard to believe they were both nearly fifty. “Well maybe if you’d have used your brain for a moment-” Shiole gasped as Hassun grabbed her wrists and pushed her inside, slamming her against the wall and pinning her with his own body. “Dammit Shiole!” he growled as he looked down into her eyes. “It’s been too long.” his eyes stared at her with such agony. She remembered when they were children and he’d first come back from a hunting excursion and she’d asked him what the hunger was like. “It’s like you’re insides are tearing themselves apart. From the moment your weapon draws blood your at war with yourself. You see the blood and inhale it with every breath you take and you begin to lose yourself to a hunger. The only thing holding you back is the sheer willpower your soul has to not give in… but it’s a losing battle Shiole… because the more blood you shed the more blood you crave. For the first time in my life I was afraid of myself. Of what I might do. Being a warrior and hunting for the clan is an honor yes… but it is just as much a curse.” Hassun’s eyes wandered down to the vein running down Shiole’s neck as his thumbs absentmindedly rubbed the veins along her wrists roughly. “No it hasn’t. You can control this Hassun. Just focus.” she whispered to her friend softly, realizing how much he was struggling to keep himself. He glared at her, his face twisted in a snarl. His jaw muscles locked as he leaned his head against the crook of Shiole’s neck. He missed Tsun. It had been over ten years and he still missed her. He missed her laugh and the way she held a sword… His body shook as he fought to focus. It seemed to take an eternity but finally his death grip loosened on his friend’s wrists and he pulled himself away from her. He ran a hand through his black hair which was barely dusted with any strands of silver at all. “I’m sorry.” he apologized. His voice was barely a whisper. She nodded. “I’m sorry I pushed you. I just worry about you is all. We all still need you Hassun. Don’t go out there and get yourself killed…” he did not look at her as he nodded silently in agreement. His eyes were focused on the reddened flesh of Shiole’s wrists. She glared at him. “Don’t go getting all angry with yourself you old fool. I’m not made of paper so don’t look at me like that- it’s an insult to who and what I am.” she snapped, straightening her clothes as she glared at him and walked away. She growled to herself as she stomped away from his home and through the village towards the celebration. “Mom!” Shiole looked up seeing her daughter approaching her. “What is it Novi?” “I was going to ask you the same thing. You look like you’re gonna tear someone’s head off.” she said putting her hands on her hips. Shiole smirked a little to herself at the habit the young woman had picked up from her. Novi’s green eyes narrowed as she leaned a little to the right, looking over her mother’s shoulder at the house in the distance. The only house in the village with a tall wall surrounding it. Her plump lips pierced together as she looked at her mom. “What did the old man do this time? I swear mom, you two are like little children.” Shiole laughed sarcastically as she rolled her eyes. “Oh really?” “Yea.” she daughter replied with just as much attitude as her mother. “Just wanted to let you know everyone’s nearly ready. Yaz looks like he’s going to have a heart attack if we stall any longer.” Shiole smirked. “He’s been waiting for this opportunity as long as anyone can remember. Make sure you keep an eye on him tonight…” Novi smiled, her head cocking to the side slightly as she tucked her straight, short raven colored hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold wind tonight and most of her tan colored skin was covered in black to keep warm. The tribal tattoo that marked her as a warrior and hunter was hidden underneath the cloth and fur of her right vambrance. “Don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to him. We’ll be back come morning and he’ll be fine.” Novi tried to assure her mother. The older woman smiled and nodded walking away. The young warrior sighed, shaking her head. “Some scars never heal.” she mumbled to herself. Quaddy 24 years agoIt was unseasonably cold in the Blessed City, for summer. The sun hadn’t shown its face in weeks, and shrieking winds had sliced their way from the ice sloes of the great mountains to the north of their peak city. Thick, ominous clouds hung heavy, sometimes even descending into the streets themselves, icy wisps that would dance along your skin and leave you soaked if you dared walk through them. Very few had, these last days, but for the servants and the lower classes, who couldn’t avoid it. There were those that said the Gods were displeased with them; that they, too, would be sent into the valley below, to become as the beasts, snarling and bloodthirsty. They decried the sinfulness so apparent within their walls, the growing degradation amongst the denizens of their great city, calling for a scourging of the wicked, a castigation of the unfaithful. From their balconies, they screamed and they tore at their skin, rending their clothes and spilling their blood as proof of their everlasting faithfulness. They screamed and they raved. Mostly, they were ignored. The Gods had always loved their people, and they the Gods. They sacrificed at every solstice, left offerings at the proper shrine on each God day, observed all the proper rituals and forms as necessitated by the various religious texts and Godly sightings throughout recorded history. The Gods would no more abandon them than they would abandon the Gods. It was in the wealthiest parts of town, where the zealots were all but silent, that a woman lay screaming in her bed, wearing naught but a night shift and surrounded by a mass of down pillows. Several fires blazed bright against the chill, braziers smoking with an incense so cloying it made the room almost unbearable. It was still somehow better than the metallic scent of birth blood. Women, for no men were allowed into a birth chamber by order of the Priestesses of Aleana, ran to and from the room, each of them wearing the white of new birth, each of them stained with the sacred scarlet of woman’s blood. They carried towels and water, wiped the sweat from their patient’s brow, brewed the tea of regeneration, all the things necessary for the proper birth of an upper class child. Mostly, though, they prayed, scattering flower petals and herbs to every corner of the room, begging their patroness to watch over the woman in the bed. Her name was Aroneh, and she was the wife of a powerful magistrate. She was young and beautiful, full of breast and broad of hip, with lips the color of pink roses, and eyes a shining coal gray. Mostly, though, she was rich, and the only child of the Prefect of Jarvis, God of Commerce; these were her real beauties, and the real reason for the entire cabal of nurses surrounding her bed. Her child stood to inherit that Prefecture, as well as the private wealth of his mother’s clan. His was a God-touched future. A great future. “It is time,” the High Priestess said suddenly, her voice gravel-hard in the heat of the room. As one, the women stopped what they were doing and exited, taking with them their rhythmic chanting and the calm efficiency of their ministrations until only Aroneh and the Priestess remained. “Young lady, I shall count to three and you must push. Push as hard as you have ever pushed and the Goddess shall guide him from you and into the world. Do you understand?” Aroneh breathed deep, her dark hair plastered to her face and her eyes red-shot with pain and the birthing herbs they’d forced her to drink at sundown. “I understand, High Priestess.” Her voice was thick with exhaustion, but sweet. She was still so young, not yet seventeen, and her husband had already filled her stomach twice. The first had gone to the Death God too early, but the High Priestess could feel that this one was stronger. He would survive. “Very good. One, two, three!” The High Priestess called down her power, opening the connection to Aleana, Goddess of Childbirth and Motherhood. Aroneh pushed, breathing hard and deep before giving up on control and screaming as loud and as powerfully as she could. The High Priestess watched as the baby crowned, and then reached forward and pulled, revealing first the head and then two perfect arms and, finally, two perfect legs. “The Goddess be praised, he is truly Blessed.” Aroneh lay, spent and frail, against her pillows, barely able to keep her eyes open. “Give him to me, Priestess. I wish to see my son.” “You must name him before he touches your arms, Aroneh. The Goddess must know his name before you may know him. That is the way of Aleana.” The High Priestess cleaned and wrapped the child in a blue cloth, the color of newborn life, and smacked his bottom. He opened up his mouth and gave a hearty cry, announcing his arrival, staking his claim upon the earth around him. All the Gods listened for the cry of a newborn; only then could one come to claim him as their own. He still had not opened his eyes, but that was not uncommon, and the High Priestess did not worry overmuch about it. Aroneh sighed after a few moments. “It is his Father’s child as much as mine, but I shall name him in the way of the Goddess. He shall be called Conner, after my grandfather.” “Goddess Aleana, on this day do we present to you Connor, son of Aroneh, son of Mikail, brought into the world and stolen from the grip of the Death God, stealer of newborn life. Bless him and keep him, give him the touch of life that he may bless our mortal realm for however many years he is needed here.” The High Priestess smiled and handed the child, large and healthy, with a shock of dark hair already curling atop his head, to his mother. “I will send in the Father.” “Thank you, Priestess.” Aroneh smiled, her heart swelling with love for this small thing, this pink-skinned sleeping creature that she had created and brought into this world. “Hello, Conner. I’m your mother…” The door burst open and a man of some forty years ran into the room, eyes wide with worry and excitement. He was handsome, with strong features and a soldier’s muscular form. He’d been a soldier, a Hunter in his youth, before being elected to his position as Magistrate. His was a family on the rise, given the name Mafalda for his many years of service. “Aroneh,” he breathed out. He held a great fondness for his little wife, his slight little woman-child, and had feared that her pregnancy would take her from him. “All is well?” Aroneh looked up at her handsome husband and smiled. She, too, was fond of her spouse. “All is well. Come meet your son, Mikail. Come meet Connor, named before the birth Goddess and accepted by her Priestess.” It was perhaps the feeling of both his parents above him, smiling the gentle smiles of new parents, that convinced the child to open his eyes, or perhaps it was the sudden deepening of the shadows as the fires died down, but at that moment, Connor opened his eyes and greeted the world around him. As one, Mikail and Aroneh cried out, shocked and dismayed at what they saw in their son’s eyes. Or, rather, at what they didn’t see. Connor’s eyes were a pale milky white, even the pupils, covered in a series of what appeared almost to be scales. And even though his eyes were open, it was clear that he wasn’t seeing anything, bright eyed and staring at nothing. Aroneh sniffled, struggling to hold back tears. “Oh, Mikail…our son. Our poor son. He’s…” “Cursed. Blind. Touched with the disfavor of the Gods.” Mikail’s voice was hard. He was a warrior, a Hunter. He’d killed more than his fair share of abominations. He had just never thought that one of them would be his own son. “You know what this means, Aroneh. We have to kill him.” “No! Oh, Mikail, please no! He’s our son. We can’t kill him!” Aroneh tried to hold on to her child, struggling with every ounce of energy she had left, but her body was spent, broken and still bleeding from bringing her child into the world. Connor broke free from her grip, a heart-rending scream tearing its way from her throat. “Mikail, no, please!” Mikail rounded on his wife. “And bring the disfavor of the Gods upon us, Aroneh? Your father a Prelate and you want to undermine the Gods’ teachings? You want us to become beasts, cast out from Their favor and into the pit? You know what the texts say; they are clear on this matter. Our son is cursed.” Aroneh bawled, but said nothing, knowing that her husband was correct. There was nothing that could stop him now, save an intercession from the Gods themselves. She prayed, then, begging every God she could think of to spare her son, to keep him from the claws of the Death God, who had stolen her first child, her little girl, in her first day of life. She could not bear to lose another. Please, Gods, someone rescue him as you love me and as I love you…please… “Halt.” Aroneh opened her eyes to see the shadows moving, twisting, shaping themselves into the form of a God she had never thought to see in her life. “Hyamar,” she breathed out. “I never thought you would answer the daughter of a Prefect of Jarvis.” Hyamar was handsome, more handsome than anyone Aroneh had ever seen. His black eyes sparked with mischief, his well-formed limbs taut with wiry muscles. A pouch lay slung at his side, a pair of knives on his belt, and a fiddle case on his back. He was the God of Thieves, of Assassins, of the Shadows. He was God of Mischief and Lies, of Music and Theater, and Comedic Literature. Spoken of only in whisper or with laughter on the tongue, he was both feared and well loved amongst the masses, a figure of danger and simple fun. Her father had never prayed to him, never offered sacrifice or visited his shrines. The God of Commerce was no ally to Hyamar. But if he were here to save her son, Aroneh would include him in every prayer, visit his temples, sacrifice to him on his God day, tithe to his Priesthood. She would love him with her whole heart, and more if he asked. “You will not kill this child, Warrior-Hunter,” Hyamar said, voice a smooth baritone, the kind of voice that could convince anyone to do anything. “I order it. He is mine and I want him living.” Mikail, to his credit, bowed his head. Warriors and Assassins were no more allies than Bankers and Thieves, but her husband was no fool to refuse a God. “My lord Hyamar, my son is blind. He has been touched with the disfavor of the Gods’ Council. I must, by order of the Sky Father, give my son in sacrifice to the Death God.” “I touched your son with blindness,” Hyamar replied, turning his dark gaze to the child. “That he may learn the shadows, and be one with them. His is a path of greatness, and of harsh lessons. You will take him to my Temple, where my Priests will see him trained in the Way of Shadows. You will keep him safe and alive, away from the zealots who care not for what the God of Lies might say. You will do these things or I will curse you myself. Do you understand, Warrior-Hunter? Do you understand, Prefect’s Daughter?” Aroneh pushed herself up in her bed, using up whatever remaining strength she had, and nodded. “We understand, Hyamar. And…thank you, for giving me my son back, when I thought he would be taken from me.” Hyamar shrugged. “You might not thank me when you learn why I have taken him for my own, Prefect’s Daughter, but I am pleased that your son’s life is worth so much to you. A Mother’s love is one of the most important things a child can possess. You would do well to remember that. Mark my words, Warrior-Hunter. Your son lives or you die.” Then, Hyamar disappeared, leaving a dumbfounded Mikail and an incandescent Aroneh behind, each of them wondering how they were going to raise a blind son amongst the zealots and the unforgiving masses of the Blessed City. ***** Present Day Conner loved the darkness. It was all he knew, all he had ever known in his life, for as long and far as his memory could reach. For him, the shadows were home, and they were exactly where he belonged. It had never occurred to him that other people might not be the same, and it had been a hard lesson to learn. He’d never seen the sun, after all, and lived quite well without it. But others, he’d found, were not the same. Not even the Brothers of Shadow, Hyamar’s Priests and Conner’s only friends, could slip into and out of the shadows as well as he. The sighted, he’d found, were always just slightly on edge in the dark; they relied on their sight too much to feel comfortable without it. For Conner, blind from birth, touched by Hyamar, sight was not an issue. And neither was the darkness. His Father never spoke to him. This was a mystery that Conner had never solved. Mother said, for she had no problems talking to him in her sweet, sugar-and-cinnamon voice, that Mikail was unsure of how to deal with his son’s blindness. His were the Gods of Day and Light, of Warriors and Political Jargon, not the whispering Shadows. And as shadows-blessed as Conner was, he was equally cursed by the other Gods, who were not as unified as many had been led to believe. This was another thing that Conner understood and believed; the Gods were as divided and every bit as complex as their human counterparts. Humans were shaped in the Gods’ image, after all. And he was blessed by darkness in a family that stood by the light. It really didn’t matter to Conner that his Father never spoke to him. He was not a heartless young man, so very much in his head that he was unable to share or feel emotion, or to yearn for the simple pleasures of human companionship. However, he was also not the type to waste emotion needlessly, to pine or to yearn for what was obviously an impossible end, and so a relationship with his Father had never become an issue for Conner. He simply went about way, and Father went about his. For all that he was blind, Conner was also handsome. He’d grown from a well-formed baby into an exquisitely well-formed young man, who looked more like his patron than either of his parents, from coloring all the way down to the taut strength of his muscles. He was tall, over six feet in height, and pale, with milk white skin that saw sun as often as Conner did. Dark from birth, his hair had lightened just slightly from blue-black to coal in some places, and hung in effortless curls over his unfortunate eyes. Perhaps his best feature was his broad, white-toothed smile, which took his strong-featured face and brightened it with disarming charm. It was the kind of smile that encouraged much laughter, and with which he perpetrated much mischief. The Priestesses of Hyamar, who didn’t care one jot about his eyes, had made sure to introduce him to the pleasures of human intimacy very early. And for his part, Conner loved them all, from the prettiest all the way to the most homely of his patron’s followers. It mattered not, for they were all warm where it counted. It was from one such woman that he parted now. With the softest of kisses right between her sweat-slicked breasts and his most disarming smile, Conner rose from the bed and set about putting his clothes on. “Hmm, you’re wonderful,” the woman, one of the pretty ones, crooned, her voice soft and replete with pleasure. She reached up and brushed at the tight planes of his stomach as Conner pulled on his pants. “How do you always manage to find the perfect places.” Conner grinned, teeth flashing in the candlelight. “I feel it. I hear it. I smell it and taste it. Your muscles tighten when I find the right places, your breathing comes out in rasps, the musk rises and you grow sweeter. A person doesn’t need to see to know when he’s doing something right.” “Hyamar has truly blessed you, Conner.” Priestesses, such earnest spiritualists. Conner sighed and gave her another kiss. “Truly. Not because you are a fantastic lover.” Conner could hear her heart beating in her chest, the rise and fall of her magnificent chest, and felt the twinges of pleasure rushing through him again. He breathed deep and pushed it away. There was another Hunt that night, and Father would be off to pray for the Hunters. It was one of the few opportunities he had to access Mikail’s library. And, no matter how delicious this particular strumpet may have been, Conner did not pass up an opportunity to learn about the Demons. It started as a hobby of his, the Oni. He’d overheard the Priests of the Sky Father talking one night, part of a lesson in shadow-working, and they’d been discussing what to do about their more animalistic counterparts. As someone who’d been Cursed from birth, who had to hide from the Bright Gods because of the sin of blindness, Conner had always wondered what it was about the Oni had made them worth hunting. If blindness were a sign of being Cursed, and he’d been nothing but a newborn child who’d done nothing worth being Cursed over, did the Oni truly deserve to be maligned in such a way? And so, from the time he was fifteen, Conner had researched all he could on the Oni, taking the rare opportunities afforded by his Father’s well-scheduled piety to pilfer through his library. He’d managed to sneak into the City Library at night, using all of the skills the Shadow Priests had taught him—to use every sense but sight, to make them stronger and more precise than any Day Worshipers could ever achieve—and read up a bit. What he’d found was this: the Oni were about as well understood as the Shadows. As Hyamar was disdained by the Bright Gods, so too were the Oni. And so his obsessed grew, his determination to understand them, where they came from, and whether or not they were as evil as everyone said they were. “I know,” he replied, finally, pulling his shoes onto his feet. He didn’t much care for shoes—they made quiet footsteps all but impossible—but they were necessary for walking the streets during the day. In every way but one, he must be inconspicuous, and that one way must be calculated to make him fit in perfectly. “But I was born with it. Yours is a skill earned far more than mine, lovely one. But I have to go.” The woman nodded and set about pulling her dress over her head. “I will see you tomorrow for your next lesson?” “Yes, Magistra.” Conner smiled again, brushed a finger down the young woman’s face, and tied his scarf around his eyes. Time to go out into the sun, amongst the Brights. And only that scarf, and the supposed piety that came with it, kept him from the Death God’s realm. © Copyright 2011 Stilavon-BackFromTheAshes, Quaddy, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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