The scent of death lingered.

Even though the sacrifices were promptly discarded, the ritual prescribed the splashing of blood. It stained the stone altar, spilled onto the floor, and sometimes decorated the walls. No matter how well they cleaned it blood had already seeped between each stone in the floor, into each pore of the rocks, decaying and permeating the air.

Those that were paying attention for the scent could identify it immediately. However, those that were not, even if they were not already put off by the sinister nature of the chamber, would be overcome by a general sense of unease. Survival instincts run deep and most people would, if they could choose, flee and never return.

So it was with the current sacrifice.

Before, while being kept in a cage too small to stand up in and too narrow to lay down, this young woman tried to convince herself she was just going to be a slave. She told herself these robed men were only interested in selling her. She refused to imagine a situation where she didn’t have more days of life, even if they were in horrible conditions, and even if she had to endure unbearable things. Another day of life is another day of hope, hope that things might return to normal. She would gladly suffer for it.

But when they jerked her from the cage she had to admit to the end was close. Hyperventilating, she breathed in the scent of the chamber, soon to be her tomb, and all the strength drained from her legs. At the altar her terror surged and she kicked and screamed. With one man at each of her limbs they lifted her over the stone, while she thrashed, and they strained to stretch her out. Prepared shackles kept her firmly in place. She continued to violently struggle. Blood trickled freely from where the metal met her wrists and ankles.

Her bargaining was stonewalled.

“Anything you want,” and, “You can have my body just let me live,” and, “I won’t run away and I’ll do what you want me to.” Everything was ignored.

When she saw the gag she screamed.

Pleading was her last defense. As a barmaid she could talk most of the men into doing what she wanted, most of the time, and was confident in her charisma. If that was gone there was nothing left. She twisted her mouth into her shoulder to keep the gag away, then shook her head. They twisted her hair to keep her still and pressed the gag against her clenched teeth with so much pressure she was sure they’d break her jaw. She had no choice but to relent.

The gag didn’t actually stop her from trying but she could only muster half the syllables.

When she noticed the glinting daggers she fell silent and stared into the distance. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks.

----------=====#####=====----------

“Another failed sacrifice, Remont?” the raven haired Faux giggled, bemused. Every time he failed she visited his mansion and needled him. “How many has that been now? Seven? Still chasing favor like a yapping dog?”

Remont sometimes questioned how she got by the guards. He wasn’t sure if she used her body, bribed them, or threatened them. They might not have even detected her. On any given day it could be any one of those.

“We will attempt the ritual as many times as it takes,” he replied sourly, unable to truly hide his disappointment.

“I want to go to the next one. I’m bored,” she pouted like a child.

“I’ll make arrangements. You can show us how to do the ritual.”

“I told you before, you can’t make Ouroboros do what you want. You can only submit yourself and hope she chooses you. You can be perfect and she still might not care.”

“Is that the key? Submission?” His tone was bitter.

He poured himself a glass of wine and downed it. Right after refilling it she floated to his side, worked her fingers into his hand, and took the glass away. Despite his agitation he patiently let her.

She swallowed half of the wine then raised the glass to his lips. Obediently, he finished it while holding her gaze.

Cooing, she explained, “You’re overthinking it.”

His eyes flicked downward. Hanging around her bare neck was a silver circle of a snake consuming its own tail. In the center of that snake, trapped and rolling in a woven mesh of gold, was a jet black stone.

“Take that off. I told you not to wear that.”

“Told me?” She mocked, raising an eyebrow.

When he examined her all he could see was total liberty.

She wore the same clothes one would expect someone in the adventurer’s guild to wear, durable leather and cloth, but with several interlaced themes.

Her boots stopped at the top of her thighs. Her cleavage, and a lot of her breasts, was unabashedly exposed and seemed barely restrained by her blouse. Even other women in the guild would wear armor when she bravely exposed her skin. It’s the type of attention getting articles you’d see a nightwalking woman use. If she sashayed her hips or thrust out her chest she would seem loose.

It wasn’t noticeable because she wore a dull grey cape. It stopped just above her knees and had a floppy hood, which was the style of a healer. When she stood with her head slightly bowed and hands folded in front of her you couldn’t even notice her immoral side. All one could see, if they didn’t know any better, was a chaste and dutiful magic user, eager to help.

Furthermore, if she stood up straight with her head high, one could nearly mistaken her for nobility. She had such beauty and charm she couldn’t be ignored, even when she was not making an effort to get it across. A guard once mistakenly called her by a noble title.

But here, in private, with him? She sneaked like a thief. When he turned her head she would move out of sight, on his flank, from where he didn’t see her coming. Even emotionally she hit him from angles he didn’t know were exposed.

At any moment she could become someone else. Even her own personality couldn’t restrain her.

“I apologize. Maybe I misspoke,” he said quietly.

“Maybe you didn’t.”

“If someone realizes what it means--”

“--I don’t care,” she taunted, emphasizing every syllable and ending by blowing a kiss.

Infuriated, he slapped her as hard as he could, and to her credit she didn’t fly to the floor. She stumbled and caught herself on the liquor table, the bottles clinking precariously. Clearing her throat she stood up straight and, without looking at him, refilled the wineglass and took a sip.

Faux was clearly unrattled.

If anyone found out what that necklace meant, specifically the stone, not only would the Cult of the Circle be exposed but so would she. Both were inexcusable to him. However, if the cult found out he slapped her they would sacrifice him and feed him to the dogs, regardless of his position in the cult or the danger of her necklace.

“Take it off!”

“No,” she said pleasantly.

He snatched her wrist and yanked her to face him. The wineglass slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor. Her innocently smiling face filled his eyes and in anger he slapped her again.

When the force of the slap forced her to fall back he yanked her outstretched arm to pull her close again. She still wore that infuriating smile, despite a cheek glowing red-hot. He raised his hand yet a third time, balling up a fist.

Suddenly, her hand snatched his groin, twisting her fist a bit. In pain he lurched forward, his head leaning on her shoulder. Streaks of agony raced down his legs. He couldn’t even breathe.

Her smile never once changed.

She pet the back of his head while the pain locked him up.

“See, this is why I like you. You really don’t care if you’re pulling on the tiger’s tail.”

He grunted. She loosened her grip a bit and he sucked in a breath.

“If I had to burn down this entire town I would,” he spit out, “For Ouroboros.”

“Not quite there yet,” she said with a long exaggerated sigh, gently leading him to the bedroom.

----------=====#####=====----------

Faux sat quietly thinking in the darkness.

The romp was fun but unfulfilling. Remont was just a dog on a leash to her and, while he was fun to play with, and very useful, ultimately he was just a puppy. She was basically in bed with herself and a living toy. He had potential to open his eyes, to actually get the attention of Ouroboros, and be truly free, as she is, but he always backed out.

It was so depressing being alone.

Honestly, this situation is already old hat. Grow some balls already, coward.

When loneliness suffocates her heart nostalgia washes over her, as it always does. She longed for the good old days, back when she was a healer, a true healer and not this pretender she is now, crusading in parties of [Heroes] and defeating unfathomable evil. She liked how innocent she was then, then she hates herself for remembering.

All she needed then, all she wanted, was the guiding spirit of her [Player].

She was as exactly as he made her to be. She knew it was a man but not much else. That was perfectly fine. Most [Players] were men and all were aloof. Cute, caring, clean; that’s how he made her. Her role in the fight was to keep her allies alive, her friends, while she was in turn protected. White robes adorned her. While she couldn’t prove it she was pretty sure her [Player] defended her and loved her more than the [Players] of other [Heroes]. She felt special and wanted. At some point she decided if she got the chance she would confess her feelings to her [Player], though she knew it was impossible.

Somewhere along the line the mind of her [Player] changed. The souls of [Heroes] desperately adapted to be whatever the [Player] perceived them to be. The closer to that they were the more real they felt. She had established her initial character on how he directed her. Now, he dressed her more provocatively. Being sent in a fight that way left her dangerously exposed, but she did as she was bid to do, and if her [Player] was happy she was happy, too. Though, she felt less loved the more he used her like this. One character soul stacked on top of another. Her original felt crushed under a torturous weight and the other abused, but somehow she reconciled them. She had to.

He took more risks and she suffered more injuries. Sometimes she died and needed to be resurrected. The other [Heroes] explained to her that her [Player] was getting impatient and punishing her. She felt worthless. As the fights got more difficult she found it harder and harder to keep up, died more often, and couldn’t keep up healing her allies. The other [Heroes] ostracized her. She caught bits of text about her [Player] complaining about her, about how garbage she was. The log-ins from her [Player] got less frequent and with longer intervals in-between. She waited and prayed the last log-in wasn’t the last.

She promised she’d try harder, do more, be better, anything to get back to how it used to be.

Nothing she did improved his mood.

Her [Player] sold her account and it devastated her. Faux wished she could float into the limbo between adventures and start over. Her new [Player] didn’t care for her at all, didn’t use her in the way she was created, and instead used her for every despicable action he could dream up. She did them all, naturally, died frequently for gratification, and lost most of her levels. After all, what other good is a [Hero] but to do as ordered?

He, too, got bored quickly after she was used up.

That was that.

In the limbo between she waited to be reborn as someone else. Then she could try again, as a new [Hero], and perhaps not fail her new [Player]. She once wanted love, now she just didn’t want to be ignored.

When the [Dimensional Portal] opened her heart skipped and she cried in joy. She had seen it before but only as a selection for other much stronger [Heroes]. It was the highest honor. A [Player] out there cared enough about her to pull her from limbo and give her another chance, even in her ruined state.

But, as they say, out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Ouroboros seeped into her character core. The last little bit of heart she protected turned to rot. Worse, the ones that summoned her were not [Players]. They weren’t even [Heroes]. They were nobody opportunists looking for an easy mark and they simply enslaved her.

They got bored as everyone else ever had. At some point they decided to use her as a sacrifice.

When she begged for a way out Ouroboros responded.

And from then on Faux felt drunk but aware, drugged but had complete clarity of thought. Her inhibitions were completely eroded. Now she asserted her own will however it wanted to manifest, and to hell with worshipping the [Players], and to hell with her slaver’s lives. It took her only a few moments to trick one and escape, as they had grown complacent because of her submission.

For a long time she roamed around. If she wanted to do good she just did it. If she wanted to do evil she just did it. Any whim or urge she had she, without hesitation, without caring for the consequences, she fulfilled it. Little by little she regained her levels.

Faux picked up the jet black stone and examined it.

When she was first handed to it by Remont it was crystal clear. Her touch instantly clouded it, a measurement of how polluted she was by Ouroboros. From then on the Cult of the Circle worshipped her as an agent of Ouroboros, as an idol. Little more than an object, sure, but they were respectful. She kept the rock because she felt like someone still needed her, or at least something about her, and pretended it was a gift, even though it never was.

The innocent [Hero] who worshipped the [Players] was now an unrestrained [Villain] worshipped by a cult. She could do whatever she wanted and, deep down, no one in this world could hurt her again.

She was free of herself.

Grinning to herself she forced Remont to wake up and she used him again.