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It is cold within the cells. Dark. It reeks like piss and concrete and festering wounds. Next door, through the thin iron grate in the wall, she could hear a man screaming; pleading for his life. Pleading for his mother. Pleading to die.

She looked down at her hands, the bandages on them, the blackened blood making them appear that much filthier in the dim light. This was Hell. It had to be Hell. Man's own Hell, crafted by their hands, guided by Satan; nowhere crueler than this existed, so she was certain. Nowhere that was of this Earth. What fingers remained twitched from lingering pain as her muscles spasmed, the salt in the very air causing the stumps to burn and the survivors to silently weep for their lost brethren.

She was no one. Not anymore. The polizia had taken care of that. Not that she had really been anyone before incarceration all those weeks ago; it felt like years, but it had only been in February. It was now May, and the loving warmth of the Sun did not penetrate the earthen tomb of her gaol. She yearned to see it's golden light once more, to bask in it's grandeur, but she knew this to be a dream never realized.

Outside her cell door, she could hear the guards talking, jeering at prisoners, playing cards. Two men, in their mid-thirties, discussing who was next to meet with the torturer; they scrolled through a holographic list projected from a wall-mount, deciding at a whim based upon crimes. Sometimes they chose simply to torment someone, because they wanted to hear them scream. The woman in the cell may have cried, but she never screamed - never.

Suddenly, there was a commotion as the men rushed to stand, nearly knocking over their chairs to salute a superior officer. The woman in the cell crawled closer, peering through with her one good eye, shaggy brown hair covering most of her cinnamon-skinned face. Her nose twitched at the fresh scent of rot from the cell across the hall, but she ignored it; something interesting was happening with the gaolers. She could vomit later, if necessary.

A condottiere. He stood a full head taller than the two polizia who saluted him, their light black uniforms making them seem horribly underdressed by comparison. His own raiment was tetrasteel and carbon fiber and hard plastic, a chivalric vesture for an age of chrome and chaos: shining cream-colored metal with gel-layered joints, a scarlet sash layered with medals and data-sigils, and a lack of helmet that spoke only to the quality of the suit itself. Various ports over the suit implied a hidden trophy system equipped with 9mm interceptor rounds, while the shoulders - styled like the roaring heads of lions - held sensors and headlights within the eyes, directional subsonic emitters located within their howling mouths. More and more was revealed to the woman in the cell as she eyed the neo-noble up, his presence either a boon or a burden.

He nodded to the polizia without speaking, turning now towards the cells. His face, beautiful and gaunt, skin olive and sparkling with subdermal nanites, finally turned towards the cells; she had to catch her breath in her throat at the sight. The poor rarely saw their overlords, the feudal masters who controlled every aspect of their lives; peerage had returned in the ERFS after the end of the Pan-Eurasian War, and the rich and famous took up titles long-forgotten to exert dominance over the common man.

His polychromatic eyes scanned the cells, heavy tread belying a lithe figure beneath the power armor. Behind him, the two polizia followed like sheepish choirboys, babbling away towards the silent warrior. They tried not to cast an eye at the weapons at his side: a longsword of ornate silver, pommel graven into a screaming eagle, and an automatic pistol as long as the average adult's forearm. The battle-damage upon his vestage and armaments lent to the idea that they were not idle conversation pieces.

As they neared, their hushed tones (so different from their boisterous discussion of torture!) became audible to the woman, and she listened in. She had difficulty seeing them so well now that they were in the dark hallway, but those ever-shifting irises of the warrior shone like spotlights - and after a moment, the actual lights upon his pauldrons flicked on with a resounding clang.

"...mio signore, please, what are you searching for? We have paid many families well for our bread... Let us have our circuses, too, will you?"

"Ah, yes, signore! Surely you have more suitable courtesans at home, eh? No need to draw them from our cells; we work for the doge, you know, and our prisoners are his too..."

The mercenary-lord held up a gauntlet clad hand, silencing his tagalongs. He turned to glare at them, the shifting of his irises swirling now in icy blues that seemed frost-wreathed to the onlooker. Silken ink-hued hair was brushed from his face by an unseen wind as he stared down the two men, mouth wordless - and yet they understood, stumbling over themselves to apologize for daring to question him. If she weren't so tired and aching, the woman in the cell may have laughed; instead, she simply smiled.

The warlord proceeded forth, turning to inspect every individual cell, unmoved by what horrors lay within - be it a dead body or a dying one, a victim or a violator, a fresh face or a forgotten prisoner, their fate was of no concern to him. He was looking for something, something specific. Someone specific.

And then he stood before the woman in the cell who had no name, his slender body Luciferian in it's imposing nature and tragic beauty. His shoulder-lamps wreathed her broken and bloodied form in harsh off-yellow light, her myriad imperfections put on display for all three men to see. She didn't move, or flinch, or even consider backing away. She simply closed her eye, taking a deep breath and heaving a resigned sigh. If he found her acceptable, surely a better fate lay with an angel than the devils in this Hell; and if he found her repugnant, perhaps he would take mercy upon her and put the muzzle of his peace-bringer to her skull. Both were ambrosia to the numb pain of her existence.

The two polizia began to trip over themselves once more, trying to speak but unable to form more than sheepish rambling, fighting to input the keycode to unlock her cell. With a rattling the bars were slid aside, and no barrier stood between her and this unearthly being with eyes like a rainbow. He knelt down, staring intently at her, his stoic expression unchanging for moments - then minutes - and then, he frowned. A nod. His lips parted slowly, the lips of a recluse, a hermit whose only companions are trees and soil.

"...you. I have chosen. My... master. Il doge, he requires... Your talents. You, who has nothing... Who wants for nothing... Who is nothing... I choose. Stand... If you can. If you cannot..."

His voice is soft and beautiful and sonorous; every syllable is song, every sentence a symphony. The nameless woman is sure he's never used it in his life, or varely rarely if he has. With a hand on his shoulder (which the polizia gasp at) she tries to push to a stand, but two fingers and a thumb can only offer so much stability. She falls, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. Her mouth opens to rasp out a cry of agony, but naught other than whimpering comes forth.

The condottiere frowns. He casts a glance at the polizia, who rush forth without hesitation: their arms slip beneath the woman and raise her, helping her to stand. They are, for once, gentle with her. Once she is upright and no longer crippled with her own agony, the mercenary-lord puts his own hand around her to steady her - it is instantly sullied by her filth, but he ignores it or simply cares not.

In her heart, she is in bliss despite the pain. Finally, after months of praying, begging, pleading with God to save her, a savior had appeared. She was delivered from evil, as He promised her to be; she was the meek, and now she would inherit... something. Perhaps not the Earth, but anything was better than here.

Steps were slow and time-consuming, and every footfall send pain like lightning up her atrophied legs. The warrior was patient with her, however; he never scoffed, never cast disdain upon her, never yanked or jerked or scolded for her to speed up. The polizia followed behind once more, silent and bashful, now embarrassed of their treatment of their prisoner - if only because it inconvenienced the nobility. Surely there would be reprimand for this.

Finally they made it to the stairs upwards, out of this dank dungeon, free of it's cold concrete and metallic torturer and sadistic, piggish guards. The condottiere halted. He let go of the nameless woman, but turned to her, looking down with a strange gleam in his eyes. Up close, his face was truly elegant: sad, tired doe-eyes framed by perfect eyebrows and dark red makeup on the lower lid; high but subtle cheekbones that gave him an elfin slant; a pointed chin and thin lips, three silver rings sitting upon the lower. They said 'VIS / OPES / GLORIA'.

He smiled, lips trembling as the muscles remembered how, teeth yet pristine. Perhaps they were false.

"As my... ward... I am bound to... Avenge you. Defend your... honor, what little you... may have. As such, I... Hope this is not too..."

He chuckles, the sound reminiscent of a dying bird or punctured dog-toy.

"...loud for you..."

He slowly released the woman's shoulder and turned towards the confused polizia, their faces going from concern to realization to mortal fear as the angel's opposite hand dipped towards his firearm. In their last moments, they sounded much like the man in the torture chamber: they begged for their lives. They begged for their mothers.

And then, they begged for death.

-

Outside now, the mercenary-lord once again steadies his nameless charge. She has her eye shut against the vivid May sunshine first, and against the shine of the gleaming procession of mirror-polished automobiles second. They sit ready for the pair, each of them under oath to the condottiere, war machines of a paramilitary noble. In the center sits an enormous truck-like production with tank treads in the rear, the merc-lord's crest - a two-headed black eagle upon a field of white, tearing a snake in half with their talons - painted on the hood. The side-door opened and a ramp rolled down to allow the armor-clad owner to stride up, but first came medics to steal away the nameless woman and whisk her within.

Medical gloves and gauze and rubbing alcohol compose endless hours from thereon, only broken up for food (rich mussels in a garlic-pesto sauce and crostini for dipping, which she promptly voided due to stomach illness) and morphine. The nubs of her fingers were removed completely and made to shut; her missing eye was replaced with glass, a temporary fix. Broken bones were set, a dirty body was hand-washed, and a shattered psyche was soothed by opiate ecstasy. Hell was real, in that basement of a gaol - Heaven was to be found in chemical euphoria in the hands of private chemists.

Her hair was shaved completely, and her rags were stripped away, traded for a simple robe of sheer white silk. Hydraulic supports were fastened to atrophied legs and arms, blisters and callouses were cut away to heal fresh, and even minor blemishes like moles or birthmarks were lessened in the flurry of attention and medical magic. She was barely conscious for any of it, though she could have sworn he was present in fits and flashes - her savior, the warrior, to whom she owed her life and liberty. He was observing her progress, ensuring his subordinates performed admirably.

Her heart swelled simply thinking of his affection now.

And then, as quickly as it had began, the attendance slowed to a trickle. Only one nurse stuck around now, occasionally feeding her spoonfuls of lobster bisque; it was creamy and savory with hints of nutmeg and mushroom, but had been purposefully watered down by a considerable amount so her tender stomach could even process it. It still made her spit-up occasionally, but enough of it stayed down that she was content.

The sliding door to the medical compartment opened. Freed of armor, a tall, effeminate man stood in the dooframe; his black hair cascaded to mid-back like a tarry waterfall, his olive skin glittering in the light. He now wore a linen robe much like the woman's own, sheer and simple, colored black but detailed with golden floral designs in filigree. His thin lips parted in a sad smile as he approached, looking over his ward - he was nearly 6'5, while the tanned woman he held patient was barely 5'4. The bare, soft flesh of his feet made subtle sound with every step, the medically-sound floor tiling cold but palatable to him.

"Are you awake, now? I have... Been practicing my speech, in the meantime. I do not usually, erm... Speak aloud. It is unbecoming of one of my station, but, for you... I will make an exception."

The woman could only nod. She was too doped up to do much else, plus her mouth was full of delicious, nutrient-rich bisque. She did manage to smile, though, and the very sight of it caused his chromatic orbs to shimmer golden and the edges of his smile to upturn.

"Good. Good. You will... recuperate for two days. This is more than enough time for your... locomotion to return. Then, you will see my master, il doge di Venezia. He has... great designs for one such as you. Though, I will admit, I am... Ah. Partial. I was given the task to procure... a prisoner. One who seemed as you do. I chose you personally, because I feel you are... important. Given to greatness. You will not disappoint him. Disappoint us."

She could only nod as his words struggled to set in, bricks in pudding, lead weights in an ocean of sludge. She understood the gist of it... The general idea. He nodded in return, eyes shutting for a moment, smile never wavering. A gentle, dainty hand was extended to lay upon the woman's forehead - his pseudoskin was cool but soft and comforting, dazzling quality nearly indistinguishable from organic flesh.

"Very good, my friend. Very good. Now rest; we will arrive in Venezia by morning, and you will rest in the doge's palazzo. Once you are well, you will be in his service... and his care. You will be his servant, and he will protect you in turn. Your life will have... meaning, once again."

Meaning. What a blessing. Born a serf and destined to die a serf, service to such an important member of peerage was... unimaginable. Extraordinary. Only the best of the best could work their way up to serve a doge, whether they were whores or warriors or chemists or counselors.

So, what did il doge di Venezia need her of all people for?

-

The morning came quickly, it seemed. She was hustled out of her cot at the break of dawn, out into the halls of the war-machine, and then helped onto the cool, smooth tiles of a winding driveway. She was barely lucid enough to take it all in at first; being jostled around, rushed out the door, and returned to the warmth and beauty of nature was stunning in it's own right. However, her eye popped and jaw dropped as she gazed upon the true extent of the doge's wealth: his palazzo, his mansion.

Three stories tall, and built in the traditional way, it was an awe-inspiring manse which harkened to days of old without foregoing modern comforts. Sweeping archways lined an outer walkway, above which a balcony ran the length of the second floor; the walls were white stucco, the shingles a warm clay-red. Down the surrounding hillside, an orchard of apple trees stood sprouting miniscule fruit. Past that, wilderness extended for a mile or more before returning to the lagoon. It was a slice of paradise.

The angel, whose name she still knew not, appeared beside her. His hand entered hers and their fingers entwined - they paid no mind to the motorcade behind them taking it's leave, silence and peace soon returning to the miniature island.

"It's... beautiful."

Finally she spoke; finally she opened her lips and choked out the words, vocal cords damaged from crying and abuse, voice husked and soft and low. The angel squeezed her hands and laughed again, that bird-like laugh. It sounded better than before. He had been practicing.

"Yes, it is. My master lives in luxury, for his duty is paramount; without him to lead Venezia, we would surely fall to outside aggression. Italia calls, and we answer. However... His duties for you, my dear, are not... so similar. For you, a... different master beckons."

There was no time to explain, it seemed. He drug her along and led her inside, beginning to give her the tour. Dozens of servants lived on-site, it was explained, and everything was kept pristine; failure was not an option to il doge, and even the maids and gardeners were expected to adhere to this perfection. Only she, unnamed and healing, was flawed. Only she was broken. Once the tour was finished, they retired to the courtyard garden in the center of the palazzo - a pool sat nearby, but they rested upon a comforting wooden bench instead. The condottiere had a hand on hers, his eyes caught wistfully upon a relaxing dragonfly. Without warning, he spoke.

"My name is... Luca. Luca Esippardi. Il doge gave me this name himself, when he brought me into his service. The guardsmen who had you imprisoned said you lacked a name. We will... see that you are named, too. Your old life is dead. Your new life begins... with us. With Venezia."

-

A day went by, and then another - she was treated as a guest but prevented from seeing her host, instead spending time with Luca. He was sweet and gentle with her, but stern when necessary. She was taught the ettiquette expected for her interaction with il doge, and she grew healthier in record speed, expedited by the expensive medicines of the peerage. Finally, the day came where she was to meet her host, and she was dressed once more in the sheer white dress - her faux-nudity did not bother her. Her wounds had healed, and she was as whole as she could become naturally. She was ready.

Evening came, and the doors to the grand hall were thrown open. The woman had never been allowed within before, told that il doge's business was extremely private, that she was to remain away from him until she was ready. Luca had inspected her daily to ensure her readiness, as it were, and today she was deemed acceptable. He held her hand once more as he led her to the hall, helping her steady her uneven footing.

The hall itself was a throne room and feasting house all in one - a long wooden table sat at the length of it, with a raised dais at the furthest reach. Upon the dais was an ancient-looking litter, resting there since time immemorial, a handled throne for a diminutive and unimpressive man. He was bald and sour-faced, dressed in lavish silks, and sat hunched in his royal post. When the woman and Luca stepped forth to be seen, he inspected them from afar before beckoning for them to come closer.

Past towering pillars draped with banners and stained glass darkened from twilight hours they walked, slowly but surely, hand in hand. The room was silent save for the sound of breath and footsteps, and the mocha-toned houseguest could practically hear her own blood pumping.

Fuck, she was nervous. Extremely nervous. All her life she had been taught that nobility were more than just human, that they possessed power beyond that which an average citizen could dream of. Some could shoot lightning from their hands; some could see for miles with bare eyes; some could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Surely a man so important as the ruler of an entire provincal region was possessed of some supernatural power, as well? More than just that, she yearned to impress him, if only for Luca's sake. She would not dare let them down.

"...you must be Luca's new acquaintance."

The words hung in the air with the force of a bomb ready to drop. Silence filled an infinite void between the three before the woman realized it was her turn to speak directly to such a powerful man; she cleared her throat and nodded, trying to suppress her oncoming bloom of color.

"Y-Yes, your serenity. I am Luca's ward and acquaintance. I was told-"

"Hush. I care not what you were told. In this room, I am the one who does the telling." He held his hand up to emphasize the sentiment, as if silencing her bodily. With the way her words caught in her throat like a noose had blocked them, it was debatable that he had performed a more physical feat than initially believed. Her blood ran cold at his response, but he didn't seem angry; just tired. Il doge continued.

"As Luca's ward, you are my property. I am il doge di Venezia, a rich and powerful noble. My word is law in this jurisdiction, and it's people are my possessions and treasures; I may use them to my heart's content, but I must also keep them safe and cared for. You, as such, are mine to command. Do you understand?"

She nodded, wordless now but fully attentive. She was terrified what may happen if she showed even a sliver of hesitation.

"Good. I will be straight to the point, for Luca's sake - he has served me for years, and I respect his counsel. If he believes you to be my candidate, then I trust him and his judgement. In exchange for my protection, you will do as I say, and I say this: there is an order, a holy order, who makes residence in Capua to the south. They take all who will be volunteered from the noble houses, and il Papa has ordained in confidence to we priviledged few that there is great glory to be gained in this life and the next for both the volunteers and their kin."

He cleared his throat before continuing, a long and drawn-out coughing that showed deeply his age and wear. The nameless woman said nothing, but winced; Luca's face was placid as ever, though he squeezed her hand tighter in that moment..

"...ahem. I am old, girl, and have sired no heirs. My wellspring was dry from birth, and Luca I have adopted as my son. When I die, he is to become the next doge di Venezia, and with the infusions of my DNA into his he will become as my own flesh. However... I cannot send him out to fight. He cannot join this new crusade, for he must remain home and keep myself and my lands safe from harm. He is my sword, my shield, my armor, my heart. As such... I am sure you can see the natural progression of this."

She wasn't sure, but she nodded; her eyes went to Luca, who still stared forward at his adoptive father. He had set his jaw with both pride and stoic regret, a man who took great care in the defense of his household at the expense of his personal honor. She did not blame the doge for his decision.

"You, girl. You will become my champion. For reasons I care not, Luca has decided you fit for combat, and a suitable candidate to bear our family crest. You will represent the Esippardi family in il Papa's holy venture, and in doing so will rise from nothing to join one of Italia's most prestigious lineages. You will be reborn as nobility, with all the boons such a station provides."

"What say you?"

-

Back in the present, back in Vitus, Esthrielle thinks of memories that seemed nearly a lifetime ago. She thinks of her adoptive father... Of Luca... Of her mission. She thinks of the cold, cruel gaol where she was stowed for a crime she could not even recall. She thinks of how she once had nothing.

Looking across the table at this frazzled blonde, with her black-dyed tips and her frightened, tired eyes, she thought of herself. It was a West-facing mirror, reflecting her own image - Est, Italian for East, to remind her of the land she represented. It was her name as much as it was her sigil, a mark she bore to show the honor she had been bestowed. EJ had no such boon.

She was alone. Scared. Confused. Helpless. This Western world, this Vitus, was hell; it's citizens were abused and trifled by power-hungry tyrants that hid their avarice with fancy titles like 'CEO' and 'Head Executive' and 'Senior Manager'. It was peerage for a modern age, but clouded in lies and the false ideal that advancement was possible - at least in the ERFS, they were up-front about your station in life.

'Poor girl... She's got no idea, does she? Or maybe she does. Maybe they all know how futile it is, but they keep going because they don't know any better...'

The thought stuck like the rice on her place in Est's head, her red eyes watching a puffy-eyed ghoul finish up her dinner. She thought about her mission, her crusade. She thought about the people that she had had a direct hand in slaying this evening. She thought about home.

Perhaps it was time to lighten the mood.

"Hey, EJ - I've gotta ask, how did..."

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