Act II

Chapter One, Night Wind

3rd of Snowcrest, 1329 CE

Azarra opened her chamber dormer, welcoming uplifting chill of the new year’s arrival. Her freshly designated quarters, high atop the tiers of the Temple’s grand scale, shined for such vista that you might forget yourself packed into the mountainside. Housing of more eminent design than any she’d known, more nebulous castle than oracle bed. Yet this was but another shelter in some ways, not truly the fortress of her dream and self-won grandeur she must move on to anoint. At least it was no tomb, however, as its richness did flatter.

Clasped to her chest: a bundle of scrolls & parchments, scribed to her containing many a blessing from groveling parasites hoping to curry favor; with others assailing her, demanding answers of the Drakoni and what allying with her son could do for them. The initial blithe and adrenaline of the coronation, her victory through him, had given way partly to the gravity of escalated responsibility and the nagging headaches it incurred. So much propriety, delegation & coercion to be perpetually observed. But for now, she figured herself deserving of respite from wading through onslaught of letters & logistics.

The wind’s hand caresses her gilt mane. With flowing fingers, it brushes frazzled follicles of stress. Gentle current glides across her room over tables to crackling fireplace. There she rests the clumped parchment for her future self to deal with. Weighting the rustling papers with a lavish box of crimson that she received days prior during the commemoration of the rising year. With the christening of herself as High Mother to the Living Lord she’d been presented a parade of gifts granted in honor. This queer little box held her fascination even still and so too the figure gifted it –an enigmatic stranger whose identity hid under red robes but struck her a sense of déjà vu.

Inside the compact case: a ring and a letter requesting audience with her. Offering a time & place of rendezvous to entice her curiosity for conversation. The ring itself had same hue as the box and its giver, save for a hint of gold ‘round the rim. It wrapped around her ring finger, anonymously blending with her other jewelry. Tracing the surface again, she noticed the subtle slithering indenture of a serpentine figure. How intriguing.

A rattling disturbance of agitated shouts bounded from the nearby Council chamber across the Hall. But such raucous ruckus Azarra had become desensitized to. Even through the filter of heavy stone walls & bolted doors she heard her son’s thundering voice, thick with unyielding exasperation. These arguments with the sages were ceaseless & tiresome. Always fighting for ground against Surrellius and his machinations through his lackeys trying to expel them prematurely from the grounds. The new pontiff kept claiming the need for the Temple to retain its independence from Drakoni affairs. He’d made point to preserve the deciding of that apostate, Corinna’s, fate to him. Which the Living Lord irately quarreled over, not letting her be tied to another stake nor be put to the question.

Truthfully in this matter Azarra was resigned to smug satisfaction that the witch whom her son was foolishly enamored with could be removed from play (through temple protocol). That his heart might be hardened by the loss and encouraged to contest the trident-braided lout’s circus and be not addled with wanton lust for lowly women of the heath.

She returned to the window, catching a few falling flakes from the draft, then shut it tightly. Within her anxiety wafted, waxing with the wind outside. A pacing concern as to the whereabouts and livelihood of Delphine, who she’d sent into the clutches of her foe Surrellius possessed her. She’d hoped her best maiden could cast subtle charm on the miser, that he could be persuaded to give ground to her fledgling Drakoni. But her friend had not returned from this latest venture and her fear of what that sodding lecher could do ever widened. Alongside inescapable guilt gripping to her harsher than those burdensome parchments. She crossed the room and splashed water from the rune basin onto her face.

But rather than relive this ripe vein of tension the cool water and colder stare of her reflection awoke ugly intuition of truth. Despite her many cycles and the wounds dealt to her spirit, Azarra’s visage held fast to its beauty, while her pale birthmark - scar - became more pronounced. Yet hidden hostility lined the orbs staring back. The woman looking out the mirrored pool seemed so alien to her, and this dissociation propelled concerns. This circlet, these heights, mean nothing if I do not protect those who love me. She who carried me in my darkest hour and brought success to rest upon my brow. I am nothing if I do not act out of care, reciprocate the security Delphi would ensure for me. Tis better to confirm her safety with my own eyes than dawdle in doubt. I must assure it!

She removed the circlet from her head and slipped out of her dress. She covered herself with more inconspicuous black robe and tied a scarf about her face to conceal from unwarranted observation. Stomach churned as she slid out the chamber for the shadows outside the sill. Slinking past her dread inflated, for Delphine & herself of what could come if she were noticed. But she held headfast to her determination and crept to Surrellius’ estate, which rested not far from her quarters (rather ironically given their public animosity for one another), further up the terraces.

Azarra arrived at the base of the main steps leading to the Keeper’s private palace atop the Temple’s tallest plot. A testament to his rampant vanity that he chose to take up such docile luxury rather than the traditional seat that was Gaahl’s humble abode on the mountaintop. Disdain flashed before several breaths to prepare for potential confrontation, knowing not with what hostility her rival in the new master-pontiff may greet her intrusion with. Her years spent slyly exploring the grounds with Delphine in her former life here graciously granted her knowledge of a hidden passage into the ostentatious estate. Shrewdly she chose this route to enter, though it was no less daunting.

Slithering through the dark she tunnels through a teeny fissure. It opens to an incomplete passage to the mansion ahead, another fanciful renovation of the sage’s. Luckily while Surrellius may pride himself on the cleverness required to be crowned Keeper of the Keys he knew little of the patience required of fine architecture. Caring little for the details or the hammering noise, he’d ordered arbitrary (save to him) terms and times to those builders and thus left the confused workers paralyzed from completing, and blocking, the little openings left for Azarra to infiltrate. Her hand skidded along the edge of the unfurnished wall of the underpass, tracing it cautiously for breaches in the passage.

When she could no longer see through the obfuscation of night’s thick curtain Azarra pulled a small candle from an abandoned set, struck flint against wall to light the wick and let wax allow her advance. The tunnel taunted her impetuous worry, shadowy corners flaring gaunt effigies of what had befallen sweet Delphine. Nevertheless, she trudged on to penetrate the estate’s width, extinguishing her candlelight as she came upon the lit corridors of Surrellius’s dwelling and pried her ears for clues ahead of her.

Her entry led through a pantry where dried fruit and delicacies were stored just past the dining hall. That hall she discovers as eerily dead in its silence when pressing her ear against the door. Having come this far already she pushes on. The sight she found arrests her with paralytic fear. Looking upon the grand table, where all the sentinels of the house were assembled for supper, they sat, with heads slammed down as dead weight against plates. Some with drool oozing from their mouths’ corners soaking dank bread and salted horse meat prepared from those steeds butchered to provide for the excess bellies and those that had not survived the bite of Winter.

Poison?! Nightshade?? She barely restrains a gasp.

Among the motionless bodies assembled about the long dining table Delphine’s incarnadine locks were nowhere to be seen. Although at this point Azarra knew not whether that should be considered a sign of grace or ill. A snore from one of the diners scared her to jump. Approaching one of the goblets tentatively her nose chanced to detect what nefarious essence had been planted. Could this be the work of that damned Primus? If he’d been the target, otherwise, it missed the mark. But she could now guess the root and its purpose.

Her alchemical training recognized whiff of a non-toxic but potent sleep-inducing herb. Night’s Lull Leaf?! What in all perdition is this wretch up to?! As if to answer her telepathic inquiry a stream of moaning cries curled out from the tower chamber. Wriggling, sensuous sobs to boil blood and bristle every hair on her erect in frightful, knowing anticipation. In a flash she seized the knife by the horse haunch and whisked up the stairs with paranoiac aggression.

The perturbing moans bring her to Surrellius’ bedchamber. Leading her into skyward tower and to a heart splitting sight: Delphine’s bald body strewn across the bed, hands tethered behind her head by rope, and expression animated of unnerving arousal. This delight, devious and unwitting. Not truly of her whim but lured by noxious aphrodisiac the lecherous scum gave her defenseless friend. That friend who was to suffer the ultimate devastation for her loyal commitment to Azarra. I sent her blindly into beast’s den!!! Careless what slobbering goblin awaited her for my sake... Damn me! Damn his covetous profligacy!

She curses. Scampers to untie Delphine. Rushing to her release and itching to scurry them both away from ghastly trap. There was Need Now to help Delphi away and immediately expose this most abominable sin of the profligate ‘Keeper’. Efforts & urges curtailed by creaking of the door behind her. Jolting with horror but not without instinct, she creeps behind curtains to hide, waiting on the forked fiend to enter.

“Bloody potion should have set in by now! What purpose hath Beauty that you cannot climb into? What is Will worth without mastery over my best limb? Damn you, rise!!” The aged deviant enters mumbling angrily to himself. Fondling his trident beard with phallic delight, he surveys his elixir’s effect on his precious guest. Eyeing his exposed prey as a bear would a careless wanderer.

The effects of the aphrodisiac wilted away slowly. The bared woman’s unconscious moans wrestling with less fervor. Delphine’s drugged pupils, set upon Surrellius’ advance, now brandish tints of fear. But though partially aware of this deceptive stasis she could do naught but scream inside it with futility. The stupor lightened only enough to know the rippling lashes to her form but withheld control of her fettered limbs. She was half awake, in broad nightmare.

Azarra tremors with rabid abhorrence. Loathsome rays of rancor blind her to all but their shine. Forgetting about the knife digging into her hip. Cutting her attention, her seething quakes draw blood. Slippery red traces her back to the tool of vengeance. With a discordant, scream she charges to plunge it into the fiend with righteous ferocity.

She slashes! Slices! Stabs! Cuts and spears in storm of violence. Surrellius struggles weakly. The lecher spins, blood spewing as venom from maimed maw. The frail Keeper reaches for her throat in desperate attempt to rescue his life from the blade of this despised rival, this lesser woman. Popping eyes sign no repentance, burst vehement denial. But morbid dread finds him still as Finality trashes with fatal force. This thief of pleasure gives his last gasp, begs mercy of this golden wooled woman, wired with bloodied tangles.

Azarra persists in ear-splitting screeches. She scrapes wilted bark of that leech’s limp trunk. This implausibly real horror sucks away awareness of anything outside it. Only this impetuous, murderous moment remains. So too do her merciless lacerations continue, alongside her avenging howl.

Even as the shredded corpse of Surrellius fell unto her with the weight of his deceased & sin-saturated soul being dragged to the netherworld to face reprisal for his attempted malfeasance the wailing witch mutilates more of the leathered flesh. Stabbing into the eyes and groin with ire. All to wreak retribution upon this monster, the man who wanted to curse – in bane of all innocence - her beloved Delphine in such as a way as she herself had been marked by that inmost, despoiling misfortune.

Adrenaline infuses every vein. Azarra hastens to Delphine and frees her of the ties, assists her from the bed. Still fired with frenzy, she cuts to ribbons the curtain that once hid her. Wraps the drapery threads around Delphine, covering her with modesty before they flee. In desperation she finds inhuman strength to hold her friend’s addled body. Those lingering moans, the only sound in the deadened halls, reacting to Azarra’s guiding touch in manner of perverse witchery.

For fear I sent her to the scorpion...Her only sin was listening to me. Trusting I could keep her from anything so foul...

But with wrath unleashed, and foul augurs streaming from the vile sage’s entrails, that dire courage from her fury shriveled. Further through the estate’s winding way out worse realizations begat themselves, fertilized in her brain. For it dawned upon her the sheer scale of the act she had just committed... Azarra had slaughtered the high pontiff. Done so rightfully but without concealing her hatred of him on the public stage. With her only witnesses to affirm testimony, to the barbarousness which nullified her killing as crime, and thereby ensure her safety against the label of cold-blooded murder being drugged or unconscious during. & otherwise too associated with her to be trusted by naïve court.

What would Delphine’s word be before any judgement from skeptics and schemers already nervous of her presence? Azarra’d reeled her truest friend into whiplashing torrent. Circled back to deliver her unto that curse of pilfered innocence. Brought them both the tumbling stairs of uncertainty. And yet, were it not for the danger they jumped into, she wouldn’t regret letting out that filth’s blood. For otherwise the ‘Keeper’ would have used his position to protect himself from punishment.

What would the sages care for any word not spoken by their master, especially any word of accusation?

Azarra shifted focus from the gruesome swelling to saving Delphi; eclipse all else. She steered them through tight passageway along to a second stairwell. Wanting for nothing but to conceal herself from all in black blanket. Knowing that at any minute the guards would be come through the door, attracted by the harrowing screams she’d loosed on their attention. Steadily Delphine’s lucidity emerged again as the effects of the mind-bending vitriol were jettisoned. Poison and nausea retched out, leaving caustic sting of reality.

Delphine could not hold any levee against the flood, no hindrance of her whimpering tears. The two women embraced, allowing each to weep. Their hug, the only solid pillar in a turbulence that lacked lasting comfort and any real catharsis. No assurance beyond that they still had each other. Preserved for what would likely be but a moment before toppling into the belly of perdition. But as they clung to each other’s crumpled clasps, Delphine’s eyes emanate a shard of recollection, even hope, through that dusky despair. Flint of faint gratitude for Azarra’s rescuing flashed. The couple huddled against the bleak foray oppressing their chests and inundating their ducts.