Session 13: Life

Alyona’s Journal  Session 13 6/5/22
In Elven
Mama was an artist when it came to making potions and medicines, but, I'll be honest, she was a terrible cook.
She tried to make doughnuts one time. It was a disaster. I was young and I cried when I saw the deflated lumps of half-burnt dough that she pulled from the oil. But Mama made us laugh; she could always make us laugh. Then she got down the tin with the money she had been saving from selling potions, kept hidden away where Papa wouldn’t find it, and we went to town to visit the baker. Papa had a job working at a farm far across the valley then, so it was just Mama, Istovir and me.
Town was not far, not even an hour's walk from where we lived. People there were not friendly, not to people like us, but they weren’t unfriendly either. Mama’s work kept them polite, at the very least. Too many of them had been helped by her, and those she hadn’t helped yet knew that one day she might. You can’t afford to be too nasty with the town wise woman, even if she looks different, and wears a veil to hide her face from the bright sun.
The town children weren't quite so reserved though, and regularly tried to beat the shit out of us, but Istovir did his best to protect us both. I didn’t know jackshit about fighting back then. That’s pretty fucking funny, isn’t it? My big brother was a born scrapper though, and he wasn’t afraid of anything, not even of Papa. I, on the other hand, was afraid of everything, even before I knew the real horrors that life was busily gift wrapping for me.
Savoring the doughnut, I closed my eyes tightly against the brightness of the sun, and turned my face up to feel its warmth on my skin. Mama always hated the feel of sunshine on her skin. She spent many hours working in our garden, mostly by moonlight. But sometimes she had no choice but to work outside during the day, and she would wrap herself from head to toe in clothes that hid her from the light. I had to be careful too, because my skin could burn so easily, but I had never lived a day out of the sunshine and I loved the feel of it on my face, loved the wind in my hair, loved the smell of earth and green growing things. I was a child of the surface, no matter what I looked like. Now, after many years in the Underdark, I can barely stand the sun, but fuck if I don’t feel myself withering away in the dark.
There is certainly no warmth now, not here. No breeze either. And the smell, as I make my way to Bloodwater, is godawful. I told Grandfather I would find us doughnuts when I returned from my errand, but what are the chances I can find an Overland baker in Freehold? Completely fucking hopeless. There’s no sweetness to be found down here in the dark, just more fucking mushrooms. I’m an idiot.
The ferry comes to a stop and I am the only person to step off of it into the stink of Bloodwater. Lucky me. There is a fair amount of activity on the docks though – fishermen bringing in their catch, people loading carts with goods for sale throughout the city, street vendors hawking their wares.
A band of smugglers are unloading a small, low-profile boat, not even bothering to hide the contraband. Why should they? There are no guards brave enough to patrol these streets. Getting their goods up to where the people with the money are, that’s the hard part. Before another year is past, most of these assholes will be on Serpent's Spire, either rotting away in mold-ridden cells, or hanging from the gibbets that protrude far out over the water so everyone can see them. The smart ones though? A year from now they’ll still be bringing their goods in through Bloodwater, but they’ll have enough money to live outside of the stink and hire others to take the risks. Those are the ones worth notice, those are ones who pay tithes. But the little fish I am seeing now? They are nothing.
I hear the calls of vendors selling cheap, hot meals, and even though I’m hungry, the smell turns my stomach. I walk past the stalls as quick as I can.
The sound of men yelling pours out of a dilapidated building as I pass by. Maybe it’s gambling, or fighting, or maybe it’s something worse. It’s usually something worse. It doesn’t matter to me. Maybe if I were still Unseen, I'd report it up the chain to see if there was profit here, but I'm not.
Further down the road, I have to detour around a body lying in the dirt – drunk or dead probably, but it might be a trap, and I really don’t have the time to teach some asshole what a dumbass idea that would be.
Can't lose focus down here. There's no place in this world that's truly safe, but some places are more treacherous than others. I'm finding it difficult today, though. My thoughts keep returning to my conversation with Grandfather. There’s still no clear path forward for us. It’s a relief that we are now speaking more openly, sure, but I still don’t know how much I can trust in him. Or him in me, for that matter. It is not so easy to set aside the lessons I learned at the Academy.
As I round the corner, I stumble across a couple of kids panhandling – skinny, dirty, their words barely intelligible through the thick gutter accent. No one passing by has anything to give them.
It’s a pathetic sight. sure, but these kids’ll have to figure shit out, or they’ll starve, just like everyone else. One of them looks up at me and I can see her trying to gauge how easy a mark I am. I meet her eyes, and she looks away, pulling her little cup, and the precious few copper it contains, closer to her sunken chest. She’s got instincts, that one. I’d like to tell her she’ll be ok if she keeps those instincts, but best case scenario? She ends up like me, and what the fuck comfort is that? I can feel the gold coins in my pocket, and the weight of them is reassuring, as I cross the street and keep moving. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone hungry. She’ll learn or she’ll die.
I am almost to my destination when I hear a faint whistling sound coming through the air toward me. I duck away without thinking, and a small metal object flies past me, just missing my shoulder. Several more come from the alleyway to my right, and I drop into a deep lunge to avoid them. A quick glance over at the wall reveals three shuriken, shining against the splintered wood, their edges dark with some kind of poison.
Shit.
Looking up, I see a bunch of assholes coming at me, fast. The street is emptying of bystanders just as quickly. Nobody wants to be where shit is going down. There won’t be any help for me here. I can’t exactly blame them – I wouldn’t have stuck around to help, either.
The first one to reach me is a human woman in dark, form-fitting clothes. These assholes have got to be Nightshades. What the fuck are they doing here? I curse Grandfather under my breath for bringing this shit down on us, and swing my staff for all it’s worth. It connects solidly and I bring it back around for another blow. She goes down, but three more have caught up to me now. I am able to dodge the first few blows, but these fuckers aren’t completely incompetent, and they manage to land a few. Nothing too serious… yet.
I pick my second target, a man wearing the crap gear of a street merc. These guys are like a silver a dozen. He proves his value and goes down quick. Coming from behind me, I hear the whisper of shuriken again, and I twist around to grab one from the air, throwing it toward the rest of the assholes, who have almost reached me now. It hits, but I feel two more of the little fuckers stab me in the back. I’m fast, but there are limits.
The pain isn't bad, not unmanageable at least, but the poison starts to work immediately. It’s very strong. Definitely time to go – pride doesn’t matter much to a corpse, does it? But my leg gives way when I try to take a step. I stumble forward, falling to a knee. Fuck, this shit is fast! Faster than anything I have experienced, and I’ve some small experience in the matter. I try to get back up, but my legs just won’t work. My staff drops from my fingers and I collapse to my side. The cowards slow down as they approach me, cautious still, but I don’t even have time to flip them off before everything goes dark.

*****

When I wake up, the situation is bad. Very, very bad. There is pain, but it’s nothing much, and I can ignore it for the most part. What I can’t ignore is the fact that I am chained to a bed with… red silk sheets? What kind of fucking abduction is this?
Nervously, I try to spin the ring on my finger. It’s an obvious tell, a bad habit I haven’t been able to break. But the only thing my thumb finds is skin worn smooth by a thousand revolutions of the gold band. Fuck! Panic starts to set in, and I struggle to contain it.
A faint tapping noise comes from the foot of the bed. Aleorman is sitting there, filling a ridiculously large syringe with red liquid. I do not insult him, or myself, by straining against the chains. Nightshades are many things, but I am confident they know how to chain a drugged woman to a bed. How else will they get someone to appreciate their sexy red sheets?
“My ring, you asshole. Where is it?!”
He ignores the question.


“Let’s begin,” he says. Ok, maybe it’s time to start struggling. I have a pretty good idea what’s in that syringe, and I’m not looking forward to finding out that I’m right. It’s hard to imagine where he could have found a supply, but that sure as hell looks…
Ohhhhhhhhh… ohfuckthat’sgood…

*****

There are… whispers… nearby… whispers… and they sound like spspp spspsp spppp. I. can. not. understand. you. Pspspsp I say back. Pspspspspsppppp.
There is… warmth … there is… hand, a hand on my… cheek. Warm…. like the sun on my face.
“You look very peaceful when you sleep,” hand says and its voice is warm and sweet and lovely, too. “Just like your mother did that night.”
What?
“It’s a shame you never got to say goodbye.”
My eyes snap open, despite the fog strangling my brain. I understood that. I fucking understood that. I feel a brief spark of rage ignite in my brain, but it sputters back out again almost immediately. Nothing, not even that, is hot enough to burn through this fog. My eyes roll back in my head, and I am drifting again.

*****

“Wakey-wakey, princess. You had such a nice nap, but we need to do some work now.”
My head is so heavy, it’s hard to lift it. My eyelids too — a thousand pounds each, at least. It feels like coming back from death. When I finally manage to open my eyes, everything is blurry. But I can understand what he’s saying. And I can remember...
I can remember!
“Fucking Nightshade piece of shit!” I want to scream, but it comes out garbled, nothing more than incoherent mumbles.
He ignores me and picks up something from the dresser. I can't quite tell what it… shit. It's a knife. Of course it is. It’s always a fucking knife.
"So why did you two flee?” he asks casually as he sharpens the blade on a whetstone. I know this game. I’ve played this game. Doesn’t matter. Still works. “Some of my colleagues thought you were making a play to increase your power, but I do not think so. Others think you know more than you let on, and this was a deliberate strike. I suspect you are foolish puppets whose strings are so frequently plucked that you are used to being controlled"
I refuse to respond to him. He nods at someone I hadn’t noticed standing behind me and two sets of hands grab me roughly, flipping me over. The chains that hold me to the bed have very little give in them, so now my arms are crossed over my head painfully. My shirt was removed at some point, I don’t remember when. That’s the least of my fucking problems. I feel his hands on my back, gently smoothing the skin. His fingers trace my scars, lingering on the big, nasty one nestled along the curve of my right scapula. I want to flinch at his touch, but it is nothing, his touch, and I will not reward him with a reaction.
But I flinch when he begins cutting. That I can’t help.

*****

Every once in a while, he stops his work to ask me more questions. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that I never respond with anything but curses and threats. “Your grandfather must think that I hate him for these scars, but that is just another aspect of his narcissism and carelessness. I wear these scars with pride. They inspire, they intimidate, and they misdirect.”
I’d roll my eyes if I had the energy, but I don’t. He’s calling Grandfather narcissistic?
“I'm curious,” he continues, oblivious to my scorn. “Did he even tell you of that night? Did it even seem important to him? Or does he think that this is all petty revenge because I got burned while he unwittingly played with fire?"
He makes a small cut.
Then a longer one.
Then one that curves across the small of my back.
I am screaming now with each slice of the blade. I have no one here to impress with my stoicism, and being quiet only encourages them to go harder.


“How did you meet your bird friend? He is fascinating, is he not? I actually believed he was selling out Veszzyr – he’s quite wily for one so young. Though I suppose he’d have to be for one who has traveled so far from his home at that age.”
He makes a final cut, slower and deeper than the rest. I ran out of screams a while ago, but I manage to find one more. He bends down to examine his work, then gives my back a friendly pat, eliciting a tiny whimper, before going to the dresser. I hear him put the knife down, then the sound of a stopper popping out of a bottle. Returning to the side of the bed, there is a pause, then he pours something on my back, and, oh my god, does it fucking BURN! I didn’t think my back could possibly hurt worse than it already did, but it does, somehow it does. Oh sweet holy fuck, it’s like fire.

*****

The Glow has worn off completely now. Why did Grandfather make it fade so quickly? What an asshole.
I can just see the cask on the floor next to the bed if I turn my head. It’s sitting just right there. I have lost track of how many injections there have been at this point. Some? Many? How long have I been here? I have no fucking clue. I wasn’t part of the distribution arm of the Unseen, but I’m sure, I’m really, really sure, he shouldn’t be dosing me this much. He’s going to kill me. I wish he’d kill me. I need…
He stands up and examines his work. “This should scar up nicely.” he says, self-satisfied.
I’m trying to concentrate on his words, but all I can think about is that cask. And it’s like he can read my mind. I hear the beautiful tink-tink sound of him flicking the syringe and I want to cry with happiness. “Please,” I whisper, pride forgotten. “Please…”
He laughs. “Don’t worry dear. Everything is going to plan and soon we’ll have your grandfather’s formula. You’ll never want for Glow after that.”

*****

There is tugging on my hair. Then they are dressing me. That’s fine. It’s all fine. They try to make me walk, but I cannot walk. Someone growls and throws me over their shoulder and carries me and it is so funny that I am looking at their ass while they walk. Bouncy, bouncy, Belov. I throw up down the back of his legs, and that’s funny too.
And now I am sitting. There is music and there is talking and it is all so far away. I am fascinated by the dice. I roll them over and over again. But now there is yelling, and glass breaking and explosions and I think that is Grandfather’s gun, but it is all far away too. Far away but also now it seems really, really loud. Why did everything become so loud? I want to cover my ears but my arms won’t move. I am jostled by people moving around me. I think I might fall onto the floor, tumbling down like a handful of dice, and that sounds nice. The floor would be nice. But I do not. Fall.
Slowly, slowly I turn my head to look down at the floor that I am not on. There is a man lying there; he has a burned face. Aleo…aleor… fucker has a burned face, but not like this. He is wearing that fucker’s clothes too. But he has white skin and long ears. I think… I think maybe I saw him in the… jungle. But no, I am not in the jungle. I am… is he…
And then everything is quiet, Oh, that’s good. I like the quiet.
A face appears in front of me. It’s a funny face. It looks almost like…
“Truffle?” the word slides sideways out of my mouth and I think I made it right because the face nods and I am smiling at him. But then a thought appears in my brain and it is a horrible thought. I do not want to have this thought.
Never take it off. Ever.
“... ring... My ring?... I need my…ring.”
I haven’t. I didn’t. Forgive me.
I try to go find my ring but everyone is trying to stop me and saying my name. I keep trying, and finally Truffle comes and picks me up, but not over his shoulder, which is good because I do not want to look at his ass.
They take me down some stairs and back into that room. And I can see the bed and the blood and I can smell… I whimper and burrow myself in tighter against his chest.
But then I see the ring on the dresser and I flail out of his arms, falling to the floor. I crawl over to the dresser before anyone can stop me, and grab the ring. I bring it to my lips, kissing it, then slide it back onto my finger, where it belongs, where it must never, ever leave.
I am sorry, love. Please forgive me, please…
There is more talking but I don’t listen. I let myself fall back into the dark.

*****

We are in the stateroom the others have given to us. I do not know where Grandfather is. He has barely looked at me since they came. He is always there for the killing, Grandfather, but maybe not so much for the cleaning up afterwards. That’s ok. The killing is the important part.
The dress they put on me is tight and fastened in the back, and Truffle must help me remove it. There was a time this would have embarrassed both of us, but I do not care now, and if he does, well, I don’t care about that either. I turn to look in the full-length mirror that stands in the corner of the room, and I can see the scars, but I can’t make out the pattern. Truffle meets my eyes in the mirror, and the look in his eyes hurts worse than the horrorshow that is my back. I turn my eyes away from his, but I hear him move toward me and feel the brush of cloth on my arm. I look down and see he is holding out one of Grandfather’s shirts. I reach for it slowly, grimacing at the feel of my skin pulling against the new scar tissue. I take the shirt, holding it limply in my hands for a moment, before painfully shrugging it over my arms and fastening the buttons. The soft linen rests lightly on my back, and smells like Grandfather. It is familiar and… comforting. I look back up in the mirror, and there are tears in my eyes from pain and exhaustion and shame, but Truffle has turned his gaze away from me, giving me the illusion of privacy.
The shirt hides the marks on my back, and that’s a relief, although probably more so for Truffle and the others than for me. I don’t need to see them; I can still feel them burning. I can feel every last line he carved into my skin.
My hands tremble as I wipe away the tears. I think maybe there will be a day when I will be able to feel angry about what Aleorman did to me. Maybe someday I will resent not being the one to kill him.
But right now… right now, I just wish that he was here to give me what I need.