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Maneae rose groggily, once again stolen away from the glorious death that should be hers. But this time her return to conciousness was not accompanied by her usual rage at the denial of her fate. That rage had been stolen from her, leaving a dark, empty void in her gut where her fury used to reside. Her eyes scanned the now all too familiar temple of Lliira until they fell upon Zane. Zane, that crazy, unreliable, one-eyed Grunt that always seemed to be hauling her corpse to this place.
Suddenly, her heart began to race. In a panic, she grabbed her right hand with her left. It was not until she was sure that the gauntlet was still on her hand covering the mark that she let out an audible sigh of relief.
The mark, the image of a clawed fist gripping a skull and a ruby-tipped rod. The wizard Dante had identified it as the mark of a devil that he named Osmodeus. It was the result of her attempting to battle the Dark Knight, and falling before him. One would think the legion's description of the Dark Knight might have included the green glow and hellish aspect of the Dark Knight, beyond just his raw strength, from those who reported his activities. But Maneae was never one to back down from a fight, not even a hopeless one. Garagos would be angered if she did and she would never be allowed to rejoin her people in Battle Garde.
"Are you ok?" Zane asked. It struck Maneae as odd how she noted the concern in his voice. It used to drive her mad, and she would rage against it or say hurtful things to deflect it. But now, she felt nothing. No rage, no gratitude . . . nothing.
"I suppose I am now" she responded as she struggled to her feet. Her armor used to be a reassuring weight that she bore effortlessly. But ever since she was marked, she had begun to notice its weight. She had hoped that with time her old strength might return, but so far that had not been the case. "Thank you" she responded uncharacteristically.
Zane made a gutteral sound in response. "That smith just about had me. The son of a bitch hit hard. We might both be dead if you hadn't diverted his attention." Zane looked around the temple briefly. "Let's get out of here. I'm tired."
As they walked out the temple door, a thought formed in Maneae's mind. Zane was a strong man . . . desirable. Suddenly, the thought of taking him into her bed seemed like a very good idea. As a warm feeling grew in her gut and flooded her being, she heard him say, "Actually I am not that tired. If you're feeling up to it, we could go smash some other things."
"Sure Zane, my wounds have all been healed." Another side-effect of the mark, her wounds healed incredibly quickly, but not fast enough to save her from the Smith's wrath. "That sounds like a great idea." she continued, but disappointment was written on her face.
Zane was confused at this turn of events. Was she disappointed that he wasn't going to rest ... with her? She had never responded in any manner to indicate she was interested in him. But he wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity.
"Well . . . uh . . . If you're tired . . . I guess we could find some place . . ."
While Zane stammered, Maneae felt the warmth return. But this time it was stronger than before. She stepped forward seductively and placed her right hand on his chest. While her eyes met his hungrily, she imagined them alone together.
In her minds eye, she pictured him removing his armor. She saw herself stepping up to him and slowly removing his clothes, toying with him, dominating him in bed. Then, when he was sufficiently aroused as to be blind, she saw herself slowly take up the dagger and drive it through his chest, directly into his heart. His face contorted in pain as she drove the knife in again and again until his blood ran in rivulets down her naked body. As his soul attempted to escape the ruin of his corpse, she saw her right hand shoot out and grab it in mid air. The gossamer spirit fought savagely to escape, but the mark on her hand glowed hungrily and refused to allow Zane's soul to pass on. Slowly, she watched herself open her mouth and drag the squirming spirit toward it, ready to consume it . . .
Blinded by his own passion, Zane pulled Maneae close to him. Maneae had never been held like this. She had never let a man get that close to her. The odd sensation broke her from her musings and, as if snapping out of a trance, she recoiled from her thoughts in horror. Sure, she might kill Zane in a fight if it ever came to that. But the thoughts she had just entertained were . . . pure evil!
Maneae tore herself from from Zane's embrace. As she did so, the mark on her hand flared up painfully, angrily and she clutched it to her chest.
"What? What's wrong?" Zane asked, confused by the turn of events.
Maneae closed her eyes and turned away from him. "Nuh . . . nothing. Forget it. Let's just go and . . . smash something. Just forget this ever happened!"
Confused, Zane shook his head and lead the way out of Sestra. Maneae followed slowly, keeping her distance, the echoes of dark thoughts haunting her as she went.
Suddenly, her heart began to race. In a panic, she grabbed her right hand with her left. It was not until she was sure that the gauntlet was still on her hand covering the mark that she let out an audible sigh of relief.
The mark, the image of a clawed fist gripping a skull and a ruby-tipped rod. The wizard Dante had identified it as the mark of a devil that he named Osmodeus. It was the result of her attempting to battle the Dark Knight, and falling before him. One would think the legion's description of the Dark Knight might have included the green glow and hellish aspect of the Dark Knight, beyond just his raw strength, from those who reported his activities. But Maneae was never one to back down from a fight, not even a hopeless one. Garagos would be angered if she did and she would never be allowed to rejoin her people in Battle Garde.
"Are you ok?" Zane asked. It struck Maneae as odd how she noted the concern in his voice. It used to drive her mad, and she would rage against it or say hurtful things to deflect it. But now, she felt nothing. No rage, no gratitude . . . nothing.
"I suppose I am now" she responded as she struggled to her feet. Her armor used to be a reassuring weight that she bore effortlessly. But ever since she was marked, she had begun to notice its weight. She had hoped that with time her old strength might return, but so far that had not been the case. "Thank you" she responded uncharacteristically.
Zane made a gutteral sound in response. "That smith just about had me. The son of a bitch hit hard. We might both be dead if you hadn't diverted his attention." Zane looked around the temple briefly. "Let's get out of here. I'm tired."
As they walked out the temple door, a thought formed in Maneae's mind. Zane was a strong man . . . desirable. Suddenly, the thought of taking him into her bed seemed like a very good idea. As a warm feeling grew in her gut and flooded her being, she heard him say, "Actually I am not that tired. If you're feeling up to it, we could go smash some other things."
"Sure Zane, my wounds have all been healed." Another side-effect of the mark, her wounds healed incredibly quickly, but not fast enough to save her from the Smith's wrath. "That sounds like a great idea." she continued, but disappointment was written on her face.
Zane was confused at this turn of events. Was she disappointed that he wasn't going to rest ... with her? She had never responded in any manner to indicate she was interested in him. But he wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity.
"Well . . . uh . . . If you're tired . . . I guess we could find some place . . ."
While Zane stammered, Maneae felt the warmth return. But this time it was stronger than before. She stepped forward seductively and placed her right hand on his chest. While her eyes met his hungrily, she imagined them alone together.
In her minds eye, she pictured him removing his armor. She saw herself stepping up to him and slowly removing his clothes, toying with him, dominating him in bed. Then, when he was sufficiently aroused as to be blind, she saw herself slowly take up the dagger and drive it through his chest, directly into his heart. His face contorted in pain as she drove the knife in again and again until his blood ran in rivulets down her naked body. As his soul attempted to escape the ruin of his corpse, she saw her right hand shoot out and grab it in mid air. The gossamer spirit fought savagely to escape, but the mark on her hand glowed hungrily and refused to allow Zane's soul to pass on. Slowly, she watched herself open her mouth and drag the squirming spirit toward it, ready to consume it . . .
Blinded by his own passion, Zane pulled Maneae close to him. Maneae had never been held like this. She had never let a man get that close to her. The odd sensation broke her from her musings and, as if snapping out of a trance, she recoiled from her thoughts in horror. Sure, she might kill Zane in a fight if it ever came to that. But the thoughts she had just entertained were . . . pure evil!
Maneae tore herself from from Zane's embrace. As she did so, the mark on her hand flared up painfully, angrily and she clutched it to her chest.
"What? What's wrong?" Zane asked, confused by the turn of events.
Maneae closed her eyes and turned away from him. "Nuh . . . nothing. Forget it. Let's just go and . . . smash something. Just forget this ever happened!"
Confused, Zane shook his head and lead the way out of Sestra. Maneae followed slowly, keeping her distance, the echoes of dark thoughts haunting her as she went.
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