Price of a Pact

[Valhalla]

The small shaped darted in and out of the trees, tiny feet padding bare against the cool loam of the forest floor. It was quiet, in this place. Unnaturally so. There were no birds, no game, no other people. Just them. She could hear them, the only sound in this surreal place - the soft, vibrato hum of their gossamer wings.

A soft giggle on the wind.

She must keep running. And she did. Trees flashed through her field of sight, little more than twisted brown blurs as she hurled herself through the maze of trunks, barely seeing with tear-filled eyes. Follow the stream back home. Run for the warmth of the Keep's great fire.

A root. Her foot hooked, her fate sealed. A sudden flash of pain and sharp awareness as she skipped and skidded to a halt, the world spinning around her like a top. Pressure on her chest. Her head, lifted weakly, only to see a cloven hoof. Up and up her eyes traced, until she came upon that terrible, terrible smile. The mouth opened, showing lines of razor-sharp teeth, and it begun to utter words in a lilting language she didn't understand---


Gwynneth awoke in a cold sweat, chest heaving. She stared balefully at her ceiling for a time, eventually throwing off the thin sheet and stalking across the room, swearing colorfully in the several languages she was fluent in. She became a flurry of activity, stepping out of her room in the estate scant moments later clad in a heavy cloak, a warm tunic, and her favorite hat. They were worn things, darned and patched in more than one place, but they were hers.

A brisk walk through the winding hallways later and she emerged out into the cold, the light of the moon fading behind the mountain peaks. It was a harsh, chilly beauty here. Pulling the brim of her hat down and drawing her cloak around her, she walked off into the falling snow, paying her surroundings little mind.

[Valhalla]

A booted heel came down on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. Her hands shot up to claw desperately at the boot, all the while gasping for air that just wouldn't come. As her vision blurred and her struggles slowed, she forced her gaze upwards, fighting to get a single glimpse of her assailant.

A pale face, framed by scarlet hair. Beautiful features, full lips. And a slow smile, split suddenly by twin fangs. She let out a scream, and the smile spread wider and rows upon rows of glistening teeth stood out, the boot upon her chest splitting open to reveal a hoof. Her last sensation was the cloying scent of spices in the air, and then darkness mercifully claimed her---


Gwynneth had awoken in a start, barely cutting off a hoarse scream. Now, hours later, she sat thinking about the nightmares that had plagued her. Her past, her fears, her misgivings.

A voice, feminine and ringing with authority, cut through her reminiscences. Gwynneth's eyes opened and took in the scene - Ruby standing before their small party, waving a hand towards the distant Inn - and took only a moment to register what had been said.

"As you will, My Lady." The words were out of her mouth before she even realized she was saying them, and her reaction lagged only a moment behind. Her eyes shut again and she reached out inside herself to touch the power her Pact had given her, and she felt the transformation begin.

Moments later the horned devil stood, unfurling the wings upon her back. She followed after the others, eyes gleaming red with excitement. She would drown her doubts in blood.

[Valhalla]

The devil stood in the midst of the carnage, claws dripping blood. It had been exhilarating to fight alongside the Gifted and her brother Hands, and they had emerged victorious. The blood of paladins and fools mixed freely in the dirt, and as she stepped over a corpse she swept it over with her gaze - split nearly in two, likely Ruby's handiwork. She made her way slowly to her Lady, stepping over overturned benches and corpses with a languid grace, her wings gently fanning the air behind her as she walked. She paused several strides short of Ruby, in time to watch the Lady claim her Tribute, a slim raven-haired woman who had sat out the massacre by the fire pit. Gwynneth waited until the Lady had taken the Tribute off her feet, then spoke in a deep, rumbling voice.

"My Lady. There is one that wishes to bargain." A clawed hand gestured back, to another woman who had sat the fight out, clad in leathers and brown of hair.

With the Lady's acknowledgement, Gwynneth made her way over slowly to the Tribute, stopping just short of her and looking her over. She stood like that for several long moments, listening to the soft mutterings of the injured woman with a sort of detached interest.

It was then that the Paladin had come. He had killed the Harbringer, came near to doing so with one of the Gifted, and was finally swarmed by the remainder. Gwynneth had aided from afar, and she felt no shame for not engaging the man with her claws.

With his death, the Lady had called for a departure. Gwynneth turned back to the Tribute, knelt, and took the woman up in her arms. As she walked, she paused by the Harbringer's body, and lifted him with ease, laying him gently across a shoulder and shifting the Tribute to a single arm. Then they had departed, Gwynneth trailing after the Gifted as they made their way slowly toward Sestra. The Tribute had muttered something, a name. Mercer. Gwynneth had not spoken to her, but she suspected it was a man. A friend, or a lover. It mattered not, in the end.

She spared a glance for the retreating forms of her Lady and her chosen mortal beside her. What were they to her? Allies, certainly. Her better, in the case of the Lady. But friends? No, not truly. Gwynneth suspected the Weaver was the closest thing she had to a friend, though this did not bother her.

Later, as they had ascended the mountain to return home, she had come to a realization. The path to what she sought was not a warm one. It was frigid, solitary. A climb where one might see the others attempting to conquer the mountain, but where to stop and aid might mean your own death or disgrace. In the end, it was better this way. She had never had a friend before, never taken a lover. Her path was the solitary one. The rules of the game had not changed, despite appearances otherwise. Simply put, the stakes had raised. She smiled then, broadly and with more emotion than most ever saw from her. She was a gambler at heart.

[Valhalla]

The cloaked form knelt in the snow, the gentle crunch caused by her movements lost in the wind howling between the mountain peaks. As she spread her arms, the cloak enveloped her, spreading in a half-circle about her slight form. Under the cloak, armor of a polished obsidian shade sparkled in the fading light of the day. Tracing across this black background were thorny vines colored the deep red of a rose's blossom, set to accentuate the vaguely feminine shape to the armor.

Reaching a gloved hand behind her back, a brief moment's effort freed the leather pouch bound there. Bringing it around in front of her, she rests it on her knees and then lifts the flap of a rectangular pouch on her hip, drawing forth a large stoppered vial carefully. This she uncorks and upturns onto the snow before her, the syrupy blood outlining a rough circle about the size of a dinner plate.

The vial is discarded as it is emptied, its purpose fulfilled. The hands reach next for the leather pouch resting upon her knees, deftly untying the knot holding it shut. As the pouch opens, the briefest of expressions cross over the woman's hard features - perhaps disgust, perhaps merely an ingrained reaction. The moment passes, and she reaches a hand within the bag and withdraws it once more, holding a severed hand in her palm like one might grasp the hand of a lover. The hand itself has a red pallor to the skin and the nails resemble something more akin to claws, marking the appendage as once belonging to one of the Bloodmaim. The hand is laid down in the center of the bloody circle before her, palm up and fingers splayed.

With her work done, she returns the pouch to her belt and ties it shut almost absentmindedly. Her gaze then returns to the grisly offering in front of her, and she hunches over as her head bows, hands resting on her knees. Her chosen position is one of complete obeisance.

Her prayer is simple and short, putting forth this week's offering of blood, praising her God, and uttering a request of the Dark Father that one of his Children might favor her.

With a smooth motion, the woman stands and turns half-way, her red-hued gaze lingering on the offering site. A long moment later, she turns completely and descends back down the slope, towards the flickering light of the distant Estate.

[Valhalla]

She was bound, and though her eyes were open, she could not see. Even the inky pools of tangible shadow she had entered when she followed the others to the Plane of Shadow were gone. An inky blackness so thick that not even magical sight could penetrate it had subverted its lesser counterpart. She hung there, unsure of time's passage.

The pain began. It started at her neck, sharp lances of it driving down into her chest. Then it spread, consuming her, and she knew all at once that she was dying. She had displeased the Lady, been too bold in her words. The irony of this did not escape her, and as she fought a losing battle against the pain assailing her senses, the last expression to cross her face was a bitter smile twisted by agony.

The grating of well-oiled stone upon well-oiled stone awoke her. It was loud - too loud. Next came the scent, a musk both familiar and not mixed with the coppery scent of blood. The rest of her senses returned to her gradually, last of all her sight. This was the most disconcerting of all; as her farsighted eyes stared up at the ceiling above, she could make out the sworls and knots of the wooden beams.

"Remember, that which has so easily been given can just as easily be taken away."

The voice stirred her consciousness, audible only to her. Without thought, she nodded her assent and established her subservience. The motion gave life - or a parody thereof - to the rest of her limbs, and she lifted a shaking hand to clutch at the edge of the coffin she laid in.

"Join us, Sister." The voice of her fellow vampiress met her ears, and she turned her head to see a hand offered in aid, which she promptly clasped. A moment later she stood by the coffin of her Sire, standing of her own power, and a portal back to the material plane winked into existence in front of the three of them. A smile slowly spread over her features as sensation and control returned, and she strode through the portal with chin held high.