"Hahaa..." the woman laughed. Alistair smiled, but bitterly; he did not truly indulge in this malevolent sense of humor, but acknowledged it for what it was: a part of her personality. One that he'd best indulge in for as long as he needed to. Though, as they were now, standing over the corpse of a young girl... hardly past twelve arcs... he could only wonder what about this deviance brought her such amusement. Why, specifically, was the greatest thrill for Ellasin... the thrill of the hunt?
"Can you believe it?" The woman started, almost fatigued. "That girl was an excellent runner. Faster than her mother!" She yelled this with a look of utter amusement, leaning down and pulling on the girl's arm. The woman brought out a knife, sawing off her hand from her arm as she corroded the flesh of her palm and fingers. Before one knew it, there it was, her prize; the hand of a child, skeletal form. A lucky charm.
"Come on, Ali," Ellasin grinned. "Come and take her mother's hand. You could use a bit of luck in your life, what with your choice of bachelors and all." She looked sheepishly at him, waving around the skeletal fingers and stroking the firm bones that were once her palm.
Alistair shook his head. "That's superstition," he said. "There's no magic in the bones of the dead."
"But isn't there?" the woman rose, fully, chipping a hole through the bone and beginning to tie through it with a string. It would be a second necklace, for a time. But as with all of her 'lucky charms', she grew bored within a few trials. Some helpless wanderer would have to replace the one she'd grown tired of, and in all likelihood, she'd invite Alistair along. For in their cyclical bond, she was hot, while he was cold. And she would not be satisfied until he was utterly frigid; tired of escorting her around as she murdered young ones and caused a mess in the woods.
The woman's irises sparkled, her violet hues meeting Alistair's eyes of the same shade. "There is power in the bones of the dead, Ali. It may not be direct, and it may not be cosmic. It may not even be lucky. But it brings power in a different sort of way, my dear - it reminds you of what you are. Before you ever imagine disregarding the frigidity of your heart, look to the bones. Watch them dangle from your neck in the mirror, or blow in the wind like chimes. They will always remind you of your evil. For the natural ally of Necromancy is malevolence, not benevolence. And you, I fear, are falling into the weakness of the latter."
She gestured for him to go to the mother's corpse. He knelt down as she did, and drew his carving knife. The man sighed. She was right - this didn't feel okay anymore. He'd never enjoyed senseless cruelty, but looking to the faces of the dead - especially the young girl - made him feel disorderly. It was a burn of cold flame to his heart, to view such heinous acts for the entertainment of another.
He had become soft, and he dreaded that fact. He eagerly sawed away at the woman's limp hand, repeating in his mind that he would not become weak. Weakness, in the Coven, was a sin. To be anything less than strong was to be anything less than human. Alistair's staunch lack of empathy had propelled him far in the career that was militaristic magedom. But...
He had begun to feel empathy. He really had. This just didn't feel right. It was so... sad. Watching the girl scream for her mother, as he'd just observed... watching the woman die with tears in her eyes, feeling that she'd failed her child. Watching the girl's last moments... and Ellasin standing over them. It brought in him an immense, inner pain. By the time he'd burnt away at the woman's hand with his corrosive energy, his eyes had begun to tear up. He was astounded at the wet mask that had formed over his eyes; this was something he had only ever experienced in theory. Another sign of how his emotions had become more volatile.
"I won't wear it," he told Ellasin.
"That is fine," she said. "Unlike me, you actually have to mingle with society," the Lich remarked.
. . .
By the time it was late, they'd cleaned it all up; Ellasin and Alistair had hung each corpse from a tree, the mother's skeletal hand stuck into her daughter's mouth. Their blood smeared the leaves and dirt down below, and had trailed on for hundreds of meters before their corpses would come into view. They'd truly left a horror in the Stormlands, as they always did, wherever they had gone.
When it was all over, he said his goodbyes, and formed a compression portal to return to Patrick's home. He didn't know how ready he was to speak with the man again, but he didn't want to stay with the coven. He could hardly look at Ellasin, anymore. There was nothing behind her cruelty. Not an ideology, even. Not a justification. Just the fact that she enjoyed it. Just the fact that she wanted to hear their cries.
He stepped through the portal, face still, clearly torn from all he'd just underwent. As he walked through, a rupture in space opening as his path, he witnessed the Hound climb almost nakedly into bed. His eyes lingered for a moment, before Alistair quickly fell to his knees, palm against his forehead as his eyes closed shut. His vision had gone, and his head had begun to pound. What was this life that he had always lead?
