Soul Driver 27/04 Sorrel Darkfire & Rahmiël
May 3, 2022 22:34:23 GMT
Wixspartan, Celina Zabinski, and 5 more like this
Post by stephena on May 3, 2022 22:34:23 GMT
When temptation claims your reason, know that misfortune is about to strike. Fall down, prostrate and begin to pray. With flowing tears implore your god that they may deliver you from the throes of doubt.
Jalal ad-Deen Rumi
Sorrel was running again. In the Feythorn. Again. The beast was behind her. Again. This time, she couldn’t stop.
Everyone has a price.
The path widened ahead of her. Her legs picked up speed all by themselves. She couldn’t stop. The thing was running faster too. She could feel its breath on her neck.
There was a fork in the road ahead. On one side, she could make out a single axe lying in the dust, its blade clear and sharp, it’s wooden handle barely worn. On the other, a skull. It’s death black eye sockets bored into her.
Choose.
Does fortune wait or just the black hand of fate?
Everyone has a price.
“I choose the skull,” she said, her voice cold and calm.
Everything shifted. Perhaps the road was shorter than she’d imagined. Perhaps some strange magic warped reality around her. But she was in a temple, beside a staircase carved from the bedrock and covered in flickering candles.
We haven’t been introduced.
The voice came from behind her. She had never heard it before, but she knew it.
She turned slowly, thinking through the commotio cordis strike taught by the cowled drow in the Unspoken Rooms. Move with your opponent. Feel their rhythm. Everyone moves in time with their heartbeat. Find the pattern. Identify the right point in the cycle and strike with spear hand sharply on the precordial region. If your timing is right, you deliver a lethal disruption to the heart’s rhythm. And yet…
She saw the flowing red hair, the glowing rune, the piercing eyes, the full, sensual lips and the swept up horns of the one she dreaded meeting above all.
Rahmiël.
“I am Sorrel Darkfire,” she nodded in a half bow.
I know. Are you not at my service? I am a little hurt, little Sorrel.
“I have learned it is wise not to offer the devil your service,” Sorrel raised an eyebrow. “It tends to turn out badly.”
That depends on your perspective, I suppose. Now, my sweet Sorrel, we can level with each other, or we can fight.
Sorrel’s eyes strayed around the temple. She had never been in this place before and yet it felt familiar. Something tugged at the corner of her mind. There was a puzzle here. She knew it. Keep her talking. Work it out.
“I think you have the advantage here,” she gave a half smile. “Let us level with each other. You first.”
Why do you pursue this?
“It is my purpose.”
Your Holy Mission. How sweet.
“No, it is me, the essence of me. I have lived a life of horror and pain. I have been at war since I was 16 years old. Almost everyone I have served with is dead. I have had no sense as why I’m alive or what the meaning of my life is until a year ago. Then I was given a purpose and my life made sense. It is the essence of me.”
She keeps you alive?
“She saved me from the Hunger Spirit, protected me in the darkest corners of hell. Yes, she keeps me alive.”
When we talk of hunger spirit do you mean an actual spirit or something metaphorical?
“It came from the Shadowfell. It marked me. It entered me. It tried to control me. I won. You are not the first. You will not be the last. I will win.”
If the angels are unkind or the season is dark perhaps not.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Why not? I'll be your gypsy joker…
“You keep dying and coming back. I must have killed three of you already. What’s in this for you?”
A Holy mission, if you must know. And I hate boredom.
“There we find common ground,” Sorrel gave a quiet smile. “Be like the wolf. The lion and the tiger may be more powerful, but the wolf does not perform in the circus.”
Reality shifted again. Fiendish magic or something more profound?
Rahmiël was suddenly so close she could hear her breathing. Her lips hovered just inches away from Sorrels. A glass of whisky appeared in Sorrel’s hand. She touched it to her lips and frowned.
“I have better than this in my backpack,” she was disappointed.
This love potion's all we've got. One toast before it's too late.
“Love potions are usually matured for a little longer than five years, and are definitely not blended by amateurs,” Sorrel sighed.
Rahmiël’s fingertips stroked her cheek.
Sorrel shivered.
Who is Silvia?
“She is under my protection.”
Monogamy. How boring.
Sorrel considered this. “I take your point, but if you find the right person the first night is just the worst sex you will ever have. It’s what happens next that is interesting.”
I have someone new every night. It is never the worst sex anyone has had. Trust me.
“But this one gets better as I train her,” Sorrel smiled softly. “She was a virgin. I like to teach her new things.”
You taught her something last night, I can feel it. How did she like it?
“She was gagged at the time, but the debrief was exceptional.”
Teach me. Or I could teach you.
A fingernail across her skin.
“I doubt I could. And I am doing the monogamy thing at the moment.”
Does Selûne approve of your tastes?
“That is the beauty of the goddess. Do you not understand? She is the moon. She shines on lovers and thieves not market traders and bank clerks. She sees mischief and she loves us. You are serving the wrong side.”
You are saying she does not kink shame? That surprises me. No, wait. I suppose that is Torm. Duty, loyalty, righteousness, tight trousers and clean teeth.
“Have you ever thought we should chuck this quarrel aside, team up and fuck up Torm?”
Tempting. But… no.
And then a scream of rage.
Not now!
Sorrel is standing in a circle. She can see Velania, Zola, Marto – Marto appears to be naked and blushing furiously – and Pipper as well as Rahmiël, Adhyël - Adhyël also appears to be naked… interesting - An'Ahkrim, Zah'Ranin and Ophanim.
No-one seems happy. Something has clearly gone very wrong somewhere.
Then Sorrel feels a sharp blade ripping into her spine and the pain is so intense she blacks out.
If you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
Jagger/Richards
She awoke, sweat drenched, in bed. It wasn’t a dream as such. But it was her mind and Rahmiël’s mind in some way and she had not tried to control it.
She felt a chill on her spine. She almost didn’t bother looking. Another mark.
But this felt different. She caught a glimpse in the mirror.
It was very different. A new mark. A new storm cloud gathering.
She let the sheets fall and watched the muscles move beneath her skin as she turned slowly in the mirror, observing the fiends branding, the scars of the Hunger Sprit, the faded wounds – few in her back, many in her chest and gut. She has always faced her enemies.
She opened her backpack. The whisky was still there. Rum cask, 25 years, single malt, unsmoked, like an angel crying on her tongue.
“Well then,” she poured a capful and raised it in ironic salute to the arcane symbols seared into her flesh. “Here's to our destruction.”
Jalal ad-Deen Rumi
Sorrel was running again. In the Feythorn. Again. The beast was behind her. Again. This time, she couldn’t stop.
Everyone has a price.
The path widened ahead of her. Her legs picked up speed all by themselves. She couldn’t stop. The thing was running faster too. She could feel its breath on her neck.
There was a fork in the road ahead. On one side, she could make out a single axe lying in the dust, its blade clear and sharp, it’s wooden handle barely worn. On the other, a skull. It’s death black eye sockets bored into her.
Choose.
Does fortune wait or just the black hand of fate?
Everyone has a price.
“I choose the skull,” she said, her voice cold and calm.
Everything shifted. Perhaps the road was shorter than she’d imagined. Perhaps some strange magic warped reality around her. But she was in a temple, beside a staircase carved from the bedrock and covered in flickering candles.
We haven’t been introduced.
The voice came from behind her. She had never heard it before, but she knew it.
She turned slowly, thinking through the commotio cordis strike taught by the cowled drow in the Unspoken Rooms. Move with your opponent. Feel their rhythm. Everyone moves in time with their heartbeat. Find the pattern. Identify the right point in the cycle and strike with spear hand sharply on the precordial region. If your timing is right, you deliver a lethal disruption to the heart’s rhythm. And yet…
She saw the flowing red hair, the glowing rune, the piercing eyes, the full, sensual lips and the swept up horns of the one she dreaded meeting above all.
Rahmiël.
“I am Sorrel Darkfire,” she nodded in a half bow.
I know. Are you not at my service? I am a little hurt, little Sorrel.
“I have learned it is wise not to offer the devil your service,” Sorrel raised an eyebrow. “It tends to turn out badly.”
That depends on your perspective, I suppose. Now, my sweet Sorrel, we can level with each other, or we can fight.
Sorrel’s eyes strayed around the temple. She had never been in this place before and yet it felt familiar. Something tugged at the corner of her mind. There was a puzzle here. She knew it. Keep her talking. Work it out.
“I think you have the advantage here,” she gave a half smile. “Let us level with each other. You first.”
Why do you pursue this?
“It is my purpose.”
Your Holy Mission. How sweet.
“No, it is me, the essence of me. I have lived a life of horror and pain. I have been at war since I was 16 years old. Almost everyone I have served with is dead. I have had no sense as why I’m alive or what the meaning of my life is until a year ago. Then I was given a purpose and my life made sense. It is the essence of me.”
She keeps you alive?
“She saved me from the Hunger Spirit, protected me in the darkest corners of hell. Yes, she keeps me alive.”
When we talk of hunger spirit do you mean an actual spirit or something metaphorical?
“It came from the Shadowfell. It marked me. It entered me. It tried to control me. I won. You are not the first. You will not be the last. I will win.”
If the angels are unkind or the season is dark perhaps not.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Why not? I'll be your gypsy joker…
“You keep dying and coming back. I must have killed three of you already. What’s in this for you?”
A Holy mission, if you must know. And I hate boredom.
“There we find common ground,” Sorrel gave a quiet smile. “Be like the wolf. The lion and the tiger may be more powerful, but the wolf does not perform in the circus.”
Reality shifted again. Fiendish magic or something more profound?
Rahmiël was suddenly so close she could hear her breathing. Her lips hovered just inches away from Sorrels. A glass of whisky appeared in Sorrel’s hand. She touched it to her lips and frowned.
“I have better than this in my backpack,” she was disappointed.
This love potion's all we've got. One toast before it's too late.
“Love potions are usually matured for a little longer than five years, and are definitely not blended by amateurs,” Sorrel sighed.
Rahmiël’s fingertips stroked her cheek.
Sorrel shivered.
Who is Silvia?
“She is under my protection.”
Monogamy. How boring.
Sorrel considered this. “I take your point, but if you find the right person the first night is just the worst sex you will ever have. It’s what happens next that is interesting.”
I have someone new every night. It is never the worst sex anyone has had. Trust me.
“But this one gets better as I train her,” Sorrel smiled softly. “She was a virgin. I like to teach her new things.”
You taught her something last night, I can feel it. How did she like it?
“She was gagged at the time, but the debrief was exceptional.”
Teach me. Or I could teach you.
A fingernail across her skin.
“I doubt I could. And I am doing the monogamy thing at the moment.”
Does Selûne approve of your tastes?
“That is the beauty of the goddess. Do you not understand? She is the moon. She shines on lovers and thieves not market traders and bank clerks. She sees mischief and she loves us. You are serving the wrong side.”
You are saying she does not kink shame? That surprises me. No, wait. I suppose that is Torm. Duty, loyalty, righteousness, tight trousers and clean teeth.
“Have you ever thought we should chuck this quarrel aside, team up and fuck up Torm?”
Tempting. But… no.
And then a scream of rage.
Not now!
Sorrel is standing in a circle. She can see Velania, Zola, Marto – Marto appears to be naked and blushing furiously – and Pipper as well as Rahmiël, Adhyël - Adhyël also appears to be naked… interesting - An'Ahkrim, Zah'Ranin and Ophanim.
No-one seems happy. Something has clearly gone very wrong somewhere.
Then Sorrel feels a sharp blade ripping into her spine and the pain is so intense she blacks out.
If you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
Jagger/Richards
She awoke, sweat drenched, in bed. It wasn’t a dream as such. But it was her mind and Rahmiël’s mind in some way and she had not tried to control it.
She felt a chill on her spine. She almost didn’t bother looking. Another mark.
But this felt different. She caught a glimpse in the mirror.
It was very different. A new mark. A new storm cloud gathering.
She let the sheets fall and watched the muscles move beneath her skin as she turned slowly in the mirror, observing the fiends branding, the scars of the Hunger Sprit, the faded wounds – few in her back, many in her chest and gut. She has always faced her enemies.
She opened her backpack. The whisky was still there. Rum cask, 25 years, single malt, unsmoked, like an angel crying on her tongue.
“Well then,” she poured a capful and raised it in ironic salute to the arcane symbols seared into her flesh. “Here's to our destruction.”
