1 comments/ 5909 views/ 1 favorites Absolution Ch. 01 By: Kheftling Dawn breaks over the highway, paved stones lining the path east, weariness closing his eyes to narrow slits. Jolen re-shoulders his leather satchel, resting a hand on one of the stoppered flagons at his hip. He reaches upwards a--nd combs his violet crest feathers through with his talons. Brow knitting in concern, he resumes his swift, determined pace, a great round shield slung across his back; a long, javelin is secure in his grasp, resting the steel shaft on his shoulder. "Adia... gods," he growls to himself, the memories of the previous evening flushing warmth across his aged features, down towards his groin. Why now, he thinks, how did she reach me from beyond the Collective's reach? Fear and regret claw and scrape at the inside of his skull, tormenting him, piercing as those words reach out from the past, grasping at him for purchase like a drowning man. "Go back to your people." His words, ringing in his memory. They sound hollow, wrong.. he has dreamed of those words, that moment. The moment he turned his back on the woman he had spent countless years defending. He has relived it countless times and taken the dark skinned woman into his arms, granting forgiveness in a betrayal of his long-held beliefs. He has watched her belly swell and his children born, named them. Every time, he has woken to find himself old, regretful and brooding. The miles melt away, his feet taking him off the highway with time in into the meadows and fields. He pauses briefly to relieve himself, eat, drink. His mind sets to to the task of of murder, suffering, subconsciously recalling the wild kestrel of his youth. His blood boils and adrenaline courses through him constantly as a parade of torments and violations race across his vision, each more terrible, perpetrated on her beautiful form, grace made low in an orgy of blood and steel and leather. "... Adia.. I am coming." *** Adianna tan akmah Tarshin De'Karsh, proud daughter of the Karsh leader was focusing on her breathing, deeply in through her nose, ignoring the scent of decay that filled the cave, and then out through her mouth. Each movement she made was laced with a searing agony, so she lay as still as she could. Opening an eye she gauged the distance to her weapons, slung carelessly aside against the wall of the cave. She closed her eyes again in resignation. No matter how she twisted in her bonds and ignored the pain, she would be unable to reach them. The soft echo of footsteps reaches her again, the only sound this far within the tunnel system of the cavern. Adia forces her body to relax and her breathing grows deep, feigning sleep. As her guard enters the room, he watches her for a moment before crossing the floor and kicking her roughly. Swallowing a cry, she allows a husky laugh to fill the room instead, disconcerting to the guard. He eyes her angrily, "What ha' you got ta laugh about?" Adia forces a smile onto her lips, though the ice in her gaze holds the man captive as she murmurs, "Na' plottin', jess takin' a pleasant nap. Yo facilities hea' a so vera' comf'table. Do pass my thanks along ta my fatha' fo' the hospitality." With a snarl of disgust the guard apparently decides she is mad. Eying her warily, as though she might suddenly heal her wounds, shed her bonds, and leap up to attack him, the guard skirts her form and retrieves a heavy chain from the other side of the room. Attaching the hooked end to a link in the shackles about her ankles, he loops the chain through a secured stud in the ceiling and hoists her body off the floor. Adia bites into her lower lip as she sways, suspended by the metal cuffs cutting into the flesh of her ankles. The blood rushes to her head, throbbing through her temples, and her entire body screams as the position pulls and strains her already aching and torn limbs. As the guard raises his flail to continue where he had left off earlier, Adianna closes her eyes, allowing her mind to sink back away from the painful present and escape into the past... "Jolen." Her consciousness conjures him up before her, what she can imagine he would look like now. His youth gone, though the muscles of his body remain firm and trained, his mouth pulled in a chiseled line. Pushing away from the periphery of her imagination, she submerges herself in the fantasy, desperate for an escape. He sits before her on a cot, perhaps he was sleeping...in a single movement, she throws herself at him, straddling his frame and seeking solace in the recalled scent and taste of him, "Always mine, neva' anyone else's," she thinks, stroking at his bared chest. Immersed in the pleasant scenario, she manages to barely register as the guard methodically strips the flesh from her back and legs until her blood flows in rivers to pool and stain the stone floor beneath. The beating ceases suddenly, and draws her back to the present. Her gaze finds two new pairs of legs standing in the doorway of her cell, and softly spoken words in Karsh land on her ears. She strains her gaze upwards in the dim lighting and freezes. Her father is just visible, the keen glimmer of his eyes taking in the bloodied form of his daughter and a dark smile twists his mouth perversely. A bare movement beside him arrests further thought as Adianna takes in the sight of a young kestrel warrior, dark and very like the tribal leader beside him. Then, the young male's eyes meet hers, blue as his sister and father, but echoing back her own visage. And she screams, the sound her torture could not elicit, her will shattering into splinters of irreconcilable pain. *** Jolen comes to with a start, the blanket of night still weighing heavily on the world. Too long, I slept too long, he chides himself. Pushing onto his feet, he darts around his camp, dousing the dull coals and collecting his belongings. The breakdown of a camp is second-nature to him now, the steps returning to him from the years of pitching camp, only to being forced to move out at a moments notice. Nothing is left behind, no signs are left that would be discerned by the untrained eye.... Adianna. Pack shouldered, he checks his water flagons, finding them empty. His eyes close and he raises his beak into the air, his senses altering to vastly enhance his olfactory capabilities. He sniffs at the mild breeze, once, twice. There. He smells the mellow scent of riverbank mud and vegetation. The flagons drop back to his hip and thump together hollowly, each one drained almost entirely. Soon the water is replenished from the stream nearby, fortunately still in the general direction that his destination lays. ... Adianna. The pace set for himself is brutal; Jolen is spurred onwards by the tremor he felt in her scream, the agony. Torturing her, they are torturing her, his subconscious echoes back at him constantly. These thoughts permeate every moment he is awake, and through his dreams. I never dream, he continues to think to himself, now it is all a nightmare. This, along with his desperation to find her, robs his sleep nightly; he wakes earlier, two-three hours here, an hour more there.... Adianna. Before his rest each night, he delves into the suffering he sensed from her, the razored strips criss crossing his back and legs evidence of a of a lashing, perhaps with a flail or a whip; his wrists and ankles pulse, the sensation of peeling flesh tell-tale of shackles, used to bind and suspend. He focuses on his pain, but finds himself returning to the need he felt for her. Even with the roll of years, he finds himself shocked at how easy it was for him to dismiss everything, even Sharay. I am not in love with Sha... I never can be, Jolen muses, unsurprised at the revelation. She.. I still love her. Oh, Adianna... what have I done? *** She reached out once more, stretching and straining within her mind as she tried to reconnect to the energy she could still sense in her core, yet a wall shielded it from her and it remained inert despite numerous attempts at grasping it. With a hiss of frustration she flings a goblet against the cavern wall, the pottery shattering into rough shards and splattering red wine across the stone. A low laugh sounds from behind her, the amusement laced with a dark tone of malicious enjoyment. Adianna slowly turns to face her father where he stands, clothed in elaborate ceremonial garments and bracing his weight against his spear. She smiles slowly, returning the vicious enjoyment with her own hatred, thinly disguised behind painted lips. "Fatha', I could na' imagine you would miss the evenin', na' with such wond'ful enta'tainment planned. My humilation befo' ma' own son. What have ya' turned him inta'?" Her final words drop the posturing and hiss out in a scorching tone filled with her anger. Her father merely gives another chuckle and turns, leaving her in solitude again to wait. Adia collapses against the wall, her anger leaving a hollow inside. Unbidden images rise behind her eyelids...times she had tried so hard to forget. She had repressed and locked them away, now they washed over her, taunting. Khor and Latai, two beautiful and unexpected blessings that had melted away the bitterness harbored from Jolen's defection. Laughter had never been a part of her life, but the twins were irresistible, and she found her own laughter joining theirs. She had tried so hard to protect them from the ugliness her own childhood had been. Their gentleness was such a far-cry from what she had known among the Karsh...she would never allow that to be spoilt or their innocence robbed. Her days with them, secluded deep in the Everwoods had been a life she had never dreamed possible for her. Adianna smiles unconsciously even as moisture escapes her eyes to slide helplessly along her dark cheeks. Khor's smile had twisted her heart, so much like Jolen's, and yet his joyful nature was his own. Khor who had looked at her yesterday with no pity or remorse at seeing his mother shackled and beaten. He had stood beside her father in all the pagan splendor of the Karsh...and this life she had wanted to protect him from had drawn him down to its breast. Her sobs were wrenched from somewhere deep inside, dry now, tearless agony for the children she had birthed and lost. *** Five days. The miles have blurred together, but he is aware enough that it has almost been six days since he left Sable behind, the hurriedly written note to his mate, Sharay, swiftly becoming a faint memory. Jolen drinks when his body absolutely requires it, eats the same; his honed psionic abilities maintaining his body far beyond the the point of exhaustion of a normal man, let alone one of his years. Camp is struck and pitched without a second thought, fire made and food cooked hurriedly, racing to find scant rest and to dream. The dreams do not change; anger, fear and most of all, pain, categorize his sleep. It is in his sleep when the fire of his rage dims, and the calculating chill twined about his core douses the heat, bidding him to consider, to think. She must be captured.. overwhelmed.. she is held by great force, the inner voice whispers to him silkily, Caution. Plan. Consider. Execute. His years as a Lovite leave to him a broad range of methods to rain suffering on her captors; his youth shows him how to cleave a path towards her holding place. They will not hold her for long; he is resolute. Deep into the sixth night, he sleeps again. Again the cold voice helps arrange his thoughts, his plans. It guides him and his body into maintaining himself at his peak, forcing rest and rejuvenation on the biological level. Warmth begins to grow, in his lucid state he senses the chill voice lessening and returning to its place of waiting. The warmth spreads wings, flaming like plumes of silver and grey fire. They fold around his dreamself, charging him; love, adoration fill him. The sentiments from a bygone time recently rekindled, but for the first time focused. The warmth instructs wordlessly, its tone an ancestral tenor reaching back generations. He learns war and battle, the javelin thrusts from his hand a hundred times, a thousand times, guided until perfection is attained. He feels the rage and anger cool, becoming like steel in his hand, a weapon. The chill too, cools further, encasing him in its lessons, armor. The warmth teaches Jolen how these things in tandem will save her. He shall. Before waking, the warmth recedes, still there but not as apparent. It leaves him with the sense of hope, for the first time in decades, it is genuine. The gift is held tightly to the age worn kestrel's breast. Epiphany strikes him, rousing him completely from his sleep. Dawn breaks on the sixth day. There are many miles left still to go. He has hope. He needed it. Looking off into the direction he last sensed her, he makes a decision. Closing his eyes, he focuses, channeling his entire being into the forefront of his Mind. With a primal roar, the pent up psionic energy courses through him, flying from him and affecting the camp around himself palpably. All of the energy drives a single thought away, towards its intended recipient. "I am coming. Hold fast." *** The airy tinkle of music drifts into the room, carried in from the main room where ensconced torches light the perimeter of an enormous gathering and a central bonfire blazes green and gold in the brazier set down into the floor, the licking tendrils sparkling as they are fed in new colors by the powdered minerals periodically cast across the flames. The scent of roasting meat and heady wines mixes with the harsher odors from the burning wood and incense. A backdrop to the pleasant music, the rumble of kestrel voices fills the air, and nimble, dark-feathered bodies weave in and out as they mingle in the cavernous hall. The eastern floor is occupied by an assembly of elven musicians, their skilled fingers drawing out the hauntingly beautiful tones, punctuated on occasion by the lower clank of the shackles that secure their ankles, ensuring there will be no escape attempts made. The short, stocky figures of dwarven folk can also be made out as they blend into the predominantly kestrel crowd, carrying platters of food and drink to the hungry mass. Their steps are carefully taken, inhibited also by sets of iron manacles. Adianna's mouth curls in disgust as she watches the scene from a curtained doorway, a number of Kishvite slaves fluttering behind her as they tuck and pin and paint the last minute adjustments to her garb. Their shortened stature and pallid feathering marks them as slaves more clearly than any chains would. Adia spares them a brief glance before turning back to the half-veiled room. A guttural command from the alcove behind her signals a flurry of movement as the Kishvite kestresses are dismissed and disappear down the adjoining corridor. "Ha' lovely you a' lookin' this evenin', Adianna." "I look like a whore, an' you a' fully aware o' that fact. I ha' no doubt this is part o' yo plan ta break me. Yo realize that requires me ta be breakable? You think I still ca' what you do ta' me?" The tall kestrel steps around her to block the doorway Adia is looking through, forcing her to look up and face him. The glint of fire in her eyes is unmistakeable, gleaming sharply out of the darkness of her face. Her long crest feathers have been left loose, flowing around her shoulders in a heavy cloud. Elaborate inked designs cover her skin and line her eyes in sapphire and silver, the lines exaggerated to her temples. Tiny flecks of crystal trace exotic patterns along these lines, flaring with pale blue sparks, and a thin chain centers a single cerulean gem on her forehead. Her garments are scant and sheer, bare silken scarves in vivid colors that catch the glimmer of torchlight are looped about her waist and another criss-crossed and tied to cover her breasts. Dripping silver chains encircle her bared midriff, accentuating every movement made. As her father lays a hand on her arm, she jerks away, turning from him to step out into the bustling room, his mocking words follow her out, "Ya will provide enta'tainment one way o' anotha' Adianna, the choice is yo's." Her chin rises stiffly as she works her way through the crowd, raucous caws of approval rise from several male throats, and hands reach out to boldly grasp at her hip. She glares fiercely at the brazen kestrels surrounding her, fighting her way through to the front of the room. She watches as her father makes his way to a recessed lounge, reclining against several luxurious pillows. His cruel gaze sweeps her form and he waves a taloned hand, "Then dance fo' us, Adia. If you will'na be a' seer, then you can ce'tainly enta'tain us. Dance." Beside him, Khor looks up abruptly, seeing Adianna there for the first time, his brow lowers and he glowers as numerous cries of encouragement are voiced. Setting her teeth, Adianna closes her eyes and allows the music's low throb to fill her blood with fire and movement. Her father meant to humble her, she would not allow him to triumph. Instead her mind swept the crowded room from her thoughts and she found herself on the beach. Reclining in the sand before her, Jolen looked up with lazy, half-lidded eyes...and she danced for him. Passion lent seduction to her movements and a flush of heat through her skin as she swayed and twisted, feet striking a heady rhythm on the floor. Suddenly her vision shatters as one thought blazes its way into her mind "I am coming. Hold fast." Her lips draw back from her teeth in anticipation; lust, hate, longing fight a battle for control over her expression. A low snarl rips from her throat. Her movements stop, body shaking as she absorbs the force of the psionic projection. Crows of protest harshly proclaim disfavor as her dancing stops, and one brazen male jumps out, his hands mauling her chest and pulling her body onto his thigh as he wrestles with the scarves, ripping them free of her flesh. The clan leader stretches his legs out lazily and his mouth presses into a sneer as he raises a goblet of wine to sip languidly. Absolution Ch. 02 Still warm. Jolen withdraws his palm from the ashes and coals left in a shallow fire pit, sitting on his haunches as he studies the trampled grass and upturned soil; the dying embers indicative of a recent camp. Flattened greenery mark the places where the camp's members lay out under the night sky, three distinctive spots with scraps of food, oil stains and the occasional black feather collect in small piles at the ends closest to the hastily constructed fire pit. Curled wood shavings mark one of the three sleeping areas as different. And as expected, another stretch of crushed grass encircles the partially shaded copse; a track where a lookout strolled back and forth for hours on end as their compatriots rested through the night. The scene speaks clearly to the practiced eye drinking in the details; a patrol of no more than four men, kestrels by the discarded plumes found about the camp. Barely disciplined, they have left many clues as to their actions over the night, making no attempt to hide their passing. He considers them armed with passable weapons for no one would waste weapon oil on poorly constructed arms, no matter how cheap the gritty oil is that has pooled in some places. Weapons of metal. Perhaps swords and maces. An axe. These things do not capture his attention long, not the same with the shavings of wood. At least one of the camp's former inhabitants can handle a blade well enough not to lose a digit or marr themselves horrifically. Certainty rears its face in the bearing of the patrol and their camp's remains: they are confident in their mastery of the area. They patrol as ordered, part of the day's work for anything more complex than a band of brigands, but do not feel as if such precautions are necessary. This theory becomes ironclad as Jolen traces the direction the patrol took late in the morning, to the southeast. In the her direction. This realization brings fire, then ice to his veins, his knuckles glowing palely as he grips the shaft of his javelin tight. Shouldering his shield, he takes the javelin in both hands, broad, leaf-shaped blade pointed low as he crouches and glides through the undergrowth, into the forest after the confident patrol. He moves wordlessly, pulling his breaths through his mouth and out again to lessen the noises he is making as he pursues his quarry. Only the tattered hem of his cloak makes a sound, betraying him nearly inaudibly as he moves, snapping as he strides further into the wood. Masked by the noise of forest life, Jolen presses onwards. The hours pass, two, three and finally four before he smells and hears the signs of another camp ahead. Perhaps a couple hundred feet, the patrol has stopped for a late afternoon rest and meal. Coneys roast over a fire, fat spitting and hissing and throwing the savory scent of meat, catching the forest breeze and carrying it away. Their laughter even at this distance leaves no doubt as to the raucous nature of these men, livened in all probability with wine or other alcohol. The cloak's hood is pulled up as he crouches closer to the ground, knees bent as the javelin is held before himself, shifting and sliding closer to the camp. Leaves whisper below his feet, crunching quietly as he carefully makes his way, his gaze scans his surroundings, hunting the lookout he knows is present. Pausing, Jolen closes his eyes and casts about himself psionically, the varied pulses of life blooming in his mind as he seeks his prey; four barely sentient minds coalesce out of the teeming multitude of the forest's natural denizens. Three are clustered in the direction he believes to be the location of the camp, while the fourth moves away from the others, eventually pacing around the forest. Coming towards me, he realizes with a slow smile. He readies himself, ducking near the semi-exposed roots of a centuries old tree. A full fifteen minutes passes before the sentry comes into view. Raising a leather flagon to its mouth, the guard does not see Jolen watching him drink and almost stumble through the forest. Dressed in black, stained clothing, a simple leather breastplate is the only discernable armor the kestrel wears, his wings emerging through the back of his garments. At his side, a scabbard and a short sword hang carelessly, a hatchet hooked over the front of his weapon's belt, also appearing worn and neglected. Jolen grows cold as understands what has truly happened to the mother of his children and one-time consort: Karsh. The realization snaps him into action, the psionic energies pent up focussing and then releasing in a murderous and brutal thrust into the mind of the unsuspecting sentry; blood pours from the sides of his head, spraying violently from his mouth and nose as he dies in an instant, back contorting and breaking with a sharp crack of bone and ligament. Turning his attention back in the direction of the camp, its continued noise and laughter do not betray alarm or realization of the sentry's demise. The hatchet is ripped from the dead kestrel's weapon's belt and his held in his fist as he rushes quickly towards the encampment, his passing barely stirring the bushes and vegetation of the forest floor. Again unnoticed, he finds the men at camp, cooking and chattering to one another in thick accents, "Fuckin' show dat were, eh? Boss knows how ta throw ah party for 'is boys." A rude gesture is shared and the laughter erupts again. "Wonder if lieutenant got 'im a whole piece offa dat bitch dancer. Fuckin' psycho bitch were a piece o' ass, e'vn fer a older whore." Snickers are shared, Jolen's grip on the hatchet grows tenser as he listens, the understanding deepening. "Heardtell tha' whore be boss' own dau'hta." Adianna. He knew her father to be a cruel chieftan among the Karsh, described as a sadist and maliciously petty man who saw women as cattle for breeding and not much more. The hatchet left his hand in a nimble throw, his steps following closely behind it, body flushing with biological chemicals and stimulants as he slung off his javelin and charged into the camp. One of the soldiers was mid-laugh when the hatchet blade caught him, burying itself through the right side of his face, splintering bone and cleaving flesh. The impact of the nimbly thrown weapon picked the already dead man and threw him backwards, away from the fire. The distraction prevented the remaining men from drawing weapons to ready before Jolen's cloaked form swept into the camp, the broad blade of the javelin thrusting clean through the sternum of the closest man, tearing through in a fountain of blood. With a twist and a jerk, the second kestrel hemorrhages blood and gurgles a pathetic cry, bringing the final man out of his stunned state, drawing his dagger and rushing his unknown assailant. Pulling the javelin head from the ruined chest of the Karsh warrior, Jolen parried the first attack and followed it with the snapping of his wingtip in the face of the final patroller. Both men circle one another, one glaring murderously at the other; the other bewildered and shaken at the quick deaths of his fellows. His eyes glance away into the trees quickly, loathe to leave the short statured demon before himself. Gothen must have heard that, he thinks, confident that he could still survive the attack. "The skirmisher is dead." The warrior blanches at the words, shuddering at the apparent reading of his thoughts. Desparate, he attacks with another series of thrusts and cuts, crying out with each strike. Several times he is certain he has the stranger, only to miss by a feather. Jolen smiles to himself, flushed with the adrenaline and sensation of hot death at his hands, parrying and dodging the comparatively clumsy attacks leveled against himself. Slash, thrust, slash, slash. The attacks come more slowly as the strength drains and is replaced by weighty sensation of exhaustion and fear. Jolen's eyes narrow as he decides the encounter is over and parries hard, throwing the younger Karsh warrior off balance. With a clean thrust, the javelin spits the skull at the temple, killing before the ichor covered tip exits the other side. With another twist and jerk, Jolen pulls the javelin free from the twitching, dead Karsh. He observes the devastation around the camp, everything sprayed with blood, its smell mixing with that of offal and innards. He sets to work policing weapons and obscuring the traces of the fight, this too performed with a well-practiced hand. Later on towards the evening, Jolen pulls his pack off, opening it and preparing a cold meal. His mind processes the events of the day, the understanding at the true situation Adianna is in and how short the time is before he finds her. It will not be a simple matter; much danger lies ahead as the presence of her father can potentially precipitate a large gathering of Karsh warriors and camp followers. Perhaps this is too much for the lone Sparra, as experienced a warrior and as powerful a Psion he may be. A presence, he decides to himself. He must cut an impressive figure to shock initially. Perhaps this would be enough to buy precious moments with which to rescue her from bondage. He preens meticulously through the night, deciding on a change of plumage, as well. His birth plumage. The violet feathers dull quickly and soon are pushed out as soft, shiny bold brown feathers take their place across his body and wings. He gathers up all of the plucked and fallen feathers and shoves them into his pack, but not before removing one of the few things he had brought on this journey. Silver glimmers in the night light, the metal inlaid carefully into stiffened and hardened black leather. Shaped carefully and fitted to his head, Jolen's war helm is turned over in his hands. Decades have passed since he has laid eyes upon it, much less handled it or worn it. His hands rake the flowing crest of red feathers, taken from the wings of many Shoku warriors in the wars of his youth. He produces a small jar of thick oil, fragrantless but potent as he daps a little onto the leather and begins to work it in. Signs of use become more apparent as a healthy lustre is returned to the helm, scratch and nicks adorning the brow of the helm, the vertical slits like lightning bolts available for his eyes frame the extended leather beak that is intended to cover his own; too embossed completely in silver. Once satisfied, Jolen dons the helm, the lower half exposed to the world. He has already removed the majority of his garments and has hidden them with the rest of his pack in the roots of a tree near the scene of his recent fight with the patrol. Now he refastens his belts and cloak securely, his loin cloth of black tied tightly about his groin and waist. He admires himself briefly in a shard of mirror before he picks up his javelin and shield, his belts laden with confiscated daggers, knives, shortswords and hatchets. He cannot be more than half a day from the main camp of the Karsh. No more than a handful of hours before finding her. A relative moment in his long life until he can face his regrets. He does not sleep that night, awake with anticipation. Finally napping before high-noon, Jolen deadens himself to the world for no more than two hours before rising once more. He sets off in the direction he last sensed Adianna and is soon rewarded with further tracks made by other Karsh patrols. A grim smile creases across his thin lips as his pace quickens, onwards towards the coming dusk. *** Cold...so very cold. Her arms clench around her body as she tries to suppress miserable shivers. With her inability to connect with her psionic powers, she cannot even use that to warm herself. Adianna lowers her forehead until it rests on her knees, naked body hunched over to conserve what small amount of heat she can. The dank stone beneath seems to leach it away as fast as her metabolism can produce it. Fingers feel stiff and wooden with the cold, and legs have long since grown numb, as she lay through the night . Events of the previous night play back to her over and over, a lurid, painted scene splashed across the back of her eyelids. The message from Jolen...he was coming, but why? How had he known and why did he care? It had been years since they last had any contact. His face rose, unbidden, in her mind -- the lines well-known to her as she once traced them nightly in her dreams. The strong curve of jaw and beak, thin lips and his blue eyes beneath a low brow. The world where he walked beside her had been one of safety, justice, harsh...but Adia would take harsh over cruel. She raised her head long enough to glance around at the empty stone chamber, silent but for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling overhead. She had danced, lost in her memories of him, remembering a time when dancing had been a pleasure...her movements intended to arouse and excite. Last night was no such time. The kestrel warrior's talons had left bloodied furrows on her ribcage and back as he ripped silk and skin indiscriminately. Their fiery touch overlaid the barely healing wounds from the whip's caress. Looking down, Adia eyes her worn body, noting all the signs of ill-use and neglect. She wondered idly what Jolen would see when...and if...he arrived. The slender build from her youth had filled in a bit after the birth of the twins. Her plumage lost a bit of it's lustre from weeks spent hidden in the forest. Scars and wounds latticed the flesh of her legs and back. With a snarl, she pulls her mind from the trivial thoughts and focuses it sharply on her rage. Rage at Jolen for deserting her to raise their children alone...rage at his easy change of heart as he took a new mate with her place in his cot barely cooled...rage at the lies and blustering that had kept her in Sable while Karsh raided her home and stole her children...anger for the long years that had passed without a word from him or any attempt to locate her...fury for the current situation that brought him riding in like a white knight...humiliation that she would need his saving. Saving... She closes her eyes once more, seeing Khor's face, his eyes blazing as they had when he had ripped the warrior off her last night. A vicious blast of mental energy had laid the kestrel on his back, unconscious. She couldn't help but smile slightly, a bit of pride rising in her at the skillful display from her son. He had protected her. True there had been no touching reunion. Khor threw a cloak at her and ordered her to leave the room. Adianna shudders slightly, recalling the look of fury on her father's face at Khor's defiance. Would he have Khor punished for the actions? No...Adia grimaced bitterly. He would not overlook an opportunity to involve her in the proceedings. If Khor was to be punished, he would ensure she was there to witness it. The click of a taloned foot in the stone passageway drew her from her brooding thoughts. One of her father's bodyguards entered and crossed to drag her up off the stone floor by the her crest. Her snap of beak was half-hearted retaliation, he released her to stand on her own and she collapsed again, her legs unable to support weight. The guard yanked her upright once more, waiting while she stamped her legs to return blood flow. When she was able to limp along after him, shuffling her feet on the stone, he brought her to an open chamber where her father waited, reclined with a number of his war council. The others he dismissed when she arrived and the guard deposited her before disappearing as well. A crackling fire hissed and spat in a brazier by the wall, and she huddled close to it, urging warmth back into her limbs. "You ha' been fa' mo stubbo'n than I had hoped. Yo know I looked a long time fa' you afta' yo motha' ran off an' took you with ha'. It was na' a life you eva' had ta lead. A' wanted ya hea', beside me in comfo't, guiding a' people in battles. The blood voices spoke ta' you, an' we havena' had anotha' seer since you left. Let us fo'get all o' this anger and unpleasantness. Come back an' it will all be ova', you will be Karsh again." Adia's sneer is quick and mocking, "You think I would return ta' guide yo' bloody wa's an help you spread the misery ya' inflict upon all the peoples you ha' conquered? Slaves, that's what all o' us a'. An' my motha' was Kishvite, have you fo'gotten that? Na' I'm done bein' a piece o' yo army." Akmah nods slowly as he watches his daughter, seemingly unconcerned by her rebellious reply and continued refusal. "Alright, then ya' leave me na' choice. Khor is a fine warria', his mind powa's were an unexpected talent, but he canna' commune with the blood voices...but maybe his sista' can." Adia's eyes flash open wide, "Yes, a' hadna' fo'gotten about yo daughta', we took her along with him. O' she is vera' much alive. An' if you willna' stand as seer...p'haps she will." Adianna's scream of rage is shrill and savage as she launches herself at her father where he is seated. The bodyguards arrayed beside him subdue her with some difficulty as she lashes out with beak and talon. They finally manage to drag her to the ground and clap manacles around her wrists. Akmah watches in mild amusement, "If ya' feel that strongly about it, daughta', then dunna be sa' stubbo'n, dunna fo'ce ma hand this way. " Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she murmurs, "Alright. You win." Absolution Ch. 03 Drums throb relentlessly, a heavy rhythm that works its way into your head. No ethereal elven flutes this time, this was the music of the Karsh...war drums. The cavern was once again filled to brimming with the flashing black plumage of the Karsh warriors, no female or slave was visible amidst the painted masses. The drummers form a semicircle at one end of the room, and torches flicker, casting their golden light on the floor. Within the halo, stands the clan leader, and beside him Adianna waits. *** Coppery and rich, the thick blood arcs and splashes across the wall and ceiling, the savage blow that had nearly taken off the head of the guard now driving founts of ichor as he died wordlessly. Two more charge in, swinging hatchets and screaming battle-cries half-heartedly. So many dead by this beast! one of them thinks as he closes and hacks at the cloaked figure. He feels his blow miss and he turns his head in time to catch Chorak's face crumpling as it is stoved in by a blow from the beast's shield, the edge shattering beak and bone underneath its hard edge, arrow shafts protrudding from its surface. Pressure and a horrible pinch come next, the force of both robbing him of his breath and lifting him from his feet. Soon, the floor stops his movement and his bowels release, Chunik is dimly aware that somehow he had been struck as well, Chorak he can see is dead and another guard has rushed the figure, now screaming like a calf, hands grabbing at his middle, as the broad blade of that terrible spear emerges through the dark leather armor of the Karsh warrior. Quick as a whisper, the blade is pulled back through his body and the other kestrel joins Chorak and Chunik, amongst others, dying and dead on the floor. Oblivion consumes Chunik as well, his last thoughts of the impossibility of it all, attacked in his own camp... and finally.. of the dice game he was to join in an hour. *** A hush falls and the drums silence as Akmah raises his hand and addresses the tumultuous tribe. "We da' Karsh a' a mighty tribe. We conquad a' enemies, the Kishvites an' thea' chillen' ha' been a' slaves fo' ten gen'rations na'. We fight an' we shed blood, we loot an' enslave those who try ta' stan' aggin' us...an' we triumph. We. A'. Karsh!" A screeching cheer, hundreds of voices strong, rises into the air and echoes back in thousands as the cavern amplifies the sound. Akmah silences them once again as he continues. "Yet in all this glory an' blood, we have lost many warria's, strong males who could ha' driven us ta' greata' glories. Not like in the days when a' seer led us inta' batte... but na' we will be led once agin'." With a flourish, he presses Adianna forward and she looks out of the hectic press of bodies, her smile is mocking and scornful, but she holds her tongue and stands before her people in stony acceptance. The drums take up the exultation once again, blending with theululating cries of the warriors, the clash of spear and scimitar against shield, and the stamp of taloned feet. From the shadowy mouth of the northern tunnel, two Karsh emerge, dragging between them a young Kishvite kestress. Her piercing shrieks of terror ring shrilly above the beat. Adianna shuts her eyes, teeth grinding together as she tries to block out the sounds of revelry and bloodshed. Hands lashed behind her back, the child is bent over the breadth of a large stalagmite, the top has been cut down and the inside chiseled into a large trough. The cries are lost in a hideous gurgle as the razor edge of a knife slashes a gaping maw in her bared throat, and the arteries pump her life blood out into the stone basin. Latai's age, Adia shudders inwardly and cries soundlessly for the Kishvite, though her face remains a neutral mask. *** The javelin has been used time and again since he had entered the camp; the Karsh so unfortunate to be the first he encountered lay twisted here and there, thrusts of killing psionic energy having shredded their minds. Others split open by fire and heat, the agitation of their bodies and organs too much for their paltry mortal frames to bear. Now he conserved and replenished his psionic energies, his shield and javelin are drenched in blood and other ejected fluids from the Karsh he slew ruthlessly. Brutes, no more than thugs, had never seen pitched battle and the wholesale, indiscriminate death of their comrades. Women, cowed old men and children had born the brunt of their savagery, broken peoples who had never had the wherewithal to stand against them. Now, Karsh warriors died in droves as he stalked the tents and alleys of the large encampment, threading his way towards the hall ahead. *** The executioner dips a roughly hewn bowl into the blood, the blood filling it and glittering eerily in the fire's light. As he thrusts it into Adianna's hands, the overflow runs in warm rivulets down her arms, staining her talons a gory red. The heavy scent reaches her nostrils and she recoils, fighting both nausea and the undeniable seduction. Flashes of memory assail her, multitudes of similar ceremonies in which she had been a willing participant. Thrusting aside any further recollection, Adia throws her head back and drains the bowl. Blood thick and hot rolls across her tongue, rushing in a rich torrent to sing through her veins. *** She must be there, he thinks, killing a man with a blow through the base of his neck; his back had been turned as he looked frantically around, rousing to the confused call to arms that had been slow to spread. Jolen had attacked mercilessly, force of his initial penetration carrying him into the camp on a tide of horror and shock, no organized counter had been formed as he continued to strike and cleave into the inexperienced bandits before himself. As potent as he was alone, Jolen realized to have a chance at escape, he would need to reach Adianna and free her, arming her in the process; the steel links of the whip he had scooped up jangling against the the blades and handles of the multitude of arms already hanging from his belt. *** Her breathing hitches into a ragged panting and pupils dilate, her vision exploding outward, saturating the room in a vision of crimson and scintillating lights. The faces of the living blur before her and auras blend one into another, her focus shifting and tilting as hordes of spirits creep from the shadows, those dead and the echoes of those who soon will be. They groan and wail, throwing themselves towards her and filling her senses with their weeping. Everywhere...they were everywhere...reaching out skeletal arms and tearing at her, trying to pull her down into their midst, into the cold depths of death's realm. Arms spread wide and talons bared, Adianna screams her warcry, the wild tone rending the night, piercing the living and dead alike. Fighting back with a frenzy of will-power, she thrusts at the ghouls and skeletal visions. Their heartbreak washes over her, wave upon wave of sorrow capturing her mind, dashing it again and again against the fangs of her own regret until she thought they would drown her, suffocate her beneath the grasp of a thousand Karsh kills. Their blood fills her mouth. *** A raucous scene greets his eyes as the cavern opens up to scores of shouting warriors, crying out towards a raised dias; a cavorting, dancing kestrel woman stamps her feet and swaying to the drums beating. The noise dies suddenly after a few moments, the stranger in their midst acknowledged, the scrape of talons are heard over squawks of surprise as some men back away to stare at the blood-drenched figure. Observing the crowd from beneath his hood, he strides forward. There. Dark and haunted, but still beautiful, Adianna sways over a basin of rich red fluid. Near the basin's foot, a young dead kestrel girl is sprawled out, her malnourished hands and arms stretched to her torn throat. *** Desperately she threw herself into the dance she had performed a hundred times as a child. Her body bent and leapt, shaking and writhing, twisting and convulsing as she dodged the gaping maw of death. Their empty sockets and grinning teeth glared back as she fought with sheer will to dominate and enslave the spirits as she had before, crowing her domination, "I am Adianna de Karsh...I am Karsh. Dunna fo'get who brought you to yo knees, dunna' fo'get the sound o' my war cry." She forges onward, her steely focus cutting a swath through the overwhelming odds. "Tell me, children o' death, who is ta die by a' hand? Speak an' fo'tell, who will we be victorious ova'?" *** Moving towards the dias, Jolen raises his hood and stands before her, her gaze fixes unseeingly on him, wide-eyed and blind to his presence. Reaching out with his mind, Jolen searches for some recognition, but as his consciousness brushes her own it is filled with a rush of emotions...fear...absolute terror bleeding from her in waves. He calls to her telepathically, the barely detectable spark of her psyche alarmingly weak and growing fainter by the moment as her hold on reality dwindles. *** The diminutive form of the Kishvite child steps forward from the rest, her body ghostly pale and drained of blood as she looks up at Adianna, "I did...why? Why did you kill me?" She whimpers and Adia cringes back. Another and another step forward, driving her with their accusations, burning coals that scorch and sear at her grasp on the living realm. As her focus and confidence wavers, they flood over her, dragging her down, down...deeper into the void until tossing and tumbling she loses her way out altogether. Every way she turns, the faces of her children grin back mockingly from the corpses surrounding her...and Jolen. *** He had not come this far to lose her, and the tenor of his grasp in her mind grows forceful, demanding that she recognize and return to him. A brief flare as he shuts his eyes and thrusts deeply into the void that threatens to swallow her, reaching out with all his might, he finds the flickering tendril of her awareness, wrapping himself around it protectively and pulling. *** She searched the crowd before her..."Jolen?" Was he dead then? His call was strong in her mind, dragging her slow inches back towards where the light must be, even as the blood spirits clung to her limbs. *** A fierce struggle ensues as the sucking hold of whatever entraps her pulls back, warring with him for possession of the kestress. With a final burst of determination, he wrests her from its grip and draws her with him to the surface. *** Harder and surer the pull becomes, until her eyes open from the crazed trance into the reality of a silent cavern. The Karsh are frozen in shock. *** Adianna gasps, panting like a drowning victim as they cling to dry ground. She rubs shakily at her face as though banishing the nightmares before glancing across at the dead slave and then raising her face to him with a look of desperation. A single word passes his thin lips, his gaze filled with sorrow, regret and yet... something kind and affectionate.... *** Looking up slowly from where she kneels, naked and trrembling on the floor, she finds a solitary figure standing before her, his cloak thrown back from his face. "Adia." *** The flowing red plumes of the helm shake as it is pushed up, the cheek guards resting on the aged warrior's forehead. His shield is slung back over his shoulder, his hand grasping the javelin around the middle of the shaft, blade towards the ground. He continues towards the trembling form of the pressed seer, repeating the name fully, charging the syllables with tendrils of energy and will, "...Adianna..." He reaches her and slowly settles upon a knee, his shield hand reaching up to wipe away at her face, her eyes and forehead. Fingertips and talons stroke against Adianna's temple, warming to the touch, as he locks gaze with you, ".... Adianna." Telepathic connections reform, long severed pathways knit tenderly as a warm wave of psionic and spiritual energy builds. A great weight of regret and sorrow is held behind the powerful relief and joy that roils through the connection. As it deepens, images and memories begin to course through; passionate embraces between the two, numb conversations with another kestress, a young, brown feathered kestress adjusting spectacles. More and more make their way through, both becoming oblivious to the others in the cavern. Even Akmah, half risen from his seat, is in shock at what is transpiring. "Come back," the husky, accented voice asks of Adianna. Jolen's eyes appear to be searching, as if deciding what to do next. The answer is clear as he leans closer and presses a kiss against her open mouth, soft yet full of meaning and want. *** "Enough!" Akmah roars, finding his voice at last and breaking the spell Jolen's appearance cast on the assembly. Leaping forward, two warriors level their weapons at the couple. In one fluid movement, Jolen turns, driving the head of his javelin through the thorax of the foremost attacker, severing his spinal cord. Before the second can react, he thrusts brutally with a psionic blast, crushing the mind of the warrior and dropping him mid-stride. Reaching down, he grabs Adianna by the arm and pulls her up, pressing a chain whip into her hand and snapping, "Weakness must wait, on your feet." There is a breath of pause and then, with Akmah shrieking them on, a veritable tidal wave of Karsh warriors pours over them with a harsh flap of raven feathered wings. Jolen caves in the face of one kestrel, pummeling it with the butt of the javelin, using the rebound to slam the blade into the throat of another. Blood sprays and cries of pain resound. Behind him, Adianna pulls herself together in time to lash the chain whip, snapping the neck of a warrior about to impale her upon his bardiche. She spins nimbly, finding Jolen's back amidst the turmoil and pressing up against it. Swinging the heavy weapon about in a blurring circle, she snarls in satisfaction at the brutal snap of limbs and the pulpy *THUNK* as she catches a skull, spraying brain matter across the room. Reaching back blindly, to find Jolen's belt, she gropes until her hand closes around the hilt of a bladed weapon. Drawing it, she slashes out beneath the the arc of her whip, stabbing through the palm of one before twisting the blade to slice across the unprotected face of another. A brief reprieve comes as the last of the immediate attackers falls, piled upon the corpses of their comrades. The others fall back a moment, reassessing the stance of the pair and collecting themselves for another assault. Adianna sucks in a burning breath, a wound along her ribs bleeding and sending fire through her body with each inhalation. Jolen glances at her over one shoulder, taking in the weariness they both exhibit, and the overwhelming number of tribesmen still standing. "Hold!" His voice rings out with a command that gives the tribe pause. Jolen pushes away from Adianna and his gaze drills into the figure of Akmah, standing a safe distance back from the conflict, his face an ugly contortion of fury and blood lust. "Why do you send your warriors against me and stand back like a coward? Face me yourself, or prove to your people that you are unfit to lead such a warring tribe. What victory have you ever achieved of your own strength?" His tone is mocking and derogatory as he seeks to enrage the leader further. A brief mental touch proves that he is successful. Akmah screeches at the brazen outsider, and looks ready to fly at him, but he checks himself and Jolen's hopes sink as a sly smile stretches the chieftain's lips. "Ahhh, but I would enjoy nothin' mo', believe me. Yo head will sit on yo own spea', impaled ta' stan' as a decoration in this vera' hall, an' I will po' yo blood down yo mate's throat. But, thea' is someone hea' with mo' claim ta yo' life than I." His eyes narrow in cruel enjoyment as he gestures behind him, "Khor...say hello ta' yo' fatha...an' kill him." From beside Akmah steps a young warrior, glistening black plumage unbroken by any other hue, his eyes aquamarine slits in his face. He stands slowly, the barest tremble in his hand all that betrays any emotional reaction as he takes a single, fluid stride to meet Jolen. The other warriors fall back, their faces alight with delighted anticipation. *** Flashing scimitars cut viciously and hatefully through the air as Khor charges his father, Jolen bracing himself for the onslaught. Stance solid, the aged kestrel flips the javelin butt first at his son and rocks forward just as the first blow swings in. Feinting with the butt of his javelin, Jolen insteads throws all of his weight behind the shield, dealing a crashing blow into the oncoming youth, throwing him back several yards. The young kestrel is nimble, though, and tumbles onto his feet, pouncing towards Jolen. A feint with the butt of the javelin becomes a real blow as it strikes Khor soundly on the sternum, standing him up. His face is a snarl of pain and hatred as he hisses and circles towards his father. "You are as your sister described you," Jolen says lowering the butt of his javelin towards the ground, his guard lowering just a touch. Khor flinches at this, his focus faltering as he mutters, "Ya dunna' know nothin' about her...o' me. Latai neva' wanted ta be' pa't o' the tribe." His eyes carefully assess Jolen's defenses, and the alien whisper in Jolen's mind alerts him to a psionic intrusion as the boy tries to pick the next strategy out of his thoughts. Khor whirls toward Jolen, ducking beneath the javelin's trajectory and taking a swipe at Jolen's right arm, opening a wound along the bicep before dodging back. Wings unfurled to their full span, he stalks around the older kestrel, waiting for another opening. Adianna stands back, her hands helpless at her sides as her frustrated gaze follows the two figures narrowly. She takes half a step towards the pair until the menacing hiss of a warrior beside her warns that interference will not be allowed. Gods, what sort of outcome was she to anticipate from this...either way, someone she loved would die. Her own use of the word love in conjunction with Jolen was not a train of thought she bothered to examine, pushing it out of her head as her once lover and her son circle one another. *** Strike and parry. Slash and block. Counter and charge. Father and son circle one another, battling amidst the expectant crowd, bloodthirsty and certain of the outcome of the struggle before them. Jolen moves and strikes defensively, omitting the use of the killing end of his javelin, scoring stinging blows against his son; a smaller duel of psionics ensues between the two, the elder being clearly more potent and experienced, while the younger is wild and untrained, but inheritor to vast reserves of power. All the while, Jolen senses the waves of fear and trepidation coming from Adianna. This must be tearing her apart, he thinks, blocking another blow from Khor's scimitars, catching the edge of another across his left thigh. Above this all, Akmah retakes his seat, grinning madly at the sight below. His eyes cast towards Adianna, his mad grin transforming into a triumphant expression. I's beat you, the look seems to say. He takes up his goblet once more and pours more wine down his throat, slopping it across his cheeks messily. I cannot kill my own son, Jolen muses as his eyes dart in all directions, his options limited by the murderous onslaught of his estranged child. A brief moment passes and an idea strikes Jolen, just as Khor attempts to, as well. With a mighty buffet, Jolen throws Khor back once more, sending the boy sprawling. A fluid movement sees him throw off his plumed helm, casting it in Adianna's direction, following it with an expectant look. Be ready, he projects towards her, turning back to see Khor rise, dagger in hand. Absolution Ch. 03 Time slows to a crawl as Jolen brings his javelin about, deadly blade brought back into play. He is drinking again. His vision is obscured. I will at least free him and her from this monster, he decides with a fatalistic sense of acceptance. He projects to Adianna once more, I love you, Adia. I am sorry. The aged Sparra warrior lets loose a throw with his javelin, he has never thrown truer, with greater certainty or conviction. The weapon flies, keen as a blast from the Aether and slams into the reclined form of the exulting chieftain, the power of its flight causing the blade to emerge halfway from his back and send him tumbling backwards off the dais. He never has time to draw another breath as his death is instantaneous, face frozen in mortal shock that is his last emotion. All movement stops as every eye in the cavern turns to the corpse of Akmah, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth and spilling from his chest to pool on the stone floor. Khor recovers in a matter of moments, tearing his eyes from his grandfather's dead face. He leaps, wings outstretched and war-cry shredding the silence, spinning in mid-air, scimitar cutting a precise path towards Jolen's neck. With no time to react, Jolen only closes his eyes, resigned in the knowledge that Adianna and Khor will be free of this tyrant. A sudden, mind-numbing surge of energy erupts from Adianna behind him. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, she manages to send a single, erratic blast of power through the mental barriers that block her abilities. The attack blankets the room, incapacitating the minds with a brutal psionic flare. Khor stumbles, fumbling his weapon which lands at his feet, metal clashing against the stone. The Karsh clutch at their temples in pain and confusion. Grasping at the momentary diversion, Adia reaches out for Jolen, taking his hand she drags him after her pelting down the nearest tunnel. Jolen pants, shaking his head to clear it from the mindthrust and hurrying to keep pace. The whoops and screeches echoing from the near darkness behind them warn that the Karsh too are recovering and in pursuit. Weaving her way with a sure certainty, Adia counts the tunnel openings under her breath, turning to take one. A breath of cool, night air sweeps over their faces, and they duck down into the shadows. Doing her best to stifle the heavy, ragged gasping for air, Adianna crouches low, dashing for the relative safety of the forest with Jolen closely following. As they reach the treeline, she straightens and together they disappear into the woods. Absolution Ch. 04 The first flickering glimpses of a pastel dawn eat away at the night sky, leeching out over the vast plains and and casting a subtle, warm glow over the water of a small lake. Deciduous trees rim the waterline line a verdant fringe, trailing vines cast curious tendrils down the shallow banks. Woodland creatures congregate in the sand, taking their last refreshing drink before creeping away to sleep through the brighter hours. One inquisitive chipmunk stops off the way back to his burrow in order to investigate the sight of two figures, entwined in one another's arms where they rest, invisible to the casual eye, beneath a thick copse of azalea bushes. So warm, and strangely at ease, Adianna presses closer to the source of her comfort. The ground seems to shift beneath her and something soft and heavier than a blanket wraps around her back and shoulders. The scent of sandalwood and Jolen fills her nostrils. Opening one eye she glances up at the male kestrel whose embrace she is deeply ensconced in. His chest rises and falls rhythmically beneath her head, the steady heartbeat setting a soothing tempo. With a heavy sigh she presses her forehead to his chest, their cot felt oddly more spacious than usual. A tender brush against her mind gave her pause, until she realized that it was only Jolen reaching out in his sleep, ensuring she was there and safe beside him. Her fingers rise to caress his cheek as she responds to his mental touch with a soft flood of contentment and reassurance. A small smile steals across his lips as his arms and wings tighten around her snugly. Despite the relative serenity of of the situation, something was irritating at the back of her mind, some point of interest that wanted her attention. Closing her eyes once more, Adianna reaches inwards towards the residence of her psionic powers, but the attempt is in vain as she finds herself unable to connect. Again she presses inward and again she meets with a cold resistance. Panicky now, she quickly reviews her memories, relieved to find them intact. A hasty catalogue of events leaves her shaking, tears threatening just below the surface, the unstable feelings vacillate between grief and rage, the latter finally winning out. With a hiss of anger, she throws herself from the cocoon of feathers, snatching up a discarded blade she whips around, straddling Jolen's waist and pressing the knife across his throat just as his eyes sleepily blink open. *** "I was wondering if this would happen," Jolen murmurs in a half-whisper. His eyes slide shut again as he tips his head back. "You have every right to vengeance.." He reaches up and rests a hand gently upon Adianna's hip, the other touching her knife arm, directing it closer still. He inhales deeply and exhales, his ultramarine eyes slide open, peering back up at her. "Perhaps in death the weight of my sins will be lifted. I doubt it." Adianna's enraged gaze fixes on Jolen, her jaw clenched, dark form silhouetted against the rising sun as she crouches over him. The restored connection between them enables Jolen a front row view to the intense struggle that the set expression on her face hides. The blade she holds is steady in her hand as she pushes it up tightly against Jolen's throat, forcing his chin to rise. Hate flashes in her eyes and beneath the surface, a dark well of longing churns, whipping her emotional state into a veritable hurricane of confusion and indecision. "I did not come for you, for me... I love you, Adia, and I always shall. I have since the day I turned you away." Jolen shakes his head slightly, the blade scraping against his throat, cutting a thin line. "I came so that you could live and see her again. That is all that is important to me. That Latai know her beautiful mother.. to share time with her.. she deserves that at least from us. From you." Adianna's struggle takes on a new face as the overwhelming desire to see her daughter again rises in her, fierce and painful, pressing it back down she shakes her head, "I canna, not with a full tribe o' Karsh on ma' heels. I could neva' put ha' in that kind o' danga'. I *will* see ha' agin', but it will haf' ta wait. Is...is she...what is she like?" Her expression grows wistful, the anger seeping out of it until she merely looks tired. The knife blade leaves Jolen's throat and the worn woman rises, moving to curl up disconsolately across the hollow from him. "Always damned dirty, that girl is. But very beautiful. Sounds exactly like you. And a chatterer. And important. She helps run a museum. Always on her digs, always in her scrolls." Jolen smiles fondly and adds, "She has the gift of magic in her. The potential for Templarhood. And.. a future worshipper of Herastia." Adianna's brows soar, "Herastia?" She mutters something under her breath in a half growl and half laugh, "Well, we know that pa't werena' from me." "Family is important to her. So very important." Jolen watches her. He presses his thin lips together gently and continues, "I know she does not need a father. But you.. I know she could always use her mother." The loud snap of a branch sends both of them pressing into the ground, breath hitched to a halt in their chests and eyes wildly scanning the woods around. A hesitant deer steps from a copse of trees and both draw breath again, hearts still pounding with the scare. Though a false alarm, it sends Adianna into action, pressing aside Jolen's words she replies, "P'haps she does, though she ha' gotten along all these yea's without me...a've neva' been much o' a motha'. I werena' meant ta raise a family, ta' love an' be loved." She gathers up the chain whip and a pair of daggers, tucking them into her belt. "It's time fo' me ta move on, sa' stay o' go...it dunna make a difference." But it did, and Jolen was acutely aware of the clammer inside her mind, the part of her that was holding its breath, and praying he would follow her. Ignore her words and insist on accompanying her...and another part that was petrified he would. Rising fluidly, Jolen speaks, "Come. I know of a place we shall be safe for a time." He shoulders his shield, raising an eyebrow. Her brow lowering into a glower, she hesitates, finally give one brief nod, "Alright, though dunna think I willna' change ma mind an' kill ya." That said, she slinks out from beneath the bower, "I canna' abide all this stink an' blood, We have a time fo' a quick wash." She dumps the weapons beneath a bush on the bank of the lake and her single garment lands in the last dry spot before her body hits the water. Submerging, her form disappears in the dark water of the forest lake, barely a ripple betraying where she was. Long moments pass before her head breaks the surface again, crest feathers streaming out behind her. Resting his cloak and helm near the cache of weapons, Jolen removes his garments and strides into the water. He fans his wings out, the scar along his spine shimmering. He calls to Adianna, "Was that for me to do as well?" She tosses her head, droplets of water spraying and catching the light like a frosting of diamonds in the air. She glances back at him, her hands scrubbing the water over her skin, careful to remain mostly hidden beneath the water's covering, "Ifn' ya want an' can be fast. Dunna have time fo' a leisurely bath." "Hmm? Oh. Yes," he replies, distracted by Adianna's still alluring form. Appearing sheepish for the briefest of moments, he follows her onto the shore, snatching up his clothes and rewrapping them. His plumed helm is rested on his forehead, keeping his face exposed as he ties his cloak around his neck and shoulders, frowning at the worn hem of the once striking looking garment, now stained by the road and ichor. He slings his shield across his back and rests his hands upon his hips, watching the dark woman ready herself. "Whea' a' we headed?" Her eyes take brief sidelong glances at Jolen as he dresses, a flash of ardor rising in her mind that she works hard to ignore. The long, chain whip she winds about her waist and slots the blades of her daggers through the links, "We a' gonna need ta find some supplies along the way ifn' its much o' a trip. An' it betta' be, na' place aroun' these hea' pa'ts will be safe." Pointing off to the northwest, Jolen starts moving, "Eight days or so.. the forest there is old.. the scene of many terrible things." He reaches back at her with his free hand, beckoning onwards. "Come.. I left supplies about half a day onwards."