Livna bat Sheol

Ceallach stood in the dark, moonlit hallway as he pulled out the small wheel-cross medal he wore chained about his neck.  He reflexively ran his fingers over its surface for luck before stuffing it back beneath his collar. He then pulled out a small embroidered kerchief, feeling reassurance from it’s touch and fragrance before tucking it back beneath his collar as well. It was for the woman who gave him the cloth he had come, his Sephira.  It was for that angel he now willingly faces this demon.

Breathing deeply to steel his resolve, the warrior withdrew his enchanted sword, it’s own soft glow adding to the light of the moon that streamed down through the high, narrow windows. Clenching his fist to crack his knuckles and loosen the tight flesh of an old scar beneath his glove, he relaxed his hand and reached out to push open the immensely large, ebony doors. They open of their own accord just before his fingers pressed against their black lacquered surfaces, the noise of their ponderous movement sounding like the deep rumbling of distant thunder. Knowing there was no turning back now, he entered into the demon’s lair.

The warrior finally looked upon his long-sought for nemesis, but was utterly baffled by what he saw. He had long suspected that she would be female, from certain clues that might otherwise be easily overlooked. That this woman was a creature from the outer planes, he was sure, and hardly surprised. But nonetheless, he was not prepared for her actual appearance.

He had prepared for something old, withered and inhumanly ugly, or at the very least bestial, but not this. She was beautiful, unearthly so, inhumanly so. Tall, almost six feet in height, she had flawless white skin, alabaster, like pure marble. Her hair was long, full and white as snow, worn unbound and loose. Her eyes had neither pupil nor iris, but were completely white, like two large pearls drawn from the sea. Her entire body, every last bit of skin and hair looked as if it was wholly without shade or pigment. Except for those full, pouting lips. Slightly darker then blood, they were the color of a deep red wine, and they looked maddeningly soft and wet.

He could not bear to look at her face for long. Not because it was hideous, that would have been easier. But it was the beauty of it, the intense sensual beauty of it that infected his soul with doubt and hesitation. It was as if every line, curve and angle conformed to some pre-set ideal of perfection in his mind. The lines of her body alone caused the warrior to grip his sword tighter in his hands so that his fingers bit into the heel of his palms, fighting off the shadows of unresolve.

Her manner of dress concerned the warrior greatly as well, for she wore so little of it. Her entire arrayment was made from a shiny, black leather material. The top consisted little more then two slender straps, positioned in such a manner to cover nothing more then the nipples of her ample breasts. These two straps met at her throat, where they wrapped around her neck like a collar, slit at the front. A ring of pearls acted as a linchpin, keeping the front secured together.

Her lower body was bare except for a very…ill-concealing loincloth, also of black leather, skin-tight with very slender straps, knotted at either hip. Apart from this, she wore nothing but supple bracers that stretched nearly up to her shoulders, covering the entire length of her arms and the middle two fingers of either hand . Her legs and feet were entirely naked. A cloak draped across her shoulders and down her back. It looked to be black silk upon the outside lined with crimson underneath.

Two quite fierce-looking and muscular hellhounds lazed about around her feet, their ebon skin highlighting the orange-red glow of their narrow eyes. He musingly noted that the slick, black fur concealed more of their bodies then their mistress chose to. She stood on a dais made of obsidian, ringed with slightly glowing runes etched in gold and silver. The entire chamber was made of pure obsidian, that blackest of stone. Veins of some red mineral, like blood, snaked throughout the room.

A quick glance around made him guess that the architecture was likely quite intricate and baroque, but much of it was lost to his eyes in the shadows. The only illumination in the room came from a large, linear fire-pit set up against the back wall, just behind what looked like some hellishly ornate and jagged-looking throne, covered over with many soft looking furs and pillows. But other then the two fell beasts, the demon seemed to be alone.

Ceallach supposed he should be aroused by the highly sensual nature of this scene, but to be honest, it filled him with unease and dread. From what little he knew of this creature, she was ancient, powerful and had overcome many foes in her time. Yet not a single scar nor blemish troubled that terribly white skin. If this was how she dressed for battle, then obviously no one before had ever managed to get near her.

She did not even have a weapon visible upon her, and certainly there was no place to hide one. Surely, her weapons must not be any made of steel or iron. A sorceress, then. Even worse. A fully armored man with a pole-axe seemed a preferable thing to face at this point. That, at least, was something he was more accustomed to. He had his fill of tricks and mind games.

Even more disconcerting was the fact that this demoness seemed perfectly at ease with an armed and obviously hostile intruder in her home, sword drawn and at the ready. Her eyes moved slowly as they took in his measure, blinking with a languid disinterest. Unlike this demoness, the warrior had come dressed for battle.

He wore a sleeveless shirt of green dragon-scales. Over this was draped a tattered and bloodstained forest-green and wolf-hair trimmed tabard adorned some heraldic device, likely his family coat of arms. Under the scales could be seen a padded white linen tunic. Three bronze-studded brown leather belts circled his waist, one of which held a scabbard. His leggings were black leather, with a boiled black leather cod and guards on his thighs. Dinted metal greaves covered his knees, shins and boots.

He had lost the dark green wool cloak with the brown wolf-pelt lining and collar that she had seen him with earlier in her scrying crystal when he had first entered her home. The green-scaled helmet with the downward curving horns was gone as well. His black hair was mixed with silver, worn long but pulled back in a tight braid. Brown leather bracers etched with the same device on his tabard protected his forearms, while chainmail sleeves dangling from iron shoulder-guards covered his upper arms. His brown leather gloves had bits of lobstered plate along the back of his hand and over the fingers.

His armor was well made and functional, but largely unadorned. Clearly this was a man whose profession was to kill the enemy quickly, not to impress them with flashy colors or ornamentation. And judging by both the quality and well-worn appearance of it, he had made a good living doing just that.

 

 

Without saying a word, she turned around and walked down the back side of the dais, headed towards her throne. The silken cloak swished to the side at the movement, exposing her virtually naked back and buttocks.

Ceallach could not decide whether this whole affair should arouse, unnerve or insult him. He wondered if the woman even knew if he was there, or worse, if she just didn’t care. The hellhounds did, however. Their eyes never left him, even as he slowly circled wide around the dais, sword at the ready.

“You do realize I am here, don’t you, demon?” He says.

“Yes.” Replied the woman, without turning. When she reached her throne, she turned and sat down, holding her cloak to the side so as not to sit on it. She rested an elbow upon the armrest, her chin upon her hand as she regarded him.

“And you know why I am here?”

“Yes. You wish to penetrate me.”

“Aye, with this longsword.”

She laughed, a sound both sensual and eerily sadistic. “My, you certainly do have a high opinion of yourself.”

“You think me unable to take you, demon?”

“I think you mean to try. I just do not think your sword is as long as you would like to believe. But then, that is a flaw most men fall prey to.”

She smiled coyly at him, then bent down to pick up some discarded pieces of fabric. Stretching one piece, she shook it out before raising a leg and hooking her knee over the armrest of the throne. She moved her other leg outward and to the other side, giving her guest a better view as she leaned back into the thrown. Raising her hand up and out towards the warrior, she let the gauzy fabric hang down.

“Care to help me finish dressing?” She asked, licking her lips as she raised up her foot off the armrest of the throne. “Or do you prefer me this way?”

Ceallach narrowed his eyes at the woman, trying to figure out what her game was. He looked over to the ebon hellhounds. They have not moved from the dais, although the heads are turned around completely backwards, still looking directly at him. The sight of the unnatural position of their heads upon their necks filled the warrior with a sense of horror.

“Suit yourself.”

The woman sat upright before leaning forward to slide the material over her foot. Raising her calf straight up into the air, she pulled the translucent and seemingly shredded material down the length of her leg, adjusting the hem of the stocking at her mid thigh. Putting her foot back down in front of her, the demoness took another length of the material and slowly slid it up her other leg as well. When she was finished, she ran the fingers of one hand down her inner thigh, feeling around for something. The demoness then moved her hand back, pulling out a long strand of white hair from the material, before flicking her fingers to drop it to the floor.

Given the bulk of the obsidian throne, Ceallach had to move directly before her in order to not to be blocked by it’s mass. He did not like the position, as it placed the hellhounds at his back. Even now, he knew they were looking at him, their damned unnatural necks craning far beyond what should have been possible. The woman reclined back into the furs and pillows of her seat, draping her arms on the rests and spreading her legs wide.

“I am ready for you now, my champion. Take me. That is, if you think your sword is…long enough.”

Her mocking smile is more then he can bear. He has tolerated her taunts for long enough. Certain that he will feel hellish claws and fangs in his back at any moment, he charges forward, literally leaping at the demon on the throne. He plunges the sword straight down into her chest, right over where he hoped her heart might be, assuming demons had hearts.

The woman did not make a single move to stop him until the last second. But even then, her only movement was to catch the sword tip in her right hand, grasping and holding it like an iron vise. The demon’s strength was incredible, far beyond what any human could have mustered, let alone a mere woman. Without any real effort, she absorbed all the energy of his forward momentum, holding the sword’s point less then an inch from the flesh of her left breast.

The woman did not even show any strain on her face, still smiling coyly, milky white eyes still languidly half-closed. But the warrior Ceallach was nearly thrown into her, barely managing to hold on. Though he was winded from the sudden impact of the unexpected counter, nevertheless. He did not relent however, with muscles taut, veins bulging from his neck and teeth bared, he forced every ounce of will and energy he had into forcing the blade into her damned chest.

But it was to no avail. He could not break her inhuman strength. The demon laughs softly, slowly blinking her eyes at him. “It seems your sword isn’t quite long enough, after all.”

The woman raises her foot, slowly sliding it up along his leg and inner thigh, playfully stroking her toes over his loins until finally resting it upon his stomach. Then with a power he could never hope to match the demon drives her leg out and into Ceallach’s midsection, ripping the sword from his grasp and tossing his body several feet backward onto the ground.

The woman, still holding Ceallach’s sword from the tip, twists her wrist and grabs the blade just under the hilt with her other hand, examining it’s workmanship. She runs her fingers down it’s length, stroking the mirror-like chromatic blade.

“My, my. Alchemically purified mithril. Engraved with Enochian runes and imbued with both arcane and divine enchantments.” She raises her eyes to look at the fallen warrior, now splayed prone on the ground before her, only barely conscious.

“Wherever did you acquire such a thing?” She gets up from her seat and casually walks towards him, tossing the sword away after losing interest in it. She reaches up to her throat and undid the clasp that held her cloak. It spilled to the floor, making only the barest of rustling sounds, looking like a pool of black and red ink.

The warrior opened his eyes, and from his vantage point on the ground, he can barely see the two demonic hounds at the edge of his vision. They are still sitting on the dais, still looking at him, still not moving, their heads still craned in an impossible position. He closed his eyes for a moment to steel himself up to move. He rolled over onto his stomach, feeling the heat and pain of the bruise from where her foot threw him.

He tried to rise, but is pushed to the floor again by a massive and irresistible force pressed down between his shoulder blades. The demon stepped on his back with that same delicate white foot that had tossed him across the room and then hooked it underneath his chest, flipping him over as if he were nothing more then a pillow. Stepping over his waist, she stood directly over the man, straddling him. The woman looked down at Ceallach, gazing for a good long moment as if she were still deciding what to do with him.

The demoness squatted down and sat directly on his lap as she slowly inclined forward, resting her elbows on either side of his head, letting her hair and breasts fall upon his face. The full scent of the woman was overpowering, like lavender and other florals, with hints of things he could not even begin to identify, but that still filled him with an unnatural ardor. Even at his strongest, Ceallach knew he didn’t have the strength to throw her off of him, but still he tried, grabbing her by the waist and struggling to move her. All his efforts managed to do was elicit girlish giggles from the demon as she began to grind her hips into his.

“Gods, woman! What is the matter with you? Why are you doing this?” A breathless Ceallach demanded.

“You would ask me this?” She responded, sounding genuinely surprised and confused. “I do this because I wish to.” The demoness’s pearlescent eyes are inches from his own as she looked directly into them. “Like the scorpion said to the toad. It is my nature, silly.” She stole a quick peck of a kiss upon his lips, then took another longer one, this time taking his lower lip between hers, nibbling at it with her teeth.

She pulled back after a moment and cocked her head, arching a delicate white eyebrow. “You know, you are much more handsome then the last one they sent after me.”

She chewed on her blood red lip in a strangely girlish fashion as she looked up, remembering. At least, he thought she was looking up, it was hard to say with those blank, white eyes of hers. “I think,” she said after a moment, as her hand reached up to her throat to undo the pearl clasp. “I think he might of had a drop or two of orcish in him.”

Pulling at the leather straps over her chest, she shrugged out of the thing, whipping her hair as she tossed it away. Her naked breasts hung full and maddeningly close to his face, the perfectly formed nipples almost as milky white as her skin, with just a hint of blush to them. Sitting back and upright the demon strips off the long bracers from her arms as well, saying as she did so, “I don’t like orcs. They are quite ugly,” She looked at him, seeking agreement, “and they just smell so baaad!”

Flinging the last bracer at one of the hellhounds, it catches on the thing’s snout. The dog flicked it’s head a few times, trying to get the bracer off, sneezing afterwards. “Don’t you agree?”

Ceallach closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, waiting for an opening, an opportunity to either escape or strike. Though at this point, he was not sure what exactly he could do against her. He was told she was cunning, powerful and extremely dangerous. But he had no idea he was going to face a creature such as this. He felt the need to constantly remind himself that she was a demon, an evil monster from the nether realms of the Abyss, from Hell itself! And yet her body was so perfect, so soft, warm, fragrant…

The woman inclined again atop of him, kissing him passionately. When she did so, the man could feel his resolve slipping, as if his very will was draining out of his body. She pulled away from his lips and lowered her mouth to his ear, whispering indolence and sin to him as she licked the lobe and ridge with the tip of her tongue.

“There are far worse ways to die, you know.” She whispered to the warrior as she positioned her hips as if to mount him. “Battle, disease, old age…” The demoness took one of his hands and placed it upon her stomach before forcing it down between her legs as she grinds against his palm and fingers.

“What better way,” she gasped breathlessly, rising up to make better use of his hand, “to leave this world of pain and misery…then with a rush of lust…a climax of ecstasy!”

Ceallach’s will seemed to break at that moment, as he reached up with his other hand to grasp her breast. “Yes! Yes, man. Give it to me, your essence. Spill your soul into me!”

The warrior can feel his tension rising and his soul fading as the unhallowed passion swells within him. He reached up further with both hands to her face and pulled her down to kiss him. She relents willingly, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. With every kiss, with every movement of her tongue he felt both increasing lust and weakness. It was as if he was burning off his very soul in the flames of passion.

“Come with me.” He said after the passionate kiss. “Come with me.”

At this the demoness laughed, “And where shall we go, my lover?” Kissing and biting at his neck as she worked the buckles of his belt.

With his right hand behind her head, his left withdrew the small dirk given to him by the priest from it’s sheath hidden in the right bracer, said to be blessed by an ancient demon-hunter.

“Come with me, back to Hell.”

“No, my love. That is where y…”

At that moment, with the blade withdrawn and pointed at the base of her skull, he thrusts it into her neck, down to the hilt with all the strength he had left. Her final word melted into inhuman screams as her eyes and mouth went wide, pouring blood down onto his face. Almost at once, the pure whiteness of her skin began to turn blue, then an ashen grey, until it was finally black. The skin wrinkled and cracked apart as her face contorted into a hideous visage of putrescent death, the eyes bulging out of their sockets. Her lips, once so red and moist, now turn black and withered before his eyes.

It seemed as if her entire skull was being forced out of her mouth as the lips pulled taut, stretching backwards like that of a long dead corpse. The teeth of the demon, now fully exposed, seemed to grow out like spikes from her jaw. All this within a matter of a few seconds. A glowing green mist began to pour like smoke from her mouth and swirled around them. The hellhounds sat up and begin to howl pitifully, as if in great pain. Soon the bone dry and withered corpse of the once beautiful demoness dropped on top of the man, crumbling to dust and bones.

Ceallach threw the thing off of him and immediately scrambled for his discarded sword. He knew he had only a few seconds, and he was right. Even before he reached his enchanted blade, the first hellhound slammed into him, the force of it actually pushing him closer towards his weapon. Still focused on reaching his sword, he could hear the snarling of the hounds and feel their teeth bury into the flesh of his legs, tearing right through the leather as if it were old parchment.

He threw himself the last few feet and just managed to grip the pommel with the tips of his fingers when the hellhound on his leg began to drag him back away. But it was enough. He yanked the sword’s handle into his palm and closed his fingers around the grip. With a supreme effort he swings the sword from where it lay, sweeping it over his own twisting body to smash right into the temple of the dog at his leg. The edge cut into the ridge of it’s brow, slicing deep into bone and destroying one eye, its fiery glow extinguished. The thing half yelped and half screamed as it retreated, pulling itself free from the blade’s bite.

The second dog went for the wrist of his sword arm, closing its jaws like a clamp around the unarmored hem of the glove. Blood squirts out from around its teeth as it crushed through leather, flesh and bone. Screaming in agony Ceallach dropped the sword, but almost immediately picks it up with his left, pulling it back before thrusting forward, prying the sword’s tip between the thing’s upper teeth and his wrist. The hound let go of it’s grip and the warrior used his now free forearm to wrap around the thing’s neck and drove his sword down it’s gullet.

The hellhound could not even howl in pain as the blade was driven into it’s brain. Black blood spurted out of the wounded maw, splattering on the warrior and the ground, sizzling like water on a heated skillet.

The first hound returned, lunging for his face. It was all Ceallach could do to protect it. The hound snapped down on his wounded wrist and forearm, twisting and slashing it’s head violently as a normal dog would do. Jabbing a finger into it’s wounded eye, the thing yelped loudly and retreats. Ceallach tried to free his sword from the now dead hound’s skull, but it had bitten too deeply into the bone.

Fearing he did not have the time to wrest it free, he looked around for his dagger. He saw the corpse of the demoness and got up to run to it. But his torn right leg collapsed under his weight and he was forced to crawl. Suppressing his disgust and horror of the thing, he rooted around her remains, desperately looking for the dirk he used to kill her. He heard the growls of the remaining hound only seconds before feeling it clamp down on his ankle. As the thing began to violently twist around, shredding leather and flesh, he spotted the blade where it had fallen out of the demon’s neck a few feet away.

He had just enough time to grab it before he was dragged back. The hound was ravaging his ankle so fiercely, he absently wondered if he would ever walk on it again. Holding the blessed dagger tightly in his left hand, he twisted his body around and tried to sit up so as to reach the infernal dog. He slashed wildly at the thing, but it remembered the sharp, glowing man-fang and darted backwards out of his reach.

Ceallach half laid and half sat where he was, bleeding and feeling increasingly light-headed. The hellhound crouched in the shadows, with only one glowing eye visible in the inky darkness and the unnaturally low growling giving the warrior a constant reminder that he was not done yet.

“Out with you, mutt!” He taunted, “Out with you so I can send you back to the flames with your whorish mistress!”

The dog did not move, only continuing it’s low growling. He could feel his consciousness slipping from him as he began to understand that the hound was biding it’s time. Knowing he had precious little left himself, he tried to trick the thing by lowering his dagger and dropping his head forward, feigning unconsciousness. The ploy worked too well, as the hellhound leapt out immediately, and before Ceallach could react, the thing was already on his chest, snapping at his face and throat.

With one hand lame and the other holding the dirk, he had no way to protect himself. So giving up any defense, he went on full attack himself. Again using his wounded right arm, throwing it around this dog’s neck, he head-butted the animal to stun it and tried to punch the dagger’s point into the side of it’s throat. He failed to bury the point, for his right arm could not steady the dog and the creature was constantly squirming and snapping at his face.

Blinded with the profuse amounts of blood pouring into his eyes, he made a wild stab at it once more, fearing he was going to go down before this demon dog. But his final stab was true and bit deeply into it’s neck. Twisting the blade before the thing can yank free, he put all of his weight behind his remaining good arm and pulled downward on the handle, trying to tear out and sever it’s throat. He succeeded and was rewarded with a bath of scalding hot, black blood spurting out across his face, chest and lap.

The hellhound pulled free and turned to retreat, stumbling away like a drunkard to collapse in the shadows, to bleed out what passed for it’s life. Ceallach tried to laugh, but nothing came out. He simply slumped to the ground and passed out himself, wondering if he would be seeing the white demoness again sooner then he had planned.

 

 

The warrior cannot possibly know how much time has passed before he awoke again. He laid there on the cold stone floor, conscious, but eyes still closed, wondering if he was alive or dead. He determined that he must be alive, for either an angel or a demon would have roused him otherwise by now. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. Ceallach wondered what this meant. Had the room gone dark with the death of the fires, or had his world gone dark with the death of his eyes? He didn’t not know. But the only thing he did know was that his world was full of pain.

With a supreme effort, he sat up. His right hand and leg were screaming to his brain in agony. His face, chest, stomach and back were all aching or burning. He felt fevered. And he might be blind. Sitting there for awhile, he began to note things that indicated to him that he was not blind after all. He could see the faint glow of his dagger, and thought he could see the sword off in the distance as well. Looking around, he could just barely perceive the runes on the dais where the white demoness first stood with her hellhounds.

He crawled to his dagger, then slowly to his sword. It took a long time to free his sword from the demon dog’s skull. Giving up at one point, he decided to try and carve off it’s head by cutting through the thing’s neck with his dagger. Starving, badly wounded and in total darkness, his hacking was excessively clumsy. He finally managed to sever the thing’s head, but when he used the sword as leverage to try and stand, he heard a wet scraping noise and felt the destroyed skull of the animal slide down the blade to slap on the obsidian floor. After a few half-hearted shakes, the head came free of the sword completely.

Looking around for the exit, he shuffled about the room. At one point he could feel heat. Looking down, he saw the last of the dying embers of the flame pit. The coals twinkled like faint, orange stars, dying in the stygian void of the heavens. He turned to go, using the faint glow of the sword to guide his steps. After a bit he could see the gold and silver dais runes more clearly, and hoped that if he continued forward, he would reach the doors.

Absently he wondered if they were still open, or if he had enough strength to open them if they were not. But a cool movement of air on his face, as well as the sight of two stars through a window high up upon the wall tell the warrior that he had reached the hallway. Exhausted, he slumped down and rested his back against one of the giant ebony doors. He must have lost consciousness for a bit, because when his eyes snapped open, he could hear the sound of dried leaves rustling in the dark hallway. More importantly, the moon had returned to the point of the window where he could now dimly see his immediate surroundings.

Slowly, painfully, he got up to his feet. He assessed his situation and tried to determine what he should do now. Spying the long, broad stairway, he could remember that they were the way down and out. He hoped nothing that survived his climb up here would still be down the stairway waiting for him. But he thought to himself that if anything in this castle did still live, he likely would not have survived.

His thoughts drifted back to the village in the shadows of Azmaveth Castle, to the church, the priests that hired him, and finally to Sephira. It was for her that he had come here, not for the priests or their gold. He needed to prove to her father and family that he, a foreigner from a distant tribe, was worthy of her hand. That was why he bothered to fight a demon. Gold alone, the gratitude of robed priests, even the glory of the deed could not make him accept such a quest. Only the love of a woman could provoke such madness.

But there it was. He was violated, defiled, tainted. He had tasted the flesh of a creature of Hell. How could he now go back to his love? How could he now in good conscious marry her, let alone share her bed? What unhallowed filth now flowed through his veins? Burrowed through his very soul? No. There was no going back. It was impossible.

He had given his word that he would send the demon in the keep back to the Abyss from whence it came, or die trying. His oath was fulfilled. But he never swore that he would come back if he could, that was just assumed. For gold, honor and a woman. He didn’t care about gold. He already had honor, his own, and he had no need for any of theirs. The woman. Sephira. That was all he wanted. But now that was the one thing he could not have.

Hot tears mixed with dried blood on his shredded and scarred cheeks. He pulled out the blessed dagger, the one given to him by their eldest priest. He then pulled out the red, gold and white embroidered kerchief, the one given to him by his precious lady and wrapped it over the blade, slamming it into the massive ebony door. He pulled off the wheel-cross medal, the symbol of her people’s god, and draped it over the hilt. Touching the cloth one final time, he stumbled off into the darkness down the stairs.

Dawn was still a few hours away when he reached the clean, crisp air of the outside world. Stars burned brightly in the late autumn evening, and the waning moon shed just enough light to help guide his faltering steps.  The horse on which he rode here was nearby, broken free from it’s tether, grazing in the fallow fields that surrounded the keep. He stumbled up to the mount. The smell of blood and unhallowed death caused the horse to shy away from him, but he eventually managed to mount it. He sat atop it, wondering what he should do now, where he should go. East. East was back to her village, back to where he could never again go. So west, that was the wisest course. West. To the sea. To home. Yet another place he did not think he could go.

He pulled the reins and rode back to the main road. Turning his horse west, he rode down it for an hour or two. Perhaps it was more, likely less. For there was just too much blood lost, too much shock to his system. Too much of his essence had already been drained. He was soon unconscious in the saddle. And when his horse veered off the road for some sweet-grass, he fell from it, into the high grasses of the field. The horse tarried for a bit, confused. But the smell of death became too great, and it wandered off.

The sun rose and set. By the time it rose again, the ravens had already had their way with him, they had already taken his eyes and the choicest bits of flesh left from his face. Eventually scavengers pulled the rest of him apart. His gear was claimed by vagabonds within a few weeks. A group of passing monks found the remains, or what was left of them and buried him in the spot of the field where they found him. They did not have much time, so a simple wooden plank served for a grave marker, until that fell over in a storm and was carried off by some creature or other.

No ghost haunted the spot, for no ghost remained. Only oblivion. The peace of the damned.

fin

S.E.F.A.