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--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001. All rights, well, you 
know. Repost and archive to your heart's content, just 
don't charge anyone for it or I'll have to send Harry 
Long after you. You all know the rest of the drill by 
now. 
--------------------------------------------------------

Elijah
by Writerzblocked (writersblocked@aol.com)

***

A story set sometime in the distant past about men and 
women and the domination of both by the god-given 
rights of the ruling class. (MF, FF, voy, control, 
historic, sci-fi)

***

"Dance," Elijah commanded, softly.

At once, silence fell about the huge tent. The serving 
girl dropped her tray to the floor, and even the hard 
dirt seemed to honor the moment as the pottery shards 
shattered and rolled and bounced across it but refused 
to break the silence. She immediately fell to her knees 
in front of him, her eyes shut and her arms shaking. 
"But, Lord, I..."

"You will dance for me," he repeated, his right hand 
moving slowly to his face to brush away an insect. He 
muttered a guttural juuj under his breath and the dozen 
buzzing flies around him suddenly caught fire and 
burned like ember gnats for a half second before 
falling lifeless and smoldering to the ground. Then the 
dirt moved to cover them and the silence returned. He 
lowered his head slowly and his flickering shadow grew 
to fill the entire space between his feet and where she 
knelt on trembling knees. Her hands covered her face.

"Lord, if I may," came a voice to his left, "she wears 
the holt of Arnuul." The elderly puusan fingered his 
own holt nervously. "There are certainly others 
here..."

Elijah squinted as he leaned forward on his throne to 
better observe the small amulet about her neck, white 
bone in the shape of a four-point star. He snorted and 
turned to stare at a small man sitting several tables 
away. Again, all eyes turned to follow those of their 
master...

"Keriivan, how comes a virgin to a whorehouse?!"

The man shuffled quickly across the room until he stood 
beside the girl. "A trifle difficult to explain, Lord," 
he began. "Her father owed me a debt he could not pay 
and she is working for me until we can come to a better 
agreement." Keriivan put his hand gently on her head. 
"I was...unaware of her cuusint until she actually came 
to my door."

"Yet another sign Shwaam has fallen to her knees, 
Naastle, when she allows white within these walls," 
Elijah turned again to his left with a cruel smile. 
"This is indeed the time for those of power to rise."

"If it gives you pleasure, Lord," the older man bowed.

"Oh, no doubt of that, old puusan," Elijah laughed, 
"but now I am in search of other pleasures." He turned 
his attention back to the girl as he chuckled at his 
own humor. Not alone, as nervous laughter filled the 
room. The Lord of the Outlands adjusted himself on his 
throne again and fixed his gaze on Keriivan and the 
girl. "Who is her father and how much does he owe?"

"Well, my Lord, it is...well...it really is nothing 
that need concern you." Keriivan answered with eyes 
down and an obvious quiver in his tone.

Elijah smiled cruelly. "Is that NOBILITY I hear in you 
voice, old whoremaster? Is this the same voice that 
once laughed of procuring girls ten cycles young from 
the mud-plowers for the price of a week's worth of 
water? Or buying and daring to work his own cousin?"

The Lord raised a finger and traced a glowing glyph in 
the air and watched with glee as it drifted towards 
Keriivan. "Is the same voice that owes its livelihood, 
if not its very existence, to me and my fathers and 
grandfathers now telling me that I need not be 
concerned by an ill-conceived contract between two 
parties on my land under my watch?"

Keriivan slowly backed away from the fiery symbol 
dancing in the air as it twisted and reshaped itself 
several times. From every corner of the massive tent, 
none dared speak, but all watched.

"Or could it be that perhaps, just perhaps, your voice 
speaks not for you, but for itself?" Elijah laughed 
long and deeply as the symbol shaped itself one last 
time, blazed brightly for a second, then vanished as 
quickly as it appeared. The room erupted in laughter, 
as Keriivan hid his face with his arm.

"Love?!!" Elijah leaned back on his throne and put his 
hand on his forehead and his entire body shook. "The 
great symbol of Batuul? Yet another sign Shwaam is 
sleeping! When whoremasters lose mastery of their own 
hearts! Come, now, Keriivan, please share with us all 
the day and time you actually discovered a beating 
within that old weathered chest, much less the ears to 
hear it or the key to open it!"

The laughing eyes watched Keriivan, master of the tent 
of whores, as he made his way quickly through the 
doorway and out into the night, leaving behind only 
scattered spots on the ground as he fled. And, again, 
the dirt of the floor moved to reclaim its own.

Elijah lifted his arms and raised his palms to the 
heavens as he watched the man flee. "And there you are, 
fellows - proof indeed that hearts and voices DO have 
legs and can make swift when they must!" he mocked, and 
his laughter was slow to fade.

But fade it did, finally, and the large man turned his 
attention back to the girl who was still kneeling on 
the floor in front of him. Her long black hair masked 
her face as it cascaded down past her shoulders until 
it almost reached the ground. Her arms were wrapped 
tightly across her chest.

"Now," he said firmly as he bent forward on his throne, 
"let us see what manner of woman could possibly find a 
heart in a heartless man and cause a voice to sprout 
legs."

"My Lord, if I might..." Naastle had not risen from his 
seat during the earlier ritual of seeing, but was now 
standing next to Elijah.

"Yes, yes, puusan, what is it?" his Lord replied, not 
bothering to divert his gaze from the woman in front of 
him.

"I do not think it would be wise to press this one into 
doing more than what would be expected of a serving 
girl."

Elijah grinned mysteriously and shook his head. "No, 
dear Naastle, I would not dream of forcing this poor 
girl to do anything she was not willing to do."

"I am very happy to hear that, my Lord."

"Because I expect YOU to do that." The grin grew wider, 
but still his eyes were on the girl, unmoving in front 
of him.

Naastle took a step back, and his jaws clenched and his 
eyes grew dim as he quickly struggled to gauge the 
seriousness in his Master's voice. "I...I mean, I don't 
think..."

"Yes, you do, my dear puusan." Elijah stretched his 
right leg out casually and scratched at his knee. "It 
is what you DO, is it not?"

"But...my Lord... Arnuul!" Naastle's fingers nipped 
nervously at his chin as he continued. "Guuntal sleeps 
not far away."

"Wine and song and silly ritual felled him not long 
past the rising of Chaasm, Naastle, you know this." 
Elijah turned to face his subject, the grin melting 
from his face. "Tell me you fear an old drunkard to the 
Lord of the Outlands. Or shall your newfound voice lead 
you also screaming from my presence."

"Never Lord," Naastle said reverently as he bowed and 
shied away from the large man's eyes, looking instead 
to the serving girl not five feet away. "I simply think 
there are laws that bind even the mighty Elijah."

"Yes, I suppose there are two or three," Elijah 
chuckled, "yet I do not count this among them." He 
turned and cast his gaze at the women lounging in the 
earthen chairs and about the tables in the large tent. 
"And I have had the rest of them so many times I know 
the names of every hair on their worthless scalps and 
can count them in my sleep."

He slowly bent down and extended his right hand to the 
girl. "But this one..."

She sensed his approaching hand and bowed her head more 
deeply and her hair swept gently across the dirt of the 
floor.

"This one is different," he mused as he watched closely 
as the patterns formed in the dirt. "I've not seen hair 
of that length on an Issuul in many cycles."

"If I were to guess, my Lord, I would say Taabul. Or 
Meecha. A caravan from that area passed through here 
not long ago."

"Hmm, possibly, but the patterns suggest to me a half-
breed." Elijah said, as he watched the very earth 
itself flee from her hair, ripples of dirt flowing 
outwardly from its touch like the surface of a pond 
disturbed by a stone, and dust took lightly to the air 
on its own, drifting off lazily in all directions 
before finally forming several smoky columns and 
settling back to earth.

"It seems Shwaam herself refuses to kiss this one."

At his words, the girl gave a muffled cry and buried 
her head in her hands. Naastle turned from the scene 
and frowned while he scratched at his nose, again 
fingering the holt buried in his wrinkled chest.

"Now, now, girl, no need to feel shame for the sins of 
your parents," Elijah reached out to her head, his 
enormous hand casting purple shadows over her dark hair 
in the light of the torches. And as he waved, unseen 
winds tickled the flickering torch light as they moved 
through the room and took hold of individual strands, 
then more, more, until finally the whole of her hair 
was dancing above the ground, weaving in and out of 
itself, the winds finally fashioning it into a dark and 
soft structure reaching high into the air above her 
head. "And Shwaam is sometimes not the best judge in 
such matters."

She gasped in surprise and her hands suddenly jumped 
from her face to her head to examine his work. Freed, 
wetness fell from her still downcast eyes and fell to 
the floor and lay there. Unmoving.

"For Shwaam does not have open eyes to see you have a 
most beautiful face," Elijah continued with a smile. "I 
should rule it a crime to hide such a thing from the 
Lord of the Outlands."

At that, she let out another soft cry and her hands 
immediately fell back to cover her face and her body 
fell forward, bent from her knees, until she lay 
prostrate before him. Her legs shivered and her small 
feet moved back and forth uncontrollably, digging 
jagged paths into the ever-moving earth beneath her.

Elijah frowned as he fell from his thrown to his own 
knees in front of her. "Would that you should hold your 
cries until you hear the sentence for such an imaginary 
crime, child woman," he whispered, as he cupped a hand 
around her face, rubbing his thumb softly across her 
ear. "It might mean wetness of value so far beyond 
tears, that even rich-blooded women would gladly wear 
veils."

But his words did not appear to move her, save that her 
feet stilled, and the dirt moved slowly to smooth over 
the paths. Elijah shook his head and stood to full 
height, and his torch-lit shadow seemed to grow and 
stretch so far in all directions as to blend with the 
more benign darkness in all the corners of the large 
tent.

"The wine is beginning to take my words, girl!" he 
said, firmly. "And I find I am using some of the ones I 
do have left far too often for my liking. I know the 
name of every stone, tree, and worm under my 
protection, but I do not know yours."

"Is there not a name to go with that beautiful face?"

The soft, continuous sobbing from somewhere between her 
smooth, pale hands, remained her only reply.

Finally, Elijah let out a long, deep sigh, and the room 
suddenly became quiet as he once again raised his arm 
and traced a fiery outline with a finger. "What a night 
it is," he muttered to himself as he continued, "when 
dead hearts have voices, but living faces do not."

As the glyph began to slowly twist and wind its way 
down through the air towards her, it seemed to grow 
larger and larger until it settled in the air just 
above her hair. And, when finally it was still, in a 
voice both foreign and familiar, it spoke.

"Meintir, my Lord."

At the sound of the voice, the girl at once jumped 
backwards and let out a cry of surprise, one hand to 
her mouth, the other to her throat. Her face was 
without color, and her eyes wide with fear. "My voice," 
she cried softly through her fingers, as if to herself.

"No, my little woman-child. MY voice," Elijah stared 
down at her. "Do you not know who I am?"

"You are Elijah, Lord of the Outlands," replied the 
voice.

She tightened her fingers around her throat and shook 
her head back and forth violently now, her hair slowly 
tumbling back down around her shoulders. "No," she 
gasped, and her eyes moved up to the still smoldering 
symbol hanging in the air. "No."

"Yes!" he spoke, his brows raising and his lips curling 
with a menace honed from decades of practice. "Elijah, 
Lord of the Outlands! Son of Dargund, grandson of 
Farhund, protector of Undaal, and master of every 
spirit in my domain!" He was waving his arms wildly 
now.

"All spirits save one, it seems, my Lord," interrupted 
a voice from his left.

The large man suddenly turned towards the puusan, and 
his raised arm began a quick, downward arc towards the 
old man...

And stopped to rest on his shoulder.

"All save one," Elijah laughed a hearty laugh. "The 
spirit of the vine, the one cursed son of Shwaam no man 
can master, not even the mighty Elijah." He smiled 
wryly. "But MUST you interrupt my entertainment with 
such old news, ancient one?"

"Only if such entertainment is more for the benefit of 
that cursed spirit than for my Lord." Naastle gently 
grasped the hand on his shoulder and turned his eyes to 
Meintir, who was shivering on the ground now, hands 
still firmly about her neck and mouth. "And the girl is 
frightened far past the point of knowing or caring 
WHICH master she is supposed to be entertaining."

"Ah, perhaps you are right, old man," Elijah sighed as 
he turned his eyes to the girl, "but I have tried every 
spirit - fire, dust, wind, and even whisper - and still 
she refuses to calm." He grinned. "And I am losing 
patience. I think maybe it is time for the young to 
give way to the old."

The puusan sighed in turn as he went back to caressing 
his holt with one hand. "And what is it you would want 
from your servant?"

Elijah's eyes grew narrow as he focused on the girl. 
"She will dance for me."

"Is that all?"

"Now, that would depend on her dance, puusan." Elijah 
smiled, his eyes unmoving, cast over the whole of her 
body. "Will you not dance for the Lord of the 
Outlands?"

"I have never danced, my Lord," it replied, still fiery 
in the air.

Again, she let out a small cry and crawled back, 
falling from her voice. "My Lord..."

"Yes, yes," Elijah sighed, as he slapped a hand softly 
against his hairless head. The symbol twisted twice, 
then tore into a thousand sparks, each wandering 
erratically to and fro throughout the night air within 
the tent, finally rejoining their brethren in the torch 
light, each to its own time. A few of his men stomped 
their feet lightly at the display, joined by the 
drunken giggling of whores.

And in the center of the tent, a lone woman-child again 
covered her eyes and draped an arm across her body.

"Never danced?" The Lord of the Outlands mused quietly. 
"Never have I been one to pry too deeply into the 
affairs of the virgins of Arnuul, but this seems 
strange even for them..."

"Well, my Lord, all you might do is look to her 
hair..."

The large man paused to put his hands to his head as if 
to steady himself, then let out with slow laughter. 
"The music. Indeed, Naastle, that damned spirit is fast 
taking me where I do not want to go. The singing of 
birds and insects and wind, and occasional words spoken 
as one may not be enough to have touched one so young."

"Certainly not as the songs of Shwaam, my Lord," 
Naastle caressed his holt now, and it began to glow 
with a bluish light. "And the priests of Arnuul are 
fairly strict when it comes to forms of artificial 
pleasure."

Elijah cocked his head slightly and lowered a brow 
towards the old man.

"Or so I was told long ago," Naastle smiled, "when I 
cared about such things." His holt was now bright blue-
green in the torch light.

"Well," sniffed Elijah, turning his attention back to 
Meintir. "I am not so old yet, though the night is 
quickly getting there. And I think maybe it is time she 
learned. As protector and nurturer of all within my 
reach, I think it is my...obligation."

"As you wish, my Lord," came the reply, as Naastle 
turned his attention to the girl. "The music of Shwaam 
can even grace the ears of half-breeds if given a 
proper introduction."

"Indeed," replied Elijah with a smile, as he began to 
sit down, his earthen throne growing and shifting to 
meet the needs of the Lord of the Outlands. "And, as 
with many things, let her first be her best."

The old man took a deep breath, tugged at one ear, then 
exhaled - audibly, visually, his breath becoming 
seemingly solid things as it streamed slowly out in 
front of him. First a bird, a large, smoky winged thing 
which quickened and then swept through the air of the 
tent, circling about Meintir twice before coming to 
rest a few feet above her head as she continued to 
shake and shiver and see nothing outside the palm of 
her tiny hand. Then a cloud of crickets, chirping, 
crawling, then bouncing, then jumping to each its own 
rhythm, scattering wildly about the tent. Then a chorus 
of frogs, ungainly and without measure, croaking and 
writhing about in the dirt, hopping in all directions.

"Oh, good one!" Smiled Elijah as he kicked dirt at a 
frog near his throne, chuckling as it passed without 
incident through the green hollow of its skin. "This be 
almost entertainment enough!"

Meintir suddenly let out a small cry as she shook her 
foot to dislodge a frog, then the hand covering her 
face went abruptly to her hair to shake off a cricket, 
her fear of the previous moment apparently replaced by 
the growing awareness of the chaos of nature 
surrounding her. Above her, she could feel the 
vibrations of wings and the night air was pierced by a 
shrill cry, suitably out of tune with the growing 
cacophony inside the tent of whores. Then, as if 
commanded by Shwaam herself, it all ceased.

Save for a soft, rapid, but steady beating which she 
only vaguely recognized, but which grew louder and 
louder and louder until her hands covering eyes and 
breasts moved to her ears seemingly of their own 
accord.

But, it did not stop. All around her now it pounded and 
echoed through the tent and, indeed, through her body 
as well. Her arms and legs felt it now, her chest 
heaving in step with the heart within it, her lips and 
brows shaking slightly with every pulse. She felt her 
feet move on air beneath her, rising, rising, legs 
following, swaying unsteadily at first, then gaining 
composure as the heat from her pulsing heart filled 
them with the energy of the music of Shwaam. Sensing it 
fully for the first time in her life, she let out a 
small cry and opened her eyes.

Her feet were nearly invisible to her, enveloped in the 
eruudi, the breath clouds of the puusan, a full five 
feet above the ground. She gasped as her mind took it 
in, but the heat flowing within her would not let her 
lose her hold. The beating was now steady again, and 
lower, but she felt it in every hair on her brow and in 
every nail on her fingers, a heavenly warmness which 
kept her eyes open and her mind calm. 

Her hands extended slowly out in front of her as if to 
somehow keep and hold an unearthly balance in the air, 
only to be rewarded with two more vaporous extensions 
from the puusan - they grasped each a wrist and gently 
pulled them in opposite directions, all keeping with 
the beating of her heart and the music of Shwaam.

Then, smoothly and solemnly, the chorus of crickets 
began to hum. And, one by one, the frogs ceased their 
wanderings and began to moan in tones both low and 
high. And, from its perch on another floating eruudi 
five feet from her head, the diisti spread its wings 
and began to cry.

And Meintir began her dance.

In the early moments, it seemed her limbs moved of 
their own accord as she watched the clouds take them 
high and low, back and forth, with wide eyes and mouth 
open; she felt her blood warm and her heart whisper and 
her ears speak, but still a part of her was watching 
from outside. Her hair flew in waves of black beside 
her face as she turned her head, and her hips swayed 
slightly, following the lead of her legs, which, in 
turn, were driven by the rush of air which moved her 
feet in small circles, high above the dirt and sand. 
The heat within her body reached outward, reddening her 
chest, hardening her nipples, and she felt a warm wind 
whip softly and gently around the hollows of her neck, 
rising about and caressing her ears, then moving 
between each and every strand of hair as it made its 
way back from whence it came.

And the diisti swept down towards her, hovering within 
arms reach, cocking its head to and fro as it warbled a 
particularly somber melody. And the part of her that 
was watching from the outside, stopped, and looked, and 
listened to the clouds and the crickets and the frogs 
and the bird and the majesty of the music of Shwaam. 
And the beating of her heart. And it reached out.

And she smiled.

And as she reached out to it, the diisti seemed to 
smile as only diisti can, and the eruudi about her 
hands slowly dispersed, forming smaller clouds which 
danced and mingled with each other, all to the beating 
of her heart. She looked down, but the clouds which had 
captured her feet had likewise retreated into their own 
camps, darting and zipping about the tent, but always 
in rhythm. And she smiled down at the barren dirt, now 
twice again as far from her head as her feet. But she 
did not fall.

Indeed, she could not fall. She was one with Shwaam 
now, for the very first time in her life. She felt her 
arms move and her legs move and knew. She felt her 
breasts heave and her lips and tongue moisten and knew. 
She took a deep breath, and felt the fire as the air 
filled her lungs and KNEW. This was the touch her 
mother never felt, the kiss infants know in the womb, 
the caress given upon dying and rejoining. This was the 
dance of Shwaam.

HER dance.

All these things she felt as she closed her eyes and 
tried to focus on the sounds and the feelings. Slowly 
she started, bending her waist, lifting one leg, then 
the other, running one hand up her side, the other down 
her back, tilting forward, backward, all with the 
certainty of one who KNEW. She laughed loudly as she 
kicked both legs up and bent backward, twirling her 
body in the air until she straightened flat out on an 
unseen bed. 

Her hands covered her body, her right moving up her 
bent leg from her ankle to thigh, her left throwing her 
hair above her head, where it continued to move about 
in the air, a thousand different dark dancers sharing 
one foot. She giggled as a hand moved across her 
breasts, stopping to tickle a nipple on its way across 
her belly. Her heartbeat quickened aloud as she arched 
her back, lifted her legs at the knees, and passed a 
hand between her legs. Then again, she rolled, and came 
to rest facing the ground. With eyes closed, she 
continued to caress her body, wrapping an arm under one 
leg and dragging a hand across her breech and down 
between.

And so she danced, for seeming hours without end, lost 
in Shwaam's first kiss. During that time, her ears 
noticed subtle changes in the music, but her heart and 
mind did not care. The cry of the diisti became more 
urgent, and closer also, but rarely did she open her 
eyes, so immersed was she in the dance. But, finally, 
she did and saw that the bird was very close now, and 
smiling again. She returned the smile and did yet 
another twirl in the air, laughing as the bird did 
likewise. Then as she came to a stop, it again mimicked 
her movements and smiled, interrupting its song just 
long enough to fly even closer, a mere breath away now, 
and a drop a purple feather. She laughed again as it 
drifted there in the air, until finally it brushed up 
against her cheek, leaving behind a wetness not unlike 
tears.

Immediately, she felt a horrible burning against her 
chest and the dance was at an end.

"Naastle!" Elijah looked to the older man, exasperated, 
as Meintir's eyes shot open and she quickly pulled back 
away from him, startled, his seed still wet upon her 
face. "Just a few moments longer!"

"My apologies, my Lord, I do not know..." The old 
puusan was still fingering his glowing holt nervously. 
"...perhaps Arnuul. Or the hair."

"Oh, that cursed vine spirit has taken my patience for 
excuses, old man," The Lord of the Outlands glanced 
downward. "Among other things."

"Again, a hundred apologies, Elijah..." Naastle had one 
eye on his master and the other on Meintir, who was 
clutching at her still-burning holt with one hand and 
furiously wiping at her face with the other.

"I do not want a hundred apologies, Naastle, nor a 
thousand." He was attempting to peer through the roof 
of the tent to plead with the heavens now. "I want to 
FINISH!"

"And finish, you will, death bane of Shwaam!!!"

The voice was cold and unwavering as death, and brought 
all talk to a halt, as all heads; guards, soldiers, 
whores, priests and Lords, turned to the center of the 
tent. Meintir again fell forward on her face, away from 
the smell of decay, away from the thing which had 
seemingly risen from the dirt beside her. It was thin 
and gaunt and resembled a man in most ways, except it 
had no eyes, nor ears, nor nose, nor mouth, and a large 
rune glowed beige and brown in its chest where its holt 
might be. At once, five guards jumped from their seats 
across the tent, the ground itself moving at their 
feet, rising up around their legs, past their waists 
and further enveloped them as they moved, until where 
there was once flesh and blood, now walked five deadly 
shrouds of rock and stone.

Elijah put one hand to his forehead and waved at them 
dismissively with the other. "Yes, yes, that WOULD 
explain it."

Naastle sighed deeply and threw up his hands.

"You can not continue to abuse Shwaam in this way, 
corrupt one!" The figure continued, even as the five 
living statues surrounded it. "The time of awakening is 
close at hand!"

"As you told my father, and his father before him, foul 
one." Elijah leaned to rest his head in one hand, an 
arm of his throne rising to allow him to prop his elbow 
upon it. "A thousand times you come and a thousand 
times we send you back."

"And a thousand times more shall I come if there is 
even the slightest chance your sons and grandsons will 
listen to the voice of Shwaam." The figure turned 
towards Meintir, who was unmoving now, and its rune 
throbbed in earthen tones. "This one is a chosen of 
Arnuul. She has cuusint and her holt is strong."

"Ah, but the lust of the Lord of the Outlands is 
stronger," Elijah smiled, his head still in his hand, 
"and you are interrupting my entertainment." He 
gestured nonchalantly with his free hand and barked out 
a harsh juuj. Immediately, the ground beneath the 
decrepit figure began to open.

"Be warned, cursed one!" It yelled as it slowly began 
to sink into the earth. "This one will not be 
forgotten!"

"That will probably be decided by the spirit of the 
vine," The Lord of the Outland muttered to himself as 
he scratched at the back of his head.

"This one knows a purpose and will demand justice!" 
Then the ground closed above its head, and all was 
silent.

"Yes, yes, now go back to sleep with Shwaam for another 
thousand years," Elijah yawned as he rubbed at his 
eyes. "Or frighten the few children who might still 
believe your words have any meaning at all."

"As for me," he continued as he stretched his arms 
wide, "I have unfinished work." And his legs 
straightened, then fell firmly to the ground with a 
force that managed an earthly echo as his feet sank 
ankle deep into the dirt floor, and slivers and sparks 
of brown and red and yellow erupted from the pits about 
them.

As the Lord of the Outlands stood again to his full 
height, the puusan next to him stared at the spot where 
the reenq had appeared and then vanished at his 
master's command. "I knew it could not have been me," 
he muttered quietly as he continued to finger his holt. 
Then he turned to the girl who lay unmoving nearby, and 
his voice raised. "I could make another attempt, my 
Lord. It would be a challenge, for her holt IS stronger 
now."

"What holt is that, puusan?" Elijah's throne crumbled 
behind him as he moved forward, bits and pieces of 
stone and mud peeling from the top and sides and 
falling and sliding to the floor as it collapsed 
inwards upon itself, abruptly and without order, but 
silently, so as not to interrupt its Lord.

"The holt of the virgins of Arnuul?" He asked aloud to 
himself, not waiting for an answer, his eyes turning 
from brown to red, and his feet burning blazing furrows 
in the ground as they slid through the earth. Dust rose 
and dirt flew and turned to smoke and ash as he moved.

"Was there indeed such a holt?" He cocked his head as 
he approached, and the ground beneath Mientir groaned 
as it twisted and reshaped itself into brown and 
blackened fingers which grasped and clawed at her 
struggling body, lifting her up and pinning her arms to 
her sides as the Lord of the Outlands approached.

"Really, my dear puusan, I think the wine has taken 
YOUR memory," Elijah laughed low as he bent down to 
examine the amulet around her neck, which was burning 
white with a light which matched the color of her skin. 
Her eyes went wide and her head shook violently as he 
reached out a finger...

Mientir sealed her eyes and opened her mouth, but no 
sound came from it, as the white light turned deep 
blue, then red, then yellow and the four points of the 
star melted together and twisted as it flared one final 
time, searing itself into the very flesh between her 
breasts.

Elijah grinned sideways at Naastle, whose own eyes were 
wide and whose mouth was similarly open and had 
seemingly managed to turn his own peculiar shade of 
white. His hands were like iron one on top of the other 
across his own chest.

"I see no holt." His master beamed as he turned back to 
Mientir, who was shaking even within the firm grasp of 
stony fingers as she dared to open her eyes and look 
down at her chest...

And screamed a scream that no ears could hear. Not even 
her own.

"Certainly not of Arnuul, who is not likely to grant 
cuusint to those bearing the mark of the Lord of the 
Outlands..." Elijah spoke through lips of fire as he 
bent closer to watch the symbol begin to take shape.

"...for I know none of hers and she will never know one 
of mine," he whispered softly, smiling as he lowered 
his tongue to kiss the brown burning serpent between 
her breasts, and a fiery finger slipped between her 
legs.

And Naastle forced his eyes to close, but he could not 
do the same for his ears.

"Yes, dear puusan, sometimes the old ways ARE the 
best."

A foul smoke rose through the air and out of the tent 
of whores that night and drifted off to the north and 
east, a smoke which seemed to mask the stars 
themselves, save for the one which would be seen and 
felt by Shwaam herself. At that very moment, it 
appeared in the night sky just below the Great Bear and 
neither clouds of water nor fire would darken its path 
as it made its way across the heavens to find rest in 
the Northern Reaches.

Countless sets of eyes watched its journey that night 
and each has its own story to be told. But had any been 
outside that tent on that night they might have noted 
one with no eyes, but witnessed.

And with no mouth, but smiled.

END

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 33