A Woman In White
[sub]Part II[/sub]
Hell.
Many often invoked it, or cursed it, believing themselves to be suffering even a minute aspect of it when they encountered what they could not comprehend or endure. Some wished others' descent into it, fueled by hatred and vitriol.
But what did anyone truly know of hell or any of its seven incarnations?
Raelisanne Banurein had often wondered. Was hell a state of physical suffering, or one of the mind? It was likely both. Could it be of one's own making? Could hell exist amongst the living? She believed it so. If hell was something that one suffered, enough suffering could be manifested anywhere to create the worst nightmares.
It was not the darkness or the perversity of the concept that drew her attention. She had no interest in causing or watching the torment of others. Far from it.
It was what came of such perdition. Some say the journey is the thing, and not the destination, yet do we all not strive toward them regardless? A journey was nothing without some form of destination. The more the better, perhaps.
Transformation is both journey and destination. It was one of her core beliefs.
What was the product of a broken soul? Was man still man, or was something new made in his place? Or did a broken soul equate to a broken man?
These questions she has asked many times and over many corpses. Trying to break someone down to their essence often resulted in insanity or violent death brought on by lunacy. She had yet to find the perfect subject, much less the answers that she sought.
"What is a soul?" she had asked Delial Grimsong.
"It is... a spark of sorts," the Highlander had responded, trying her best to hide her puzzlement; her hesitation gave her away, however. "It is a flame, that which makes life more than just... life.â€
"What is a man without a soul?"
"A husk. A ghost."
"This one..." Raelisanne had turned from Delial even though the taller woman would not see the barest hint of a smile behind the mask. "This one will be a beast."
Raelisanne watched through the thick glass window that overlooked the metal cell below, her violet eyes intent upon the single occupant that sat hunched within. Gharen Wolfsong was leaning against the wall, his wrists bound in heavy iron shackles. She could already spot the raw flesh where he had continuously tested the limits of his bindings over the many suns that he had worn them. His bare torso was marred with old and new wounds; the ones that bore freshly dried blood coming at the courtesy of Delial Grimsong.
The Highlander woman’s skills in the art of blood sacrifice was impressive, as Raelisanne had previously noted. Delial made circular geometric incisions upon Wolfsong’s flesh, while the man was held immobile, bound bodily to a metal table and heavily drugged. But screams came even in that altered state, as each wound was treated with alchemic powder that made them smoke, bubble and sizzle. As blood magic and alchemy coursed through his veins, Raelisanne added her own augmentations--that of the voidlings, her own specialty.
Sanguine fluid turned from a crimson hue to something darker and more unnatural, and Raelisanne watched it snake through him with quiet anticipation. This was the beginning. A part of her wondered if the slight quickening of her pulse was akin to delight, or even the hint of disquiet. She had not felt anything that would approximate true emotion in cycles; she had almost forgotten what that felt like.
But there was anticipation. She wanted success. Wolfsong had been a resilient specimen. And with the numerous scars upon his body, along with clear evidence of previously broken bones... the things she had learned of his history…
He was perfect. Just what she needed. He had survived the physical augmentations so far, and with Delial’s aid, the infusion process had been more efficient and complete. But the silver-haired woman knew breaking him was not about just affecting the body. There was still the mind. And his spirit. The things that made him who he was.
He had endured savage beatings, sun after sun after sun. He would then be left to try and rest, but just as his pulse slowed and his eyes began to drift closed, the door to the metal cell hissed open with a high pitched alarm. Uniformed guards would enter brandishing long rods that sparked and spat with electricity or thick blunt wooden batons. Wolfsong had even dislocated his thumb to liberate one hand from his bindings, surprising the first set of guards and killing a few of them with just one hand free. Astounding strength and force of will, she had marveled at the news, lips pursed to hide her delight.
But she had more. And he was but one man, drugged and poisoned. His limbs moved slower and more sluggish than before, as if an anchor had been strapped to them. She knew sooner or later the fight would be beaten out of him physically. Each time he pushed past his fatigue and pain to fight back, she knew his strength would fail him faster. His fist would lose its tightness, his legs buckling without warning. She did not bother to count the suns until his body gave in; it happened as she predicted, the Highlander eventually just lay still when guards entered his chamber.
Raelisanne watched as he only attempted to mitigate the worst of the blows. Her lips pressed primly. He is ready.
When the cell door hissed open again, it was Raelisanne's own shadow that fell over him. The guards parted to make way for her, and she approached the bruised and beaten Highlander. Her white coat was pristine as were her gloves. Her mask was in place--an enchanted article that gave her a constant scrolling reading of his vitals, as well as allowed her to see the aura of void energies that coursed through his body’s aether.
She kneeled beside him, her voice low and even behind the mask. “Your strength leaves you, Mister Wolfsong.â€
He looked at her with one eye now swollen shut. The other seemed to want to shut due to the weight of exhaustion, which was expected. Raelisanne could still see see a flash of defiance behind his hazel gaze, and his bruised jaw tensed with unspoken words.
Her hand came to lightly rest against his arm, his skin slick with sweat and blood. "And now your aether turns on you as well." She clucked her tongue and canted her head slowly; she could see the glowing blue eyes of her mask reflected in his one open eye. "Why the defiance, Mister Wolfsong? Why do you hold on to this idea that you should fight? Aren't we all simply creatures seeking survival? If you give yourself to me, this will be easier. And I promise, you will survive this."
His breathing remained heavy as he shifted slightly to turn his head fully to her, a low growl rumbling from his chest. He spat out some blood on the floor, murder in his gaze. "Best get on with killin' me then. Cause if'n I get out of here? I'm comin' fer ye." Despite his resistance, his voice was strained and tired.
Raelisanne shook her head. "Is this that spark? The thing that makes you more than a mere beast? That thing that makes us think that we are more than just particles of aether, fibers of muscle, and connections of nerves?" Her gloved fingers trace his arm, down to the manacles. Her attention lingered on the streak of crimson that marred her white glove. "What happens when your aether runs black? Your muscles no longer obey you and your thoughts betray you?"
She turned her masked gaze back towards Wolfsong. "We are all nothing but beasts within. Beasts with basic instincts that urge us to survive. We will kill our neighbors when threatened. We will eat our young when starved."
She felt the muscles in his arms slack a little, and he flashed her an uncharacteristic toothy smile that spread wickedly across his face, "Pretty well certain I've burned yer image inte my brain, an I'll be comin fer ye regardless."
First rage. Now malice. He is ready.
Raelisanne felt her own pulse quicken just slightly. "Very good then, Mister Wolfsong." She said, her voice never faltering.
She lifted her hand, a single fingertip glowing blue. It reflected the cold shimmering hue within the mask’s orbits. She reached out and lightly touched his forehead.
“Let us begin.â€
