Scumbase

War Dreams, Chapter 5

While Gregeori watched over the lass, she was not resting. What he saw as a sleeping form was only a shell. Her mind had slipped back into the orb the second her mind relaxed into slumber. The orb pulled at her, demanding her attentions. They were attached, or perhaps, she was too weak to protect herself as the Raven King was. So inwards she slipped, her mind being pressed into the chaotic tunnel of feelings and odd swirling colors until she wanted to beg and stop the ride. Her head pounded and her stomach was queasy from the eternal spinning. 

She landed on her back, staring up into a grey haze. Her body was in a strange form, there were no soft gossamer wings pulling at the muscles in her back. She felt big, and bulky. She raised her hands to look at them, and the fingers were clean – the nails buffed. There was no dirt embedded in them, no breaks from the gardening. These were courtesan hands, all soft and polished. She struggled to sit up, confusion on her face as she peered down at what she wore. She had human clothing on, a white dress, similar to that which the women of the towns wore on their mating day. Her feet were clad with soft silk slippers, already starting to turn grey from the dampness of the ground. She stared at herself in confusion, and then reached up to determine what made her hair so heavy. Flowers adorned her hair in a circlet, a mixing of lilacs and lilies that scented the air around her as she pressed into the circlet. She pulled her knees to herself and wrapped her arms around her knees. She studied the area, trying to figure out what or where she was.

The area around her was grey. Like most of the colors were washed out by the cold humidity. Fog gathered around the ground and at her ankles, the chilly moisture causing goose bumps. The air was not quite a mist, and definitely not a rain, but the moisture felt like a damp sponge, clinging to her face and making small rivulets of water as it collected. Soon her hair clung to her face and dress as the water soaked into the tresses.

The trees in the distance were bent and warped things, as if they were rotting while still alive. The softness beneath her feet and bottom was not grass, but moss, washed out, and heavily fed on the rotting plants and moisture. No birds chirped their greetings, no squirrels, or other creatures went about their duties. The place was silent. Deadly silent. She rubbed at her arms. This was not what she expected at all.

She bent over, struggling to stand up. The dress was bulky and she was not use to the material tangling about her knees and ankles. She tripped a couple times, falling to her hands and knees before she successfully stood up. She gathered the dirty and wet skirt into her hands, lifting it up enough so that she could easily walk without stumbling over the fabric. Picking a direction, she started walking; somewhere there was a man that needed her. At least she thought, optimism always her beacon in the worst of times.

From behind her, the man appeared. He grabbed at her, choking her with his arm. His sudden grab lifting her off the ground, her feet flailing out in a panic. Siarah reached back, clawing in a panic at what held her. Her fingers made contact and raked three deep welts into the face of that which grabbed her. Her breath was in short bursts of stolen air. Harder she fought the assailant, twisting to the left and right, pulling at the arm and kicking with all her power. One slipper fell to the ground in her fight, her toes splayed out in her panic.

 

The man's breath is hot on her ear, and he rasped into it "Who are you. Where are we?" Siarah, continued to gasp for her very life, did not answer. Her fingers plied at the tight hold around her neck, the nails cutting into the bare skin of the man. His body was pressed against hers, every muscle felt in a hot heat against her wet clothing. Her foot kicked out and back again, making contact with his kneecap. He growled in pain and threw her to the ground before him.

 

Siarah tried to crawl away, dragging in deep breaths of the wet air. Her hands scrambled uselessly forward, the dress impeded her knees and movement. The man reached down and grabbed Siarah. Flowers scattered as the crown falls from her hair, the man's heel grinding into the petals as he moved in rhythm with the struggling.

 

She scratched again at his face as her body is lifted and flipped. Siarah could feel on nail tear off her finger, the blood mingling into the blood from the man’s face. She twisted her body to roll away as he moved to straddle her. His hand went to her throat again, pressing in tightly as he brought his bleeding face to her. Again he growled out to her “Who ARE you? What is this place?” Siarah, finally seeing the man’s face managed to gasp out “Siarah. I am Siarah. Here to help..”

The scent of the flowers was the last thing that Siarah remembered, her eyes starting to bulge, her fingers slowing their struggle, and her feet lose their kick. The man’s hand released her, too late to get any more answers, too late to know where he was. The two stayed like this, the living dead staring down at the dead. Pale pink drops of blood dropped onto Siarah’s face, the moisture mixing with the wounds upon his skin. Now that the struggle was over, the fog crept back, seeping into the area like ooze. Soon Siarah’s dead body was covered, no longer visible to the man.

Standing up in a fluid movement, the man stared forward. His fingers gripped tightly in fists, the body at his feet forgotten. The fog crept higher, reaching the man's knees. The place faded to black, as if the last hope of sunlight was taken with the girl when she died. The final smell of the flowers lost to the uncaring man.