Dave/Iso Cleaned Log

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : "Tighter--" came a soft growl.  Yvette looked down at her petite mistress.  The Friend's aureate gaze was fixed on her reflection, features washed with an indecipherable chill.  Fingers worked the cords at the middle of the demon's spine.  She was jerked back, evident of the corset now ill-fitting on her growing figure.  It didn't matter; she was going whether the clothes were comfortable or otherwise.  "Lady Faust, I...I don't think I can--"  A hiss cut her off.  "It will do.  Did you gather the other things I requested?"  The teenager nodded, reaching to the bed to produce a satchel.  She was hesitant to hand it over to the Fiend, daring to ask, "My lady, do you think it wise to go in your condition?"  That very idea gave pause to Daveigha.  Hands curled into fists.  Deep within the recesses of her small body, she could feel the churn of rage and resentment.  It was swelling, slowly coming to the surface every time she was left alone with her thoughts, her memories.  All >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : that would give her peace was a release and, with the words exchanged in the war room, Daveigha understood exactly what would stifle the very living acrimony inhabiting her.  How dare he leave without so much as a word of goodbye?  "Couldn't you take someone with you?  I worry for your safety."  Sweet Yvette trembled.  The demoness spun on her heels, lifting heated palms to cup the girl's face.  All her thoughts were a tangle of concern and anxiety, and while the Fiend had been grief-stricken, she wasn't without empathy.  "I have the perfect person in mind.  Do not fret."  ---- A while later, boots clambered down the stairs leading to the terrace.  Word from the courtiers led the determined creature out into the cold, her ebon cloak snapping in her wake.  What she found was something quite picturesque: beautiful, sweet Isolde calmly taking in the winterscape of the gardens.  Sharp were the halcyon eyes of the demon, taking careful measure to see if there were guards around.  >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : She couldn't have them interfering.  "Isolde," she greeted with the rise of a gloved hand.  It was out of character for the demoness to be out of fashionable gowns--at least to the girl.  Daveigha recalled years prior when she forced herself to adhere to a uniform--leather trousers, high Hessians, high-collared tunics more suitable for battle than the great hall.  Those black clothes brought her great comfort standing there, highly contrasting the gentle betrothed of the prince.  With a flick of the wrist, the satchel was tossed and landed at the Isolde's feet.  If she peered up at the Fiend, she'd find her smirking.  "Have you ever worn trousers?"  (FIN)

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [The delicate florist sat in the gardens for most of the afternoon, admiring the hibernal coat that draped the flora and fauna there. Cloaked in sleek fox-furs and dressed in a warm, high-necked frock featuring delicate filigree, her svelte frame rest comfortably in the chilly terrace. Slender digits rest atop the deerskin gloves on her lap, features distant as she considered the events of the previous night. To be outside in the frost amongst the evergreens and ferns brought her some respite. The news of those dead in the Tenoch Desert and the Southern Ports had weighed on her mind since their gathering in the War Room. Wrath's departure toward the desert left Isolde with mounting anxiety, knowing that what await him was both gruesome and treacherous. And while the call of duty was entirely necessary, Isolde felt a lingering pang of resentment that their duties called them to different places in such a dire time. Confident that the Leviathan wouldn't be at risk in his pilgrimage-c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : to mourn those lost, she requested a few hours of quiet to herself to collect her thoughts before resuming the day's tasks. She ought to call on Daveigha, she thought. The Fiend was wise when it came to her brother and his Empire. While her betrothed was absent, Isolde feared that any issues that might arise would require her attent-- "Oh, Daveigha!" she breathed into the cool evening air. Breath rising in an evanescent puff beyond her lips, which smiled with warmth and familiarity. Speak of the devil... "I was just thinking about--" she paused as the bag skidded across the snowy ground, leaving a cleared path leading to her feet. "I haven't..." she admitted with hesitation, lovat gaze absorbing the Demonness in her wraith-like uniform. Her energy struck Isolde as iresome, to which she gave pause. Recognizing that her companion was dressed more for the battlefield than for court, the Fallon girl searched her expression. Finding it cheshire in nature, confusion colored the -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : florist's features. From where she was seated, she leaned over to open the bag. Finding it packed with garments of similar design, she held up the pants indicated in front of herself and then peered around them at the Fiend. "I take it these are for me." she concluded, though she hadn't the slightest inkling -why-. After a quick, discreet entrance to the castle and the complicated undressing and redressing of the lithe florist involving the strict, trained hands of Daveigha, Isolde was fashioned after the Demonness rather suitably. The slim fitting leather trousers made her feel rather exposed, though the security of the corset and overcoat in its tapered hi-low hemline gave her pert backside a bit of necessary discretion. The stiff collar of the stark black guarded her throat, where her hair had been pulled back into a severe braid that gave her a utilitarian appearance far more brutish than her nature. The boots would take some accommodating to-- rising over her knees with -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : heels that would crush most terrain underfoot...they were at the very least secure. As the pair emerged, she eyed her companion with a furtive expression, wondering at what might necessitate such toggery. "I'm afraid to ask what it is you have planned." the Fallon girl began as she glanced down at the ebony gloves between her hands, ring glinting in the light of torches that lined the hall. "And if I shall require anything to arm myself."]

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : Palms brushed the shoulders of the old ensemble; Daveigha's mouth pulled into that infamous grin, adorned by deep dimples.  Each stitch and repair, every seam and panel, were lined with stories of her past.  The demon felt the weight of nostalgia in her heart, softening at the sight of someone new making use of the prized garments.  She took a step back and observed her handiwork, eyeing the get-up before giving a nod of approval.  "I often forget what it is like to stare into the face of a woman destined to be so much more than frills and lace.  It's been some time, I'll admit, but I think after today, you'll be quite formidable in your own right," she spoke vagueries, golden eyes lowering to straighten Isolde's collar.  As she finished the final preparations--kneeling to properly lace the girl's boots--the Fiend explained, "I saw your tears when the brutality of the demons was explained in the war room.  I am sorry I was not composed enough to comfort you.  His Majesty's >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : parting has left me..."  Switching to the other foot, deft fingers tugged laces tight, making leather strain and stretch to accommodate Isolde's calf.  Daveigha considered her next admission carefully.  "Vexed.  But I want you to know that I am not like them."  Brows were knit; her head was bowed in concentration.  The confession came softly, knotting the cords once, twice.  "It is because of Drenai that I am able to deviate from my true nature.  My brother is many things--sometimes recusant and tyrannical--but he was my salvation as a girl.  His people became my people, as they are to be your people.  His love for them became my love for them,"  Fingertips found Isolde's chin and there was a maternal consolation found there, blooming across the demon's eternally youthful mien.  "We protect the ones we love.  And we avenge them.  It is our duty.  Come now," an elbow was offered to her new friend.  They found themselves at the back of the castle, where a guard presented the >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : demoness with a set of blades.  She tucked them into sheaths of varying sizes, including one now belted at the hip.  Catching a glimpse of the empty-handed ethereal, Daveigha smiled and asked, "Have you ever used a weapon?"(FIN)

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [ Naturally, every facet of the dressing was foreign to the demure florist. She watched what she was able as her laces were tightened and tilted her chin passively as her collar was straightened, obediently swaying to lenience while Daveigha fine tuned her appearance with doting attention. Pink rose in her cheeks at the recalling of her own tears, having hoped that nobody else had noticed their presence. She was silent on the subject, features contorted into frustration as she processed the complex combination of humility and anger. They were new feelings for the florist-- having never considered the weight of lives outside of her own. The laces tightening around her calves made her muscles constrict into a far more supportive stance. As the Fiend continued, Isolde's features slipped into empathy, perspective shifting drastically as her companion explained the complicated history she shared with the Deathstalker line. Admittedly, Isolde hadn't the faintest idea what she'd gotten-c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : herself into-- only that her bond with the Empire's Prince Regent was one of immutable drive. Knowing that any other of the tyrannical family outside of her beloved was of sound mind and held warmth in any measure was reassuring. So many of the faces she'd come to know thus far made waves of deep fear ruminate within the Ethereal. As she considered the maternal, aurate gaze of the Demoness, she recognized that there was something deeply unsettling about her, too. On the precipice of events that would forever alter her very core, Isolde allowed one final moment of weakness. A single tear shed as her chin balance in the Fiend's hand as emotion swelled in her chest. She was no longer the simple farm girl of Douglas and Elizabeth Allard. Recognizing this moment was formative, as so few junctures in life were so obvious. She was at once mourning the bucolic life behind her and terrified of what may come. Isolde craved both the security of her once ignorant life, and also every facet -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : of knowledge needed to survive-- and more than that, help her -people- survive. Eyebrows were knitted over water-logged glaucous hues, lashes laden with the weight of those tears that wouldn't spill. Without a word-- as she had no objections to the wisdom Daveigha offered, Isolde slipped her arm through the one offered, slipping one hand into a glove as the pair walked, coats billowing behind their frames as they went. As they approached the back of the castle, Isolde watched with quiet objection to the sheathing of the many blades. Wondering at how many could possibly be needed and where, precisely, they were meant to go. As Daveigha turned to address her, Isolde held gloved hands up and shook her head. "-Never.-" she added assertively, faint at the very thought of it. "Unless a garden hoe counts." ]

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : Daveigha busied herself hiding a series of tiny bladed stars within her pockets, buckles and buttons secured once more.  She almost did not quite catch the comment about the gardening tool.  Hooded head rose and delight flushed her pale flesh.  She looked upon Isolde with even more adoration; it didn't matter that she felt that she was a simple girl, her resourcefulness was already presenting itself.  The Fiend spoke to the guard assisting the pair, "Fetch Lady Fallon a garden hoe and several of those little trowels--don't stare at me dumbfounded.  Go!"  Scurrying away to find the objects desired, the guard removed himself, and Daveigha once more turned to Isolde.  "I wonder how much of an objection my nephew would find our little excursion?  I could have told him I was planning on bringing you along, but then I suspect he would have not found the idea as appealing as I."  A sigh and a shrug of her shoulders given, and the bewitching creature added, "I have found with some of >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : the Deathstalker men, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission.  Ah, here we are."  The young man returned once more, hand presenting implements more useful for tending to flower beds and shrubberies.  What Daveigha did not want was to drag Isolde into a fight where she was uncomfortable wielding a weapon.  What better than that which she familiar with handling?  Once the girl had made her selections, they were off again, towards the empty hillside leading away from the castle.  The Fiend knew it could have been quite overwhelming, not knowing what exactly they were doing, so she explained.  "We are going to one of those villages.  There is word of demons still lurking and I have every intention of wiping them from the face of our realm.  I know that you are not quite as intimate as I am with defeating them, but I will require your assistance once I am finished."  An open palm was extended towards Isolde.  If there was hesitation, the demon assured her softly, "I will >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : not let harm come to you."  Her previous statement echoed between them, as a tide between two very different shores.  'His love for them became my love for them.'  Perhaps it was in that instance that the ethereal might realize a secret that Daveigha was rare to whisper, even to herself: she would protect Drenai's kith and kin until her body and spirit were no more.  While the two women were comprised of indubitably different energies, love was a language they both spoke and understood.  Hands came together and the Fiend smiled.  "Shut your eyes."  Irises flared brilliant gold and torment rose from her core, twisting inside Daveigha as her lore of portals was activated.  The ground trembled beneath their feet; a brontide rumbling shook into their bones.  Time bent around them, shuddering with an eerie dissonance and they were pulled from the castle, from Immortalis, slipping into the void briefly.  There were voices there--a chorus of sound.  It was not as horrific as the >

Fᴀᴜsᴛ : Abyss; instead, it was sorrowful.  The demon ignored the mournful song and concentrated on the land which she sought.  Another sigh passed through reality and they arrived, smoke dancing around them from smoldering remains of homes.  Daveigha did not release Isolde's hand.  Instead, she turned slightly, gazing at the sun blotted out by falling ash and pollution.  There was an unpleasant silence around them, unnerving to the senses.  Squinting, the Fiend searched the charred buildings for signs of movement.  "Curiousss..." came her hiss as both she and the ethereal began to make their wave into the mass gravesite of an entire population.  (FIN)

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : [ Intrigued by Daveigha's sudden command to retrieve the tools more familiar to Isolde's hands, her features passed over those of the guards in earnest during their hesitation. She briefly wondered if that sort of command might ever pass her own lips with such sureity that the Fiend afforded. They scooted away, eager to avoid Daveigha's wrath and the Fallon girl turned to admire the deft pocketing and sheathing of weapons that occupied Daveigha. A sudden bubble of laughter escaped Isolde at Daveigha's comment, one of nervous nature regarding how Wrath might feel about their leaving the castle. Sophia help anyone, Daveigha included, who brought danger to her. "I can only imagine you're right." she acquiesced with a timorous murmur. As Isolde found able places to pocket and hang a variance of garden tools, including spades, trowels and ironically-- a scythe. Typically meant for shearing large swaths of wheat in the field, she was intimately familiar with its heft and how to swing -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : it over one shoulder as Daveigha offered a hand, the girl inspected the palm of the Fiend with careful weight. 'I will let no harm come to you,' she promised. The echoing voice of her promise to their people breathed between them and Isolde considered its personal meaning to her. 'His love for them became my love for them...' Bolstered by the realization that she would march for those she loved if it came to it (and it surely would,) Isolde lifted a hand to grasp Daveigha's firmly, determination set into her lovat gaze. Love could be gentle and kind-- but at times, it needed to be fierce and unforgiving. There were facets of it within her, she knew. Finding them and putting them to use would require a new different kind of labor than the farm girl had grown accustomed to. The time to be gentle was passing, and the Deathstalker name that awaited her would demand something far more brutal and vengeful. As their hands clasped, Isolde closed her eyes, feeling the overwhelming fear of-c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : all that she was going to face well up in her lithe frame and cause it to tremble. Gravity was suspended, foundation disappearing from beneath her. A gasp escaped her as the deeply sorrowful nature of their travel yawned to accept them. Darkness more pitch than she had ever known seeped into every pore, and the ache of dissonant cries grasped at her attention and clawed at her heart. In the darkness, a shield far more powerful than the weapons she'd brought luminesced with radiant, blinding light on her ring finger. The Ring of Stars, the token of affection gifted as a betrothal promise, served as that beyond a symbol of love. It bore the celestial powers of Sophia herself, forged while she still walked the lands, a safeguard against what was dark and terrible. The Ethereal had little grasp on its nature on a cognitive level, but within her something resonated powerfully with the token. All that was pure and fair within her oscillated, energy shifting outward until she herself -c

Isᴏʟᴅᴇ▪Fᴀʟʟᴏɴ : blazed with a brief flicker of white light to illuminate their path. Knowing not how to travel, but only how to cast a lantern on the path, Isolde deferred to the prowess of her Demonness companion. The world around them materialized, once again becoming corporeal as Isolde promptly leaned forward and vommitted whilst still holding Daveigha's hand. Only pausing briefly to quell her churning stomach, she walked on with the Fiend, eyes passing toward the smoldering homes and the dainty ashen snowflakes that drifted down around them and onto her hood. ]

The further they went into the decimated village, the more apparent it became that there were eyes upon them. Daveigha was careful not to release Isolde’s hand; walking side-by-side, the soot on the ground became thick, dense with debris and heavily combating quick footfalls. The pathway they walked was lined with the decrepit structures that once were either homes or businesses-- a lack of familiarity with the port town negated Isolde’s ability to discern. The haze of soot and smoke cast a veil over their long-range sight, the Fallon girl quickly realized. The hollow shells of buildings were black and thin, winding up toward the sky in pitch spires, withy and brittle. Beside her, Daveigha walked with her eyes forward, aurate gaze fixed on a presence that the girl was not privy to. Her grasp was affirming, and Isolde depended on its stability. Isolde despaired at the thought that the scent of burning flesh was that of innocent townsfolk, stomach churning as her own recollections of the nostalgic smell grasped her firmly and shook her resolution. The Fiend glanced over her shoulder, smiling slightly.  “Can you sense anything?  Anything living here?”  Isolde paused-- could she? These parts of her nature had yet to be explored. Isolde slowed her pace, allowing herself the time to process this query. She felt the inclination to close her eyes as she searched the recesses of her mind.  Bent and trembling, a figure hid in the depths of fallen debris. It stared through a death mask: hollow eyes counting movement beyond an old tavern. It shuddered with a ragged breath and carried itself forward. There was a shift in the accumulated ash. Creaking wood threatened collapse of the structure. But it waited...its long, gnarled limbs of shivering, rotted flesh and bone outstretched and frozen, like an effigy to the ruination it had caused.  The bleak scene had been distracting such that Isolde hadn’t recognized the looming figure concealed by peaks of smoldering structures. Her senses were keen to those things that were alive, but the land was scarred and barren of anything else -living- save for she and the Fiend. But there was something. Something other.  Pausing for the Fallon girl, Daveigha faced the opposite direction. Something didn’t seem correct.  For where life once dwelled, there was a hollow absence. The tiniest of hairs rose across her arms and back, coursing up to her neck where dark hair was coiffed. Gaze narrowed; idol hand reached for the blade at her hip.  “Isolde--”  The girl gasped, eyes opening wide in shock as she fought to find breath that wasn’t there. “It’s here.” she breathed, wheezing as she searched the horizon for the looming figure and its dreadful spirit. It was like a nightmare, horrifically present and absent at the same time. Hard to grasp, but leaving in its wake an absolute certainty it was there. The stench came first: death carried with it the blight of plague sores and decaying corpse.  Daveigha’s senses ignited and she spun, scanning each fallen home and business for its face.  She couldn’t picture it in her mind’s eye; a ward was blocking its true form from being seen among the wreckage. The clasped hands of the two women was strengthened by an iron grip and the demoness’ scalding touch could be felt through their gloves. As they circle-stepped, a deafening shriek breached the air between Isolde, Daveigha, and the abomination.  It surged forward, splintering wood and shattering the door where it had been hiding. Hands broke apart and Daveigha called out, “Away!”  As if paralyzed by the realization that they were facing something far darker than Isolde could have imagined, time slowed as she watched the lumbering figure birthed from its hiding place. Smoldering wood burst into shrapnel of ember and tinder and Isolde was snapped into action, Daveigha’s voice abruptly grounding the girl as her eyes re-focused on the corporeal scene before them. The smell hit her like a sickness, unlike anything she’d ever known. It coiled in her belly and committed itself to the recesses of her memory, where it would lie in wait to remind her of this dark occasion. Skidding across the ashen, broken path, the demoness watched as the monstrosity clambered toward Isolde. She snarled and hand opposite carrying her sword opened, fingers splaying to command a portal creation. Falling through the ground, she disappeared from sight, only to burst through thin air from the top of a fiery structure. Blade pointed down, booted feet landed on the back of the creature and she stabbed with vicious fervor into its spine. It twisted in fury, its robes parting to reveal a small lantern dangling from its anorexic waist.  With dual instinct, Isolde’s hand grasped the handle of her scythe. The fearsome thought that she’d never cut anything, save for sheaves of wheat, crossing her mind as her blade arched forward to curve defensively before she and the Demoness. Before she had time to notice, Daveigha was gone from her side. With her second hand presently free, she grasped the handle of the curved blade with both hands and watched as the Fiend made her first volley. Again, another atrocious sound left the maw of the beast, and it reached back towards Daveigha, skeletal fingers shredding her cloak. She hung on by the hilt of her blade, being swung back and forth violently as claws scraped and dug through her clothing into her flesh.  The Fiend gritted her teeth and twisted the blade further, but it seemed to not do anything but irritate the lower demon further into murderous craze. Deeper into madness. Enraged by the sight of their opponent clawing at Daveigha, Isolde felt the ire rising within her out of defense for her companion. Its anguished call was met by the fury of the petite florist, who echoed its scream with an equally wrath-induced call. Not understanding where the fire in her belly had come from, aside from loyalty to a dear friend, she pulled the scythe back to her left and heaved forward into a leaning run. With chaotic rage pent up in her small soul, she gave little thought to much else other than what seemed to be instinct-driven attack. Small in the wake of its path, the withy florist knew without practice that its legs would be weak. It towered over the pair of them on wiry stilts, concealed beneath a billowing, tattered hood. She swung as she approached, blindly running at its feet with untrained advance. Daveigha watched the blade of the scythe pierce the smoke.  Isolde’s war cry announced the descent of her assault, but it was far too late.  The lower demon spun, one clawed hand grabbed Daveigha at its back and throwing her forward.  She hurtled towards a fuming heap of a once well-built house and crashed into the fire.  Without the Fiend to distract it, it rounded on the Fallon girl, its death mask now askew, revealing the terrible face underneath.  Flesh melted from its scalp of scraggly, greasy hair.  Its eyes were colorless: grey swirling orbs fixated on Isolde.  Broken teeth pulled into a grin and mechanically, the demon’s head fell to the side.  Both of its arms wrenched towards her, long blades for fingertips catching her at her ribs. Daveigha slammed through what was once stone, windows and doors.  She blasted through the rubble and heard the resounding crack of bone as one leg caught itself against a still-standing pillar.  Nerves exploded; anguish centered in both her injured limb and skull.  Blood pooled in her mouth, ran down her nose.  The Fiend collapsed against a burning wall, whimpering through gritted teeth as she realized that her leg might have been fractured.  “FUCK!”  Hands pushed her to shakily stand once more and she wobbled through the debris to find her way back into the village square.  Limping, but not defeated, hands were cast down at her sides.  Beneath the cotton and leather of her garb, unholy flames began to burn away her gloves.  Flesh was revealed, only to peel back as tattered paper and the true form of the Fiend appeared.  Writhing scales of green and gold contracted as an asp’s would, preparing for strike. The horror visited upon the girl was staggering, as the bladed talons of their opponent found rapid purchase in her ribs. She’d been stuck in place as she stared at the looming figure once its mask had come loose, shocked by her failure at assault-- she’d given it everything. How could it not have worked? Pain seared through her small frame as blood sprayed out of the gashes left at her side. Ebony leather and corset tearing like tissue under its maw to open up the unblemished ivory flesh beneath. Her grip loosened on the scythe, fear permeating her thoughts as she fell to her knees in the thick, ashen laid muck. Isolde’s vision was hazy as adrenaline coursed through her limbs and activated the flight within her.
-M O V E- it compelled her. N O W. She scrambled to her feet, picking up the long staff of her weapon with weak, trembling hands. The scent of her own blood assaulted her senses, triggering a panic within her that heightened her awareness.  “Isolde!”  The demoness cried out, seeing her companion stand once more.  The beast lurched, driven in its bloodlust towards the florist again.  Daveigha could not stop herself from bolting towards it, launching herself onto its back.  Prey to an apex predator, hands snatched its mask and drove through its eye sockets.  A murmur of demonic tongue was growled and Daveigha began to call on the lore of flame.  Black fire burst from her palms, incinerating the flesh left on the abomination’s face. The feeling of fear that pervaded her thoughts and wracked her frame was unrelenting. Isolde could hear Daveigha’s warning cry as the lower demon made its advance toward her, lust freshly renewed by the scent of her blood. As she tried to run, the weakness in her knees prevented her from progressing too far, svelte frame collapsing in its attempt to flee. She turned as she fell, watching from beneath the towering frame of their ghastly opponent as Daveigha struck at it viciously from her vantage.  As she did, gauging at its glassy, vapor colored orbs, Isolde averted her gaze, stomach churning at the thought of Daveigha’s attack. Lovat gaze fell to the lantern dangling at the demon’s waist where it was held by a tattered, crusty ass rope. It was briefly concealed as its threadbare cape flitted loosely around its shoulders and legs, peeking in and out of view while it struggled with Daveigha at its face. As the Demoness drove her bare hands into its eye sockets, the lantern illuminated with pulsating light. Daveigha’s brutish pursuit of the demon’s brain matter was invasive, causing the lantern to flare with each malevolent thrust of the Fiend’s hands. “THE LIGHT!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, voice brutalized by her exclamation as she struggled to articulate what she was witnessing. “IT’S LANTERN!” she hollered, feeling the sting of her cries hoarse in the back of her throat. “Your scythe!”  The Fiend cried out from atop the lower demon, one hand forced in through its mouth and down the interior of its neck.  Its shattered teeth bit into her wrist, chomping and gargling as Daveigha tried to desperately maintain her position on its back.  She watched as Isolde surged once more from her place in the soot and ruin, darting to take up her weapon once more. “USE IT!  SHATTER IT!”  She screamed back, her demonic flesh splitting and spewing blood from open wounds.  Nausea pooled in the Fiend’s stomach and she could sense it--the lower demon would tear off her arm if she didn’t release it. Recognizing that fear had no room in their fight, Isolde forced herself to move forward. Each step was easier than the last, lithe frame gaining speed as she tried to ignore the agony in Daveigha’s voice while it called out direction. The scythe was heavy in her hands, arms fatigued with the rush of adrenaline that flooded her muscles. Spying a boulder amidst charred rubble, the petite florist saw her opportunity for lift. As she approached, she gave no thought to the effort required to hurl herself into the air off of the boulder’s height-- she only put trust in her perception to adapt for the terrain difference. Finding purchase purely by luck, her calves contracted before bursting open to throw her forward. Trained in the fields with the curved blade and familiar with its reach, she pulled back while she heaved forward and then swung mid-air toward the lantern with surprising accuracy. The hooked blade shattered the glass panes of the lantern, Isolde’s lithe frame heaving with the effort as the dizzying effects of her stress flooded her senses and renewed her spirit. “It is done!” she shouted once she hit the ground, small body slapping the earth with a disgusting, soggy thump. The earth beneath them trembled; Isolde’s strike had been true.  A sharp ring pierced the air and the creature’s entire form began to shake.  It twisted and writhed, bones weathering and flesh crumbling.  It fell as a heap into the soot, ash jetting from the ground.  Daveigha dropped with it, landing in the disintegrating mass as one final, rasping breath was released.  That strange silence befell them once more, save for the gasping of the two women.  The Fiend glared down at her arm, torn flesh and muscle exposed and frayed.  Her shoulders heaved, gut lurching at the sight.  Her babies!  All else fell away as the demon felt her stomach beneath her bodice.  Pausing to listen, there was the same thumping of dual heartbeats found within her body.  Head jerked up and she smiled toward Isolde, calling out into the falling ash, “And that guard thought gardening tools wouldn’t get us anywhere!  Imbecile!”