Embracing Shadows

Shadows cloaked the Mhun’s footsteps as she walked up the cobblestone road, wiping traces of blood off a gleaming dirk in her gloved hand. She’d not used the weapon to any true effect in years, but sometimes, it was still entertaining to terrify the young slaves. Her lips curled at the memory, baring the tip of a white fang.

Thick red fog hovered menacingly in the air as she approached the stygian crossroads, but she paid it no heed. Constant as the sky, its sanguine presence was a comforting reminder of the Master’s power and favour in equal measure. It blanketed the usual assortment of fixtures lingering around the convergence: guards, pets, daemonites, benches…and a single Atavian male.

The Mhun furrowed her brow slightly, frowning as she sheathed her now-clean weapon. She knew him, a recent oathbreaker-turned-returnee to the Baelgrim. He was a Serpent, and Serpents in His service should know better, as far as she was concerned. Visible to the naked eye? Why would any Serpent suffer the lack of surprise?

He didn’t notice her until she drew almost adjacent, intentionally stirring the air as she paused to consider him. The tall Atavian’s blank gaze snapped abruptly to alertness, and his single storm-blue eye flicked around him before he bowed in her general direction.

“Exsusiai,” he said to the air, his accented voice gruff and drawling. “I was about to assist with a matter, but I would not dare miss the opportunity to say hello.”

She bared her fangs, rattling a sibilant answer in the ancient Serpent tongue. ‘A visible Serpent? And after I was just terrifying a novice from the shadows.’ She infused a note of chastisement in her hissed words.

He had the grace to look faintly abashed as he nodded. ‘I was at attention during muster for execution,’ he rattled in response.

She shook her dark head in disapproval, though her shadows cloaked the gesture. “Very well,” she said in Mhaldorian, her silken voice echoing faintly. “Do not let myself delay you.”

He bowed again, cobalt-flecked black hair falling forward over his shoulder. ‘A pleasure to…not see you, Lady,’ he rattled.

Faintly amused, she reached into a pouch by her side and withdrew a handful of glittering dust, tossing it over him as he stepped away. As the dust fell, a shroud of invisibility settled over him, his black wyvernskin boots the last to disappear. It was a rudimentary concealment, as it would not hide him from any with their third eye open, but it would be enough to befuddle a novice.

Her mind sought his consciousness, easily latching on as his physical presence faded. [Do at least attempt to retain -some- mystique,] she advised.

A vivid sense of delight accompanied the returned thought. [As you command.]

She broke the connection without a word and turned just in time to see the craven figure of Dr. Kortoxian furtively enter the Arms of Maldaathi. Quickly uncoiling her whip, she strode over to the shop and pushed the swinging door open, wicked leather hissing through the air as she launched immediately into a full-scale attack of the startled doctor.

Not a moment later, the Mhun was reading a letter by warm torchlight in a corner of the handsomely appointed shop, unfazed by the battered body of the erstwhile drug dealer cooling in a bloody corner. A few slaves were already hastening to the corpse with buckets and mops, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible as they began to clear the evidence of bloodshed away.

Abruptly, a breath of cold air whooshed in as the door opened once more, quickly sliding shut — yet there seemed to be no one there. She knew better, though, and simply waited. It didn't surprise her when the familiar hiss came.

‘Am I more presentable now?’

She flicked a glance at the subtly shifting shadows, discerning his Atavian form within. ‘If by presentable, you mean not at all, then quite so.’

He grinned, flashing white fangs amidst the gloom, then quickly sobered. ‘I was meaning to ask you,’ he rattled, a cautious note in the whisper. ‘Do you have any ongoing projects you could use assistance on?’

She arched an eyebrow, folding the letter in her hands. ‘Multiple, and always, but the degree of assistance required varies. What are you thinking of?’

He shrugged and bowed his head. ‘I am at your disposal, ma’am. If you feel you could use me somewhere or feel I would lighten your burden, I am happy to assist how I can. An extra set of hands somewhere. Eyes. Use me.’

She paused in the act of tucking her letter away, considering his half-concealed features. However, before she could say anything, the call to attention resounded over the city channel. She fell into step behind him instead, and he bowed his head to her before turning and leading the way out towards the sacred black oak.

Their summons was for a slave’s oathswearing — a sodden affair from the driving rain, but mercifully quick. Perhaps doubly kind to the slave’s newly burnt brand. It wasn’t long before the Mhun and the Atavian were ensconced in the shop once more, albeit much wetter than before.

As she shook the water droplets off her shadowed cloak, his quiet voice broke the silence. “I missed this more than I realised.”

She flicked the cloak out of the way behind her, still dripping onto the hardwood floor, and turned her grey gaze up at him as she tilted her head. “This?”

‘Service,’ he whispered in that secretive rattle. ‘Being here. It feels like purpose.’

She nodded in comprehension. He had told her previously about stumbling from the gates of the Baelgrim and drifting aimlessly through the continent, passing his days in a stupor of drinking and fighting and whoring. A sense of disgust briefly welled inside her. The very idea of a purposeless existence was intolerable.

“One who is used to purpose and service must feel adrift with its loss,” she agreed. “Hedonism and indolence may be the path of many, but I expect it must have been torturous for yourself.”

“That was my punishment, I feel,” he said. A deep sigh escaped his lips. “It sounds ridiculous to say aloud — that pleasure and indulgence were such an awful thing. So much wasted time…I could have been much more than I am now. But I wouldn’t have learned.”

The Mhun shrugged her shoulders lightly. “Pleasure is the sweeter for having earned it. An excess of pleasure…well, what is the point?” She considered pleasure for pleasure’s sake a form of hardship all its own, for — as people said — you could indeed have too much of a good thing.

He nodded once, looking at her intently. “I’m grateful for the opportunity to have another chance. That it isn’t too late. That I get to be useful once more…which is why I’m delighted to see you.” He ducked his head again, respectful. “And to work for you.”

This was the second time that he had mentioned working for her. Yet something didn’t quite sit right with her. She always handpicked her own subordinates; as an Exsusiai, few were those that could deny her command as it was. What relevance was a slave offering his services when they were already hers, if she wished?

If she wished. That was the key. But she had not decided if she wished, and his repeated obeisance carried a tinge of insistent desperation, if you knew to listen for it. Yet his desires mattered little to her, for he had not earned the right to influence her choices.

She flicked a gloved hand in a languid, dismissive gesture. “Great men and women aplenty have climbed to the apex of their heathen societies and broken themselves down again to be remade in Evil’s image anew, and become of greater consequence.” She studied him. “Your story has only barely begun, so do not languish on this chapter.”

He was barely two centuries old. A relative babe in comparison to many others. It was not as if his crisis was unique or singular; former Hierophants and Dawnlords now also bore the chains of slavery alongside him, and she had had to counsel them, too. The refrain, she thought resignedly, was becoming all too familiar of late.

In answer, he gave a slow nod. “The finesse in your wisdom is always appreciated, my lady.”

A trite response. Her point did not seem sufficiently made. She tried a different approach. “We are all tools in the Master’s hands, of course, to be used as He wishes.” He nodded in agreement, and she continued. “But a spade knows it is a spade, and expects to be used to its fullest utility as such.”

“So perhaps instead of inquiring of myself what I require, the question is whether you know who you are — or if you will let others fully determine that purpose.”

The Atavian looked thoughtful in the warm torchlight. “I can be your voice during the earlier hours of the month. Meet with whom you need to speak, shake the hands of those who need to be shaked, and operate in the hours you may not be able.” He looked at her beseechingly. “I know your projects are on a continent wide scale. If I am a spade, I am a damn charming one, and will not bring you, or Him, dishonour.”

A flash of amusement tempered her brief flare of annoyance. He was entertaining enough, but the point didn’t seem to be taking hold. Weren’t Atavian bones meant to be porous and hollow? Were their skulls made of more tenacious stuff?

She laced her gloved fingers together, the leather chafing slightly. “Make no mistake, Truthseeker, if I required these services I would conscript them regardless — from you or any other.” Perhaps it was time for a more direct approach. “But is that truly what you seek? To only ever be an extension of someone’s will?”

He paused, then, his expression looking like someone caught off guard. Pursing his lips, he said slowly, “No.”

She nodded once. A slight movement — a distraction — as her gloved hand closed around the handle of her whip. With a deft flick of her wrist, she lashed out, and once more the whip hissed through the air, this time to coil unerringly around the Atavian’s throat. Another yank tightened the noose and pulled him, stumbling and wide-eyed, wings flared in alarm, towards her.

Once he was within arm’s reach, the Mhun angled her wrist inwards, tugging his head further down and forcing him to stoop as she met him at eye level. His hands shot up to pull at the makeshift noose in an instinctive struggle for freedom, but his resistance quickly faded as blue eye met silver stare. The whip went slack as he dropped his head, submitting to her authority.

Their faces were barely a hand’s span away, his laboured breathing loud in her ear as the whip constricted his airflow. Her grey gaze sharpened into steel. “You lost your faith. You broke your oaths. These are known, these are done, and yes — you will spend an eternity burying, and atoning for, these grievious mistakes.”

“But,” she continued sternly, “do not forget who you once were. You were once the Ambassador of Baelgrim, the face of Mhaldor to the world.” For that was how she remembered him, all youthful ambition and smooth-talking charm, a reflection of the Mhaldor that had been.

“You may have lost your way, once, but the Truths have always stood eternal. You doubt your judgment now, which is understandable. But you need to rediscover your confidence and your faith — in yourself, and in Evil — before you can ever rise above once more.” She narrowed her eyes. “This responsibility cannot be foisted on another to shoulder on your behalf, Truthseeker.”

Whether he realised it or not, that was exactly what he was doing, using the guise of unquestioning service to escape the hard responsibility of making difficult choices once more. To bear accountability for his future mistakes. She understood, to a degree: it was much easier to blindly follow orders than to make decisions and live with their consequences, especially when said choices had already led him astray once.

But to be mortal is to fail. That was never in question. What truly mattered was what came after that. Mhaldor did not need another mindless slave, and she had already seen that he was capable of more than that.

Panting softly, the Atavian let his slack grip fall, arms hanging by his side as his wings drooped. But his eyes never left hers, and she saw a spark of determination ignite - at last - as he nodded firmly, just once. “Thank you,” he said, the words half-strangled. “I will make myself worthy to Him. I will carve my way to His throne so that I may lay the glory I’ve raised at His feet.”

No Insidi worth their salt would ever be appeased by pretty words, and her least of all. She curled her lips in an expression that was half-snarl, half-sneer. “You admitted to being charming, and certainly those are pretty words, Truthseeker. But I will believe it more when I see it.” She jerked the handle of the whip once for emphasis, and he choked once as the leather tightened further — before a second authoritative flick sent the whip uncoiling lazily around his throat, reluctantly slithering off his shoulders and obediently back to her side.

He took deep gulps of precious air, his breathing unsteady as he rose once more to his full height, wings furled. She was no taller than his shoulder, really, but she had never relied on physical stature to make her point.

“I know you are capable of more, than to simply be pointed and aimed,” the Mhun said as she coiled her whip up neatly, her gaze never leaving him as she slipped the weapon onto her belthook. “Do not show that to be a lie.”

He bowed his head at the order. “I will make you proud, not a liar,” he vowed, hoarse. “I will be more.”

Proud? What remained of her temper faded, replaced by a familiar, cool amusement. She was not his parent nor mentor — what did her pride matter? “My opinion is not what matters, Truthseeker. Only the strength of your will. All that results from there makes your worth self evident.”

She took a step towards him. “So tell myself: what, do you believe, is the path you wish to pursue? Truthfully,” she warned. Her patience for honeyed words was at an end. He would wake or he would not, and she would waste no more of her time.

He inhaled once, shutting his eyes briefly before reopening them to look at her. “I want to get back onto the water. I’m not the sailor I was, but I’ve forgotten more than most men will ever know. I want to lead again. It’s not about waiting for a title to do so, it’s much more than that. It’s a confidence. To be able to look at the unknown or see the issue and be the one addressing it.”

The words spilled out of him like a torrent, as though a dam inside him cracked. Yet they were not placating nor doubtful, but firm and honest, ringing with conviction and ambition.

Her lashes lowered a fraction, and inwardly, she smirked. Finally. “Now there, I think, is the shadow of who I was really searching for.”

The affirmation seemed to give him confidence, and he stood a little taller. “I’ve been making the Warden and Collector see me in my efforts. We now have the location of every guard in each city and their strengths.”

The Mhun folded her slender arms across her chest, remaining silent as she watched the spark catch fire.

“With how we’ve progressed in conquest, I wonder if Zanzibaar is now obtainable.” His eyes skittered away from hers, shifting from side to side in thought. Suddenly, his eyebrows rose. “We could take the island.”

It seemed her job here was done. “Well, it seems you might have a project of your own, now,” she commented, faint amusement in her tone.

He caught himself, blinking once, and turned to her. “You truly are remarkable,” he said, a hint of awe in his gruff voice. “Thank you.”

Her mirth deepened as she flicked a gloved hand in languid dismissal. She was no miracle worker, after all. “Do not waste your charm on myself. Save it to ensorcel other hapless heathens. I did naught of import — I only helped you look at your reflection again, instead of running from shadows.”

She stretched her arm outwards in front of her, watching as the shadowy miasma around her wreathed almost lovingly around the pale flesh. “You should know, given what we are. We are the terror in the shadows.” Her fingers closed around an ethereal tendril, grasping at nothing. “But that means we recognise them, embrace them, and use them as our strengths.”

Unbidden, the old Naga motto rose in her mind: A dagger in the dark is worth a thousand swords at dawn.

He nodded again, frustration lacing his gaze — not frustration at her, but at old wounds yet to heal, lessons yet to be fully learned. Amidst the tempest in his eyes, however, newfound determination glowed. She hoped the spark would not be so easily quenched again. The path to redemption was long yet, but once one decided to take the step themselves instead of being dragged upon it, that was when true progress could be made.

They spoke a while longer in the quiet shop. No further revelations surfaced, but, she thought, one was enough for the month. When they finally parted ways, his eager departure was so abrupt that he failed to notice her silently shadowing his footsteps all the way down the mountain, until they were almost before the imposing gates to Mhaldor.

Only then did he turn, embarrassed to be caught unawares; and only then did she finally allow the shadows to whisk her completely away from existence, leaving only the echo of a faint laugh in her wake.