[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

Ave,
      Has been an Age since I's did post a new work, so it brings I great pleasure to present this latest piece to you all.
I's decided to write this tale after I's did see and comment upon a picture made by our own dear Higalack and we discuss its history and connetations and so I's did be to be able to prose the story of his character -The Chain Girl.

Here is the picture in question:

And here is the tale (divided into part postings). If you do consider it and wish to read it in full, please PM I your e-mail address and I's will send it to you.

Enjoy
Peace
The Pimp NeonBlack

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Innocence Bound.
a tale For Higalack
by NeonBlack

Blinding was the sunlight that struck her eyes, as the doors were theatrically cast open for her. The crowd did roar as loud as the distant Ocean, as fierce as a wrathful Storm ready to vent itself upon the World. This was all she lived for. All that she had left.
No long did anything touch her so Shrouded Soul.
She had learnt long ago to seal such a thing away. To wrap her Soul within herself so it could never be hurt or touched or damaged by the cruel existence which the Gods had chosen to loose upon her wretched young life. In this endeavour, she was most successful. Nothing could touch her Soul, though her flesh may be battered by foes or ravaged by the mercilessness of her Keepers, she could steal her Heart away from them all and keep herself for herself.
Only her eyes betrayed her self-imposed reticence.
They bespoke her Heart as her words and expressions could, nay, would not. They spoke of sorrow and of hardship of her existence. Of the suffering she had felt and the pity that had been felt for her. And they spoke out her apologies to they that she battled in this bloodied Arena. To which she now stepped out upon.
“. . .And here she is!” cried the ever-familiar, ever-present voice of the Stadium Master from out the Deus Vox that was placed through out the Arena. “The Champion of the Acheron! Undefeated in a Thousand Battles! Famed throughout all the Senatory Realms. Mistress of the Body and of the Blade! Your favourite! Your Warrior! Your Champion! The Bound Innocent: Ennocens Catena!”
The crowd roared and hollered, a thousand or more voices rattling fiercer than the Wind, as Catena stepped out to her mark within the Arena. She raised a hand in salute to those who cheered and called for her. A stained manacle glittering dully in the Sun as it hung upon her wrist, it’s broken chain swaying with the echo of her last movements, whilst it’s twin lay upon her other wrist. Both counterparts for the Yoke-brace around her thick neck. Each bore the broken chains of a slave unbound but not released. She wore them as proudly as she could or would dare, despite the altered elegance of her battle costume -a trim red bodysuit that clung to every form and rigid of her muscles- and the cleanliness of her skin, as a reminder of where she had come from and what she had endured in order to stand her right now.
Bathing within the din of the raging mob.
So much the same as the mob that had stripped her of her childhood and nearly her life.
Though these memories were flushed from her as the crowd silenced; a hushed wave sweeping through their ranks.
“Her opponent, in celebration of this day -the Feast of the Annunciation,” The Stadium Master called, ringing through the Deus Vox as if he were some dramatic spirit. “Comes all the way from the City of Omperia, our Senatorial Capital and the home of the Palace of the Prince Calablame of the House of Hyperion! The victor of Ten Thousand Arenas and the Slayer of Uzgard the Invincible! The Champion of Arena Omperia: Ulva Aranae!”
Catena watched impassively as the gates to the challenger’s side were thrown open and two broad, strong Operium guards, bedighted in their Senatorial Regalia, strode in, their brows laced with the sweat of fear.
Behind them they dragged a man straitened by cloth and with chain enlaced around his body. He did not struggle against his bonds nor even open his eyes, which lay near hidden beneath long layers of filthy hair, to the hollering crowd above.
Catena could feel a chill gallop down her spine as she watched this ghastly procession.
She knew this were no idle dramatics as she had witness countless times before. These guards were genuinely terrified of this man whom they did dragged in. She could smell it upon them -even from such a distance; the organics of their fear and panic. She saw their hands tremble as they unbound their captive and then flinch as the cloth and chains fell. They both took two staggered steps backwards as he uncoiled his long arms and then they fled as he moved to stand.
Catena watched Ulva stand with a quaint fascination that she had denied herself for so long. He unfolded himself as if he were a bolt of silk being smoothed long and flat. She was surprised that such a tall man -for he stood almost two heads taller than she, with arms long enough fall close to his knees and legs so long they almost equalled the height of her own chest- could enfold himself into such a diminutive confine as the one in which he did enter the Arena. Even the riled crowd was quietened as he stretched himself to his full and frightening height; rolling back his shoulders as if his previous burden had been nothing and lulling his head around in a circle. His lips moving with slightly with silent words.
From her vantage point, Catena could see why he had earned such a Arena Name as ‘Ulva Aranae’ -“The Grass Spider”. For that is what he truly resembled that creature with his long limbs and scrawny, yet toned, body. She looked at his thin torso -clad only in thin shoulder and back plates and a piece of cloth connection them together across his spine- noting how his muscle encased his ribs as if it were armour; noting that two or three of them had previously been broken and never properly set. His stomach was gaunt thin but plated like her Matriss’ tiled courtyards, strong and ridged, but she could see that he had been previously starved. He was so slender that she could see the bones of his hips as they protruded over his simple cloth trousers. She hoped that this did not make him weak in combat but, when she saw the subtle motion of his limbs, she had no more concern for such things. His arms were thin thought in the same measure as a strong rope. Muscles were coiled tight upon the bone; she could see ever line, vein and ridge under his skin of dull bronze. His bare legs were the same. Thin, long yet packed with tight muscle, twitching in eagerness of blood and battle.
In terms of form and mass, Catena knew that she had the advantage over him. His chest was smaller than her thigh, which was thick and strong from a life of labour and struggle, but she knew he was probably as strong as her in every way -despite his lack of mass and muscle. His body was honed and slim, as if it had once belonged to a Great Cat, and she knew he would be just as powerful and deadly. She knew this from the scars that racked his flesh and marked him as survivor in this Game. Barely a section of his arms were unscathed and a few large gashes almost lay right across his chest. Seeing this Catena knew he had no fear of Pain or the consequences of Battle. He fought to survive and it would appear that he knew how to survive well. A person who could claim victory over such a being as Uzgard the Invincible was not to taken lightly.
Though she had little time to fret over this now and the horns all blew their fanfare and The Stadium Masters called the combatants to their posts. And, with the crash of golden gong, the crowd was sent into a fury and their dissonance washed over Catena as her memories did, as always, in these moments.

This crowd did so much echo the one from Her past and was just as vicious. Just as harsh in their raging lusts for blood and mayhem.
All her Twenty-One years had, in one way or another, been harsh.
Harshness had been the Mark of Her existence. Her parents and those She knew as Her people, a roving merchants’ caravan, had been slaughtered by brigands when She was Thirteen. Only She and two other children had survived the massacre because they had secreted themselves beneath the bodies of the dead. When they were found ten days later by another Caravan, the other two children had died of Fever and of Grief, leaving Her -before She was Ennocens Catena- alone with strangers who soon abandoned Her in some random town or settlement in the Arid Frontier of the Lands of the Omperium Senate. Leaving Her to fend for Herself in a very indifferent world.
She then spent a year drifting the Frontier regions, desperately trying to find someone -anyone- who resembled Her kin. Her mother’s words forever echoing in Her skull: “Find those Men with your Father’s eyes and you shall find your people”. They were the only things that drove Her forward, kept Her stubbornly alive, as She forced herself to steal and hide in order to live from day to day.
If that was considered living.
That was until the day She was caught stealing bread and the Her tunic was wretched from Her back by the furious shopkeep as he laid his grasp upon Her. She could remember the screams and hysteria of the Crowd as clear as the Sky that too bright day; as Her clothes were peeled from Her skin and Her flesh was exposed to the existence. The word ‘Evasor’ was bewailed again and again as the mob did seize Her. She was held fast and harsh by Her captors but at tender lengths, as if She was an Infectant, a Plague Carrier or even a Demon of sorts. She was jostled and kicked as She was brought to Zelta -the Religious leader of the Settlement. As She cried, begged and screamed, She remembered a moderate in the Crowd, a kind Soul who stood by Her side, explaining to Her that the Settlement had recently been converted en masse to a new and growing religious cult calling themselves ‘The Children of the Living God’ and that She was being taken to the Temple to be judged. He tried whispering something into Her ear but the Kind Soul was torn from Her side before he could finish his explanations and She was cast before The Zelta -a frighteningly tall man with white hair, harsh features and eyes that burned with righteous Hellfire.
“What doth thou bring ‘this’ before I, Hectorus,  Zelta of the Living God?” he demanded, as he stared down at Her with withering eyes.
“We have found The Evasor, Zelta!” cried the man who held Her fast by the back of Her neck. “Here amongst we good people. Children of the Living God!”
A murmur of ‘The Living God’ drifted through the now quietened crowd, as the Zelta regarded Her with wrathful eyes.
“Show I the Marks of the Evasor!” The Zelta commanded, casting his arms into the air, the sleeves of his cassock sliding down his bone thin arms.
The man who held Her by Her neck and a woman who stood dutifully by thrust Her head towards the white steps of the Temple and tore Her tunic from off Her back. The heard the Crowd gasp and moan as She felt the hot breath of the Sun upon Her naked flesh.
“Behold!” The Zelta blazoned. “The Dark Wings of Our Destruction!”
With wild fear, She jerked Her head up, holding back Her burning tears. She knew that they were speaking of Her Birthmarks. Two stains of black and red in the shape of wings that lay upon Her shoulder blades. She had always been told by Her mother to keep them hidden from all eyes. As a child, She never understood why such care and delicacy stood be attended to them, though now She why through the hail of pained screams and blows that were now cast upon Her so wretched flesh.
Chants and cries of ‘Evasor!’, ‘Strigus’ and ‘Dark Wings’ bled into the calls and shouts of ‘burn her’, ‘kill her’ and ‘Holy Judgement’ from the seething mass of Wrath and Rage that surrounded Her trembling body. She felt their blows rain down upon Her as their collective fear turned to collective violence. But She held back Her tears and chilled Her Heart, so She could not feel their anger upon Her.
The Zelta raised a thin hand to quell the Crowd and, once silence ruffled through the mass, and becried: “Bring forth the Instruments of Judgement and let the Commands of the Living God be done!”
Cheers rose from the Crowd and She was tossed upon the Temple’s white stone steps, Her frail limbs failing to block Her fall. She was hoisted up again, held by each wrist as Her arms were pull taut and Her shoulders screamed in pain. She cast Her pained blue eyes skyward and saw The Zelta descending the Temple stairs, a large silver sickle in his thin fingers, which trembled with a zealot’s fever.
“For The Living God!” he screeched, as he swung the Sickle down.
She buried Her neck into Her chest and wished for the painless death that Her parents never received.
The sickle whistled as it tore the air and She shut tight Her eyes, awaiting Her end.
Though that was not yet to come.
All She heard was the sharp ‘tang’ of metal against metal and the clash of something against stone. She opened Her eyes when She realised that her arms had been released and the Crowd had been driven back, if but a little, away from Her. She looked up again at see The Zelta standing empty handed, mouth agape as the sickle lay behind him next to a black shafted arrow. His eyes were part blank with disbelief, part vexed, all fury as it stared into the dark infinite of his own righteous rage. In the silence that now came, all She could hear was the furious quake and tremble of Her Heart and, once that has quelled, She heard the dull whiny of a horse.
She turned on her knees to see a man, bedighted all in black armoured that flared with steel frills, astride a white horse. A black lacquered bow was held within his gauntlet hand, another arrow notched upon the string, aimed for The Zelta’s Heart. At his side, She recognised the Kind Soul who had earlier tried to shield Her from the rage and fury of the Mob.
“What be this action?!” The Zelta screamed, the froth of his wrath gathering upon his lips.
“You tell I, Cultist!” The Ebon Knight replied, as he held fast his bow. “What crime hast this Girl committed that you punish her so?”
The Zelta’s lips moved of their own accord before he shouted the words: “She has offended the Law of Our Living God and must be made suffer for it.”
He stooped and reached for his sickle. Over the hushed air, the ‘twang’ of the bow string was palpable and the Crowd uttered a collective murmur as the Ebon Knight’s black arrow pierced the silver sickle, pinning it to the Temple’s steps.
“The Law of ‘your’ God, Cultist, not mine,” the Knight said, as he past his bow down to the Kind Soul and dismounted his steed, laying a hand upon his sword’s hilt as soon as his feet touched the ground. “There are many Gods and Goddess within The Pantheon of our Land, each have their own Laws and Abidments, but none overrule the Laws of Land and the People. Your Cult is not even recognised amongst The Pantheon, so you do not have even claim to The Law.”
“And you have claim command of these Law, do you, Heathen?!” The Zelta spat, cast forth the froth and foam from his mouth.
“I ride amongst the court of the Guardian of these Territories -the Patrice of Mount Ethonore,” The Knight replied, as he strode through the quietened and frightened Crowd. She could see he was quite tall, even as tall as the towering Zelta. “Thus I am charged with the up holding of the Law of The Land and of The People. And thus I command you to release this Girl. For the rule and law of a Cult cannot stand against the Rule and Law of the Patrice or Senate which he serves!”
The Knight and The Zelta faced off against each other, standing so close that The Zelta’s crooked nose was almost pressed against the beaver of the Knight’s finned and frilled helm.
“But she is The Evasor!” someone cried from the Crowd. “She must die!”
Quick calls of agreement filled the air until the wrathful din deafened Her again.
“I do not care if she be the Regorrier Itself!” The Knight bellowed, silencing the Crowd with the mere mentioning of the very Demon of the Crowd’s Beliefs and Nightmares. “You cannot judge her for and by your faulted beliefs!”
“How dare you, Heathen Knight,” The Zelta hissed.
“I dare, Cultist,” The Knight spat back. “I very much do dare!”
“So, she will be judged by your laws but not by ours?” The Zelta asked, in whispered tones.
“Indeed,” The Knight replied. “Such ‘are’ the Laws stated.”
“Very well,” The Zelta muttered. “If you so with to pursue such action.”
The Zelta than stepped forth before the Crowd, cast his hands again skyward and called to his followers: “Who amongst you would lay before this honourable Knight of the Patrice the accusations for which we condemn this. . . ‘Abomination’?!”
The Crowd shuffled uneasily but then an old woman stood forth and cried unto the Knight: “She did steal from my table four sums of bread. Starving an old woman like me of my food.”
Then another stood forth, claiming that She had stolen money from his pocket. Another said that She had stolen his sheep from the field. Yet another accused her slaughtering an entire herd to satisfy her blood lusts. More accusations were levelled false against her, until the Knight cried “enough” when a woman -apparently mad with grief- blamed Her for the poisoning of her three children and for the illness that they now suffered.
“So, dear Knight,” The Zelta said, in a smarmy voice. “Doth that satisfy your law now?”
The Knight must have stood agasp within his helmet, for he could say nothing against the Zelta nor against the lying Crowd. They had indeed follow the Course of the Law as it was set out, how ever false they were or may be.
“Is that not enough for your law and the punishment we prescribe?” The Zelta cried, to the Knight but playing to the Crowd. “Is not death deserved?”
“No!” The Knight yelled, to the stirring Crowd. “You must first prove your charges against her!”
This silenced the Crowd but not the Zelta, who said: “But she must still be punished. It ‘is’ the law.”
She could only imagine the look of rage upon the Knight’s face as the ebon helmet glared at The Zelta.
“She shall be taken to the Immura of Ethonore,” The Knight cried unto the Crowd. “Before being brought before The Patrice himself for judgement. Where all your charges shall be heard. Does that satisfy you?”
A murmur of acceptance spilled throughout the Crowd and The Zelta smiled his cunning smile.
“Take her to the Immura,” he commanded of the town guards, who stood at the very back of the Crowd, awaiting for their orders. “And see that she has her chance to see the Patrice.”
But, by the very tone of the Zelta’s voice, The Knight knew that she would never get such a chance. He tried to push his way to Her, through the vicious, swarming crowd. He got to Her side but was forced back by a Guard, shove knocked him heavily with the butt of his spear. But he managed to grab Her by the Shoulder and whisper in Her ear: “Do not fear. I will come for you. No matter how long it takes. Remember by words: ‘Keillasorta mesqua besq’. May our Guardians bare your suffering.”
But She knew he would not and that was the last time that She did see the Ebon Knight, struggling vainly against the surging crowd.

All this washed over Catena as a wave or wind would. Quick and sharp but swiftly dismissed from her mind as she focussed on the here and now of her being.
The Arena and the coming fight.
That was all she had and all that would ever mattered to her.
Catena took her stance. Placing her feet a shoulder’s width apart, turning her torso sidelong to him and stretching her arms out. One forward with it’s elbow crooked, the other cocked up slightly behind, slightly to the side. Her weight was low but centred, giving agility to her mighty legs. This was one of the secret motions of her fighting art. If her wrists were still connected by chains, this stance would give her a natural sense of distance between her hands and thus allow her to know her limitation and then, by extension, know the distances to work against her opponent. It allowed her hands and body to work in concert. To understand it’s limitations and to work within them. To make the most of the space around her and within herself. That is the basis of her fighting art. And in this stance she made ready for Ulva’s first attack.
What Ulva did next both confused her and strengthened her understanding of how he fought.
He fell forward, going from standing to laying, just off the ground, on the balls of his feet and his very finger tips. His limbs were all spread wide so no other part of his body touched the ground. He then drew his arms in at the elbows and twisted to one side, lowering one shoulder towards the dirt of the Arena floor and coiling himself up as if he were a snake or spring.
Cautiously, he reached one arm sideways and then shifted his entire body swiftly crabwise, circling Catena with a mixture of speed and care. He never crossed one arm or leg under the other nor let his balance waver. She knew it was a near prefect stance for both attack and defence. If she moved forward, he would have her trapped yet he could move quickly at will and quite possibly overcome her with ease.
Though what Catena found most surprising and interesting about his style and stance is that he did all this with his eyes closed. Since he had entered the Arena had they not even flickered or been cast open. She knew he was not blind because she could see their subtle orbits as they shifted behind his sealed eyelids; confirming their workings. But yet, he kept them barred against the world.
Catena did not know whether this was merely a ruse or part of the deeper secrets of his style. Either way, she knew she had to be more weary of him than any other opponent for he must have a way or technique to compensate with this self-imposed sightlessness. She also knew that she could not allow him to press any advantage against he may have against her and she must be as swift and as merciless as she could afford to be.
With a speed that seemed impossible for some of her muscular bulk, she lowered her back arm, thrust her back hip forward and sprung towards Ulva, rolling her body in a tight circle. With an open palm, she scooped up a hand full of dust and dirt, throwing it into Ulva’s face; testing whether or not he was truly as sightless as he seemed. He merely smiled as the detritus sailed past him, dropping his shoulder slightly and then brings both forearms up in order to block and avoid Catena’s in coming kick. She moved in close, as the edicts of her style dictated, making a sharp arc with her arm, her hand aimed at Ulva’s gaunt, smiling face. He, for his part, merely leant his body backwards to avoid her blow and, with the subtlest of muscle control, held himself there until Catena came around with her next attack -a spinning back elbow held close to her body and then whipped out to a backfist at the last moment- and then dropped to the utter reversal of his original stance. He lay on the ground, balanced on his fingers and the heels of his feet. Catena stomped down at his exposed flank. Again, Ulva moved with the subtlest of muscle control, flipping himself around in time with her blow, so it missed him by the barest of margins, and landing back on all fours, belly down. Catena pressed in with four more attacks and again, Ulva avoided them all by the barest of margins, yet never counted them.
After this bout, Catena moved back, realising what Ulva was doing.
She was his chain.
He was gauging her attacks, her timing and the distances in which she moved. She knew that he did not need to see her or them in order to judge them. She knew, within her fighting spirit, that he could sense her and what she was doing. Whether he felt the air she pushed when she moved or sensed something else more subtly through his skin -such as the aura that she projected which her Old Master would always speak of- she did not know. All that she knew is that his blindness was more of a help than a hindrance and he would be a tougher opponent than she had experienced in the past year of Arena battles.
She changed stance to a move defensive posture, dropping her broad shoulders forward to protect her chest and allow more power from her hips, and readied herself for the next pass.
Ulva, from his Spider stance, leapt forward onto his feet, thrusting out an arm as if it were a spear. Catena shifted her head and shoulders slightly, allowing the blow to whistle past her ear. She knew that it was a fast and powerful strike by the way it had ruffled her short, yellow hair -cropped for comfort and combat- and the quiet noise it had made as it tore the air.
It was then that she noticed another sound, near silent, crushed beneath the cheers and jeers of the crowd above. It was a song. A song that flowed from out Ulva’s cracked and caked lips. It was a song of her childhood and of her imprisonment at the hands of The Children of The Living God.

Before the rising of the Karna Moon, Her punishment begun.
She was not taken to Immura Ethonore as The Ebon Knight had promised but was instead sent to the Prison Camp, Ballacreous, a bastion of the Cult of The Living God and said to be the Earthly incarnation of their vision of Turakla, the Realms of Punishment. Here the Prisoners were forced to mine and to build for the Cult, forging the bases of their weapons and armour as well as make and design their everyday wares. In short: it was a labour camp owned and controlled by the Cult and housing not only every form of criminal in existence, from petty thieves to rapist and murderers, but any other who has questioned and stood against the Cult in an Area controlled by them. There were men and women within, as well as children of all size and ages. Entire families lived and died within those harsh confines, which was now Her home.
She was dragged in a line of other prisoners, mainly elders and other children, all too weak to struggle or protest. She tried in vain to search for The Ebon Knight amongst the crowd of Warders, Guards and Overseers but he was no where to be seen. She knew that his black tinted armour would stand out against the leather and cloth of Her captors’ attire. She knew that The Knight would never arrive to this place though, in Her deepest Heart, She knew that he would not abandon Her. Upon her arrival She had tried to espy any who might carry Her Father’s Eyes, though they were all of mortal men and were nothing unto her Father’s orbs.
She was alone here, as She had been before.
She was thankful that they had not singled Her out here as they had in the Frontier Town. No one even mentioned the word ‘Evasor’ but She did Her best to keep Her back covered and Her face hidden beneath her long stringy hair to stop from being discovered. She was grateful that She just seemed to blend in with all the other children there. Even though She was elder to most, She had a similar stature to them. Being small and very much sickly thin, but shaped with a wiry build that She had developed from a year of constantly running and hiding. Her luck only lasted until the end of Her first terrifying week, when She was forced into the communal bathing area. A half mad woman spotted Her birthmarks and started screaming about them. Calling for the guards until the other female prisoners fell upon her, muffling her hysterics. She was terrified, fearing a repeat of what happened to Her in the Town, but She was quickly swaddled by the other women and placed in the corner, away from any guards who may come looking. Another woman, tall and proud, came in and looked over the situation. In the space of a breath, she had taken everything in, walked over to the crazed woman and slapped her so hard that the blow echoed and the bathing chamber.
“Huss ya-sef, womb’n!” she chided, in an iron voice, thick with an strange accent that sounded like it’s own mysterious language, cutting some words short whilst completely altering others. “Do ya wan’ bri’ t’e Livies o’ we?!”
This calmed the mad woman, who headed out of the bathing chamber, shame faced and escorted by several other ladies. The Iron Woman with the commanding voice watched her go then turned her attentions on to Her. The Iron Woman strode boldly over to where She huddled, trembling with fear. She watched as another woman whisper in the Iron Woman’s sharp ears. The Iron Woman nodded her head as she stared upon Her. Finally she said: “So yay be t’e wo t’ey a’ fus’ ova?”
She nodded her scared replied.
“T’en co’ wit’ mi, girl!” the Iron Woman commanded. “We ha’ ma tae do.”
So, She stood and She followed the Iron Woman out of the Bathing Chamber and into the dusty courtyard. They strode past the firepits and the forges, down to the entrances to the Mines.
“Wha’ bae ye nom, shil’?” the Iron Woman asked, as they stood outside of the main Mineshaft entrance.
She said nothing in reply, merely buried Her head into her scrawny chest.
“W’ll, matta no, shil’,” the Iron Woman said, with a sigh. “J’ gotta kee’ a ya way fro’ a t’e Livies. Co’me wit mi.”
She gave a stern look and entered the Mine.
“Who are the Livies?” She asked, her first words since entering Ballacreous.
“Tuo, ya dae a hev a licca,” the Iron Woman clicked her tongue. “Gou’de.”
“Who are the Livies?” She repeated.
“T’ey a be t’e Livies,” the Iron Woman replied, nodding her head in the direction of a group of guards. “T’ey a all a bae Livies. Eer lea one of a t’em.”
“Why do you call them Livies?” She asked, accepting she had to understand things at last.
“Be’cau t’ey whor’sip t’ey God hae nah bae dea’,” the Iron Woman replied, striding through the upper mine with purpose, ignoring those around her as they moved out of matronly respect.
“Which Gods do you worship?” She asked, trying her best to keep up.
In the flickering light of the blazing torches and dull braziers, She caught the traces of the Iron Woman’s smile.
“T’I bae a fol’lore of t’e Skae,” she replied, not even breaking step. “Shae t’e Go’tess who lea abov’ wae.”
“You worship Goddess Of The Sky?” She asked. “Where do you come from?”
“T’I co’ fro’ he’e,” the Iron Woman replied. “T’is bae me lan’. Livies co’ an’ tae fro’ we. Slave we t’ey do. Bea’ we t’ey do. Tae we lan’ and mae slaves o’ we.”
The Iron Woman’s face showed no sign of how she felt about this matter, her voice was even and firm. If she was angry, She could not tell. So She merely followed the Iron Woman until they came to a quiet area, lit only by a dully warm fire. The gentle sound of song drifting upon the stale air.
“A’gae’ti’ous!” the Iron Woman called down toward the fire.
She heard the singer stop, if for a moment, and saw something shift in the edges of the firelight.
“Bae Aeguis!” the Iron Woman called. “T’I bae haev’ing som’ t’ing fae ye!”
“Bring her down here, Aegine,” the singer called back, as if all this was expected.
The Iron Woman, Aegine, ushered Her forward until She stood before a tall man, dressed in the thick covering of a miner and with what they called ‘Miner’s Eyes” stuck to his face. A pair of googles with tinted lenses for those who have spent far too much time underground and can no longer handle the light of the Overworld. He stared up at the ceiling of the cave, still singing his song. He sang even when Aegine lent over and whispered something in her strange native language into his ear. He merely nodded and dismissed her with a clicking of his tongue. Aegine lent back and gave Her a reassuring pat on Her frail shoulder before she simply strode away.
Once Aegine, had gone, the Singing Man stood and looked down at Her.
He was tall and built strong. His hands were as large of shovels, yet, She would always remember, as soft and gentle as lily-pads. The firelight reflected in his Miner’s Eyes, blanking out any feeling or emotion his face might have otherwise shown. She looked down and saw the thick manacles upon his wrists and then up to see the yoke upon his neck. The manacles’ chains softly rattled with every moment that he made. Adding a docile rhythm to the song that he sung.
“My name is August,” he said, as he sat back down and patted the rock at his side, biding Her to sit with him. “And I am to make you strong.”
And then he resumed his song.

Catena, even after so many years and trails, was sure that this was the same song that Ulva now uttered. It was the same restless melody that August had hummed throughout his days. A Prayer for the Helpless he had once called it. Sung only by those beyond Help and Hope, except for what of them they make themselves. Even though Ulva’s tune was near words in his rendition, Catena knew it to be the said same song.
Though she was not sure even how he managed to sing it as he fought and as he moved around her. His breath seemed to move in an endless cyclic flow -having no beginning nor ending. Just this endless chant. This ceaseless Song.
She knew that she had let it distract her too much when she felt his knuckles graze past her scarred right cheek. Grating her flesh with his bony finger joints. But he was now well within her prime space -the distance she was most comfortable in fighting. The distance slaves have between each other when placed ten men deep within a forge or a firepit or merely two people within the hollowed confines of a Mineshaft. It was all done close, no longer than the chains that bound you to yourself and to each other, it was swift and it was brutal.
Catena struck him hard in his spongy ribs with the heel of her palm before he could even retract his arm. But his latched his outstretched fingers around the back of her head and used the force of her own blow to drag her down. Lithely, he spread his free limbs and anchored all of his weight down, slamming Catena’s face into the sandy ground. Auspiciously, she had enough wits about her to thrust her chest forward and her arms out as to absorb as much of the impact as she could. She turned her head, despite Ulva’s fierce grip, so her left check slapped against the ground but not hard enough to hurt her.
She knew that whilst she was down here, she was in his territory. His space of comfort. He could play with her as he wished but Catena knew she was far from beaten.
Despite her impressive size and muscular bulk, she was prided by her Keepers on being uncannily agile. The incredible strength of her arms and legs only added to this ability. Allowing her to push herself up and off the ground from virtually any position and give herself great distance from her opponent. With a powerful heave of her mighty arms, she flung herself upwards and tucked her knees up into her chiselled chest to give herself more momentum. She curled and coiled away from Ulva, who had recoiled from her sudden motion, landing several body lengths away from him. She grunted as she wiped her dirt covered check with her bandaged hand and readied herself from the next Clash.
She stood set, watching Ulva and for his next move. She was deaf to the din of the crowd, she had learnt to block it out so long ago that she barely remembered ever having heard it. She could still hear his song though. Every whispered, murmured note that left his long shattered lips. They were a delirious drone; raped of the Heartful melody that she so remember. Then, as if he wished to further infuriate her, he rose up and took a stance that either mocked or mimicked her own.
Though how could he see it?
With his eyes so shut?
Sure his senses were not so strong that he could feel how she stood in readiness? No. That could not be.
Maybe he did, in some way or fashion, see? Maybe he had learnt how to glimpse things for mere seconds and assimilate them quicker than any other? Maybe this was the secret to his Art?
He could not know her Fighting Art.
For it was known only to those who had been slaves of centuries. Past from one cruel master to the next. It was used against those who stood above you or, more commonly, those who stood beside to you. It was the style of an individual trapped within a group, forced to survive anyway they could. And August was the master of this Art, swearing that only few remained who knew it’s depths and secrets, and that she would be the last to learn from him.

[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

So, at the tender age of Fourteen She began Her apprenticeship to August of The Miner’s Eyes, the Singing Man as he was know around Ballacreous. She was indentured as Miner’s aid, taken away from the other women of the Prison Camp and chained like Her Master and his fellows. She was made to shift rocks and carts under the whips of the Livies. They all expected Her to fail, fall and die within a week of this work but instead it made Her strong. After a month, the Overseers found Her to be as strong as any of the young men in the Mines and Her muscles and strength continued to grow, feed by the encouragement of August and the stolen food that Aegine provided for Her every few days. She did question why She had gotten stronger where all others had gotten weaker but all August would say is that ‘it was all within her blood’ and that ‘she was marked to be so from her Birth’.
She also grew strong from the secret training that August did give her in the style that he referred to as Pa’wrathe’sa -the Fighting Art of the Slaves. He spoke of it in reverence. Telling Her of how his Master and his Master’s Master, all the way back to the when the outlying tribes had been enslaved by the First Omperia Conquerors and forced to serve this Heartless wills. He spoke of how the tribes fought against the Omperium and against each other, for their tribal disputes had not been settled when they had been conquered and stilled simmered in the slavepits. He spoke the tale of the Four Noble Warriors, the Qua Maetres, who banded together and taught each other their different fighting arts, fusing them into the Art of Pa’wrathe’sa and seeding the art amongst the slaves so they could overthrow their Omperia Overlords and return to their native lands. Though such noble dreams were never to come to bloom, as the slaves began to use the Art against each other as well as the Overseers, thus leading to the oppression and gradual, systematic destruction of the Art. So it past into Darkness and came to be practised by only one tribe, those repressed by all and everyone throughout their troubled history. August also said how few outside that tribe knew the art and even fewer were it’s masters.
He had shown Her how to fight when your hands are chained no more than a shoulder’s width apart and use your feet in place of your fists. How to pin and choke your opponent with either your chains or their own. How to move within confined spaces and battle without drawing the attentions of the Warders and Overseers. How to become stronger and use that strength in and against all things. How to read what your opponent would do and how they would fight and react. How to train Her body so She would become unconquerable. These are what She was taught in every waking hour.
She had learnt Her lessons well. Listening to and doing everything that August did tell Her. No matter how hard it might have seemed to Her, she always complied and the years made Her stronger where all others had grown weak and died. Her lessons, Her will and Her friendship with Aegine and August helped her to survive those wretched years. She would always remember the words August had bespoken to Her, everyday for four years.
‘Make your Body as strong as Rock, as mighty as Iron, as subtle Reed, as yielding as Cloth so none can conquer your Flesh.’
‘Make your Mind quick as Lightning, Fierce as Fire, flow as if Water, as empty as the Deepest Pit of Earth.’
‘Make Soul impervious to harm, keep it within yourself, show it to none that may use it against you, share it with those whom you trust and whom it bespeaks of.’
These were the three pillars of Her existence that propped Her up against all else. Her Island in a Sea of Woe. Along with the Three Virtues of Pa’wrathe’sa: Know Yourself, Know Your Enemy, Know the Universe. ‘Master all these and you shall never know defeat’ was the credo that August did preach and the Code with which She did live by and helped her survive.
She also had to contend with the other workers at Ballacreous, especially the Younger Miners, who always wished to prove themselves in combat and secure their reputation amongst the other slaves. When this occurred, more often than not, August would always say unto Her: “Become as Stone, wrap your Soul within yourself and let nothing touch you inside”. So, She learnt to close Herself off and not allow anything to touch Her Heart or Her Soul, besides those She kept closest to Her.
They were the internal secrets of Her Fighting Art and though one may mimic its external forms, few can master its internal complexities.

So that is what Catena wondered now as she saw Ulva sway in the same stance that she held: whether he merely mimicked her form and whether he actually knew the Internal Secrets of her art.
She would give him no chance to tell and pressed in against him to test his might and mettle. She knew she had to use the most difficult and advanced techniques that Pa’wrathe’sa had within it’s vast and impressive arsenal in order to best him. Attacking with both hands at once. Chokes and holds. Using her strong arms to help propel powerful legs faster than her opponent might.
She struck at Ulva with both palms and he swayed out of the way, as she predicted he would. She then tried to follow through and seize him by his throat or shoulders, but he casually cast her aside with a deflection of the arms. Catena then span herself, planting both hands on the ground and throwing both her legs in a swift swinging kick at Ulva’s nobbled knees. As she expected, his body followed the motion of her attack and he cartwheeled over her legs, holding his hands close together in standard Pa’wrathe’sa form, as if they had been lashed to each other. Catena swiftly stood and aimed her head at his emaciated stomach but he countered yet again by bringing both his knees up towards her face. She twisted away from his attack and slipped her thick arm in around his tiny wait, hoping to throw him back to the ground. She contorted around with her momentum and held Ulva above her now, aiming to smash him into the Arena floor but he carried her momentum over and squirmed out of her grasp, flipping back as Catena continued to sail through the air. Ulva landed back in his Spider Stance whilst Catena cartwheeled and landed in her basic ready stance.
All to the awed silence of the crowd up above.
“Ne. . . Never in a. . . all mer. . . my years. . . have I every witnessed anything such as this,” the Arena Master stumbled, all former confidence stripped from his voice.
And through the silence that followed, Catena could hear the shrill titter of her Keeper, the Matriss Acheron. She looked up to she here, laughing, flirting and taunting her constant rival and sometime love, the Prince Calablame, across the Arena. Her thick black locks, cut level around her neck, shaking about her shoulders with each projected jest and tease. The Matriss was a follower of Hedonia -Goddess of Earthly Excesses- and this showed through every aspect of her existence. Her clothing and adornments were gaudy and garish, the forest green of her outer robe clashing wildly with the peach of her revealed undershirt. Her eyes -dark green by nature- were lined with thick, layered greens and blues and eyebrows were bejewelled by emeralds and sapphires. It was impossible to tell her age, for she had a radiance of careless youth about her, and she indulged ever whim that she had. Catena was proof enough of that. She had not so much as rescued her from Ballacreous but purchased her to be slave and trophy.

[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

Three years before, four years since Her condemnment to Ballacreous and near Her Eighteenth birthday, there was a cave-in at the end of a new Mineshaft, trapping August and the other seasoned slaves in one of the deepest pits of the Mine. She was lucky in the fact that she had been forced to take a cart to the pile when the cave in happened. As soon as She heard the rumble of stone and the murmuring of the Earth, she dashed back as fast as her bound flesh would allow. A solid wall of rock and dust meet her as she entered the passage in which they had been working. There was a deathly silence in the blocked tunnel, not a sound could be heard besides Her sharp and laboured breathing. As Her Heart and breath stilled, another sound, as soft as the quietest sigh, filtered through the stone.
A song.
August’s song!
With a fury and fever She believed not her own, She flew at the rock and began to tear at the loose wall with her bare hands, throwing earth and stone behind her as she dug forward, towards the flickering sound of song. She tried Her hardest to reach him but, by the time She had dug through the rock and stone with Her hands, August’s life had all but withered away. Her fingers were torn and the skin shredded well-nigh to the bone, though She had no care or concern for such things, as Her broken appendages traced Her Master’s shattered features. Loosing a wrenching cry from Her young, torn breast.
“Remember. . .” he wheezed, the blood spilling down his chin. “Remember all that I taught you. Be strong and be True. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” She sobbed. “I will do that.”
“Now, do me one last thing, Child,” he said, as he brushed his giant hand against her cheeks, stained with blood, dirt and tears.
“Anything, Master,” She sobbed.
“Sing for me,” he said. “Sing me my song. The Song Of The Dead.”
At his words, She let loose unearthly sob, but held Herself and began to utter the Song that enveloped and given strength to Her life for the past four years. She sang it as he would have, as he did teach Her. Every note and every pitch. In the unyielding dark of that Deep Earth, Her song resounded and he felt his very last.
And with that promise kept, he smiled his last and let his hand slip from off Her face.
There was no burial or memorial for him or the other’s who lost their lives. The Overseers merely sealed the tunnel and marked the lost of production as the only price to pay with their passing.
And thus, She was alone in the World again.
The other workers all saw Her as the Heir to August and treated Her with the same cautious respected that they had given him but She would not be consoled by such things and threw Herself into the brutality of Her existence. She began to fight more often and more violently. Not even Aegine’s broken words could reach Her, but the Iron Woman’s body was now ravaged by ages and the burdens of Ballacreous, losing Aegine the prestige and glory that she once possessed. She fought so often that She gained the attention of some Overseers who saw profit in Her violence and placed Her to battle other workers and slaves in their own private Arena. Of course, She won ever match She was in and gained much notoriety about the Senatorial Lands, as the Arena’s reputation grew amongst those amongst the Elite who sought thrills of life. Nobles from over all the Senatory Realms would come to see the battle and She was a major attraction and cash crop. She had also come under the attentions of the Matriss Acheron, who desired Her for her own combative stable and the distinction of owning such a fighter.
And so She was freed from the prison of Ballacreous without any sense of release or redemption but with the subtle exchange of coins and hushed contracts. She rode for days, locked within a small steel cage, under the constant watch of a man wearing what She knew to be a Slavers’ Mask -fashioned in the shape of a bird to mark which guild he did belong to. She had seen many of them whenever She did venture out of the Mines. The Livies had expanded so much in their scopes and ambitions that they know required fresh works and this meant a consistent flow of Slavers’ into Ballacreous peddling their wares. Though She did note that this Slaver was very much unlike the others She had seen, in the fact that the eyes of the mask were sealed with the same fixings as formed The Miners’ Eyes, hiding away his orbs from Her. He was also small and wiry, very much befitting the bird-like qualities of his mask. He spoke little to Her or the Warders -the Matriss’ own Soldiers- who crowded the edge of the wagon, or even to the Driver, who also wore the Bird Mask of The Slavers’ Guild, though he did tend fairly to Her. Ensuring that She was always with water or nourishment and could relieve Herself of their burden freely. He was always at Her side and this made Her feel most uncomfortable indeed.
The days under his ceaseless and hidden gaze seemed unending, until they reached the City of Acheron, which would become her new Prison, and into the House of the Matriss. She was commanded into the Matriss’ chamber, a luxurious apartment filled with all forms of extravagance and lined with a flowing watercourse. She had never seen such excess in all her life.
The Matriss herself lounge on a long single person couch in the centre of the room. She was casually inspecting a bunch of grapes as She was brought before her. She noted that the Matriss always seemed to have an expression of child like wonderment whenever she inspected anything. Only the objects she examined existed in her World, until something of more interest filtered through her senses.
And, right now, She was of far more interest.
The Matriss cast the grapes over her shoulder as soon as she saw Her and flipped her legs over the edge of her couch, righting her body. She drew her Green Shawl, the outward symbol of her religion, tighter over her pale, supple shoulders and flicked a side of her ravened hair back with her thin fingers.
She then noticed that two striplings that were at her feet, who sat up when The Matriss moved to stand. A boy and girl of close appearance -definitely brother and sister and most likely twins as well. She had seen a few twin-born during Her captivity and easily recognised the similarities in their Frontier Sand coloured hair and eyes. They were dressed in identical green toga and had thick collars encasing their delicate, avian necks. Theses two were fashioned to be the same and interchangeable. Forever made to be androgynous children. Upon their thin faces they had the expression of lazy, insolent pets as they gazed upon Her, fawning over their Matriss’ dainty ankles. She despised them both immediately and hoped that their’s was not to be Her Fate.
She cared not for the appearance of the others in the room, for She knew none had Her Father’s eyes or Her Mother’s grace.
Again, she was alone.
“So, this is the Fighting Girl from Ballacreous?” The Matriss asked, as she stood with a swaying of thin her hips, brushing aside her Little Pets.
“Indeed, my Matriss,” the Slaver answered, in obsequious tones. “Just as you requested.”
“Thank you, Slaver,” The Matriss said, noticing the little man for the first time, she had the expression that she had found him attached to the bottom of her slippers. “You have done well in serving my will. Your reward awaits you by the gates. You may take your leave of me now.”
“Thank you, my Matriss,” he said, with a low bow, scraping his wide brim hat on the marble floor. “May the Gods of Trade keep fair watch over you.”
He made a little sign with his hand and The Matriss dismissed him with a sharp hiss and flick of her hand.
Then she turned her attentions back on Her and said: “Bring the girl hither!”
She was pushed closer towards The Matriss and then knocked to Her knees, so that She was kowtowed before her. She was forced to look up and acknowledge Her new position, though it felt very similar to the one she had left behind in Ballacreous. She noticed that The Matriss was surprisingly tall, for a woman. Her limbs were long and lithesome but She could feel, within Her Warrior’s Heart, that they were edged with might. Her skin was also white; a clean white that She had never seen before in her entire life. A pristine pale that could not exist in the Deserts of the Frontier Lands or the filthy mines of her former prison home. She also noted that The Matriss’ eyes were uncommonly large and a sparkling green -as if they were polished gems.
“What is your name, Child?” The Matriss asked, in a softly commanding voice.
She did not answer. She merely stared down at The Matriss’ Pets, as they crawled towards her, rattling their chains to hide their sniggering.
She was then struck on the back by the blunt end of a rod, contorting her thick flesh with it’s sudden brutality. This only made The Pets snigger even more, as they hide their jackal faces behind their Matriss’ thin legs.
“Answer your Matriss when She speaks to you, Purshuela!” growled a harsh and violent voice from Her side. He spat the ancient word for slave, ‘Purshuela’, from his lipless mouth as if it were the bitterest poison.
She stared up into to the cruel and carved face of a Matrissial Soldier, lined by many years and many battles. He was missing right eye, its absence was marked by a small square of cloth.  On his golden wristbands were the markings of a Duxia -the chief of guards. He wore a pristine white toga and around his stout neck was an token that She despised above all others. It was a pair of golden hands, cupped together, clutching a golden sphere within their hollowed palms. It was the symbol of the Children of the Living God and it represented everything that she loathed and resented in all Existence. He was a Livie and forever Her enemy, no matter what transpired here and now, She vowed that She would always hate him and She would vex his very existence until the very End of Days.
“Speak, Dog!” he screamed , striking Her again.
She took his blow as August had taught Her to and then She gave this Cultist a look of all the purest malice that She could muster, but She did not give him the pleasure of a reply.
“Halt, Cerryis!” The Matriss ordered, in that soft, supply voice of her. “Has it occurred to your idle mind that maybe she does not have a name or even possess the powers of speech as we do? Hhmmm?”
The Livie, Cerryis, straightened himself in regimental fashion and made his flesh a statue.
“I thought not,” The Matriss said, with an impatient sigh.
Cerryis held his Soldiery stance and tried to give as little as himself away, but She could see that he, deep down, despised taking orders from The Matriss but was unwilling to incur what may be her considerable wrath.
“As for you,” The Matriss said, turning her attentions back to Her. “We shall find a name for you in due time, though for now: unbind her!”
Cerryis and another Matrissial Soldier moved to remove Her yoke and manacles, but She fought as best She could against such actions. Lashing out with Her bound wrists at anyone who would dare approach Her. Cerryis attempted to strike Her again with the butt of his rod, but She entangled its shaft within Her chains and wrested it from his thick hands. He raised his arm into the air, as if to knock Her about Her head, when The Matriss stepped in and struck him first. Slapping him hard across his carven features, raising little giggles from the mouths of her Little Pets.
“How dare you bring violence within these walls!” she shrieked, all harmony lost from her voice. “Her life is worth more than your’s at this moment of Existence and shall be worth far more hence. If you ever lay but a hand upon her, Cerryis, your mortality is forfeit and your ragged remains shall be cast before The Dogs and Beggars ere it become but Dust!”
Cerryis had a look of murder in his small, crystalline eye though he did check his temper and yield to The Matriss’ impressive will. He stepped back and took what appeared to be his ritual position by the wall, between The Matriss and the entrance.
“Cala! Craemyn!” she ordered, causing her Pets to cast aside their chains and stand.
They were both tiny, barely raising up to the height of The Matriss’ shoulders, and their limbs were so scrawny that She was sure that She could easily crush them, if She had to, with but two fingers. Though Her inner sense, honed by so many years of being binded by Darkness and Danger, warned Her against such action and to be wary of these two creatures -Cala and Craemyn- even though She did not know which was which or if it even matter so.
“Take her to the Balneumys,” The Matriss ordered, casually stroking the hair of the girl and caressing the shoulder of the boy. “I shall be along presently.”
And so, She was led through corridor after corridor by the Twins, Cala and Craemyn. Her blue eyes filled with a restrained awe as they looked upon sights that She never would dare dream into existence.
It was clean.
Everything was clean!
Cleanliness unlike any She had ever witnessed in her relatively short life.
And the colours!
Colours that She could not give name to -so many shades and patterns- flittered past Her vision and filled Her with a new and strange sensation. Some would call it a ‘Sense of Wonder’, though She would not, for She did not have such words or luxuries within Her direct and pragmatical mind. Though still, She looked and bore witness to sights and extravagance the likes of which boggled Her much restrained Soul, until She was brought into a room which did loose a gasp from Her tight and stubborn throat.
A pool of water, so vast that it seemed to engulf the entirety of the room’s sunken floor and lapped wantonly at it’s pristine edges. She never knew so much water existed in the entire World, let alone in a single place. Not even when Aegine’s Sky Goddess did weep could it even match the sheer volume of this Pool. To Her, it was the purest forms of extravagance and excess combined within a single form. It was all symbolised by a vast column of water was cast into the air from out the upturned mouth of a creature that She could neither name nor fathom; it’s long scaled wrapped tightly around the white stone pillar raising from out the very centre of the Pool. It was scaled not unlike a snake but it’s shape was far from reptilian. It had a small fan attached underneath what She guessed was it’s head and She hazard to hypotheses that it would have another matching fan on it’s far side. It’s eyes were round and bulging and gazed toward the distant domed ceiling but it appeared as though were focused on a thing tangible yet Divine and distant.
Such a foreign and fantastic sight stirred something long dormant within Her and ushered the sound, the breath of word, “Amazing!” from the depth of Her very being. The first noise She had utter since the death of her Master, August, some months previous.
“So,” came the soft voice of The Matriss from behind her. “You do have a tongue within that pretty head of your’s. It shall be interesting to hear it speak your life and existence to me later.”
She did not reply. She merely hung Her head, as She was taught to avoid an Overseers gaze. The Matriss observed this, though she made no comment upon it. She merely took Her avoidance as submission and smiled upon Her. Wicked thoughts and schemes playing their way behind her eyes.
“Strip,” The Matriss ordered.
She gave The Matriss a questioning look and expected to be beaten for it, for She testing Her limits with this strange and seemingly powerful, woman. Though She was not struck for such insolence. The Matriss merely smiled at Her and, with a raised eyebrow, said: “You are to be cleansed of the filth of your former home, Ballacreous, and made fit for living within my Palace. To do so, you must first shed your habiliment and wash your flesh within these waters.”
In commandment, She dropped Her head and unbound the thick robes in which She was encased since She was dragged out of the Mines and thrown upon the prison-cart which brought Her to The City of Acheron and this wondrous water-filled room. The dust of long miles fell from Her flesh as she untethered the robe’s thick cords, forming repugnant clouds within the air before dissipating as if they were banished ghosts. The Twins both made the same disgusted expression but The Matriss merely stared at Her as if She was the most fascinating creature in all of existence. Her giant green eyes seemed to lull over the solid curve and cut of Her neck and shoulders as She peeled the stick cloth from Her muscled flesh. The Matriss’ assembled guards, and even the Twin, Cala and Craemyn, gave a communal gasp as She fully disrobed and revealed Her toned and taut body. She stood there in the Balneumys as if She were one of the statues on the walls had come to life. She appeared to those who stared up Her naked and filthy flesh as she had been carved from stone and not born of skin. She was still relatively slender though every curve and corner of Her body was clustered with corded muscle, forged and formed from so many years of slavish labours in conditions designed to break you -mind, body, Soul.
She had never been conscious or even self-conscious of Her body. To Her, such muscles were and had always been normal and nakedness was nothing to be ashamed of, having been forced to bath communally for so many years. She knew that She was more muscular than many of the other Miners at Ballacreous and no woman She had ever known could match Her size or definition, but She had no clue as to how different She truly was when compared with the pampered and lazy people of the Inner Territories and especially within the Senatorial Houses. She was even larger, in terms of pure muscle and strength, than Cerryis, whom appeared to be the largest of The Matrissial Guards. She could feel all of their gazes, stained with awe and wonderment if not some lust and desire, and, despite Her own pride and conviction, raised Her manacled arms to cover Her shame. She was simply glad that Her back and it’s scornful markings were shown only to the Column Statue behind and that no others, especially the Livie Guard, Cerryis, could see them.
At this odd and marked behaviour, The Matriss gave a opprobrious laugh and scoffed the words: “Still so innocent?! What amusement you do bring.”
The Matriss’ giant eyes slowly dallied over ever ridge and rise of Her flesh, until they fall upon Her yoke collar and the binds upon her wrists.
“Remove them,” she ordered, as she raised her head with a flickering of her ravened hair.
She did not compile, She merely drew her chains closer to her bare flesh. Wrapping them around her thick forearms and drawing it hard against her taut and ridged belly. She knew this was the purest act of defiance She could make in such a situation, but there was no way She would allow Herself to become part of this decadent world and be stripped of the last things She knew here truly Her’s.
Her bonds -physical and metephysical- to Her anechoic Master, August, and the lessons that She had been taught deep under Earth.
The Matriss stared down into Her azure eyes and it was at this moment She realised how tall and powerful The Matriss truly was. She could feel the will of this woman blasting through Her Soul as if it were Fires of the Earth itself welling up within the Mines of Ballacreous. She forced Herself to resist this power with all Her essence, even though it did feel as if Her very spirit was in torment. She held Herself fast against The Matriss and, in the end, it was The Matriss who did first look away and say: “Have it your way, Child. Forever remained bound if you so privatied.”
The Twins laugh at this and the girl-twin said: “Forever bound!”, with her brother mocking the words: “Forever innocent!”, both they both echoed: “Forever Innocent! Forever Bound!”.
At the baying of her Pets, The Matriss smiled and muttered: “And that is what she shall be”.
She wondered what The Matriss had meant by this enigmatic quip, but before She could ponder it further, The Matriss clapped her hands together and called: “Handmaidens! Attend me!”.
She was shocked to see a dozen young girls step from out hidden cloisters, behind the many columns and pillars that this room did have. They looked nearly identical, but out of fashioning rather than out of birth or blood. They were all of the same smallish stature, hair ravened and cut in form of The Matriss’ own and all adorned in white muslin dresses, fastened to their tiny waists by golden cords. They all curtsied to their Matriss and asked, as if with one voice: “What be thy command, dear Matriss?”
“Fetch me bathing salts and aromatic oils,” she enjoined, her voice raised with authority. “As well as the Auransha silk. We must make our latest acquisition look beautiful, do we not?”
The identical Handmaidens all curtsied again and took their leave, flittering as if they were tiny white butterflies rather than girls. She was surprised at how fast they had returned, all carrying what they were charged to fetch: baskets of course grainy crystals and bottled of oils -both pale and dark.
“Into the water,” The Matriss ordered Her, as she unfastened a purple cord around her long and slender throat.
She knew it would be fundamental suicide if She disobeyed The Matriss’ commands any further, so She stepped backwards, placing Her small foot onto the raised edge of the Pool. Holding a mental picture of what the room looked like as She had seen it when She had first entered, She trod reverse-wise into the water. It felt tepid around Her dainty ankles but it still felt better than the Bathing Chamber back at Ballacreous – already was She grateful for Her removal from that Nightmarish place. When She felt the water about her slender waist, She pushed back off Her feet until She felt solid flesh crash against the Column in the centre of the Pool. She was very much thankful that August had the good mind to teach her the most basics of the art of swimming in the small but deep pools at the depths of the Mines, for had he not, She felt that She would be at the utter mercies of her new captors.
She hide within the spray that the Fountain Creature spewed forth and stared at the water that gulfed Her and the others in the Balneumys -The Matriss, her Twin Pets, Guards and Handmaidens.
The crystalline water had become polluted in Her wake. Transforming from the clearest clean to a mottled grey and brown as all the filthy that was Ballacreous peeled from off Her flesh by the freshness of the Pool. She marvelled as Her skin went from dark brown to a soft pinkish-white as entire clods of dirt and grime peeled off Her body. She thanked the all Goddess that Her chains and binds were fashioned to be proofed against rust and water, as She held Her small hands under the water and rubbed her coarse palms together. Amazed at the texture of Her own skin.
In Her wonderment, She did not hear another body enter the Pool and was shocked when a soft pair of hands reached through the water and stroked Her thick shoulders. She spun around to see The Matriss before Her, naked except for her Green Shawl, that was drawn tightly across her back. In this moment, She realised how truly tall The Matriss was, as the top of Her head barely reached the nape of her slender, avian neck, as she was forced to stared into her small yet proud breasts. She also realised how long The Matriss’ reach was, as She felt her outstretched arm brush back her bemired hair. She was no stranger to the desire of others or the consequences of when such desires are enacted -no matter the gender or natural orientation of the enacter. She fought the instinct to draw Herself back into the stream of the Fountain and fight back against The Matriss in this aqua-environment, but She could not sense any sense of lust or desire with her actions and thus acquiesced to The Matriss will.
“Turn around, Child,” The Matriss commanded softly.
Afeared, She did comply, even though She knew would expose Her long guarded secret. She knew that She was now within The Matriss’ power and must give into Her commands whenever it meant travelling the easier path of least noticeable resistance, as was the way Aegine and August had taught her. In this moment, Her life was forfeit to Fate, as it had been so many years before, in that horrid Frontier Town.
Though the screams of horror and hysteria did not come as She had anticipated. The Matriss, for her part, merely looked at Her winged markings as if they were curious pieces of art and brushed her slender fingers down her back without so much as a murmur.
It was the Livie Soldier, Cerryis, that was brought to motion.
As he screamed out a phrase that She knew to be sacred Livie cursed and She knew why it was uttered. It was the very same one that had been laden upon Her five years previous -the word: ‘Evasor’. He screamed this as well as a torrent of other obscenities that were cast upon Her brutalised flesh when She was still trapped within the confines of Ballacreous, though none there ever discovered Her identity of this so-called Evasor. But She could see that Cerryis was both infuriated and terrified by this revelation, as he reached for his short sickle-shaped blade and prepared to dive into the Pool in order to finish the deed begun five years previous by the Zelta,  Hectorus.
’Twas the Matriss whom saved Her though, as she placed her slender body before Her’s and gave a wrathful cry: “Cerryis Albieta Seuvestris! Have you taken leave of your faulted senses?! Have you forgotten the Cardinal Commandment of The House Of Acheron?! Thou must not harm the property of The House less your own existence be forfeit and life be given to The House as payment for the damage and insult done?!”
This seemed to stay Cerryis’ gnarled hand, as he stepped back and sheathed his blade once again.
“She is my property, dear Cerryis, do not forget that fact.” The Matriss continued, as she waded over to the Pool’s pristine edge. “And if any -and I do mean any- harm befalls her whilst she is without the Arena, it shall be visited upon your head, Duxia. No matter the cause or effect, you shall be made to pay for it as the Law of The Acheron and The Senate sets forth.”
She held out her long, lithesome arms, prompting her Twin Pets to hoist her from out the water and drape a robe across her supple frame. She gave Cerryis a look as murderous as his own and continued: “I have tolerated your pathetic religious practises within my House only because your Patron, Senator Incgarisaye, himself gave you to me as a reward for your service in so many battles for your Order. And even though your little Cult may have found acceptance within the Pantheon, it shall have none within this House. So make your little ceremonies and follow your wretched superstitions whilst you can, for your Cult shall go the Way of all others and fall out of favour with the Senatory wives and minor Houses vying for power. So remember, whilst you serve me -for whatever reasons- The House Of Acheron and Its Matriss come first and your religion comes former. Is that understood, Duxia?”
Grudgingly, Cerryis bowed to her and her iron will, though She could see the sanguinary gaze that he held in his small surviving eye. She had seen that expression far too many times not to know its meaning. He wished The Matriss’ demise more than even he desired Her own, though he was held in check by Law and Protocol, he still gave his wants free reign upon his twisted face.
Either The Matriss did not notice them or merely ignored them, for she gave him her sweet smile and said: “As long as that is understood.”
Then she yawned and said: “All this now bores me. I shall retire to my Chambers for the evening. Please ensure that my latest acquisition is clean, fed and housed properly for the night. For she has a big debut to attend tomorrow.”
And with that, The Matriss smiled at Her and took her leave. Two handmaidens climbed into the Pool and continued to clean Her. She was a little wary of such an activity and attention but was thankful that they still remained clothed as they attended Her. They were so thorough in their cleaning that She thought that they were going to scrub Her skin clean from off her bones. They also worked their tiny fingers so deeply into Her sordid hair that She was afeared they were attempting to tear it all out by its roots and She wished to brake their thin, fragile necks as She watched the blackened water drip from Her fringe -thinking it was Her own blood. They massage oils and potions into Her skin and scalp, to help cleanse them further, dissolving all the dirt, filth and grime of Ballacreous from Her body so it was as though She had never been there and the past four years had been but a horrible nightmare.

[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

Though She knew that was but a falsehood, as She watched Cerryis sneer at Her from the edge of the Pool. His absent lips were curled into a malicious snarl and She could see him plotting Her murder in his brain again and again. Though She had no fear of him. She knew that She was now under the protection of The Matriss and that Cerryis was utterly powerless to make any action against Her. Still, this did not make Her feel any easier to be within his presence, for She knew that he would still aspire to make Her young life a misery, as all his creed did.
This was confirmed as She heard his words as the young handmaidens led Her to the Pools edge.
“Take her to the Carceria,” he ordered, as he watched the handmaidens sheath Her in silk.
“B-but, Duxia?!” stuttered a young guard. “That is for prisoners of The Matriss.”
“Were would you have me house her then, Quaturion Draco?” Cerryis growled, as he turned on the young guard. “The Matriss neglected to inform me if a room was prepared for her or not and since the hour is too late to have a chamber made ready, take her to the cells in the Carceria and ensure that she is made comfortable as you can.”
A twisted smile contorted his mouth as he must of thought demonic dreams. He glared at the guards, all of whom appeared quite young and fresh, lacking in any and all experience when compared with an old warrior such as Cerryis. She knew that they all feared and despised him but none would dear contradict his orders. At least not to his face.
“Anyway,” Cerryis scoffed. “She already has the chains, so it’s not as if someone will question where is going or why she is placed there.”
He laughed and turned his back on both Her and the five remaining guards, before saying: “And do make sure that she is well fed tonight. She does have a big debut to attend tomorrow after all.”
He laughed some more and walked away, leaving Her in the care of the guard, Draco, and the other four Matrissial Soldiers. They all seemed unsure as what to do, so, with apologetic words, they escorted down to the Carceria.
“I’m sorry for this,” Draco whispered, as he unlocked the grated door to the Carceria.
He gave Her a weak but warm smile, as he opened the door. She could sense that he was genuine in his emotions but She still could not allow Herself to feel sympathy or empathy for one who did so willingly serve an enemy such as a Cultist.
“No,” She muttered, hoarsely. “You are not.”
Draco looked visibly wounded by Her words, but he said nothing as he lead Her to a cell.
There were so few within the Carceria. Only three. They were all quite large but cold and baron. It smelt of damp and of rot and the sound of dripping water could be heard as it splashed against the far wall. The tang of Death also lingered in the stale air -the fragrance of those departed and they soon to go the Way of All Flesh.
To the sheltered inhabitants of the Omperium Realms and the Lands of Acheron this place would seem as a nightmare, to She, one whom had survived the Mines of Ballacreous and the tortures of The Living God, this place was nothing. A mere room of stone and iron designed to keep those unfortunate enough to displease either Cerryis or The Matriss out of their mutual sights until punishment could be sorted. This place did not hold the same terror for Her as it did for others, so, in that respect, Cerryis had lost that contesting of wills.
“Please, come this way,” Draco muttered, as he ushered Her to the end Cell with an extended arm.
He unlocked the barred door with a long bronze key and held it open for Her.
“Please,” he said, with an almost pleading voice.
She did as She was asked and stepped into the Cell. With a mournful face, Draco shut and locked the door behind Her. His young eyes were stained with grief. In the flickering torch light, he looked to Her younger than She was. He was barely a man. His first whiskers had not even sprouted and his skin was still fresh and virginal in appearance. Far too young to possess the rank of Quaturion. His eyes sat large and aggrieved beneath the thick black curls of his hair. She could sense that he was far from being a warrior or soldier of any type known to Her. He was just another pretty toy for The Matriss to stare at. Doubtless he would have received his rank and occupation through some favour or family connection -as She had seen on occasionally at Ballacreous- and only retained such a position because of his attractiveness to one such as The Matriss rather than any aptitude for his employment. She could almost pitied him, and the other guards who watched Her now through the thick bars of the Cell, if it were not for them being Her captors and She their ward.
She just stared coldly at them as they stared in wonder at Her. They whispered in a strange a soft language that She guessed was their native tongue -each sharing the same olived skin and thick curls of being from the same race or family. She tried Her best to ignore their mumblings, but their voices fascinated Her so much. Hushed and musical, lulled with a strange sweetness that reminded Her of mothers about their babes. Though none of they were Her mother and she was far from being their babe. But still, she stared at them, until a lone and hollow cough from the darkness behind Her pricked Her flesh to attention and made Her spin around -rattling Her chains as She turned.
She could make out a hunched and huddled figure in the far corner. The flickering torches did rob Her of Her Miners’ Sight and mudded the darkness before Her. It seemed to Her eyes as if it were merely a pile of rags and refuse, until She spied a thin hand that did rest upon skeletal knee -both as filthy as Her’s had previously had been before this night. Cautiously, She did creep over to this coughing creature and quietly put Her thick, strong hand upon it’s frail and fragile shoulder.
It was an old man, well past his seventieth Harvest and so thin that his skin was drawn like leather across his ancient bones. A few long, sparse strands of hair streamed from his scalp, though not enough to give him any covering. And worst of all were his eyes. Or what remained of them. They were merely two empty gashes within his skull. They had not even the decency to stitch his eyelids together and left them as gaping maws staring upon a cruel and indifferent World. These hollowed sockets stared up at Her and moved Her to emotion, so that She fell upon Her knees and stifled Her tears.
“They say that his eyes did upset Cerryis so much that he had them torn whole from his flesh and burnt in a brazier as punishment,” Draco said, as leant his young face against the bars. “No one knows why and none but The Matriss dare challenge his authority, so it was done without question.”
He sighed as he stood and turned away from Her.
“Your food is here,” he muttered, with lamentation upon his voice.
He opened the door for the young handmaiden who did come baring a golden tray laden with cold meat and fresh fruits with a bowl of thin, rich soup balanced on its edge. She placed it just at the entrance to the Cell and step backwards, briefly looking up at Draco and smiling at his beautiful face before she turned and left. He watched her go before he turned to one of the other Matrissial Soldiers and said: “Fetch me a Field Cot and covering. I intend to spend the night here, guarding The Matriss’ acquisition.”
The Soldier gave an extended arm salute and marched of to complete his appointed task.
“The rest of you,” Draco said, turning to his comrades. “Are to return to Barracks until morning. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Quaturion!” they all shouted in reply, before they took formation and marched back to the Barracks.
Draco waited until they had taken their leave before he stripped himself of his regimental cape, folded it and placed it through the bars, next to the tray of food.
“Please eat,” he muttered softly, as he stood. “Tomorrow shall be harsh upon you and you shall need all the strength you can get.”
“Why?” She asked, as She crept cautiously towards the tray. “Why do you stay? Do you fear that I will escape or the such?”
“No,” Draco muttered, again smiling weakly. “I am afraid that The Duxia may attempt to hurt or even murder you whilst you sleep and blame one of my men or even the Gods for such an act happening within The Matriss’ Palace. I do not want such a thing to happen, so I shall stay and watch over you.”
“Do you do such a thing for me or for your Matriss?” She asked, as She reached for the tray, slowly jangling Her chains in the air as She stretched out for it.
“Both,” Draco muttered, smiling again. “Please eat and rest. You’ll need your strength.”
Once last time, he smiled at Her before he turned his back on Her and leant it against the bars. Probably to give Her some form of privacy in such an open place.
Despite the vengeful buzzing of Her wrathful mind, She felt as though She could trust this man clothed in boy’s skin. Unlike Cerryis, he was kind and open. She could feel that he meant Her no harm, he was merely too afraid -of both The Matriss and Cerryis- to disobey, even when his Heart told him to be strong and stand for what was right.
She forced such thoughts and contemplations from Her mind as She snatched the tray and scuttled backwards, so that She sat next to the old blinded man. She took a mouthful of meat and fruit but found both too bacciferous to stomach. She was used to the gruels and granules of the kitchens of Ballacreus, not the splendour of the nobility’s table. It make Her mouth ache and Her belly churn to but taste it. She sampled what She could but pushed it away. She had survived for days before without food and She made more than enough strength and will to survive the coming morning’s trails without a morsel in Her mouth.
“Grandfather,” She whispered into the old man’s stubbed and beaten ear. “Are you of hunger?”
“Who are you, child?” he asked, with a voice as thread bare as his robes. “It has been so long since I have had company that I was afraid that I would die alone.”
“I carry no name, Grandfather,” She replied, no knowing what else to say. “I am a prisoner as you. Do you hunger?”
“I hunger for so many things, child,” he muttered, blindly groping for Her, trying to grasp some portion of Her flesh to reassure himself that She is there. “For food. For Sun. For Sky. But I hunger most for my sight. So robbed of me by a cruel Livie guard!”
“I know of he,” She muttered, taking his hand in Her. “My Heart too hates the Livie and all like he.”
The Old Man’s cracked lips tried to form what must have been a toothless smile, as he squeezed Her hand with all his meagre strength.
“Here,” She whispered to him. “Take yon. I lack want.”
She gently picked up the thin ceramic in Her steely fingers and lifted it up to the Old Man’s torn and tattered lips. The pale liquid of the thin soup sloshed around the bowl as She tried to hold it with unsteady hands.
“Partake,” She muttered, as She pressed it to his mouth.
He did sip upon it, until his body was wrought with weakness and he began to cough back all that She did pour down into him. With all the little patience that She had, She tried to force more of the tepid liquid into his throat, but all for naught. For he would merely sputter it back up, bringing with it viler fluids.
“Fret not over such fruitless action,” the Old Man wheezed, as She layed his fragile head upon Her sturdy lap. “This night shall be my last and I have no fear.”
He then slowly closed his eyes and began to mutter a faulted tune. One that She did recognise.
It was the said same tune that Her Master, August, did sing all his waking days. The very song that She did sing over his cooling body, as he did die in Her strong arms. Though not strong enough to pull him away from Death’s firm grasp.
The last of Her emotions welled within Her abyssal Soul and came as a utterance of words. The slow drone of a song.
The Song Of The Dead.
That is man did now sing to himself.
She did not know had some connection in his long life to her most beloved Master or if the Hymn was practised in all Corners of the Omperium Realms, She just felt the compulsion to sing it. For this Old Man and all that had died along the Path of Her Life.
She sang with such force that Her thick desert-born throat was stripped rare. She sang with such Heart that Her eyes were drowned by their own waters. She sang with such Passion that even Her guard, Quaturion Draco, was moved to tears. She sang until the Old Man was cold in Her arms and Her emotion was all but drained away.
And then She was cold.
The last of Her emotion spent and the World distant to Her touch.
She sealed Herself within Herself, as August had once taught Her and She vowed that She would not forgive one death too many in such a place and at the will of a Livie such as Cerryis.
She just sat in the frigid silence.
Even when Draco ordered the Old Man’s body to be removed and given a burial with full honours, She did not stir. She merely sat until Morning came and The Matriss’ Handmaidens came once again and dressed Her in a blue combat costume. Cerryis himself came to escort Her to the Arena and, keeping with Her private oath, did not allow his taunts and jeers to reach Her. She was numb to him as She was to all else in the World. Even to the warm Sun that raked Her flesh as She was pushed out onto the Arena’s dusty floor. If She had any fear or feeling left, She could have flinched at shrill crying of the Stadium Master through the phantom apparatus that was the Deus Vox.
And then She heard it: the words that would forever mark Her existence.
“Presenting the latest of the Fighting Stables of the House of Acheron!” the Stadium Master becried. “Survivor of the Living Inferno, Ballacreous, and champion of the Battle Pits of that Nightmare Made Real. Your warrior, your new champion, The Bound Innocent: Ennocens Catena!”
As the cheers from the Crowd went up, She knew that they were referring to Her and thus Ennocens Catena She became.

And now She, Ennocens Catena, stood within the Walls of the said same Arena, the same Walls in which she had battled day after day for these past three years. Both a Prisoner and Possession of The Matriss Acheron as well as her most heralded Treasure.

Of course Catena had won her first combat within this Arena. It was a Ebon Giant of the far savannah of the South West regions of the Omperium Realms. She had seen few in Ballacreous and knew their strengths well. She bested him in mere seconds, forcing the Games Masters -the organises and procurers of fights and fighters- to send two more opponents against her, in order to ensure the crowds entertainment. She trumped them both as easily as she had the first and thus secured her position within the Fighting Stable of the House of Acheron.
From that moment she was paraded around as the pride of the Stable as well as The Matriss’ prize pet. She was given the finest things that The Matriss could offer -clothe, food, silks, jewellery and ornaments as well as fine room in which to dwell. Though it was little more than another form of Prison Cell, for she was always watched, though be it by the kindly -if weak- Quaturion Draco or one of his most trusted lieutenants. Of course Duxia Cerryis still tormented her whenever the opportunity arose but she ultimately paid him no mind and this infuriated him no end -raising the level of both his ire and his retribution with each silent slight.
Cerryis cruelty was legend around the Palace. He had once cut out the tongue of a Kitchen Maid for bespeaking ills against his Living God and could receive no punishment for that act because of his position within the House. The tortures and torments that he inflicted on all were indicative and indications of his Faith that all within the House began to loath him, his beliefs and his symbols. He constant attempted to thwart The Matriss’ authority and deal blows against Catena, but he was always foiled by his underlings -led by Draco- from doing her any harm, even though it meant that they would oft suffer her intended Fate. Though such was their affection for her. They each respected and adored her, in their own way, and vowed themselves to their House and their Matriss that Catena would always be safe within those Palace Walls.
Within her Palace, The Matriss would parade as Catena as if she were her greatest possession. Even more prized than her two indolent Pets, Cala and Craemyn, whom had taken to following her around, fawning over her whenever she went, garnering her attentions as though her very presence would rub off on them. Though it would seem that The Matriss did not want a mere object or another idle pet, such as The Twins, so, when she was not in combat or in training, Catena could be found in study under The Matriss’ own guiding hand. Catena was taught to read and to write in all the languages of the Omperium and even a few of the Outland tongues, even though her Will was against it and her flesh rallied for other distractions.
What Catena lusted for was the heat and sting of battle. The clash of flesh against heaving flesh, the tearing of muscle by hand or by blade, the shattering of bone from a block or a strike and the exhilaration of the vanquishment of a weak and unworthy opponent. These are the only thing she has known in her short life and what sustained her throughout her two imprisonments -violence and victory. Punishment and Prima. The feel of the chains upon her wrist and throat and soft earth of the Arena beneath her sturdy and stubborn feet.
And all her lusts were answered.
Every few days she was cast into the Arena to do battle with anyone who was foolish enough to challenge the Stable Of The Acheron -the most prestigious combative House in all the Omperium Realms- and Catena, as the Champion of the House, would always have prime position in the fighting list and the most powerful opponents to prover herself against. So vaunted were her skills in combat that soon the name, Ennocens Catena, was as renowned as those whom she would eventually defeat -Azarn Of The Desert, Prida the Pantheress of the Moon Realms, Gorozagi of the East and so many more Arena Dwells- all they famous and infamous all fell at her will.
Though not entirely without a price to pay.
In the first months of her being brought to the Arena Acheron, Catena’s face was cut deeply with a tainted blade hidden in the robes of one of her lest honourable opponents. The chipped and rusted edge sliced open the right side of her chin, from under her jaw to level with her pretty little nose. It tore a large wedge from her now flawless skin and brought her rage to such a peak that she managed to wrest his weapon from his own hand and, following Arena Lore, ran him through with it -though she did spare his wretched life. She was more afeared after the match, for the wrath that The Matriss showed at her injury and the tongue lashing which she gave her personal physician as he attended to Catena’s wound. All were relieved to discover that the cut was not infected or poisoned in any fashion, though The Matriss was enraged that it would never cleanly heal and that Catena’s prize face would always bare that scar.
This did not affected Catena as much as what occurred in her beginning second year of captivity by The Matriss, when her precious chains were shattered in combat.
She had used them as a bind when battling against a great Giant, one of the Northern Raiders who had been captured and sold into the fighting stable of House Hyperion, when she had under estimated his strength and he did shatter the chains with the combined power of his chest and arms rebelling against her steel. His pure might broke their shared bonds but Catena was undaunted by this, merely enraged that her precious chains had been decimated by this mindless barbarian of the Frozen Wastes of the North and though he did have strength over her, she had skill and quickly bested him in contest and finesse. Humiliating him by forcing him to submit to her will and beg for her tender mercies. This feat raised the ire of Prince Calablame and led to the rivalary between House Hyperion and the House of Acheron.
Of course Catena had received many other minor scratches and bruises in all her days of battle and she paid all no mind. It was the subtle psychological wounds that plied their toll upon her more then the wages of physical conflict.
Such as the time when Catena was witnessed her first thunderstorm. She had never witness such a thing in the desert lands or in Ballacreous and she knew not what to make of it. At the first flash of Lighting and purls of Thunder she was caused such a fright that she flew to The Matriss chamber and clamoured under the bed, believing it to be the safest lay in all the Palace. In her panic she had reverted to the old tongue that Aegine had taught her to ward off her fears and nightmares in the deep dark of the Mines. So, to herself, she kept repeating: “Ou Tuaus, Ea Tuaus. Mae saulwa, etta saulwa. Beagui metataurus es sollamenta est Se’la’Tes Mattaharus!”
Her mumblings intrigued The Matriss’ two Pets, who hung their identical heads over the edge of The Matriss’ mammoth bed and stared quixotically intensely at Catena.
“What say she?” The Girl Pet asked.
“What she say?” mimicked the Boy.
The Matriss made a little titter as she sat up and wrapped her green shawl over her slender shoulders, before leaning down over to where her Pets lay.
“‘I Pray, We Pray. You Wrath, They Wrath’,” The Matriss translated, in her dulcet tones. “‘Please Mother Sky, stay where you are’.”
And with those words, she laughed and said: “Silly, Innocent! She thinks that the Sky is falling!”
The Pets both laughed at this and each said: “Silly, Innocent! Bound, Silly!”
Silently, The Matriss slid from off her bed and lay on the cold marble floor, close to the trembling Catena.
“Shush, Child,” The Matriss bade. “ Tis only a storm. The does weep, not fall. Come out and see.”
She reached in to touch Catena’s trembling hand, but she screamed so loud it shook the very vaulted ceiling when she felt The Matriss’ grasp upon her.
“Shush, child. Shush,” The Matriss muttered, in a soothing maternal fashion. “Cesta’la, Cesta’la.”
The muttering of that words did quieten Catena, who looked up upon The Matriss with her large blue eyes, shimmering with her fearful tears.
Then The Matriss did a thing which altogether surprised her. She began to sing. It was not the Song that August was given to chant but rather one that Aegine had uttered on occasion, to calm the children during their first fearsome nights within Ballacreous. It was the softest lullaby which ebbed away all her fears and plied sleep upon brow. Slowly, she did crawl out from under The Matriss’ bed and place herself upon her long lap, curled as a child or kitten, as The Matriss did sing her sweet song. So, as her eyes drew heavy their curtains, she began to slumber to the sound of song and the giggling of The Matriss’ Pets.
That was the only time that she had shown complete submission to The Matriss. Her will would never yield again so easily.
Though the more than occasional thunderstorms were the least of Catena’s worries.
She also grew uneasy at the amount of new Livie Converts who had been appearing around The City Of Acheron and within The Arena itself. She was afeared of the popularity that the Cult Of The Living God was attracting not only amongst the upper echelons of all the Realms Houses but amongst the common peoples as well. Even more disturbing was the boldness in which they acted towards other Religions, even those protected by their position within The Pantheon. They disregarded all the rules and odes of conduct and blatantly flaunt the Laws and Lores in their own favour, whilst plying their antagonisms against their Others.
In a rare moment of levity, between bouts of what she deemed ‘Religious Carnality’ -as was part of her spiritual practice, The Matriss did enlighten Catena as to how such a thing arose and could take hold of the populace so swiftly.
“Before the Karna Moon, of some seven year past,” The Matriss began, as applied the sacred oils to her flesh. “A great vendetta was played out between two great Houses, who had been feuding since before Time was Time and as all events do flown as a River, so did the blood of both Houses. As endless as the Waters of the great Lake Zurushor was this blood, no House could gain standing over the other. Leaders, both Wicked and Noble, lead their Soldiery to combat to no avail over countless year and thus a stagnant truce was reach the quell nothing but the bleeding.
“Then, some seven years yore, The Duxor Regaloas of House Kia-re’on publically endorsed the Cult of the Living God by swearing his conversion to their growing legions.  Tis not known whether he was genuine in his intentions and beliefs though one thing is truly known, upon his most miraculous of conversions, he gained dominion of the Army of The Living God and a means to secure a greater position within the Senate and a final victory of his Rival House.
“That Day, before the Rising of the Karna Moon, was a slaughter and the Fields of Az’regotha were as a Sea of Red and the River Cos Rheayr was turned to Blood -still that taint poisons those Sacred Waters. With the House of his Enemies definitively vanquished, The Duxor Regaloas gained Mandate over all that was his Rival’s yet laid claim to nothing but their vast wealth and fortunes as well as their fabled Armouries and Stables. What remained was given to Flame. Flesh, Field and Object. The Grand Fortress City burned and none who lived within or without that grand place was left alive. Nothing survived the Fall of the House. Regaloas gained a greater position within the Senate and, as was his promise, The Living God was given endorsement and given a lesser position within the Pantheon of the Omperium.
“Though that was not enough for those Cultist and they begun what was deemed a ‘Crusade of Conversion” against all us Wretched Sinners -who will all commute or cry mercy at their Will. Entire Cities in the Frontiers were either turned or destroyed at the Cultists hand, as well you may know. Many of the Inner Realms were ignorant to such events and were blinded by their propaganda, so they willingly joined their Legions. Thus conquest was made.
“The veterans of those Campaigns were given positions amongst the other Omperium Houses -some say as spies, others say as punishments for disobedience or rewards for service to their Living God. Such is why Cerryis is in my service. A position of power as reward, servant to a Heretic as punishment. So, they wind their influence throughout the Omperium Realms and draw their plans tight.”
Catena was in awe of her Matriss’ tale and so quietly watched and listened, even after all The Matriss’ words had ceased.
Then she heard something that chilled her to her very core, a muttering under The Matriss breath as she blew out the candles, an utterance that summoned so many ghost from her blackened past.
“Even after these Seven Years,” The Matriss muttered, watching candle smoke wither n the air. “All Omperia still mourns the Loss of The Patrice Of Mount Ethonore and that Holy House.”
The mere mentioning of The Patrice Of Mount Ethonore returned to Catena memories of her one time saviour, The Ebon Knight. For he had claimed devotion to the Patrice of House Ethonore and to the Laws of that Realms.
So that is why he never came, she thought. He was already dead.
Even after all these years, in the deepest recesses of her Heart, she still held out hope for her rescue at his hand. It was the only though and feeling that she clung to, besides the Burn of Battle, and now it was snuffed out as if it were one of The Matriss’ scented Candles. All had been slaughtered is what she was told. All given to Flame. Rivers and Fields of Blood. Her most treasured Ebon Knight was sure to be amongst the Legions of the Slain, such was his devotion to his Patrice..
Within, Catena felt something break and a true coldness finally took hold.
It was the last she would ever allow herself to feel. Grief and Regret as her first and last emotions. Others would come fleetingly but she would give them no reign within. Her Heart was her’s and her’s alone. Nothing outside of herself could stir it any long.
From that day, she was even more weary of Cerryis and kept constant vigil on his presence and intentions.
Also, since the passing of that day, she devoted herself with every micron of her being to the Arena and conquest in the names of August, Aegine and The Ebon Knight. They whom had given their all so that she may be of Continuum.

And thus Ennocens Catena stands in The Arena against Ulva Aranae and her greatest battle she had ever faced.
The physical toll of their encounter was nothing compared to the War of Will and Soul in which they were currently engaged. They fought each other with their Spirits as well as their Flesh. Making attacks unseen by all without the Warrior’s Vision and landing blows that the crowd could not comprehend.
Within her Warrior’s Heart, Catena knew that she may not be able to best Ulva. It was not that his skill was greater than her’s but rather his Soul was her better. He put his Liquidous Will behind every move and motion, every guard and attack. Though he was no acting as to best her nor could she sense him merely toying with her, he was guaging her Spirit and touching her Soul in a fashion she had not felt since her days with her Master, August.
She now knew that Ulva was a true devotee of the Pa’wrathe’sa arts and that he had trained long in them than she could even fathom. Maybe since his Coming Of Age, maybe childhood, maybe even from Birth. She could not comprehend, though she did know that this did not make his skills any more superior or comparable to her’s. Her training had been intense and giving with intention to be used to fight and to kill with, where as Ulva had the stance and baring of one that had space and time in which to practice. That it was more a thing of discipline and pursuit to him rather than a thing to be put into practice and application. This is where Catena had advantage and Ulva knew it, which he was so casual in flaunting his knowledge of their shared art. Though he did have intelligence of other styles as well as a mastery of his own mysterious movements, which made him more dangerous than any she had faced before.
Catena knew that she should use the deadliest and most forceful aspects of her arts in order to win a decisive victory over Ulva and ensure her dominance within this Arena.
There were no secret motions or attacks within Pa’wrathe’sa. No all powerful moves passed own from Master to Disciple as a right of passage. Pa’wrathe’sa was all to do with Will and Intention. Even the most gentle of motions could kill if the wielder’s intentions willed it thus. A trip could shatter a body through the force of the knock down, a slap could rupture skulls and a tap could break bones if they were will enough to do so. Catena saw no purpose in killing Ulva btu she knew that he must be incapacitated at any and all costs if she were to win this day.
And she may just have the way to best him.
She had faught him long enough to gauge the extent of his skill and his physicality -the limits of reach and the strength of his hewn limbs and gaunt torso. Every warrior had a pattern and form to which they rigidly clung and Ulva was no different. He liked to keep his distance and play his height and length against her. To use her against herself and play her as a puppet. She knew his stance and his basic movements and would now play him against himself and tangle up all of his long wound strings.
She knew that Ulva felt the same notion as her and moved swiftly against her; plying his own plans as best he could.
Catena knew that Ulva outrageously long limbs were next to useless in close quarters and that he had to rely on prompt movement to see him safe against her. She also knew that he could in no fashion match her pure strength or vicious will and thus used them against her, when he dodged and forced her to follow through and waste energy chasing him about the Arena floor. She knew that the only way to get him was directly and, thus her plans being made, set herself into motion.
She struck forward with a straight right handed punch, causing Ulva to fling his legs backwards so that he could duck underneath her blow. She then swiftly stomped down with her right heel, making him cast his torso around and swing his legs upwards to strike her beneath her dainty chin. She leant her head back to avoid his blow and waited for him to flip his body back onto its feet in order to follow through with his failed attack.
That is when she played her final gambit against him.
As soon as he had flipped his feet backwards and brought his body upright with a Raising Palm Strike, Catena stepped forward into him, knocking his blow away with her right arm, and struck him fair in the stomach with her right palm.
She made no hesitation in following through and, with the same motion, raised her hand into his spongy chest before aiming a strike straight for his chin. Ulva still had enough wits about him to attempt to move his head, so, without thought, she curled her fingers and grasped his thin throat. His powerful fingers clasp the manacle about her wrist and struggled to hold her. She did grasp him with her other hand and he did lay his fingers upon her wrist once again. Her notion that her hold was stronger than his proved true and she began to ply her superior strength upon him, throttling the very essence from out his lithe and limber frame. Though he did have same resistance left within him and struggled valiantly against her might.
He attempted to kick her with his long legs but Catena held him to close and solid for them to be any use against her ample and balanced frame. Everytime he would attempt to strike at her face with his lengthy fingers, she would squeeze tighter and swing him around in order to shake loose his undissolved Will. He landed solid blows on her ribs but she let her dominance prevail and held strong her Flesh against them. Every time he moved, she would move him, until her feet did stand upon a wooden hatch buried beneath the sand of the Arena floor. It was a trapdoor used by the slaves to move the bodies of the dead and vanquished from out the Arena quickly and without causing distraction to Nobility who did watch these spectacles. He made a final motion to kick her taut stomach with both his legs but as soon as he had raised them, she did raise him and sought to bring him down to the Arena Floor as harsh and as fast as he could.
In that instance, as he hung between Heaven and Earth and the Will of Gravity worked its Way, did Ulva cease his endless song and finally open his eyes to Catena.
She gasped as she did feel their gaze upon her and, had not thing already been put so acerbically into motion, she would have let him go.
He had her Father’s Eyes!
Black orbs and red irises. Blacker than any Night or the Deepest Depths of Earth, Red as if drawn with the Richest Blood and most Potent Wine. They gazed upon her with such love and grace she felt as though she had been stripped back to the Age of a Child and the World was still a Place of True Innocence.
Over the rushing of the air she could hear the words of the Past as they parted from his cracked lips: “‘Keillasorta mesqua besq’. I promised that I would come for you.”
Then all went black, as the splintering of the trapdoor filled her deafened ears and they descended deep into the pit below.

[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

All she remembered after the endless black was running.
Running down a long, dark tunnel.
Following the lead of Ulva and another, who constantly yelled commands back at her.
She knew that voice, even through the haze of her fragile mind she could recognise those dulcet tones.
Blessed Draco!
Thought why, she did wonder, would he risk his rank and position to aid her? Surely such an act meant Death for him and his entire family, not to mention his beloved Handmaiden and all who had and do surround him, such being the harsh nature of the Omperium Law.
Then she felt the chill maw of Panic grip her Heart.
What if Draco was leading them into a trap or, worst yet, they had already been captured.
A tight squeezing upon her hand was enough to allay her Heart.
For she knew by the length of the finger and the strength of the grasp that it was Ulva whom held her and did lead her to safety.
It had taken time but Catena’s Mine Eyes did return to her and all the World did fall back into its rightful place. Order was restored and her Mind stilled amidst the flight.
She guessed that they were deep within the ancient catacombs which ran beneath the Palace and indeed the entire City of Acheron, as they were described to her by The Matriss during their sessions of study. Though how far through them she did not know, for she knew them to vast -vaster than the City itself, as it was part of it’s ancient foundations as well as its sewer and drainage system. She knew from memory that the majority of the tunnels did lead to the great River Jl’Summa, upon which the Palace of the Acheron was built which was connected to the Arena on it’s bank by series of stone bridges and skyways. She knew that their flight did lead them away from The Jl’Summa but in which direction they did flee she knew not. Though she trusted Ulva and Draco with all her being, for they must have a plan. If they did not, it would be the Goddess of Fate whom would decide the outcome of this faulted gambit.
After what seem an ageless time within the labyrinth, Catena did spy an end to the tunnels and the distant dimness of a night filled world. They made a final sprint towards this exit but, alas, there was a trap set. As it was found to late as a gauntleted hand did crash upon Draco’s fair face and send him reeling into stone.
From out the shadows did step the Soldier Cerryis, no longer clad in the robes of a Matrissial Guard but in the full regalia of a Warrior of the Army of the Living God. A long pristine dress-shirt over thick iron armour -created and fashioned in Ballacreous no doubt with the rest of its kind- and legging of metal wrapped tight with bands of leather. A belt of leather and gold was strapped to his waist and from it hung many trophies of battle -the lesser of which were the hand bones and skulls of young children.  In his ironclad hands he did hold a Savient Blade, the weapon of choice for Cultist Soldiery, with it’s blade almost as long as child was tall and balanced well enough to cleave a man in twain with a single stroke. He had never appeared more animated to Catena as he did now -as if he was Wrath incarnate. A pure personification of all the Fury the Living God could loose upon the world. And now he stood ready to strike.
“I knew that you maggots would escape here,” he spat, as he swung his sword loosely around himself. “You would not dare head near the River and would instead try to escape towards the Forest Villages, where the Living God has little hold and thus escape into the crowd. Well, you were wrong in your choice and left far to many clues, dear Draco, of you plan. It shall cost you not only your life but the life of all, even of that of your beloved slut of a matriss! Such are the laws of our Land and Order!”
From his sprawled position, Draco managed to launch himself at Cerryis, screening the ancient battle cry: “Acheron!”. Again, Cerryis swung his gauntleted fist and struck Draco down a second time, flinging him into a clump of dead bushes, unconscious but alive.
Cerryis moved back to his fighting stance and pointed his metal finger straight at Catena.
“Now you shall dies, Beast!” he screamed, with the lunacy of a zealot. “And forever lift the curse of The Evasor from out this World!”
Ulva placed himself between him and Catena but this only caused the old Soldier to laugh and say: “Step aside, Slave, and I may return you to your most valued Master. Though first my blood has lust for the Evasor Flesh and it must be quenched.”
He brought the Savient Blade up above his head, Ulva stepped forward but Catena pushed him out of the way of the arcing weapon and readied herself to destroy this most loathed of enemies. Not merely for what he was but all he had done and all the lives he had taken in service of his so-called Living God. A deep rage burned within at this thought. For all Catena knew or reckoned, it could have been Cerryis whom did slew her beloved Ebon Knight at the Battle of Ethonore and threw his bones upon their fires.
She moved into the classic stance of the  Pa’wrathe’sa and waited his attack. Savient and steel or not. His Soul would be her’s to claim.
Though such was not to be.
As Catena watched in disbelief as a figure, clad a cloak of gossamer grey, lifted Cerryis by his belt up over their head and drove him into the ground with such force that his armour did bent and his sword did break upon the ruinous stone that lay scattered about. With a wrathful scream, Cerryis tore his battered chestplate from off his form and flung himself at his gossamer grey enemy.
He swung the remains of the shattered blade at their head, but they aptly dodged and drove their knee deep into his stomach. Hitting him with such force that he flipped over his opponents leg and crash once more to the unforgiving Earth. His broken sword was sent sailing from his hand and Catena swore that she heard the breaking of his arms as it hit a jaggered stone Again, he did raise himself and tried to best his enemy with his good arm, but it was swiftly seized and snapped in a most brutal fashion. Despite the pain which he felt, he struggled on and swung a broken at the gossamer figure’s throat. They merely caught his arm again and hoisted him up, once again, into the air and drove his back fiercely into the ground. He impacted with a sickening crunch and was swiftly and unceremoniously kicked away. He landed with a nauseating thud, thick blood pouring with his torn face and skull.
Catena stood stock still, her body poised for attack but unable to move because of the confusion. Carefully she did watch the situation, though one thing did draw her eye more than others. This Gossamer Figure fought in the most brutal form of Pa’wrathe’sa, using the maiming and killing aspects of the style to complete destroy and to dominate the once might Cerryis.
The Gossamer Figure moved towards him as he lay deathly still but Cerryis was a zealous and determined warrior and had managed to grasp a shard of his sword between his broken and bloody teeth. He twisted his body and launched himself at his enemy, wrapping his fractured arms around the Gossamer form as tightly as his waning strength would allow. He pressed himself hard against them, trying desperately to drive the broken blade into their covered throat. In the fray, he succeeded in knocking their hood off and dropped his fragmented weapon as his mouth was forced into a sharp gasp.
Within his grasp was The Matriss, her beautiful face bathed in serene rage. Her giant green eyes were dead and cold as she drew a dagger from a hidden place and drove it hard into Cerryis’ thick neck.
“This is for what you did to my father and my Tribe,” she growled, as she did grasp her free hand upon his head and drive hard her silver dagger into his leathery flesh.
With a final twist came a sharp spurt of blood and what remained of Cerryis’ ample body collapsed onto the Earth, spasmming and squirming as the final throes of his wretched life ended. In one last fit of rage, The Matriss brought up her foot and crush the icon Cerryis wore around his neck until it was nothing but dust.
“I did tell you, Cerryis,” she muttered, as the last of her wrath did ebb away. “Long ago that if you ever lay but a hand upon her that your mortality would forfeit and your ragged remains shall be cast before The Dogs and Beggars ere it become but Dust!” she stooped and wiped the blood from her dagger on his pristine cloth, before uttering: “I always keep my word and all has come to Truth.”
She stood and turned to a stunned and near terrified Catena with the same vacant expression that bore her through her charmed life. The same soft smile upon her soft lips and the same glitter in her great green eyes. If it were not for the blood that speckled her face, Catena would have sworn she had merely strolled out of her Palace, as was her want, to venture upon the street of her City.
Without a word, she walked over to where Draco did lay and lifted him as if he were nothing. Groggily, he managed to stand on his own feet, despite the blood with wept profusely from the gash in his feminine check. She gave him a silvery cloth with which to hold the blood and stop the wound. His battered lips moved to speak but The Matriss hushed him and said: “You look better this way. You were far too pretty before. Now you can claim the qualities of a man that none of you kin can. Such a scar will also help impress that young lover of your and aid n bedding her more swiftly.”
To this, Draco blushed and bowed his head, before hobbling off into the distance, as if to fulfil a silent command.
The Matriss than strolled over to Ulva, as if this was the most normal thing in the World and hoisted him up upon his feet, her thin arm bracing his.
“Brother!” she said, as she embraced him roughly.
“Sweet sister,” he replied, as he gently kissed and nuzzled her cheek. “I dreamt that I would never see you again. Oh, glory be unto all The Goddess that your plan could come to such fruition.”
“Matriss!” Catena cried, as she was finally brought to motion. “He is your brother?! He has my Father’s Eyes! He cannot be of your blood.”
“Indeed he most definitely is, my beautiful Catena,” The Matriss said, as commandingly as ever. “We are all of the same blood.”
Without ado, The Matriss unfastened her gossamer cloak and unbound that Shawl which eternally clasp her slender shoulders.
What she saw upon that naked flesh sent a chill throughout her entire being.
It was the marks.
They were her Marks.
Two stains of black and red, fashioned in the shape of folded wings, did score The Matriss’ flawless flesh. They were near identical, as far a Catena could tell, to her own.
“They are called The Wings of The Goddess Avas,” The Matriss said, as she drew her cloak back up upon her Flesh. “And they do mark the females of our Tribe, as the Eyes of Yulse’Shiva do make out all the males.”
Catena quickly looked at Ulva’s eyes and than back at The Matriss.
“‘Our Tribe’?” she repeated, in a stunned voice.
“Yes, dear child, ‘Our’ Tribe,” The Matriss said, with much authority. “We are all of the same Tribe.”
“How?” Catena demanded, the confusion overwhelming her.
“The usual way,” The Matriss laughed. “I was not born into House Acheron or even the Branch Acheron. I was adopted into its fold as Heiress to the House, since the former Matriss had not child of her own. My dear brother here was adopted and encamped within another Noble House. It was afeared that both our presence within the one House would raise the anger and suspicion of the Rival Houses against them. ’Tis easy enough for a female of our Race to hide her birthright, though it is difficult for a man, much less a boy, to do the same. So it was arranged by our Father, who did serve the House Acheron and the Holy House of Ethonore, that upon his death, we would enter the service of the two.”
“How was he killed?” Catena asked, her voice wavering.
“Our Tribe was the first to stand against the then meagre forces of The Living God,” The Matriss said, matter of factly. “It was our Tribe, if Truth be told by the old stories, who did create this Living God. For he was just a man, mortal as the rest, with grand ambitions to rule The Omperium Realms with such force. He began in the Arid Lands -the native home of our Tribes- and was so crushed by our people, who rose up against his Army and smote them harshly. As punishment for his ambition, he was tied to a Great Wither Tree and torn apart by great hook of iron and left to die in the Desert Sun. Though Death would not claim him and he survived his punishment, for forty days bound to that Tree. After such a time he began to claim Divinity and thought of himself as a god living amongst men. So, he did gather followers unto him and claimed powers of the Gods did reside within his ruptured flesh -which was said to never have truly healed. His own mother did the Touch Divine and thus was set as an Icon for the Faith. Once the word of his Faith had spread, he sought to bring vengeance against those whom did vanquish before and set his Army to slaughter our people, no matter where they did hide or venture to. Our father was soldier in the Army who stood against the Living God and he was made to pay for it.”
“They killed him?” Catena did asked, as all the pieces of her tragic history did fall into place with The Matriss’ harrowing tale.
“No,” Ulva said, as he moved and embraced his sister. “He survived the fray but was wounded and captured. They sent him to Ballacreous -newly created- in hopes of dying after the punishment of Servitude.”
“Ballacreous?” Catena whispered, as the picture within her Mind began to take its final shape.
“Yes,” Ulva uttered. “You may know him, for he had a very ‘August’ name.”
Catena felt as though she was going to faint, as the completed image crashed deep within her mind.
“My Master,” she murmured, near tears. “Was your father?”
“Indeed,” The Matriss replied. “As far as the information we could gather, that is correct.”
“That is how you fathom both the style of Pa’wrathe’sa?” Catena cried. “You were taught by your father as he taught it to me?!”
“Yes,” The Matriss replied. “We were instructed in Pa’wrathe’sa since kinder’s year claimed our bodies. Such is the tradition of our Warrior Tribe.”
“What has this to do with I?” Catena demanded. “Why was punishment dealt to I singly sort?!”
“It was not,” The Matriss muttered, solemnly. “It was dealt to all our ilk. Though you were Fateful that they did not merely kill you upon discovery as they did so many others.”
“Am I not their ‘Evasor’?! She wailed, as the picture began to slip away from her.
“No,” The Matriss replied. “Our Tribes name is Avasaria -meaning Born of Avas, the Winged Goddess. In their tongue, we began ‘Evasora’ and singly we are ‘Evasor’. The Living God feared our retributions so fiercely that he told his followers that we were all Demons and Destroyers who must be extinguished from existence. For he was told a prophesy that one of our kine would be his true end and so he sought to remove us from this Mortal World before such a thing could come to fruition.”
Catena felt overwhelmed and she loosed a scream so guttural and bestial that it did rouse the birds from slumber.
Had all her suffering been for naught?
“All words to tear apart my Mind,” she wailed, as she clutched at her blonde hair. “My Soul is shattered and all the World doth spiral away from me!”
Again she screamed, fell to her knee and beat her hands upon the stone.
“You are right, sister sweet,” Ulva whispered into The Matriss’ delicate ear. “She has changed since I did last gaze upon her.”
Catena did raise her tear stained eyes and wanted to loose herself upon these two, to destroy them for all their confusing words.
“What mean you?” she said, angrily. “Never met have we been!”
“Oh, sweet child,” he muttered, as he squatted down before her and brush back her fringe. “How wrong you are.”
Catena was about to make a leap for him when she was stilled by a familiar cry.
“Matriss!” came the dual shout. “Matriss! Here we be! We be here!”
From out the gloom of the approaching dawn Catena could distinguish the familiar forms of The Matriss’ Pets, Cala and Craemyn, dashing towards them, whilst, a little way behind, stumbled Draco, leading a War Horse of purist white.
“We have them!” the Girl Pet cried, as they ran to their Matriss’ side.
“Them we have!” the Boy chimed, as he took his customary place, opposite his Twin.
“Most fine,” The Matriss congradulated. “Now hurry, before my brother catches his death.”
“Yes, Matriss,” they both replied, before she dashed off to the horse that Draco did lead.
They pulled a large box from off its sturdy back and both did carry it together and laid it at their Matriss’ feat.
“Thank you, Cala,” she said, as she kissed the Boy’s head. “Thank you, Craemyn,” as she kissed the Girl’s.
Catena watched as Ulva did stoop and open the box, drawing out of it a helm of ebon metal. Again, the picture returned to her mind and began to take itself shape once more.
“How?” she demanded, near tears. “Death claimed you at Ethonore?”
“Such was not to be,” Ulva said, as he knelt before her. “When the Cultist did first lay siege to the Holy Mountain of Ethonore, I was away, attempting in your salvation from The Zelta’s hands. By the time I had received news of the Battle, it was by far too late. The Cultist had set all of Ethonore to Flame -Flesh and Field- and there was nothing that could be done. I made haste to ensure your safety, fearing that you were slain in my absence or with they of Ethonore, if my orders had been fulfilled. Though on my way to your side, I was waylaid by brigands and sold into the Slave Pits of Hurshul’ka. I was forced to prove myself through combat and was sold to one Stable after the other, being quite prized for my skill in the Arena. Eventually, after many years, I found myself in the Stable of Prince Calablame of House Hyperion, where I chanced to meet my sister again and we were able to gather information and form our plans.”
“Hyperion was involved throughout?” Catena asked.
“Not as first,” Ulva replied.
“Than how?”
“Let us simple say,” The Matriss answered. “That Calablame is like so many others of his sex and easily given to promises and temptations.”
She then gave a knowing laugh but quickly continued: “That was two years ago. Before then, after my’s ascendancy to Matrisship over House Acheron, I heard rumours of our father’s survival and sought to discover the truth of it. It took many years but I managed to discover that he was kept within Ballacreous and, in order to obscure the fact of his blood, hide himself deep within the Earth and became the August of The Miner’s Eyes, in order to conceal what would so give him away.”
Catena’s eyes flickered over to Ulva’s and all began to make sense. If the Cultist saw his eyes, the more zealous members who have most certainly have slain him. So what greater disguise than to seal them and yourself away and live our your remaining days secluded from those who did wish you the most harm. Catena than did wonder if Aegine did know of this and that was why she was sent to August after her marks were discovered.
“Why not save him?” she asked.
“Because money and influence only work on men with scruples, dear Child,” The Matriss replied. “Not men of faith. And whilst he was within the Mines, he was untouchable by all. Though it was all too late by the time all this was known. For he was killed, as well you now.”
“Why give I salvation?”
“Because you are of our Tribe,” Ulva replied, as he began to assemble his armour upon himself. “And you could not be left in the clutches of our Blood Enemies.”
“Then why all which was?” Catena demanded.
“Because we had to keep the ruse in effect,” The Matriss said, quite plainly. “And an adopted, let alone a Avasaria, cannot inherit the Rule of a House without Senatorial approvement. ’Tis not only the Cultist whom do loath our kind. Many Tribe still fear and loath us for what occurred in early days of the Omperium and what our Tribe did do to others.”
“So all?” Catena muttered.
“Was mere coincidence,” The Matriss replied. “All plans made were made too late and thus no plans were made.”
“Than why escape?”
“Because it was getting to dangerous,” Ulva replied, as he began to dress himself within his old metal, with the aid of the Twins.
“Cerryis was indeed a spy for the Cultist,” The Matriss continued. “And he had informed the Inner Council of your existence and my sheltering of you. They did seek my overthrowment and in my stead, they were to tear down The House of Acheron and place a House of their own devising, ensuring the flow of power to their own Bastions and Strongholds and a greater stranglehold upon the Omperium.”
“Though such things are neither here nor there,” Ulva muttered, as he stood.
Catena gasped as she saw that he had once become the Ebon Knight whom had saved her so many years before. Gone was the gaunt and grungy fighter of fore, in his stead was the glorious hero Catena knew him to be. The man whom had put in motion all the things that make the now thus and the thus now.
“You should return to the Palace, sweet sister,” he said, as he fastened his gauntlets tight. “Before they grow suspicious of your long absence as well as the Fate of your Duxia.”
“You are most correct, dear brother,” The Matriss replied, as she drew up her hood. “Come, Draco. Come, Cala and Craemyn. Our time for parting is now, say your farewells, for ’tis not known whether we shall gaze upon them again or whether we shall be forever within their exalted company.”
The Twins both came up to Catena and gave her a joint, if gingery, embrace, both they together said: “Be well, Innocence, we shall miss you.”
And with those words, they disappeared into the Dawn gloom from whence they had come.
Draco limped over to Catena and wrapped her within a strong and brotherly embrace.
“Gratitude unto you,” was all Catena could utter, as he tearfully held her and then walked away.
Catena then turned to see The Matriss before her, in al her radiant glory.
“Be well, my dearest child,” she said, as she leant down and kissed her tender checks. “I do wish that all could have been under fairer stars, though do not grudge I for doing what had to be done. Know that you will always be loved by I, come what may.”
And thus, Ennocens Catena left the service of The Matriss Acheron without ceremony nor send off. Merely a kiss and a motherly touch.
For a moment, Catena and Ulva watched them all depart. Not knowing whether they shall be seen again or what the Fates may hold. All that was known was that there was now a void within them both and it would take a long time to fill.
Without warning, Ulva did seize Catena and uttered: “Sorry, but these must come off.”
Before she could gather her wits, Ulva had wrest the manacles from off her wrists and had unbound the yoke upon her neck.
They all fell to the ground with a hollow ‘clink’ and she stood there. Feeling strangely naked and unsure of what had transpired.
Then she felt relief, as her final bonds, within and without, had been released.
She could feel the tingle of her flesh in the Night’s air and new that it was her Flesh that she felt. That it was her Heart within her Chest and her Soul within her Being which both now stirred.
“They were a useless burden now,” Ulva said, as he strode towards the waiting horse and pulled off another pack. “And would have given us away if anyone had but seen them.”
“Yes,” Catena said, feeling as though she was waking from a long dream. “You speak all Truth.”
Ulva regarded her strangely for a moment, before he tossed the pack at her feet and said: “There are clothes and counterments within that should cover you,” he pointed to the pack he had thrown to her. “Best to hurry. We have much ground to cover before the Sun is to rise and even more to cover before Night is to cover the Realm. So, be swift, Catena, and let the Wind carry us safe.”
“Yuvasye,” She muttered, as if her voice were the breeze.
“Pardon?” Ulva said.
“‘Yuvasye’,” She repeated. “’Tis remembered. ’Twas what my Mother and Father called me. ‘Yuvasye’.”
“’Tis a beautiful name,” Ulva did tell her. “Though the same swiftness must be made no matter your marker.”
“Acceptance,” She said, with gracious eyes.
And then she smiled.
It was the first smile she had ever consciously known. It was as if she was feeling for the first time I her existence.
For she now had a true name and Those who were her own.
She was no longer alone and she was joyous.
Come what may, for, in this moment, she could truly feel.

END.

[Debido-San]

^_^ I'm not done yet, but I got the whole copy from Higalack!

Great job! the description is crazy! (in a good way)

I'm about in the second posting of the story…right when -you know what- happens to August…so sad…

Man, I wish I was as deeply inspired as you…great job! I just gotta finish reading it now…

[The_Pimp_NeonBlack]

Many thank yous, dear Diablo-san. I's am pleased that you do enjoy this work so and that you have received an unfractured edition.
As for inspiration, that 'twas hard to come by because of interference of real life and other responsiblities. This work took over 3 months to complete and that was the preverbial throne in my's side.
'Twas the promise to Higalack, as well as his phenominal art, that kept my's inspiartion fresh. As well as the encouragement from my's daughter and partner. The pleasure of those whodo read it shall be further inspiration and encouragement for I to start new works, as well as finish old one.
So, to all whom have read and enjoyed, many thanks.
Peace
The Pimp NeonBlack

[Cowprobe]

She has an amazing story that has both been told before but never like this.

Higalack gave her form and weight, you gave her a soul and personhood.

Yuvasye could die a moment after the story finished and be the happiest she ever could have been.

Thanks for takling the time to craft an epic story and sharing it with us Neon.

Best read all day :>

PS Higalack thanks to you for providing the linework inspiration. 

[higalack]

I can't thank you enough for crafting such a wonderful and fully realized story, Pimp NeonBlack!

The time taken was defintely well spent.

I'm still amazed you had done so much with such a simple outline that i had shown you.

I'd also like to say that while I had certain inklings of how certain events would have transpired, your storytelling ability and additions were fantastic. Honestly I can pretty much say this is genuinely your story.

[BlackKusanagi]

Good god man… BEauty. :claps: Congrats man!

[Author]

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