Fantasy ˗ˏˋ .PARIAHS. ˎˊ˗ ( *starboob & dreamthieves )

[starboob]

Poets wax on about the ultimate healer, time.

Unfortunately, those fools fail to consider the everlasting nature of a goddess’s curse. Three years has done nothing to ease the growing hunger, the constant pull of her stomach.

It used to be that a body could keep her belly full for months like a snake. Now, she fears, not even an army could find the bottom of her appetite.

The princess’s skin pulls itself taut over her knuckles, cheekbones, eyelids – all of her stretched from the starvation though she is far from starved. (The prisons are almost emptied in her belly.) From beneath the skin, the hunger presses. It knocks against the tips of her fingers, bulges around her eyes, and worms down to the marrow of her bones until it is all of her from breath to bone. The veins in her eyes have burst, giving them an especially monstrous glow from her corner of the dungeon.

At the dungeon’s only dinner table are two souls, the monstress and the damned, but the heartbeats of the castle above are thunderous in her ears. If she were to close her eyes she could map out its occupants to their exact position; from her father in the eastern wing, sitting with his generals in the war room, to the flurry of maidens scrubbing the castle’s marbled floors. A day more without feeding and the entire country would be no more a mystery to her.

The prisoner whimpers at the table, reminding the princess that she is not alone. Her eyes flutter closed, hands gathering to fists in her lap. Her tongue glides over her fangs, imagining them sharper than they are.

The prisoner swallows. The stone in his throat quivers as sweat races down his temple and soaks his naked front. His heartbeat reaches for the goddess above, roaring louder than all the castle.

Ismenia opens her eyes.

“P-Princess –” His lips tremble, but his plea is not faster than the monstress.

She lunges across the table, fingers digging into the prisoner’s collarbones; they crack like dry branches. Her jaw breaks through his throat and, with a swift jerk, the piece of meat is ripped free.

Warmth floods her mouth as grease dribbles down her chin, adding a layer of sheen to the spills of blood down her front. She swallows the chunk of flesh without chewing while the meal beneath her writhes like he has a chance against death.

​

Four years ago to the day, the Princess of Oerinth and the King of Belmir were wed. On the night of their wedding, without provocation, the princess stuck her sword through her newly wed husband. It is said that when his blood splattered across her face, a single droplet fell to her lips and turned her into the monstress, a cannibal queen.

So the stories go, at least.

Too many details have been changed that Ismenia can rarely be bothered to correct the rumors – no one cares, so long as she is the perfect monster to her father’s ever growing kingdom.

The dress laid out on her bed mirrors the one she wore four years ago to the day. That one had been a splotchy dark blue with patterns of silver stitched to form starry nebulae; diamonds smaller than poppy seeds had been sewn into the fabric to reflect the then-bride’s chosen constellation, one she had hoped would guide her marriage.

Four years ago she had chosen the lovers, a tale of a couple who grew to love each other after circumstances had forced them together. It felt fitting, at the time, as she stared into the silverpools to have her marriage fortune read; as she sat across from a man who was twice her age, whose disdain for her did not require a soothsayer nor dreamweaver to interpret.

This dress, similar to her wedding dress, is a splotchy maroon and it is the constellation of death that she wears instead, a choice her father insisted upon. The Belmira royal brooch, a pulsing ruby gemstone, will sit like the insult it is over her breast. As if the Belmira could forget who slaughtered their beloved king and now sits on his throne, even if she does not rule.

It's a further insult to make a celebration of the Belmira King's death day. Though it should have come as no surprise that the King of Oerinth would use this day to honor his acquisition of Belmir, bringing it into Oerinth’s fold. His armored head is sure to turn him into a cautionary tale that those like him will ignore. Bread and circuses have brought down greater empires, so the dreamweavers warn, but so long as the eyes of the goddess warm the plains and valleys of Oerinth, King Antoni’s mind will not be changed.

Ismenia has her doubts that Oerinth will continue to receive favor. It is the goddess, after all, who replaced her tongue and stole her stomach. (“A monstress shall learn her place.”) Then again, it was not the Kingdom of Oerinth that stuck a sword through the favored King of Belmir. That crime belongs to Ismenia and her hand alone. Perhaps the goddess is capable of differentiating the princess from her people. It has been a prosperous year for Oerinth, after all.

​

The steam from the sweet rolls peels off the serving platters in delicate curls and Ismenia wishes for nothing more than to take the brooch from her breast and stick it in her eyes. That would at least add something of worth to the inane flattery, rather than watch these lords and ladies of the court make a competition of whose nose can scoop up the most shit from King Antoni’s ass.

Perhaps it would also stop them from stealing glances of the princess monstress and ease their hands from the daggers at their hips. (As if that could work. If only.)

Ismenia catches the eye of some duchess or other. She smiles to flash her fangs and flicks her tongue over her lips like she’s staring down a morsel. Mostly, she just wants to see the paint on her face start to melt.

She smirks as the duchess swallows and excuses herself from her father’s company.

“Ismenia,” Antoni scolds through a tight smile. “Try for some air, darling.”

“If a guard goes missing,” she matches his smile, pushing herself up from the table. The entire room stills – were it not for the enchanted instruments, it might have gone quiet – as hundreds of eyes track the monstress’s movements. She leans over to kiss her father’s temple and they both pretend to ignore how he goes stiff; that his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the dinner knife. “My hands are clean. I’ve already fed today.”

Free from the suffocation of her father’s table, Ismenia cuts through the room. Knots of guests untie themselves as they spot her, parting so that she may pass without interruption. Their conversations quiet like a traveling whisper, but Ismenia pays it no mind.

Three years has inured her to the fear she inspires. She lifts her chin above it all, eyes roving over the guests, nobles and commoners alike. Gradually, the ale softens the guests once more as they realize the monstress is not on the prowl. Some even bump into her with their clumsy feet and she keeps them righted, pushing them back before they can realize whose hand has helped them.

With her back to a wall, she settles beside a stranger, expectantly waiting for them to find refuge at the opposite end of the Great Hall. When the stranger remains, the princess turns toward them, giving them a once over. “Well?” Her brow arches and she makes a dramatic show of offering her hand. “If you are not going to cow, at least ask for the honor of a dance. I shall refrain from biting.”

 

[dreamthieves]

Razor sharp claws, paper thin pupils, and a finely tuned predator instinct; all traits that led to a successful career as an assassin.

>Gala tomorrow, leave me be until I return<
One of the few magics known to Briar: transmitting messages across a distance, was quite useful to avoid a paper trail on top of the bloody one.
Slipping past the ajar door, subtle moonlight was the room's only source of illumination, but it was more than enough as her pupils opened enough to see all that she needed: A woman in bed alone, completely unaware of her own mortality. Flexing her left hand, the tips of her fingers morphed into feline-adjacent claws, which were promptly extended, just in case. The same process happening to her jaw, strengthening her bite force and enlarging her teeth.

Approaching the bed, Briar could already smell the alcohol on her breath, which nearly made her gag. Anything for the job, right? One hand swiftly and tightly covered her mouth and pulled the chin upwards to expose the jugular, of which a bite promptly tore open. The struggle was weak, all things considered. Less than three minutes later, Briar had finally confirmed the kill. She cringed at the taste still lingering in her mouth, and searched the room for the documents she'd come for. After assuming her complete transformation, an inky black housecat made its way out of the home, through the open window of a nearby room, and left the body for someone else to discover.

---

Briar would have preferred to get the preparation done with greater advance, but couldn't risk anyone discovering the actual invite recipient was dead. Hopefully no one would pry too much, but she wasn't going to this gala to mingle. Kill the cannibal, kill her father, and get out. The job reeked, more-so than the woman whose neck she was at the night before. Why had she taken it? Well, the money was nice, enough to never need to take a contract again for the rest of her natural life. Then again, it was kinda fun, so she'd probably keep going anyways.

If her contractor was to be believed, a specific poison was supposed to work on immortal creatures such as the princess. Something about a divine boon. Briar didn't really believe that last part. Too different from her own supposed blessing to add up in her mind, she was probably just some sort of hellspawn or other creature fronting, albeit quite poorly, as a human. Regardless, one wouldn't spend this much on a political assassination just for their own poison to not work, right?

Next up was to not stick out like a sore thumb. As much as she hated how restrictive it was, Briar knew a dress would draw the least amount of attention in such a high-profile event. That didn't, however, stop her from electing for a deep blue, almost black fabric. The fashion trends of the social elite were of little concern to Briar, after all. Paired with a slate gray cloak, her state of dress was decidedly rather plain, but hopefully not enough to draw attention. As for her notably jet-black, slightly overgrown mess of a bob, was simply kept as-is. Briar only cared so much to keep up appearances, especially when her attendance should be short enough to avoid much interaction.

---

As expected, the invitation was needed to get past the front door. That went smoothly enough, and some menial worker offered to take her cloak, which Briar reluctantly agreed. What she hadn't expected, however, was the atmosphere. She'd heard the rumors, clearly she wasn't alone in this. The tension was palpable, especially when the cannibal met eyes with or approached anyone. It was like watching a herd of animals waiting to be picked off.

However, with such a focus on her target, a kill window seemed nigh impossible. There would have to be some way to lure her outside. Or perhaps simply to another room? A poison was easy enough to administer, but with so many people watching, she'd surely be caught.

Ironically enough, while Briar was lost in thought, a voice snapped her back to the present in the worst way possible.

Shit... opposite of where I need you right now, Briar internally groaned. "I don't have much choice in the matter, do I?" Briar took the hand of the princess and forced a(probably quite awkward) smile. "Let's get to it then, why don't we?" Just play pretend until an opportunity arises. Shouldn't be difficult, if she's impressed by me not cowering in fear. I can use that.

 

[starboob]

The stranger’s hand slides against Ismenia’s palm with a warmth that has all but become foreign to the princess. The tenderness of the action strikes her with the same force of lightning, ripping straight through her heart.

For a moment, the princess is unsure of what to do. ‘I never thought I would get this far.’ A wiser woman would run. Wiser women have run. She blinks once, then twice. With a tight breath, she steels herself and pulls the other woman into her, her hand on the small of the other’s back. Firm, yet gentle; a guide as she takes the lead, helping the stranger follow the steps to a dance she is clearly unfamiliar with.

“I was not aware that tyrannical had been added to my running list of crimes,” she says before the silence can stretch into the territory of awkward. “Then again, I suppose it isn’t a huge stretch.”

Only in her dreams can she imagine the stranger in want of a dance with her. How long has it even been since her last proper dance? Four years ago to the day? And longer still since she has shared one with another who desired for her. Such is her fate.

Unable to stop herself, her eyes rove over the other woman’s features from her eyes and the strange way they catch the candlelight to the short crop of unkempt hair, contrasting the princess's long flow of dark curls. All of her is a contrast, in fact. Where Ismenia is all sharp corners and teeth, this woman has an edge without cutting.

Desperation idle curiosity has her leaning in.

“Are you afraid?” Her dark eyes pierce through the other woman, holding her gaze as steady as she holds her. The eyes of the court are on the pair, but Ismenia, for once, hardly registers it. "Be honest."

 

[dreamthieves]

Despite having accepted the offer, Briar seemingly did not expect to be pulled into the dance so quickly. Fortunately, she was not there to lead, but was forced to keep her focus on the present in order to maintain some semblance of grace. Watching others out of the corners of her vision, and especially keeping keenly aware of the target that was literally centimeters away from her own face.

Briar gave a thin smile at the tyranny comment, but gave no reply. The situation was too unfamiliar to allow her to split her own focus with small talk.

Her mind was completely opposite of the woman in her arms; every single pair of eyes in the room is on us. i need to change that. leaving the building is likely not an option anymore. can i get her to invite me elsewhere?

As if they weren't close enough, the princess somehow found extra space to take up. So much for ignoring the small talk. Briar noticed an incredibly faint scent of blood. Was it coming from herself, from last night? Or had her dance partner recently been fed?

A lesser woman would have faltered. They didn't have the resolve. A monster is most effective when you let it have its way, after all. "Afraid? Like the half second of hesitation when I took your hand?"

Briar was certain of one thing in this position: the princess is looking for entertainment, and if i don't provide, i'll lose my only chance at completing this contract. She held eye contact, finally settling into the rhythm of the dance. The two were more alike than she'd initially assumed. Despite the stark contrast of her pale-green eyes, there was a strange... familiarity to those she was staring into. Was it the violent, animistic instincts? The ostracism from society at large? Whatever it was, she could use that. But a risk needed to be taken.

Go big or go home, right? Only, she likely wouldn't make it out off the dance floor if this failed.

"I'm not afraid. Not of you. Being able to kill is not a skill unique to you, princess." A faint shimmering covered Briar's eyes ever so briefly, and by the time it would have been noticed by her partner, it was gone: replaced by vertical pupils cutting through Briar's previously human eyes.

 

[starboob]

For as practiced as she is in mastering her own expression, her heart seems to have no mistress that it responds to. It leaps, the pathetic creature that it is, when the stranger admits to holding no fear in the arms of a monstress. ‘Is there hope for me yet in this world?’

Tempting as the thought is, she refuses to allow herself to get lost in the fantasy. Perhaps later, in private, but here in the open she has her reputation to uphold. Fear must be her weapon.

But again, the stranger disarms her with a glance. It’s not missed on the predator and, somehow, it relaxes her. “Well, soldiers and warriors are always heralded as heroes.” And the stars know what war brings. In Ismenia’s opinion, it is the soldiers who are the true monsters. She at least only feasts on those with like crimes to their name. (Well, as much as she can afford to anyway.) “Stars forbid women have leisurely pastimes.”

‘Ah, perhaps that was over the line.’

In any case, it is not as though it matters. The stranger will leave once the celebration has run out of ale and she will be alone again – it’s fine. She is not of well-birth, anyway, and the song is coming to an end. It was always meant to come to an end.

More than that, she can now feel her King Antoni’s eyes boring into her. She can already hear his accusation of her bringing disgrace with this dance, as though there are not other reasons she brings disgrace.

Still, she ignores him, relishing in the social niceties that prevent him from bold action. "And what, exactly, does a woman such as yourself, who presumably has enough clout for an invitation, know of killing? Spare no detail, I implore."

 

[dreamthieves]

"It's all a matter of perspective, I think. The heroes are simply the victors, and the monsters are the losers," Briar could tell she was maintaining a piqued interest, and hoped she wouldn't lose it somehow.

It's strange talking about heroes and monsters, when both participants pretty cleanly fit the bill for the latter. Not that Ismenia would know. At least, that she doesn't know yet. What is she going to think when she realizes this is actually all about her? Will she think back to these words, and realize the implications?

"Telling you so much right now would ruin my mystery, wouldn't it?" Briar could feel her opportunities slipping. She had to come up with something sooner than she'd hoped. If only she weren't invited to this damned dance.

Don't freak out. There's still time.

"However, maybe I'd be more willing to share a story or two If we found some privacy?" Cringing at herself internally, she repeatedly has to convince herself to keep up the charades. Get the princess somewhere away from all these people. Kill her. Get to the father. He'll be much easier. Getting out unseen should be more difficult than either of them.

"Song's almost over, after all. Wouldn't want to end this so soon," You know, she's kinda cute.. Maybe if this encounter wasn't doomed from the start. She could almost see herself knowing the princess in a more normal way. But those thoughts were purged from her mind as quickly as they came. Don't humanize your targets. It only makes going through with it that much harder. She's a task to be completed, and money to be collected. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

[starboob]

In contrast to this moonless night, the moon had shone full four years ago to the day – it would have needed to be in order to have her marriage fortune read in the silverpools, across from that miserable toad. Though the silverpools had nothing to say of their marriage.

“Stars warn of the great devourer. In four years time, her teeth will rake through Astria, sowing assured destruction.

Entwined fates of the blessed and the damned stand in the face of total peril. They alone carry the secret and its untapped power. Together they may chariot in the new dawn.”​

Strange was the prophecy foretold that night, but it did not speak of danger or omen for their nations, not specifically, so the soothsayer bound their fates together regardless. Ismenia touches that coin-sized mark on her palm, remembering the hiss as the blazing seals pressed against her palm and his. 'I suppose it did speak to something true.'

Funny now that she waits in her late husband’s gardens, on the fourth anniversary of their marriage, on the third anniversary of his death, for a stranger who might… Well, Ismenia is not sure what this stranger could do, if she even comes. ‘I should have asked her name.’

The princess tilts her head back, eyes closed as she takes in the crisp air. Sprites fly in frenzied patterns through the gardens, providing a dim light as they paint dew over the leaves that will frost when Sempris, the grand dragon of the north, returns from her chase. Far enough away from the celebration, the music isn’t even a soft lullaby.

It’s quiet enough that when soft steps pad against the stone, her ears perk. She tips her head forward, suppressing a smile. ‘It could just be a servant.’ Even so, that doesn’t stop her from addressing who she hopes is the stranger. “Were my instructions not clear?” Her brow lifts. “I thought you might have a nose on you to find me sooner.”

 

[dreamthieves]

Something isn't right. You need to leave. No one expected you to actually succeed here, so who's going to be surprised if you return empty handed?

Briar had to push the paranoid thoughts to the back of her head, tossing it up to exhaustion. She'd been up for well over a full day at this point, and is simply hoping to get through the rest of this night without incident. Well, without any unplanned incidents.

After Ismenia left for the gardens, with what essentially amounted to a command to not be late, Briar sprung into action. Patting a hidden pocket in her dress to ensure the poison was still on her person and unbroken, she found a servant to fetch some drinks.

With two glasses in hand- poison on the left, Briar reminded herself- she made her way outside. The cool night air was quite refreshing compared to the uncomfortably warm room full of people she was fleeing. Unsurprisingly, with significantly fewer people in the gardens, the ever-so-faint scent of Ismenia was easy to find and track down.

"Your instructions were plenty clear, princess," Briar replied, presenting the glasses as she came face to face with Ismenia. "I just needed a drink, and figured you could do with one, as well." She presented the glass in her left hand, praying to every deity she could think of that Ismenia didn't have the ability to smell out the absolutely rank poison like she herself could. Fortunately, thanks to the deep red color of the wine and the already dark night, any color change was unnoticeable, even to Briar.

 

[starboob]

Loneliness has become the permafrost in her bones, and the stranger's voice carries the potential of the long awaited thaw. At least for the night, she reminds herself. Even so, if a monstress such as herself can escape her fate for even a night, then perhaps there is hope for her yet.

Greater odds have been overcome. 'Let this be the spark.'

(Or is she just another foolish one?)

Ismenia sweeps away her distracting thoughts, giving her focus to the woman before her. "My thanks," she smiles, taking the cup. While all common food may turn to flames on her tongue, the goddess's curse has the small mercy of allowing her to imbibe. (Truthfully, the princess is not sure what she would do if she were not allowed the small relief of intoxication.)

"For the prosperity of Oerinth and health of the lineage." She raises the glass first to the stars, then to her lips, taking in a sip. She lets the liquid roll over her tongue, her nose wrinkling as she picks up on an unfamiliar bitter note to an ordinarily sweet wine. 'Odd.' She takes another sip and, again, the foreign element stands out on her tongue. 'Rotten barrel,' she determines, setting the chalice politely beside her without making mention of the foul wine. It was a kind gesture, why ruin it?

"I believe that you promised —"

Pain lances through Ismenia's core. A flare of heat explodes through her chest, forcing her to lurch forward. Her hands claw at her chest, trying to reach for the fire burning inside of her. When she looks up to the stranger, tears in her eyes, her lips part. Though instead of words, a burst of flame comes out and she falls, just as a column of fire punches through her chest.