The Path of Invasion

[Ryothan]

Numantia was a more complex organism than a first glance at Ryothan's business model might suggest. Outwardly he favored the 'shoot first and ask questions later' theory, no surprise, but behind the scenes it was a far more methodical madness. His mother lands were small, as such, there were needs he felt warranted he could not reasonably expect from his borders alone. To amend the situation he began forcing conquered lands to his cause rather than smiting them from history's annals. Like those deemed fit for duty, only those with something to contribute were shown this rare favor.

Resources his homeland was not priveledged to, men or slaves, riches to fuel a tireless war-machine. If a land offered something he desired to further his means, it was touched with assimilation rather than the all-annihilating hand. Phaedra had become his most devastating weapon in this regard. Her silver laced tongue and savvy approach to political intrigue proved far more conducive than brawn alone. It was this tempering logic that would stay his ruinful hand this day, although the restrain was maddening. Rivenfelde's gest of a defense was a bitter pill to swallow for a man of pride, but he would spare her as intended -- this did not mean he'd forgo their toll in lives.

In theme of the last two days his wife lanced the distraction of his own seething anger and snapped him back to the concerns of the immediate. Being a master of bending the 'arts' to her will, one of her many, and infinitely useful, personal enchantments was a glamor that blessed her eyes with vision matching the mighty eagle's. She filed a verbal report placing a rather sackless man as the head of this pitiful snake. He detested cowards, they were a blight on the world that deserved the harshest of responses. With a scowl his thoughts gave way to voice...

"Then I shall plow through his forces until I can claim his head. After he falls their resistance, meager as it is, will crumble as they wet themselves," his words dripped with disapproving venom. The killing urge ran through his limbs, they tingled with mounting anticipation, it felt as real as blood and veins. Then came a stir in the crowd, bodies parted ways, and a hag of a woman emerged from the sea of glinting metals. Phaedra's agent had returned. She spoke of the same phenomenal lake of fire, of other dire things, of possible consequences requiring the seasoned touch of his Witch Queen to still. There was more to report, his call for a charge delayed yet again, and with twitch he almost believed his war would lose the remaining daylight to people's words. With irritation he responded, though Phaedra was of too hardy a stock to take the tone as personal...

"Do not allow your head to become riddled with these reports. We'll address them when time permits. We are here for Xexoria's fealty, first and foremost, her otherworldly secrets will come when her nobles wet the sands in their blood." Ryothan Valari, Warrior King of Numantia, would no longer be denied. He called for his spear, clutched it tight in his fearsome hands, and raised it high so that all those gathered could witness. A tattered, bloody swath of cloth was tied near the head, it grew agitated by the wind. Then it came. A battle cry that boomed, it echoed, it resonated as if some mighty god's hammer had struck the earth. The orders were clear: Ryothan and his ground troops would smash against them first, cavalry would do clean up and hassle retreat. Ryothan was always the first to engage.

Horns gave a mimicking cry, the violence of Numantia's march shook the ground. These calls sparked a fire of feral aggression which rapidly replaced human brain waves. Ryothan bore down on the Rivenfelde defense atop a nightmare steed and caged in devilish armor. With fury he launched the spear as if it were fired from a ballista, the serrated tip tearing through the first unfortunate soul to dare its path. First blood. Practiced hands tore free the matched short swords he carried, their wicked blades catching the sun as they prepared to taste of death's rancor. Leaping from the horse with reckless abandon he tore into the front lines. Years, upon years, of relentless conditioning had made him a breath-taking natural force.

Parry after parry segwayed into the hacking of limbs, guts were torn open, every swing filling the halls of the afterlife. Every man who approached him was unseasoned, over zealous, they over committed and swung with fear. A prime example came in the form of a man wielding a sword much too large for his caliber, if peasant farmer was a caliber at all, his attack came in a sideways chop as if he expected to cleave the warlord in two. In response Ryothan flipped the corresponding sword around, blade down and reinforced by the presence of his arm, clashing it against the larger cut of steel and sliding down its length. Catching the farmer's hilt in his own he pushed the sword down and out, Ryo's available sword's pommel crashed into his opponent's face with bone shattering efficiency. The blocking blade reappearing to explode the man's throat in a spectacular fountain of gore.

The Numantian army played their roles to the letter. His footmen followed in as he had, devastating the Noble's outfit with cold hearts and hot steel. It didn't take long before those gathered to oppose him began to flee, it was a slaughter and nobody was foolish enough to believe otherwise, more than likely it was a resistance forged in the most feeble attempts to spare the riches of one or two men if at all possible. It was not. The route was in full swing and Ryothan continued to murder his way to his goal. Not even when a boy, not possibly older than sixteen, was caught up in his wake did he stutter. Not a second's hesitation. Sister swords pierced his gut like snake fangs, dripping in the toxin of Ryo's hatred, and his innards blessed the sands. The cavalry hassled retreat as ordered, trampling those that would seek Rivenfelde's walls and abandon their duties.

Not long after the patron of the Valaris called a cease fire. Pinned beneath boot was the figurehead that Phaedra had so accurately pointed out. Though no man was his equal on the field this day, Ryothan had not come out unscathed. His plate was nicked and chipped, an arrow had pierced its folds and bit down inside his shoulder hard, it felt as if one or two digits laid broken, and a various assortment of cuts and bruises were sure to be found on further inspection. For now he had allowed the ramshackle remains of Rivenfelde's dutiful militia to return inside, they were of broken spirit and further defiance was less than likely. The worm under his foot bucked and writhed, the sand wet with his tears and piss, but Ryothan kicked him into submission for his troubles.

Generals approached, "Sir?" they spoke.

"Gather the men. You'll proceed to secure the city. Round up those with family, they will prove a better bargaining chip." Now where was his wife?

[Phaedra]

It would never be said that Phaedra Valari was a burden to her husband. Her concentration was on the slavish soldiers that were throwing themselves at him, and it radiated outward to those trying to shoot at him with their bows and arrows. Her motions were calculated, a flick of a finger here, a concentrated but stiff arm movement there, and more fluid movements weaving through each other. Through her ministrations no fewer than twenty men died.

That was simply by magic. A further twenty were felled by arrows burrowed deep through their eye sockets. She was a grisly killing machine when she needed to be. She was capable of focusing her attention on a single man or a broader swath of the enemy army. The bigger the army the more help she needed from her Coven, but they were dusted throughout the line, completing the design they had laid out the previous evening. No one knew they existed – so they were a perfect weapon to have – so few as they were and yet so deadly. A twisted neck was, after all, just a twisted neck. It was how it came about that was the mystifying part.

It was during one of her assaults that Phaedra felt a rough hand grab her by her leg and side. Too disoriented, focused as she was on some man in the distance, she let out a shriek as she was pulled from her horse. She landed in a heap on the soldier who was trying desperately to right himself and drive his sword into her gut at the same time. This was an ill-conceived move on his part, truly, because he would only catch plate. When he back handed her with his hand she fell into the sand and took the time, a break from struggling with the soldier, to free two of the knives she carried on her person. One came from her boot and one came from beneath the plate in a secret compartment. She wiped one hand across her lip, tasting her own blood as it ran down her chin.

She heard the man approaching, bumbling buffoon that he was, and twisted out of his reach as he brought his sword down where she had been. She spun to her feet, Ryothan’s training evident in her every movement, and rushed the soldier as he was bringing his heavier weapon back up. There was one weak spot in his armor and Phaedra homed in on it. Throwing her weight into him like a vicious wildcat, Phaedra opened up his neck – spraying her in his thick arterial blood. He thrashed at her as he died; never thinking that such a small creature could kill him. Phaedra grunted as she picked herself up and spat on his corpse.

Phaedra spent the rest of her time on the ground using her knives, her gift, and neglecting her skills as an archer. It was packed too tightly with friendly faces in order to really get a good shot off without hurting someone that she knew. It was all coming quickly to a head as she slowly picked her way over the carnage. She tripped as one man lunged out of the sand at her, but she managed to slice his face open with one of her knives before stabbing deep into his hip, just shy of his groin. It was a wound that would bleed out in a way that would leave him in agony – but there would be no saving him. He would die from that wound.

By the time Ryo called a halt, Phaedra had plenty of bruises, including one that was blossoming along her cheek where the man that pulled her off her horse had back handed her. Her lip was split and the blood was beginning to dry down her chin. Her hair was in shambles where some soldier had tried to snatch her around, but she had gutted him with her power. The shock never got old.

Phaedra materialized out of the soldiers milling around waiting for their orders. She shoved past a few to get a look at Ryo. She would need to take care of that arrow wound, obviously gotten while she was otherwise distracted by the idiot that had pulled her down off her horse. He would also take note that she was not with her horse. She looked like hell and she knew it, but it was nothing that couldn’t be tended to.

“I’m here. Is this the piss poor example that Xexoria offers?” Phaedra aimed a kick at the writhing man’s ribs. “Oh would you shut your fucking mouth? Own your life like a man!”

Phaedra was wild looking with all the blood and gore on her and her own wounds. She was not happy having been unhorsed, but she smiled when she looked up at Ryothan.

“I’m sorry, Husband. I was not able to deflect that arrow.” Her voice was strained and she wondered if she hadn’t had a rib or two broken from being yanked from her horse. Shaking her head she looked at the man beneath Ryo’s boot and rolled her eyes in disgust. “I need a stiff drink and someone to look at my ribs. You need someone to set those fingers before they start healing. I can make sure they’ll set properly and check my stores for a poultice.”

This was normal talk, all business between them, after a battle. Phaedra looked around and shook her head viciously, still angry with the outcome before unbuckling her dented chest plate and dropping it in the sand. There was a gash along her side from some errant blade but it wasn’t deep and she wasn’t worried about that. It was her ribs that were bothering her now that her adrenaline was subsiding.
-------------------------------
Once everything was settled and the thousands of tents surrounding Rivenfelde City were erected, Phaedra managed to send the slaves to get water for a bath. She sat in the tub, a warrior’s affair and nothing grand, as a slave poured water over her naked back, scrubbing her body clean of all the gore. When water was poured over her head she winced as it caught the delicate cuts along her neck and back.

A visit to the surgeon’s tent had ended with the Surgeon having a busted lip from Phaedra’s fist, but he managed to tell her that her ribs were not broken, but badly bruised. He had to cut her out of her dress and she wasn’t particularly amused at that prospect, but she had allowed him to do so. She had managed to make it back to the tent she shared with Ryo in a spare pair of pants and shirt from stores kept with the Surgeons. Now she sat in the tub with a slave meticulously washing her cuts and scrapes to prevent infection. She was far more patient with the slave than she had been the Surgeon – but then the slave knew better than to prod her mistress’ ribs.

Phaedra spent the rest of the time air drying, no one else being allowed to enter the tent while she was inside anyway; she set to putting things together in order to view this fire lake. She motioned to the slave, when her body was completely dry, and had her help getting dressed in a black gown that wove around her body in a provocative way. Ryothan would love the classy number she was sure, and if she was going to end up doing a sacrifice she would need to wear black anyway. She was heartily sick of being coated in blood after the earlier sport of war. She packed the few things she would need and sent a call to her Coven. They gathered around her as she exited the tent with a quiet grace.

“We’re going to the fire lake.” No one questioned her motives or her injuries. They were all pretty much woundless – but that was not generally the case. Ryothan’s particular section of the army had seen far more concentrated efforts from the rebels.

She heard her husband’s voice echo in the distance, drawing closer, and she smiled. When she saw him she caught his gaze, looking every inch the Queen that he had made her.

“We’re going to the fire lake. Wash up and join us.” He wouldn’t question the woman bound and gagged – held between two women. The angry mark disfiguring her face was a sign of who she was. Once this trouble was over they would tend to each other’s bodies in depth. She would wipe salve on his wounds and he would inspect her body for every cut and bruise she had suffered and he would kiss them all.

Ryothan always hated when she got hurt – but sometimes in the greater scheme of things it was impossible not to. With that in mind all thirteen witches, with a guide, headed into the jungle and climbed a slight incline until they reached what was a relatively large clearing with an old building, surrounded by blue black foliage.

Once they rounded the building the blood red lake with black fire dancing along the top flared into view. Phaedra frowned and walked to the edge, looking closely at the wild fire that was heedless of the water it was born of. For the first few seconds she wasn’t even aware that the soles of her boots were smoking. The heat was the first sign and caused her to look down.

Phaedra ran back from the lake and took her boots off as she went. She flung the boots aside as they caught fire, black fire, and shook her head in dismay – looking at her undamaged feet with a sigh.

“We have to wait for Ryothan.” It was a simple statement – no one would be sacrificed to this lake until he was here to give his consent.

[Ryothan]

It had been said a thousand times, and it would be said a thousand more, that Phaedra was by far his most deadly weapon. Couple that with a sect of twelve fiercely loyal ladies sharing her knack for supernatural carnage, devastation becomes an understatement. Those thirteen were not always a feature of his empire. As a matter of public record, Phaedra had been swept away from her village, taken for her beauty had always been the assumption, and while it didn't hurt matters he was very much aware of the secrets she held.

Upon realizing the extent of her powers, Ryothan immediately scoured the far corners for those like her. None would be her equal or rival as a queen, wife, lover, witch or lady. But they would be twisted to his will and bent to her designs to strengthen the chokehold he intended for the world. He offered them a purpose without prosecution, a place to refine their craft, and in return they bowed willingly. Surveying the battle field now with a veteran's eye he could pinpoint several corpse piles he was sure could be attributed to Phaedra and her coven; the fruits of his labors.

Though there was a mental catalog of all his injuries, he was just now becoming physically aware of their existence as adrenaline relinquished its hold. It was his left arm that faced the most troubling difficulties; from arrow to broken bones. Ryothan had just begun the process of removing his glove to expose the horror scene of his two twisted digits when his wife sauntered clear of the men and announced herself. Her presence put to rest silently screaming nerves, her whereabouts now placed her safely back at his side. The array of her injuries was upsetting for the husband inside him, but the warrior aspect demanded she bore the burden of those lessons as he had.

Not even wounds could sap her of fighting spirit. She was disheveled, wild. Even now the tempest that roiled within her personality manifested in further humiliations for the man forced prone at their feet. Harsh words lashing like frightful whip -- Ryothan approved endlessly. They were ever alike.

"It would seem Xexoria can rally nothing more than the peasants who serve under the greedy, fat, and useless more concerned with their coin purse than pursuing the vocations of real men." Weight forced the captive to eat sand inbetween sobs. With a verbal nod she addressed his state of affairs, his responding tone was business neutral, "From the looks of things your attentions were elsewhere. Better I take an arrow than your death." She'd get the subtext, for now there was still too much to attend for them to tremble as lovers.

Yanking the noble born 'pisspants' to his feet with his good arm, oh how he wanted to take his head, "Torture him for anything useful. He may know more of the estranged queen's disappearance," passing him off he turned to his wife, "I think I'll join you for that drink."

The Numantian men had their orders. Under watchful eye they would rally the troops, regroup, and prepare to secure the city through the night. All that would remain of the opposition would be the misguided attempts of spur of the moment freedom fighters, it wouldn't last to see the dawn. Ryo forbid any funeral rites for his fallen dead -- if they were weak enough to die at the hands of Rivenfelde's working class, they were not worthy of his standard and would not be remembered.

---***---

The next set of hours seemed a whirlwind. Favoring duty over personal health it was some time before he acknowledged the growing urgency of his wounds, a trail of blood told the story of where he'd been since leaving the field. Finally fatigue settled in, touching his body like clammy hands, and there was no more avoiding the medic's tent. Even the mighty lion required proper rest. He had long since snapped the shaft of the arrow in question, but the tip remained buried in tender flesh. Following that and prior to his appearance here, he had stripped clear of the bulky battle gear and stored it aside for future maintenance. For now he resided in civilian's attire.

When the surgeon entered several seconds later, Ryothan immediately took note of the man's sporty new look. A busted lip? Phaedra's signature was all over it. Sometimes he wondered if she truly was the cooler head of the two. It was a topic for another time. The fact one of his men had his ass handed to him by a woman did not bother him, but the tentative approach to examining his wounds as a result was quickly becoming a nuisance that would put to trial even a saint's patience. Soon the surgeon settled into the comfort of routine, he was after all a medical professional, and got to the meat of the matter. Even the hardened king grimaced with a wave of pain as his fingers were reset, a splint added rigidity for swifter healing. Nimble medic hands removed the offending object from his shoulder, treated for infection, sealed the wound and dressed with bandages. The ever dutiful wife would be the final verdict on his clean bill of health.

They say there's no rest for the wicked and he received none. Initial plans had him on a one way path to his personal quarters, there was a unvoiced need to check on Phaedra's well being, but heavy is the burden that wears the crown. The devil was in the details and this particular devil seemed to have it in for Ryo. Administrators and advisory types flocked about him like crows to death. Apparently not even the grim overview of his features warranted him a reprieve from their nagging tongues, but with a sinister grin he became well aware of what would. He had been too uncharacteristically in control as of late, it was time to vent. Right hand constrained to fist and cracked the nearest man square in the jaw, his elbow fired back and took another across the nose, both fell over huddled. What remained scattered to the winds.

She would find him first, to his dismay before he could inspect her, but to his pleasure she seemed to be in relatively good shape. Not even the brutal business of war could stifle her sense of fashion and in spite of exhaustion it got his blood flowing. Judging from her captive it would seem his gift had been well received, perhaps the night would be festive. A curt nod signaled his agreement. Pushing past his queen he gave a lingering touch and he was off -- there was a well deserved bath calling his name.

Wash time was quick. The dirt, grime, and blood of the day was rinsed from memory. Attendants let loose the braids of his hair, cleaned and combed it, and pulled it back in a single tail bound tight. Rugged beard handled much the same way. He sent one of the slaves scrambling to have his mount prepped and groomed within a quarter hour to match his departure. Finishing details of the new look involved a thick leather strap consisting of many strips and buckles serving as a belt that went from middle to waist, bracers of the same material and make, pants, and durable boots trimmed in wolf hide. His brow bedecked with with the Numantia crown and a single broadsword across his back, one arm would be virtually useless to him outside of the shield, he strode into night air and took to the saddle.

Ryothan set the pace at a dead sprint as he and his escort stormed out of camp. Horse hooves pounded the earth like drums and kicked sand everywhere. It felt good to just get out and ride, to be unencumbered by thick plate, to have the cool breeze soothe warm flesh. Relaxation was a luxury he wasn't often afforded and it quickly came to a close as he pulled up next to the Witch Queen and her lady elite -- it would ease her mind to know he was battered, but no worse for wear. Smoldering remains of what were once boots laid a few feet away and as promised a lake of fire, the flames drew eerie highlights across all those gathered and it was something he lacked the words for at the moment. Composure took the wheel.

"What in the hells is this place?," there was a touch of awe he could not hide even after reigning his emotions in. She filled him in as much as her current level of understanding allowed, it was enough to put two and two together. Ryothan and the men gathered at the edge, heat radiated in palpable waves, and plots stirred. Clutching the back of one of his most easily spared men, the Valari lord pitched him into the hungry flames. It was a sacrifice in the name of science. Without disappointment that contradictory lake devoured the poor soul with menacing results. Spinning on heel he quickly relocated Phaedra, the grin he wore was abyssal. . .

Wrapping an arm around her from behind and laying lips to her ear, he spoke low and with authority.

"Whatever it takes I want you and the coven to decipher this place. Divine with spirits, sacrifice a hundred men, I don't care. If it's possible to turn this into a weapon I want to know, if we can bend it to our benefit in anyway I want to know." Ryothan's mind wandered with infinite possibilities.

[Phaedra]

A quiver of lust and excitement started where Ryothan’s lips grazed Phaedra’s ear. Despite her aches and pains, despite her long and trying day of near death experiences, despite it all…Phaedra wanted him. Ryo gave Phaedra a type of fulfillment that no other man could even hope to come near. Her eyes, rimmed with dark black lashes, looked up at his towering figure with a devilish smirk.

Ryothan had just given her the permission to do whatever it was that she wanted, whatever it was that she needed to do in order to solve this mystery. With a loud voice, though it hardly took an effort, the Witch Queen gave the order to set up a summoning circle – large enough for each witch to stand within. Within that there would be a binding circle, and within that a circle of pristine crystals that would create an unbreakable barrier.

Spirits could be summoned for answers but Demons usually had more knowledge of what was going on in the current world. A demon could tell them what this lake was for and what could have caused such an anomaly. While her Coven was setting that up, Phaedra walked to the lakeside, very careful not to get any part of her wet with the vicious water.
“So very curious.” Soldiers tried to sidle away from her, but it was useless. Her hand shot out to a nearby infantry soldier – young by the looks of it. She smiled as he recoiled, such an expression was not something to be valued in her husband’s army. Her hand was like a vice and her voice was strong, knowing that it would filter back to her husband nearby.

“Your services in the Numantian army are no longer…necessary. It is time to sacrifice you for the greater good.” When the young man, boy really, protested against the indignity that was going to be forced on him – Phaedra didn’t listen. She didn’t really care what he had to say, no one in her husband’s army belonged if they couldn’t face their death like a true man.

Phaedra led the unwilling sacrifice to the edge of the lake, the area naturally raised with a sandy edge. With a savage push she sent the boy careening out into space. He hovered there for the faintest breath of a moment before splashing into the lake. The howling sounds didn’t last long as the water coursed down his throat. It took even less time for his skeleton to float on the surface. Strange buoyancy by the looks of it, Phaedra noted as she stalked the lake’s edge. All of the other men had their faces trained on the lake, each awaiting their deaths with peculiar ease. She would sacrifice none of these to the lake of fire – and she sensed that each of them was a little relieved.

Every man within the Numantian army knew not to lay eyes on Ryothan’s Witch Queen. Some lost their lives, but more than one had lost his eyes by Ryo’s own hands. Phaedra rarely tested those waters, content to warm Ryothan’s bed and disdainful of any other eyes on her – but woe be to any man that happened to look at her now.

Phaedra walked back to her husband and untied her gown with stiff movements, her ribs protesting every step of the way. She was completely naked by the time she made it to Ryothan. She held her dress out to one of her witches before passing close by her husband, letting his hand graze the flesh of her taut naked belly. She shook her hair out of the ponytail it had been in and let it fall in wild waves and half curls down her back. Phaedra looked like a goddess borne of night – the very image of Nyx herself.

“The sacrifice.” Phaedra said as the eldest witch of her Coven covered her body in sage smoke. It was meant to cleanse her body and mind for the trials ahead. The wench from earlier in the day was forced to her knees in front of Phaedra’s naked form. She too was naked and bore the scars of years of tribulation. She could not hold a candle in comparison to Phaedra – there was no way that Ryothan would have ever bedded the whore.

To her credit the whore didn’t quake, she just looked resigned to a life that had landed her here on the shores of some desolate island. Phaedra held her hand out and a knife was placed there, a pure silver number gleaned from a monastery. The ritual dagger had been cleansed by her personally and was offered up on a piece of rich black velvet. No one touched it but her.

“Look at me.” The wench lifted her head and exposed the tanned flesh of her neck. Phaedra took her by the hair and pulled her head back by degrees until she cried out in protest that her neck might break. The tendons were strained viciously, making it hard for her to breathe or swallow. Phaedra began chanting soft and low, building to a crescendo as she leaned down to the woman. Her mouth closed around the woman’s exposed throat, drawing a strangled moan of pleasure and surprise out of her, as she leaned back and swiped the knife across the woman’s throat.

At first nothing happened, but then blood started gushing and spurting as the witches folded in around her, one holding a pewter bowl to catch the whore’s lifeblood as it gushed. Phaedra’s skin was unexplainably clean despite being so close to the carnage. Her skin seemed to glow as the moon started to climb in the heavens. When the blood was gathered and set within the deepest heart of the circle, just before the circle of crystals, Phaedra bent to another more grisly task.

Organ after organ, flesh and bone, blood and guts, it all came out of the wench. Her heart was severed and placed on a silver platter along with her lungs and kidneys. As an afterthought her womb was severed and added to the pile. Demons liked the sex of a woman if they were male, though sometimes females were known to dabble. All of these organs were placed by the blood as an offering. A bowl of water was placed before Phaedra and she cleaned her knife and her body, methodically wiping away all of the blood and gore from every part of her. With her cleaned knife she severed a lock of her hair and bound it in silver wire, offered to her by the eldest witch of the Coven. The hair was placed within the binding circle.

The demon would be bound to her, body and soul. Then he would be bound further, she had need of a demon’s powers in this strange land. She could have summoned one without binding it, but he could prove useful later.

“I am invoking the power of the waning sun to welcome Ryothan Valari, Blight King of Numantia, into the circle.” Ryothan knew that he was drawn into a circle by Phaedra for a reason, though it was rare, and it was always for his strong masculine qualities. Phaedra had told him long ago that a male demon was easiest bound to a female, and likewise a female demon was always bound easiest to a male. In this case it was no different, but the presence of Ryo was a bit of insurance – luring the masculine to the den of female power.

When Ryo was in the circle and on his knees before her, there was a small bowl of blood offered to him by the eldest witch. Each of the twelve witches then went to their spot in the circle and picked up a candle made of human fat mixed with the fat of one animal unique to them.

Phaedra looked at her husband, his eyes very nearly level with hers even kneeling. He was massive, a huge masculine presence in a sea of estrogen within the circle. His rough presence broke against Phaedra in a wave of sensual power that made her body eager to have him right there in the circle. As if knowing her thoughts she could feel Ryo’s mouth on her body, leaving trails of hot saliva in his wake. Her body arched against his touch, her arms outstretched to accept the power of his lust and lay it on her shoulders like a mantle. Her skin rose in gooseflesh as his mouth explored her torso, passing her belly button and stopping short of her groin – though the tension between them begged for him to go further. She knew that he knew that generating lust would be enough.

The fun would come later.

Ryothan’s hands were equally gentle for a man so large. He could crush her throat without a second thought, but he loved her with a reckless abandon. His huge hands that could span her waist, now painted delicate designs in blood that he knew from her teaching and having done similar events in the past. When his fingertips grazed her she had to will her mind to focus, to draw in the power of the lust and the blood and the organs and project it all outward.

Seeking.

Hunting.

Calling.

At first it would be a gentle tug on the demon’s psyche. Then it would evolve into a deep wild rooted desire. Then he would hear the call, her call, her voice broadcasting for the nearest demon that could give her information.
What the demon wouldn’t know was that he would be trapped, owned completely.

When Ryothan was done with the blood Phaedra tilted her head back, her arms still outstretched, feeling Ryothan’s presence shift from in front of her to directly behind her. He was her protector and lover in all things, even this, as she gave herself fully over to the call.

No demon could resist the lure of her power, the strange wildness that was so inherently Phaedra. No demon could withstand the surge of lust and sex and desire that was swirling around her like a vortex. No demon in its right mind would pass up the blood and organ offerings. It was a well laid trap, the only person that could control the demon would be Phaedra – and later on she would add Ryothan to that list once the demon was subdued enough.

“Answer my call.” It was an order, one that would be unmistakable and so enticing – as laced as it was in raw sexual feeling. Something was going to answer, and Phaedra could hardly contain the exultant feelings taking root in her chest.
Phaedra parted the veil in her mind and cast the net wider, calling far and wide for the one demon that would know the answers to her questions. When she found him she would latch on to him and nibble away at him like a long lost lover, seeking to draw him in with all that she could offer – but never would.

Pity the demon that answered Phaedra’s call.

[Ryothan]

Before her, before the redefinition of life itself, trust was as alien to him as the deepest, darkest hells. It was a five letter luxury that simply could not be afforded by a man who had curb-stomped morals and compassion in the pursuit of his ambitions. His perceptions would change during the event of a slave risking everything for the very man who had struck down her freedoms without a color of remorse. In the wake of that night a seed was planted, tireless and soon rigorous nights nurtured this seed, and after long months it manifested as trust in another. That other would go on to be Phaedra Valari, Witch Queen of Numantia and that door was sealed behind her.

This was the reason Ryothan now laid absolute authority on her shoulders. Had given her the proverbial 'key to the mint' in the name of their designs. Both were perfectionists, neither endured the mocking touch of failure. Nothing short of favorable results would be tolerated, he trusted no other with this task and the entirety of their resources laid at her feet.

Ryothan became as statue, hands cinched at the small of his back which pulled flesh taught over honed muscle, and silence reigned in his tongue. He was in her neck of the woods, his place was to wait...for now. That flat mask of his did not even waver when Phaedra inspected the small entourage. She went over each of his assembled men like they were prepped pigs hung on butcher's hooks, judging their inherit self worth. Rapidly her eyes settled on a pup of a soldier who's knees grew weak, his fear betrayed him. Her words resonated true and spoke of their weighty expectations. They struck a fierce chord within him, below the surface emotions surged. With otherworldly strength she offered him to the gluttonous lake. The rest of the men faced possible death with lionized features; all passed to their likely relief. Only warriors, Ryothan mused in silence, only true warriors serve.

A very welcomed, and advantageous, byproduct of their long-standing relationship had been the ability to delve into eachother's worlds. With his mentoring hand she gained vast knowledge and skill in all things war and steel, which had proven the difference between life and death this very day, and in return she greatly expanded his understanding of supernatural law and general witchery. Under her tutelage he had grown familiar with rites and rituals, emblems of power, and other such aspects of her professional life. It was perhaps by this familiarity alone, fortified with the theme of the moment trust, that allowed restraint to win the day as that little sheathe of a black dress gave way to nudity. Pulse quickened with temptation as his digits grazed the warm invite of her tight stomach, a well received promise of later things. A brief glance ensured all eyes, minus the lady twelve, held only the ground in sight.

That vision sauntered with feminine grace to the carefully articulated circle and waiting flock of her coven, she called for more death. It's name, "Sacrifice." Believing the night would turn rather festive had proven an accurate prediction. Bound, but not struggling, a whore of a wench was carted to kneel before her lady queen. The ragged plane of her cheek signified who she was, that disfigurement had served as testament to Ryothan's wrath and displeasure. The very notion anyone dared themselves Phaedra's equal in his eyes was infuriating. Though her timely death would serve their means, and sate Phaedra's thirst for vengeance, a darker part of him would have preferred to see her live a long, long life. Were she not to die here and now, year after year he would add to her markings until she became a tortured work of art. The poster child for remembering your place. With regretful sigh he let go of the could have been.

A vicious strike, the bite of silver, and the wench's throat split wide releasing her life force with a spray. It was enough to dash the disappointment of his thought's from a second ago, and discipline alone could no longer ward off that fiendish grin. He even stepped forward to better his view as his wife cleaned the kill as if it were an animal from a hunt. Deft and able, her surgeon's hands made relatively quick work of her selected cuts. Impressive. Interest did not wane as she cleaned and bound her hair, as always the devil is in the details after all. Though he lacked the latent power of a true practitioner, he was no novice to the theory that supported it. Admiration and respect were at the forefront of his thoughts witnessing a master at their craft.

She spoke his name and gave introduction, his role in waiting had come to a close. Without a single ounce of trepidation he set foot within the base of operations. A king fell to his knees without question, on this stage she was the all-consuming presence, and his hands filled with a bowl of blood. And it was here at the heart of the profane arts that lovers met again for the first time since the morning's farewells...

The synergy between Ryothan and Phaedra was flawless. Their passion knew no bounds, mortal or otherwise. Control held only the most fragile of tethers between the two at the best of times, but here and now it would be an even more precarious situation. Lips of a devoted husband eagerly tasted the fires of his welcoming wife's flesh. Across the gentle curves, the shapely features. He could read her body more clearly than most could a book and used this to touch every spot that would draw lustful reaction. A gentle nip said both hello and goodbye to her naval, his descent drew ever nearer, surely any moment he would throw her down and ravage her with the sinful greed of their sex, but by design he was forced to relent. Their bed would be put to the test later this night...

Fingers now touched with other purpose. Steady, martial hands covered her pale skin with sharp red. Phaedra's body quickly became the canvas for symmetrical shapes and designs. She became a living, breathing lighting rod for a rather depraved and feral lot; Demonspawn. Grudgingly at best, Ryothan allowed the woman he loved to become a beacon for potential harm and took up vigil behind her. He would butcher the gods themselves, drown them in their own divine blood, if she were taken from him. No fiend, no matter how devious or ferocious, would inflict his vile touch. Though her sheer will alone should prove enough to bind the affliction they summoned, he stood poised behind her. Ready to leap upon he who answered the call and rend their life from this plane with his bear hands if necessary.

[Vylrath]

No....

Not now.

Vylrath remembered Orso's words, about being a mongrel and nothing more than a servant. Perhaps he was right, he was being taken away, by nothing more than a beckoning through magical means. Vylrath's body was practically flung into nothingness, a plane he was unfamiliar with, yet it seemed like home all the same. Was he on the same plane of existence then? His mind was too clouded to comprehend his current state.

Herbs, blood and lust filled his nostrils and tempted his desires. Kahlan could be calling him, but it was not her female scent that had lured him. His body eclipsed the barrier that held him. The woman was right before him, naked and willing, but he could not step forward to ravage her.

Vylrath's body was on fire from desire and hatred. She had taken away his chance to maul King Pendaran. This woman had also taken away his chance to save Igraine from that bastard. Now he would be bound to her, the magic already working its way into his veins and soul.

But she was still only human and he had his fair history with those creatures. She had a male figure with her, probably acting as her shield, should anything go awry. Smirking, he decided to show his form to her, his bones breaking underneath his flesh, his jaw dislocating to make room for fangs.

He had barely been in form with King Pendaran, only showing a small sample of his demonic presence, but she had beckoned for him after all. The miasma would have choked and poisoned a normal human, but it was safely contained in the barrier. The witches had made sure of that unfortunate circumstance.

Humans had attempted to take away his demonic heritage before, even slicing away at certain features on his body. However, this one had curiously enough sought to control him- something he had never encountered before. Humans rarely had the strength to control a full demon, let alone summon one with the intent of binding themselves.

He struck his claw at the barrier, the force leaving behind, what would have been a flesh wound on King Pendaran's face. Vylrath was more than pissed. The barrier recognizing what he was, had begun to siphon his energy little by little.

Clever girl... but you have no idea what you meddle with. You can contain me in a barrier, but what happens when you release me? I have raped and killed your kind before- you will be no different. I will kill your mate and then rape you by his body.

Her magic was strong, even enough to worry Vylrath Xanathi, but he wouldn't be bound so easily. He brought his sword behind him and swung the blade toward the barrier. If the barrier hadn't been holding him, the blade would have struck Phaedra's naked form. The magic from the barrier siphoned into the blade and forced him back with a violent maelstrom.

Pain wrecked his body and mind, but he continued to strike at the barrier. It was interesting that they had summoned him at the Vuri lake, which had been defiled by his son's blood. The sacrifices would only make the Vuri stronger, something he smiled at with a personal satisfaction.

These humans sought to use him as their weapon, or to understand demonic power. Whatever the reason, he would continue to fight against them. Igraine would be on her own, but there was little he could do about that predicament. His mind was completely closed off, so he was unable to even relay a message to her, the barrier working against him.

The blood lust created a frenzy in him, the offerings spiraling him into a chaotic state of mind. Her blood covered body, made him want to tear into her. He thrashed against the barrier, using his full body weight. The barrier writhed against his force, but his ears heard the crack forming, before the humans would even notice the impact. The crack started as a brilliant sliver against the mass. To his dismay, the crack sealed itself, her magic making him realize that she wasn't to be reckoned with.

What do you want of me?

Phaedra would have to understand his ties with King Pendaran and what she was delving into. Vylrath threw his sword on the ground and kneeled, but not for her benefit. His flashing eyes glared in her direction. He found it amusing, that he was near the Vuri sanctuary, but he doubted that they understood its true nature.

Would he ever be rid of humans and their meddling affairs? He doubted it. With that thought, he shared a daring glance toward Ryothan. He didn't understand his position in this, only that he acted as a sort of protector for Phaedra.

Vylrath admired her strength, but he didn't dare give up any information, that could be used against him. His features looked young, as though he might be a young man in his thirties. Phaedra would feel his true age, his dominating form promising death, should he ever escape from her grasp.

[Phaedra]

Once the haze had lifted in her head, Phaedra was met with a raging bull of a demon. He really seemed to be a bit dense as he attacked the barrier, was blown back, and resumed his assault. He would never get through; there was no fault in the barrier. The heat rolling off of Ryothan’s body washed over her and she tilted her head back, stretching like a lazy cat that has nothing to worry about. The brush of her husband’s hand against her naked hip flared the desire between them like a beacon. A glance over her shoulder caught the desire in her throat. The lust and desire and love between Phaedra and Ryothan was something like legendary – and it showed clearly between them.

Before anything could happen further between the husband and wife, Phaedra moved away from Ryo and picked her way through the circle with a measured ease. She began to stalk her way around the inner circle that held Vylrath. When he threatened to rape her she stopped and peered up at him, her naked body a mere ten inches away from the barrier.

“Rape me? Using my husband’s body? If you so much as lift a finger in his general direction, with the intent to kill him, I will make sure your guts start coming out of your mouth. Have you ever seen a hot iron? Fresh from the fire?” Phaedra spoke as she continued her stalking movements. “There are so many things I could do to your body. Don’t think to tell me, who has brought you here and bound you, that I don’t know what I meddle with. It is you that doesn’t understand what you have done to yourself. You answered my call and you are bound body and soul to me. I can guarantee that your experiences with humans have never been so…grounding.” Phaedra waved her hand around as if to encompass the entirety of the arm around them.

Even if the demon thought he could kill Phaedra and go to battle with Ryothan, there were fifty thousand soldiers that would tear him to shreds before he could blink twice.

“Your name. Give it to me. If you resist you will regret it. I am Phaedra Valari, Witch Queen of Numantia, and my will is your will, my desires are your desires. My thoughts are your thoughts. You will obey me and you will do so with a willing heart, or I will shred every last hope of resistance from your bones.”

When Vylrath beat the barrier with his sword, Phaedra didn’t flinch, she didn’t even leap back. She was a fearless lot – she had watched every man, woman, and child of her village raped, beaten, and dismembered. She was the very last, the only one of her kind left. Demons thought they were so horrible, so awful, but humans – they could be the real beasts. They were capable of such great evil…and so was she.

Phaedra was growing tired of the whole temper tantrum scene. Once Vylrath dropped to his knees she focused hard on him, closed her hand into a fist, binding him in her power like a cage. She could see the glowing lines that bound him to her when she focused on them, and it was these that she manipulated to force Vylrath to stay on his knees. He wouldn’t be able to touch her no matter his desires were, these measures were so that he couldn’t harm anyone else before she could snap him into submission.

With him bound, Phaedra reached down and removed first one crystal, and then another, until all thirteen were removed. She then reached for the witch holding her dress. She stood right in front of Vylrath as she dressed herself, proving to him that he could have nothing of her. During this display he would notice, as would Ryo, the long wound along her side that was cleaned from earlier in the day, the darkening bruise along her ribs, and a myriad other bruises and scratches from the battle earlier. She favored the bruised side more than anything but she powered through dressing herself without complaining.

“You will obey my husband, Ryothan Valari – Blight King of Numantia – as if you were obeying me. His will is mine and it will always be so. Threatening him really wasn’t bright.” Phaedra ignored the fact that he had threatened her really, using Ryo as a way to get to her. She leveled her jade green eyes on Vylrath and smirked as she kicked away the sword he had so stupidly dropped. She leaned down to look at him, walking her fingers along his spine, measuring it carefully.

“Ryothan, I need my needles. I think we’re going to have to tattoo this demon to keep him from…resisting.” Phaedra smiled devilishly as she looked up at her husband. With her good arm, the one that only had a scratch running beneath it, she grabbed a fist full of Vylrath’s shirt and yanked hard on it. The material made a groan as it began to rip at the seams. When the bare flesh of his back was exposed to the night air, Phaedra inhaled deeply, ignoring the deep twinge in her ribs, and smiled again.

The kit where she stored all her needles and inks for tattooing was set on the sand beside her and she looked at Ryothan with a grin before glancing back down at the half naked male demon at her feet.

“Tell me your name, and this part will be easier on you. Oh, and don’t move much. Scream as much as you like – they usually do.” A grin cracked Phaedra’s full lips. She was a handsome woman, but she was as deadly as she was beautiful. Vylrath would do to remember that, it might save his life in the long run.

“When we’re through with this, you will tell me the significance of this fire lake and the temple near it. I want to know everything there is to know about this land that we’re in as well. Though, there is plenty of time for this after we’re done here.”

[Ryothan]

For thirty years the realm had been graced by Ryothan masterpieces. Entire villages and cities ground to dust, souls shattered beyond repair, lives annihilated with no more proof of their existence than the swollen bellies of carrion scavengers. The Blight King was no stranger in the valley of the shadow of death, he owned a vacation home there [metaphorically speaking], and no being, creature, presence of this world or the next or those below would bring to surface even a shred of fear. Whatever supernatural beast came through on that one-way ticket Phaedra offered would find themselves face-to-face with this world's apex predator. . .

Quiet and menacing, he awaited introductions.

The veil between retched violently and vomited, it effectively discharged its vulgar cargo. Empty space wilted beneath the overbearing presence of testosterone and hate, proof their summons had been answered. Occupying said space was the bruteish structure of a fiend, such a feral and depraved lot he recanted. Like an unruly animal this particular demon decide to bear its fangs, to throw its weight around, to make physical inquiries of the cell which bound it to their plane. It struck Ryothan as comical, rare for a man of little humor. The level of care for the demon's display of power was shown with the ease in which husband and wife caressed one another, exchanged lustful glances, and parted ranks with confidence.

Cat to mouse. The Witch Queen approached the circle.

Ryothan listened with a bemused smirk as Phaedra verbally lashed their abyssal guest. Such vehemence in those words, such delicious vehemence. The bit of beautiful & deadly fit her as snug as the dress she'd pour back into minutes later. He himself was on the move, the authoritative gesture of hands bound behind his back, and with appraising eye he measured up Vylrath. Deep, deep within the cool demeanor of his features there was a storm brewing. He had spent decades under the threatening tongue of enemies, these threats always fell on deaf ears. But turned to the one thing he held in his heart, the one life in which he invested himself, it demanded nothing less than a violent rebuke. A call for blood. It was for a later time, duty called. Thoughts brewed.

For now he absorbed himself in the role of guardian, hovering within arms reach of her defense, but never in need. She interrogated with both tongue and force of will, her techniques reinforced by her magically induced jurisdiction over Vyl. Although it brought on a sense of satisfaction, it did little to stifle the song of revenge beating in his heart when Phaedra called for those vicious little needles. Hearing her speak of them out loud reminded him of his raw back and the itching of its healing. She prepped the next victim, he grimly mused, and with a few quick strides he deposited her box of tattoo paraphernalia in the sands at her feet. For the last several minutes there had been no need for his words, it was his presence that had been required, but evolving events sparked his chatty side.

Lord Ryothan bent at the knees and leveled his height eye-to-eye with the snarling one.

"Demon, you will serve us. Like a rabid dog you bear your fangs, you growl. You threaten in some misguided sense of freedom, but turning on the masters will not be tolerated. You will obey or you will be put down." Cupping a handful of sand he allowed it to trickle from the bottom of a fist...

"I know your kind favors themselves the epitome of evil, true monsters. But you know nothing of evil. Your world is innately of chaos and darkness, you function on nothing more than baser instinct inherent to your kind. You are not born a slave to a heart, or morals, or compassion. You are not burdened by guilt, or law, or reason. Humanity is. Yet, we go against the very grain of decency that is instilled upon us from birth. We rape, pillage, defile, and murder each other spitting in the face of everything that it means to be human and ignoring the screams of our conscience simply because we can. That is what it means to be a true monster. In the realm of evil your kind is nothing more than a novelty."

Ryo stood to that towering height of his, muscles rippled, and disgust played puppet master with his expression. His right arm angled over his shoulder and his fingers grasping his sword, he drew it slowly. The next motion was explosive. Ryothan swung down at a hard angle, his upper body twisting into it, with such torque he drove through the blow all the way to taking a knee as he hammered the pommel across Vylrath's face.

Again he stood, composure settled in, the blade's tip pointing down at the demon as if a judging finger...

"For now you will serve because you are bound, but soon you will serve because it is your place."

[Vylrath]

Humans loved to monologue, when they faced their enemies. Vylrath had heard it all before. This speech of superiority, was no different, just spoken by a different man. Without magic, these humans wouldn't even be able to contain him. That was the reality of the situation. Ryothan hid behind a skirt, while Phaedra provided the security of her power. Vylrath smirked, feeling the force of the blades hilt crack against his nose. Blood spilled and filled his mouth, which he spat in Ryothan's direction. The blood was acidic and would more-than-likely cause an unpleasant burn. He'd be damned sevenfold, before he bowed to these humans.

Ryothan sized him, but he focused purely on Phaedra. She was the one casting the power and controlling his fate by literal threads. Names held power and he wasn't about to give her anything to be further used against him. Vylrath had pride, enslavement being apart of his past, but it had taken an army to hold him then. Phaedra displayed her power openly, her confidence captivating him momentarily. She reminded him of Kahlan, but only briefly. He chuckled at the thought of the two women having tea together.

“You only have me because of your magic. Without that blessing, you would have been killed. I owe you nothing. Bind me at your will, but I promise that I will kill you, once I have my freedom again.” Vylrath promised her that, while his bulky frame attempted to break the web-like threads. They were thin enough to cut into his skin, just slicing over the surface, to make him rethink his actions.

If Kahlan could see him now, he was sure that she would delight in seeing his demise. Since their daughter had been sought by King Pendaran, he had only made the situation worse, by being in the thick of it all. Now that he possessed his demonic soul, her presence would be like death all over again.

Vylrath continued to fight against the resplendent threads that bound him, the flesh wounds healing themselves naturally. The Vuri sanctuary was not a place for them. He wouldn't willingly give up that information and jeopardize the remaining Vuri. These humans were different in nature and they held an incandescent intelligence that couldn't be ignored.

“My place is in your nightmares and my kind create your Hell on Earth. Without this power, you are a mere mortal with infantile realities.” Vylrath went silent with those words, his voice sounding strange to him- almost foreign. He hadn't fed in some time, his constant struggle forcing him to waste precious energy. Glaring toward Ryothan, he ignored the sword pointed in his direction. “You show your strength because of her power. Without her, you are another wayward warrior.”

He kept still, letting his power consistently flow. In a twisted way of thinking, he wanted to feel the absolute power of Phaedra and test the will of Ryothan. Vylrath had always been a fool for punishment and he never knew when to quit while he was still ahead.

[Phaedra]

Phaedra rolled her eyes as Vylrath spoke. However, when he spat his viscous blood at Ryo, her eyes lit with a deep rooted anger. She was standing behind the demon looking through her kit and the next instant she had her hand tangled in his hair, pulling his head back at a jarring angle.

“You are the filth of the earth. You are not my nightmare. You’re a freak of nature that managed to find his way to the surface. Don’t patronize me. I don’t care how old you are, what your father’s name was, or where you came from. You are mine. You will do what I tell you to, or you will die.” Phaedra shoved Vylrath hard and went back to her kit and retrieved a vial of some clear liquid. She went to Ryo and took a clean cloth and poured the liquid on the wound that was spreading like wildfire from the blood. The liquid would quench the fire and kill the spread immediately, but her back was to Vylrath so he wouldn’t be able to see or smell what she had used to stop the damage to her husband.

Phaedra wrapped Ryo’s wound with the cloth. She motioned with one hand to one of the Witches she had standing around. She whispered a few words to the Witch and she hurried off.

“Keep the wound covered with the rag until she gets back. I have something that will help the infection but its back at camp.” Phaedra murmured to Ryo, knowing he wouldn’t show the pain.

When he threatened to kill her she pulled something out of the kit. It was typically used for cleansing the body before and after a particularly powerful sigil, but this would have a whole new meaning to Vylrath. Phaedra walked around to where he was, curled her fingers in his hair again, and yanked his head up to look at her.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Phaedra rubbed the bottle on Vylrath’s face, pushing it hard against his skin so that a single drop oozed down the side to come into contact with his skin.

Holy water.

The effect would be phenomenal when it touched him. Phaedra positioned herself right in front of Vylrath with the bottle and a small bowl. She poured a measure of the water into the bowl and brought out a mortar and pestle. She dumped what looked like dead bugs into the mortar along with a few drops of some oil, some powdered herb, and a single drop of her own blood. All of this was mixed together and poured into the bowl with the holy water. The ink that resulted was rich and beautifully black, almost purple in the light of the fire nearby.

“Do you know what this ink is? No?” Phaedra smiled and showed the bowl to Vylrath, swirling the liquid within very gently in a rhythmic fashion. “The ingredients are very rare. Those beetles you saw me pour in? They come from a very specific jungle in Numantia. They are called Hyklos beetles and they’re used in one of two things: death elixirs, or ink. You see, they are the only beetle in all the world that bites, and their mandibles are covered in a special type of venom. One bite makes you sick, but they never bite just once. No, the whole colony gets in on it. Their venom starts to liquefy muscles and it starts to paralyze you. So you’re forced to watch them eat your body until there is nothing left. It can take hours or it can take days…”

Phaedra smiled and swirled the ink again and shrugged.

“Unfortunately it doesn’t do anything as an ink. Just a pretty color, the venom is neutralized shortly after the death of the beetle, unless harvested for elixir purposes.” Phaedra indicated some innocuous vial in the kit which she hadn’t touched. “I think holy water, though, as a thinning agent will be absolutely delightful – don’t you, demon?”

Phaedra got up and scooped up a handful of needles and a mallet with one skillful hand. A witch came to her aide by holding the ink bowl as she dipped the needles. One held a mirror just to the side so that Vylrath could see himself and her behind him with her needles poised to strike with the mallet. She pressed the needles against the flesh of his back and…

Tapped hard.

The needle bundle would deliver their batch of ink beneath the surface of his skin, so the initial shock of the stab would be one thing – but the depositing of the ink beneath the surface of the skin would mean that the holy water would have a greater ease of spreading. The pain would be intense. It would be something that Vylrath wouldn’t be able to escape, and it would linger for a very long time after the tattoo set was done.

Vylrath was getting the special treatment. There was a tattoo to prevent scrying, one to prevent curses to be used against him, one to further bind him to Phaedra, and a myriad other symbols and sigils across his upper back and shoulders. In the end Vylrath would have a total of fifteen sigils, ten symbols, and a few other odds and ends tattooed on his skin. It looked beautiful, all things considered, but the hell he would be put in for the ink…that was something that couldn’t be ignored.

Tattooing Vylrath had taken most of the late evening hours, so when Phaedra straightened she rubbed her lower back. The witches helping her began putting away her things, washing them with a deep reverence that was to be afforded such objects. Phaedra looked at Ryothan and walked over to him, leaving Vylrath there on his knees unable to get up or fall down until commanded to do so. She reached up to touch her husband’s face, brushing her fingertips against his jaw and beard, she turned then to the ingredients to patch up his arm. She blended them and said a few words of power over the concoction.

Phaedra removed the cloth covering his wound and dug her fingers into the bowl of disinfecting compound that she’d made. It smelled pungent but not completely awful and she slathered it on generously.

“The demon is yours to work with as you will. He will be bound in the kneeling position until I say otherwise.”
It was then that she walked away to wash her hands in a basin of water some space away. Her whole body was aching from the use of her power, the battle earlier in the day, and spending time bent over the demon and hammering away at his flesh.

“Oh, demon? My husband doesn’t hide behind my skirts. He knows a weapon when he sees one.” It was a simple statement that was filled with so much meaning that it would be hard for Vylrath to ignore it.

Phaedra settled on some cushions that had been brought for her comfort, accepted a large pewter cup of wine and relaxed, watching what was sure to become a very entertaining show.

[Ryothan]

Ryothan's mind, nor soul, nor body had been cowed by the 'terrible' demonic entity before them. His words had shaken loose threads of boiling hatred, his heart beat with murderous furor, but he remained the placid professional. It was probably this clarity that made the difference in the events to follow. His size was readily apparent, but it belied a cat's grace. A taste of this was expressed in his reaction to the acidic projectile. Reflexes, honed tirelessly on countless battlefields, fluidly brought across his left arm -- it would seem the day disfavored the particular appendage -- effectively acting as shield from the burning blood.

The largest concentration washed over his forearm with blazing agony, droplets of splatter targeted his upper thigh and chest but the damage to these areas proved minimal, his arm however felt as if on fire. Ryothan was no stranger to pain, it was his mistress and a favored tool, but this was a unique sort of sensation. Teeth locked shut as he grit and beared, it was a blessing his tongue hadn't been in their path, and his body quaked, however his knees did not betray him. Although Phaedra's reaction was quick and further carnage was avoided, the blood had been ravenous. Bracer melted, skin ate through, muscle exposed. Her quick patch job did enough to stem the tide and allow him to process Vylrath's transgression. The hardened king reigned in all verbal expressions of his discomfort with a grimace.

Under instruction he bound the cloth taut in a makeshift bandage, but the actions were mechanical, an autopilot of sorts -- his mind was lost in a sea of retribution. It seemed his condition did not improve with time, he remained detached, his expressions one note. Looks can be deceiving. They say don't judge a book by its cover, this was a fitting mantra for current Ryothan. His eyes seemed glazed, his attentions most certainly elsewhere, but every second that unfolded before him registered and rang deep. Everything Phaedra said, her actions, that sick thud of her malicious hammer. All of it. It just seemed so profound and vivid, perhaps he latched onto as an anchor to keep him from slipping into that psychotic killer begging to be tagged in, at least until business had come to a close.

Minutes melted into hours, at least that was impression, but time just didn't seem significant enough to accurately track at the moment. No, not with this show. Phaedra's sinister needles bit fiend hide again and again. Did their hunger ever wane? If Ryothan hadn't be waiting his turn to strike at the defiant slave he would have prayed not. As Vylrath's back became more and more the spectacle, the Blight King became active again. Finally mastering the rage which had kept him rooted in place in an effort to prevent rash behavior, channeling it, using it as a focus to plot another of his own grand designs. With narrowed eyes he admired the articulate nature of his queen's work. Lacing the demon's skin was an intricate webbing of all things control and security, they would help combat the ignorance of the demon as he thrashed against the bars of inevitability.

The artist withdrew brush, satisfaction the signature.

Then she approached him. It was always a quickening comfort, even in the face of pain. Her fingers caressed his face with a tenderness only available for her king, that touch solidified the culmination of his thoughts. She tended to his wound with a witchy mixture of herbs and other components he wouldn't be able to list, it cooled the defiled stretch of forearm. Afterward he tested the response of his fingers, all of them moved as instructed, the two broken throbbed within their splint under the duress. Again, he was no stranger to pain. Her words as sweet as honey as she informed him of the demon's favorable predicament. It seemed that killer in him would get its tag in after all, albeit under non-fatal commands.

Discarding his sword he took a vicious pair of curved knives from one of his men, testing their thirst on the same soldier's cheeks. With greed they pulled bright rivulets of blood. He tucked them in the leather binding about his middle and retrieved Phaedra's kit from the witch she handed it to. Fingers plucked through the lot of needles he was all too familiar with, they settled on the biggest two of the bunch. He dunked those same two inside the inkwell for her tattoos and allowed them to drink deep of the holy water laced ink, the liquid coated half of each their length. Tucking both for "safekeeping" behind his ears he pivoted on heel and walked towards the kneeling offender.

"Her power? You mean the power that serves me? She is mine, body and soul, and the powers she wields are at my disposal without question. Does that not make it my power? You kneel before ME. This island was its own just a day ago, now it's mine. The men that brought Rivenfelde to heel are mine. This sanctuary, whatever it is, is now mine. Everything that defines your world at current belongs to me. Here? I am the power."

Words tapered off as he stood behind Vylrath, he claimed the handles of the dripping knives and pulled them free, he tucked their edges under each of the demon's ears. Fingers tightened to pulsing white knuckles, he neglected the screams of the broken.

"Remember this, demon. It was also my power that brought the darkness."

Delivering the final syllable, Ryothan sliced upward with those tree-trunk arms severing the ears from the hellion's head in a fantastically gory fashion. Reversing his grip on the steel with a quick handflip, in the same motion he buried those hungry blades deep within the tops of Vylrath's shoulders on the down stroke. Swiftly he recalled the needles to his hands from their perch, coated as they were in the antithesis to hellish kind. Arms bursted into locomotion a second time, coming down and around at vicious angles, over the front of the demon's head spearing the needles' tips within the fiend's eyes. With harsh inflection he demanded Phaedra allowed the demon the ability to fall over, his command quickly obeyed. His right leg fired up with brute force and his boot collided with the back of Vylrath's skull like a mace, he repeated the process a second time sending the demon sprawling forward and splayed out in the sand face first. Ryothan's right foot slammed on the back of the creature's head, pressing with weight he pushed those pins ever deeper.

The setting of his fingers would need to be redone and the wound in his shoulder ripped open, his own blood gushing free, but his attention was pinpointed on the being prone before him. He wasn't sure what kept him from finishing the demon off, by that point everything was a blur...

[Phaedra]

The show that followed Phaedra’s departure was one for the annals of history. The Witch Queen rarely got a chance to observe her husband’s handiwork so closely. She approved of his tactics, many of them she considered using herself for future endeavors. The cup rested in her right hand, partially drained of the deep rich red wine from one of the many holdings of Numantia, though Phaedra took no more of it. She was enthralled with her husband.

As Vylrath was violated over and over again by the needles, the blood a heady sight even for her, Phaedra could feel her heart hammering in mute ecstasy. There was something about putting a creature, something supposedly so powerful, in its place. That demon belonged beneath the heel of her husband’s boot and as the needles were ground in deeper Phaedra smiled. She drained the rest of her wine and got to her feet. She walked over to the wine jug that she and Ryothan shared, unstopped it, and poured the rich red liquid into her own glass.

“That is enough. It’s time to stop.” No one else in existence would be capable of saying such words to Ryothan Valari. It wasn’t that he was belligerent or incapable of connections – Ryo believed himself to be over the heads of all living creatures. In Phaedra’s eyes he was. He knew how much faith she had in him and she knew the trust he placed in her. Phaedra walked to her husband then, her eyes carefully taking in all of his wounds before lifting the pewter cup to him.
“Drink.” Phaedra took note of the wound pulsing blood out of his left shoulder and she twitched her lips in annoyance. Why hadn’t the surgeon sewn the wound shut? She kept her peace on that though, she had assaulted the man earlier in the day, and perhaps she had addled his wits. Phaedra busied herself stopping the blood flow from Ryo’s shoulder, pushing cloth after cloth into the wound. She moved the glass from his good hand and pressed it into the cloth pile growing from his shoulder.

“Go sit. Now. I will see to this demon and then sew you up.”

Phaedra gestured to the pillow pile nearby. He would be hard pressed to ignore her when she was going to be the one with the needle and thread. Phaedra bent down over the demon and grabbed him. The protective spells she had binding him to her made it so that his blood didn’t have the same acidic effect on her as they had on Ryothan. She pulled up on Vylrath’s body, instructing nearby witches to wear gloves when handling him, and when they had a firm hold on him, she tugged out all of the quills and needles that Ryothan had used in his torture. Some of the needles were in so deep that Phaedra had to put a foot on Vylrath’s chest and tug hard on them to remove them.

When Phaedra’s task was done she instructed that Vylrath be moved, cleaned of all his blood, and his eyes bound in thick black fabric. His ears were to be cleaned and a salve was to be applied to those wounds as well. He was lucky that Ryo hadn’t wanted to cut his tongue out. Granted, without his tongue the demon wouldn’t have been capable of telling them anything they needed to know.

Once the orders had been given, specifics on what tinctures to use on a demon ironed out, and soldiers dispatched to carry the demon’s prone form – Phaedra turned to Ryothan. She sighed softly as she got near him and leaned down and kissed his brow, right between his eyes. She spent a few minutes washing the demon blood off her arms and hands.
“I love you, Ryothan Valari.” It was a simple statement, a quiet sentiment shared between husband and wife. Phaedra set to getting her things in order. There was a needle made of steel similar to what swords were made of, far more efficient in sewing up human flesh in Phaedra’s opinion, and thread of some special make. The thread and needle were both from a province of the Numantian kingdom and Phaedra was proud of them. She passed the needle through the flame of the nearby fire and quenched it in the holy water she had waiting in a bowl near Ryothan.

As the needle cooled she uncoiled a decent length of thread and cut it with a dagger used specifically for that task. She set the thread aside and began removing the dozen or so bloody cloths that were piled against his shoulder. She frowned at the wound once she saw it, dipping a clean cloth in another bowl of holy water and cleaning around it carefully. It was ragged, shaped like the utensil that had wrought the damage. Phaedra bit down on the anger she had welling inside her for being unable to stop such destruction to her husband.

Without a word she plucked the needle from the other bowl and threaded it with the ease of years of practice. She paused before she started and looked into her husband’s face. She searched for something there and smiled when she found it. She pressed her mouth against his in a fierce kiss before settling to her task. Phaedra laid the needle to Ryo’s skin and pressed. She eased the needle across the gap in the wound, making tight clean stitches, blotting the blood that rose in protest of the treatment. Her hands didn’t falter though her thoughts were filled with the anger of the day. When she was done with his shoulder she cleansed it and wrapped it tightly against infection.

“I will change the dressing tomorrow afternoon.” She cleaned her hands and her utensils in the bowl of holy water, the water running pink and then red as she washed. Then she moved to his left forearm, unwrapping the wound and baring the flesh to the early morning air. Phaedra looked at her husband and spoke plainly with him, as she often did.

“This is going to hurt like hell. Down your wine while I work on this and see how badly you have been hurt.” Phaedra made quick work of scraping out the entire compound she’d put on his arm earlier. She spent a few minutes rinsing the wound and prodding it with deft fingers. She murmured soft words to ease pain over the wound, dropping some clear liquid in it which would suck all the residual pain out.

Phaedra was no healer, but she knew plants and she knew how to brew things and distill things to make some wonderful remedies. Her knowledge was shared with her Coven and her remedies were sought by surgeons and other healers alike. Phaedra whispered more words of power, of healing, over Ryothan’s acid eaten arm. She murmured softly, coaxing the natural healing powers of his massive body into action. It wasn’t a healer’s way, truly, just that of a witch. Ryo would still take weeks to recover from his injuries – but with his body warned the risk of infection was lessened.

“Once more, my love.” Phaedra pressed the clean needle into Ryothan’s flesh and muscle, drawing the wound closed with her fine touch. If she had been born in any other part of the world, someone might regale her for her sewing abilities. Perhaps she would have been one of those docile women who did nothing but ply a needle for the sake of beauty. What was that menial task called again? Oh, right, needlework. It was a way to get a woman out of the way and out of men’s affairs. Phaedra snorted at the thought. She highly doubted she could have ever made it in that world. She was too headstrong for her own good most times.

When the sewing was done, Phaedra carefully covered the wound in more of the strange smelling goo she’d used earlier, and then she bound the arm in clean bandages. When she was done she washed her hands again, carefully cleaning her hands of all the blood of her husband’s wounds. When she dried her hands she threw her arms around his neck in a brief moment of weakness. No one was around, all the soldiers had taken to spots already strategically planned, and Phaedra couldn’t resist being close to her husband.

“You will heal, but it will take a month or two to get the full use of your arm back.” Phaedra kissed along Ryothan’s jaw, her hand brushing his throat. She was alone with him, as alone as the pair could ever get, but only because the army knew she would lay her life down for his survival.

“We should pass the night here. This temple will provide enough cover from prying eyes.” Phaedra murmured against Ryo’s neck. All it would take was Ryo moving his good arm and pulling firmly on the loosely tied neck of her gown to have her naked once again, but for his eyes only.

[Ryothan]

The world seemed to melt away, to blur at the lines, to lose the definition that allowed one to decipher fact from fiction. Was what he experienced now reality? What was real? Did it even matter? Not to him, not at this moment. All that existed was blinding fury and that foul mouthed, disobedient creature being ground beneath his boot. It was as if they had been whisked away from the odd sandy jungles of Xexoria and thrown into some surreal coliseum where Vylrath's destruction was his key home, his path back to Phaedra. He would have done it too, even if his only weapons were his bare hands and he'd need to endure self mutilation under the demon's foul blood, he would have massacred that beast. It would not be necessary...

Her words and touch shattered the hold of feral ferocity, his mind immediately sharpened by her presence and the pulsing sensations of pain ravaging his left arm. He gulped air, his chest rising and falling as if he had just dead sprinted ten miles without stop, his eyes found focus and the world was as he remembered. Ryothan rarely slipped into an animal of pure emotion, the mauled features of their abysmal guest were testament to the sound reasoning for that. But when it came to his wife, his queen, the only share holder of his trust and love...even an empty threat deserved a response. Maybe it was a miracle, perhaps just a faint sliver of discipline that survived the change, that prevented fatal lethality.

He snatched the goblet in hand and drank a long pull of its contents. It seemed as if his stomach could not get its fill of the deep, rich flavor of that Numanitan wine. A shame the cup was but shallow. By the time she removed the pewter offering and used his good hand to secure the pile of temporary bandaging to his shoulder he was his old self. Anger still fluttered in resistance within the darkest reaches, but he was under control. Without a second thought he took heed of her suggestions of rest. Ryothan's body was ragged with fatigue, stiff, tired, every step seemed done under the united protest of his limbs. Then there was the soft embrace of pillows and he melted, even the Blight King was subject to the sensation of relief, and he settled in to reflect on the eventful day.

In the very distance he could hear the screams of the peasantry, and the warchants of soldiers, as Rivenfelde was officially cleansed of resistance. We rule here now, unwavering loyalty is the price of your lives the king thought darkly.

That harsh, snarling demon sat limp and bloodied. He rather enjoyed the show as Phaedra tended to his victim, struggling with the purchase of the needles depths was exceptionally entertaining. There was even enough enjoyment in the matter to draw laughter, true laugher, to the surface. Lost in the sudden good mood he called for a goblet of his own and the corked bottle of their shared spirits, under a very scrutinizing eye, and poured himself another drink, another yet. Red liquid spilled over the corners of his lips and down into the rich browns of his beard. This was as the extent of his mirth however, heavy thoughts were still an issue after all. Such as the matter of gaping wounds, or the seeming oxymoron of the lake.

The demon was carted away out of sight, out of mind. She turned to him now...

She approached with that walk of hers filled with confidence, authority, the presence of a queen worthy of Ryothan, yet her face alight with the description of her nurturing side. She knelt before him, consuming his vision, and there was even a brief kiss. Simple, yet somehow infinitely complex, words drifted from those masterful lips of her's. I love you she said, he still took a moment to digest it every time, but his response was the same and always packed with a powerful meaning, "And I you, Phaedra Valari. Never another."

Ryothan consumed more drink in resumed silence, it stilled the rampant spikes of adrenaline from before. There was no fuss, nor complaint, be it verbal or physical as she set to work. First she'd have to remove the cloth barricade, secondly she'd inspect the wound with worry. They exchanged glances, for them it was about those simple gestures, and both of them met in a lover's kiss. She could work wonders with those fingers of hers, physical or otherwise, and her ability to stitch together human flesh was second to none. Over and under she closed the memory of that arrowhead shut, threads pulling skin tight, and bleeding stopped.

"I should have had you tend to my wounds to begin with, that field surgeon proved incompetent to the task." He scowled through his words, but it was half-hearted.

She warned him, she offered advice, but he favored himself up to the challenge. The pain was something else, perhaps he spoke prematurely when praising her medical abilities compared to that of his medic's back at camp. Now he chugged another full glass, fortunately he was not a lightweight. There was a warmth to the injury now, a soothing that seemed to combat the pain as fiercely as he did his enemies. Told you, a miracle worker with those fingers. She took the needle-and-thread to the blood ravaged hole, as deft as with his shoulder she even brought that to a tight close. In time it would join the other verses of scar tissue, a twisted poem to a violent life.

His wounds now patched and properly cared for he retested the range of motion in the violated appendage. The response was good, but full recovery would take time. In thought he vowed a full reckoning with this fiend, their time would come again. Of this there was no doubt. He studied her as she cleaned the gore yet again from that oh so soft skin of hers. Even with one arm in full bandages, two broken fingers that had been set twice in the same day, and an indescribable exhaustion he felt a need to have her. As if she could read his mind she pitched her self at him, wrapping slender arms around his neck, eyes soft and lost in his. Tender words reserved for private moments followed.

"Of course I will heal. I am Ryothan Valari, Blight King. It would take more than a demon, more than a war, more than a lake that breathes fire to kill me." His tone was gruff and manly, but with those words he offered her a reassurance that he was okay and that she need not worry another moment.

It was time for action. He brushed a hand across her cheek, a lingering thumb, he kissed her again and untied that single knot separating him from his prize. Removing that final obstacle he wrapped his good arm around her tight, reeled her in, and proceeded to taste and have of her. All of the day's pain was erased, all that remained was them.

[Vylrath]

Vylrath woke up in darkness, the pain returning. Losing his sight startled him, but he immediately remembered who had been responsible for those injuries. Even if Phaedra ordered him to “obey” Ryothan, he would never willingly bow, or buckle to his orders. The human had to literally cut him down, in order to follow his words.

If he had been without the bonds of magic, Ryothan might have seen a different Vylrath, but he couldn't let his thoughts dwell on what might have been. He tore at the cloth protecting his eyes, which had already begun to heal. Flinging the cloth to the side, he held his head, noting the constant pain biting at his nerves. His body felt like it had been dipped into a forge over and over again with relentless furor. They were trying to mold him, much like a blacksmith would with a new piece of metal.

Cursing, he blinked, trying to force his eyes to see some hint of shadow or light. The light he did see, radiated from the bodies of soldiers outside. His eyes would eventually fully heal, but since the holy water had penetrated into the pupil, his eyesight would have otherworldly qualities.

Even if he couldn't see, he knew that he was in old Xexoria. The scents came to him, the familiarity of the place stunning his mind. He hated Xexoria with a passion. If these humans wanted to pillage and rape this world, he would gladly assist them. Rivenfelde had been named after his Queen, someone who should have been forgotten long ago. Since arriving, old memories began filtering into his crazed mind. Vylrath should let the thoughts go, but just being back in his homeland, brought back a new kind of rage.

He would tell them his name and everything about the Vuri sanctuary. Since he was no longer their leader, or connected to them in any form, he wasn't obligated to saving their race. Getting up, he let his other senses allow him to walk. The aura's of the soldiers came to light, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. It was dejavu all over again. He was back in a healing tent, guarded by soldiers, much the same way he had met Isabella.

“Where's the nice lady with the tits? I need to speak with her.” Vyl questioned a nearby guard, who was obviously meant to watch over him. They were at least holding some intelligence, compared to Raynalios's men. They wore basic leather armor, but he had a feeling that he would lose in a fight with his current condition.

It was wiser to make his new “master” think that she had won him over. Vylrath stood outside with the guards, feeling for his ears. The bastard had chopped them off, leaving them rounded where a point would have been visible.

They could try to enslave him, destroy his pride, or attempt to make him human, but he knew these lands better than the lot of them. Vylrath hadn't survived this long to be taken out by a band of humans. He would have to learn to use their bond to his advantage, which would not be an easy task.

His body continued to burn, the sigils reminding him of his plight. The pain from the holy water, was worse than being bathed in hellfire. Vylrath silently wondered if he would always feel that agony. With a despairing thought, he wondered about his family and their own troubles. He hadn't been in contact with them in a day, or more and he doubted they were better off.

[Phaedra]

Phaedra stirred as the sun started to lighten the sky. She shifted in the protective cocoon created by Ryothan’s good arm and the cloak that she had thrown over them. Her ribs were on fire but she was so comfortable that she lay there for a few minutes, waking up and drinking in the warmth of Ryo’s large body. Even in sleep, her husband looked like a fierce warrior ready for the slightest provocation. Peace was not something that Ryothan harbored in his waking life, so why should he strive to emulate it in sleep?

Without a sound Phaedra propped herself up on her good arm though the long cut she bore on that side tugged and itched she didn’t fuss with it. She brushed her naked body against her husband’s warm flesh and kissed him. Her hair was wild, splayed out at crazed angles and knotted in the throes of passion that Ryothan assaulted her with.
The trust between them, the closeness, and the love, all of it was built by their own hands. The foundation of their relationship was so strong that Phaedra didn’t worry that Ryothan would seek the bed of another woman. No other woman could satisfy him like she could. No other woman cared or understood his mind like she did. Phaedra was an enigma in many ways, but in this she was the simple wife, the love of his life. She was the heart that he didn’t seem to have in his chest. Everything that he was, everything that he could be, all of it she held close for him.

Of course this relationship with Ryothan had developed over the course of ten years. It was hard to believe that she had known him that long. It was harder even to believe that she had been his wife for the past six years. Phaedra bent to kiss him again, her hands roaming over his expansive chest as she brushed her lips softly against his, against his cheek, and across his closed eyes. It was somewhat of a ritual with her, taking in the sleeping form of her husband and remembering him as he was in case the worst happened. Rising from slave to Queen had not been an easy road, but she had done it. It had been important for her to be the very best woman she could be for Ryo, and she had managed it. If she lost him because of a careless mistake, whoever took him down would die by her hands, and then she would probably take her own life. There would be no living without him. Life just wouldn’t be the same.

As one of her Witches, the eldest of the Coven by the name of Hazel, came into view bearing a cloak of black bear fur, Phaedra slipped free of her Husband’s protective grasp and covered him again. She walked naked to the Witch and picked her hair up to accept the warmth of her favorite fur. The bear had been slain by Ryo’s own hands and it had been fashioned into a beautiful cloak for her pleasure. He had told her, in a rare moment of passionate talk, that the bear’s fur reminded him of her hair.

“If I may be so bold, are you considering getting with child?” Hazel asked as she stoked the fire near the blood in the sand.

“You are too bold.” Phaedra sat as she accepted a mug of hot tea brought to her by yet another Witch. The tea bringer left and silence fell between Phaedra and the elder Witch until the fire was kindled bright and hungry.

“I apologize, Mistress.” Hazel said as she turned to look at Phaedra. “You look well rested. How are your injuries?” Salvaging the conversation was a gift that came to this woman as easy as magic.

“Mending. My ribs still hurt, I’m not entirely sure they aren’t broken. I’d like you to probe to make certain. I don’t trust that the surgeon knows what he’s talking about half the time. He just stutters around me like I will knock him out cold or curse him.” Phaedra blinked her eyes a few times and sipped at her tea.

“My Lady, you have knocked him out cold. I believe you have also cursed his manhood a few times as well. Your generosity in removing the curse is probably the only reason his wife stays with him.” Hazel mused with a wicked little smile and a light laugh.

Phaedra laughed and shook her head, thoroughly amused with Hazel’s candid behavior. It was the reason that she alone tended to the Witch Queen in most instances.

“I suppose that I have given him reason enough to fear me.” Phaedra mused with a grin before finishing her tea. When she was done she shrugged her bear cloak off her shoulders so that it pooled around her hips where she sat. She raised her right arm as far as she could so that Hazel could probe her with magic.

When Hazel pressed the flat of her hand against Phaedra’s side, she hissed and then relaxed as the woman channeled something similar to what she’d done to Ryothan the night before. The probing fingers were a distant memory as Phaedra relaxed fully into Hazel’s knowledgeable hands. After a few minutes Hazel replaced Phaedra’s fur cloak and shook her head.

“Looks to be just a good bruising on the muscle. You don’t have any padding in that area; it’s a wonder that you didn’t break several ribs if you fell off your horse.”

“It really feels like I did, so I would say that I didn’t escape much.” Phaedra murmured as she glanced over her shoulder at Ryothan. She smiled warmly before glancing back at Hazel. The love in her heart was for the man lying quietly in the pillow pile where they’d made love earlier in the evening. She hadn’t felt a thing in his arms, but waking up and readying herself for the day to come, that’s when the aches and pains started again.

“The demon is up. I can feel him wandering around his tent.” Phaedra said as she got to her feet. She made short work of some rations that had been prepared by her own hands, from her own things, and made Ryo a quick but hearty breakfast. She walked over to him and leaned down to kiss him on his brow and set the plate nearby. His advisors would be coming soon and she debated on helping him get his pants on.

“Ryothan, darling, wake up. I’m going to help you get dressed before your council can make it up the hill.” When he woke up she would kiss him and try very hard not to get turned on by the sight of his naked body as she helped him get dressed. It was always difficult, but she knew he would do the same for her if she could find her dress. She was content to wear the bear fur until she got back to camp.

Phaedra would kiss her husband goodbye for the time being before going back to camp. The walk was brief and Phaedra spent it mostly in contemplation. Once they neared the Surgeon’s tent Phaedra waved Hazel away to get the other Witches together for a conference to discuss the Lake and their best approach to it.

“Are you sure?” Hazel asked, eyeing the Surgeon’s tent and the disgruntled guards standing out front.

“He’s bound to me. He can’t hurt me.” Phaedra said, amused at the sight of unease on Hazel’s face.

“How do you know he can’t mind control one of the guards to kill you?” Hazel twitched her nose to hide her discontent as she stared at the tent.

“That would count as hurting me, Hazel. He can’t do that. He may wish to the gods that he can, but nothing done by his hand can harm me.” Phaedra walked away from her then and to the guards standing outside the Surgeon’s tent. They shuffled a little and straightened their posture as she neared.

“How has the demon been holding up?” Phaedra looked at them both, letting her gaze settle on the tent flap.

“He’s been up and around, my Queen. He asked about…tits.” The man shrugged, his accent was thick with the Numantian dialect fresh on his tongue. He was learning common quickly, as most soldiers did, but some words still obviously evaded him.

“Oh, did he now? I presume he means my breasts. They were the only pair he’s seen since arriving. Though the way he focuses on them they may be the only pair he’s seen in a long time.” A grin split her lips to show her teeth as Phaedra pushed through the tent flap to stand and stare at Vylrath. She looked like something out of legend standing as she was in the black bear pelt cloak, her hair disappearing into the inky fur making it seem like a part of her. Beneath the deep folds of the warm fur she was naked still, but she wasn’t afraid of the demon. As much as he wanted to try her patience and perhaps taste of her flesh, his manhood would remain incapable of…well…

Phaedra grinned as she looked at Vylrath.

“I see you heal quickly for a demon. Good. You are no use to me deaf and dumb.” Phaedra arranged herself on a stool near the tent opening. “Your eyes are healing. You should gain some of your sight back soon, though I’m sure that holy water probably did some irreparable damage.” She crossed her arms beneath her cloak and looked at him carefully, assessing the damage her husband had done.

“How are the tattoos feeling? Still on fire? Once the ink is sealed into your skin the feeling will go away. The wounds are still fresh by the looks of them. No doubt your body has decided your eyes and ears are top priority, though it looks like they’re starting to heal pretty good.” Phaedra looked him over like a prize bull to be bought from the market, assessing his damage and his faults.

“Now I assume you will give me your name. I also want to know as much as possible about the fire lake as you can tell me.” The demands were quiet and to the point, though there was an edge to her voice that spoke of infinite dangers and reasons why the soldiers of Numantia would fear her. “I suggest talking to me. My Husband will be back in camp soon enough and he will look for me. I understand that he particularly enjoyed the use of needles on you.”

Phaedra reached for a cluster of needles used for sewing on a nearby table. She clinked them about in her hand as she talked, a smile forming on her lips as she leveled her jade green eyes on Vylrath.