She leaned against the wall, panting heavily. It had gone so very wrong, all so very wrong. The job was supposed to have been simple. A Snatch-and-Run. They weren't even trying to snatch anything VALUABLE, for the sake of Chaos!

    The job had been presented by one of the delicate flowers of the guild - a high priced courtesan who was in the long term relationship business. The guild had already selected a grabber, a healer, and a spell-chucker, as well as another strong arm. The healer wasn't a member of one of the more tolerant religions, but Xiombarg might be amused by the fact she had to tolerate the bastard anyways. She could always hunt him down later.

    The group had met in one of the local dives, one controlled by the guild, and discussed the scenario. It had looked simple enough, and they were expecting heavy resistance but nothing that would have included the castle's legendary inhabitant.

    Her companions were as wicked a bunch of thugs as she could have hoped for. The other meat-shield - if something that emaciated and gangling could be called a 'shield' - was a half-orc. He wore his brand proudly too - carved into his face where his eye should have been, the bloody eye of Gru'em'sh. He could not sit at the table properly, but sitting he still was eye level to her as she stood at the table. The heavy chains about his torso clinked softly as she adjusted his curled over body. He didn't leer at her, but he was watching the healer pretty damn closely.

    The healer was an adherent of goddess she wasn't familiar with. The symbol about the middle aged priestess' neck was a golden hand with a heart carved out of the middle of it. He seemed awfully pacifistic to be going on a run like this; no armor, no weapon, just a small satchel and some jewelry. Savatiri suspected he relied on his magic more than most. It was a definite benefit as far as she was concerned - she'd killed plenty of spell casters, and the opportunity to kill this stuck up robe-wearing altar boy would come sooner or later.

    The spellchucker was far more interesting. She wasn't any race that Savatiri recognized; it looked like she'd been dusted with gem dust or the like, tiny veins of it running patternlessly across her skin. She was a serious sort, asking all the questions Savatiri would have asked herself. For a spellcaster she was awfully tactically minded, and if she hadn't been married - the twin braids in front of each ear were long, so she'd been married some time - Savatiri might have been even more interested. Normally she wouldn't have worried, but married spellcasters could do some VERY unpleasant shit to anyone who tried molesting them without consent. She had no intention of waking up as a snake, frog, butterfly - or Xiombarg ignore her - a man.

    However, the snatcher was ~definitely~ friendly. She was, to the surprise of the warrior, a Harbinger and a Seeker of the Song. It boosted their destructiveness immensely, and the quiet girl assured them she could complete the theft with a minimum of effort.

    The guild would pay them the remaining 75% of their fees when they returned, but the up front payments were already made; the people who had contacted them had paid them just to sit in on the meeting and see if they were interested. Everyone was - the guild-girl didn't get a choice of course - and they discussed tactics and made plans into the night. Mercurial availed herself of Savatiri's offer to let her bunk in the same room. It was always a good idea to make friends with the thief, and the thief had been very responsive to the offer of sharing a bed too.

    Even now the thrill of that warm tongue sliding along the wounds where her own mark was, across her breast and carved into her living flesh, gave Savatiri a thrill. Too bad the girl had been killed.

    Noises came from the hall - voices. Whispery, half heard voices. The Xiombarg-be-hewn wraiths or shadows. Savatiri pushed away from the wall, her strength still sapped form their previous encounters. Without the pretty boy priest she wasn't much good against them; she made her way down the hall, cursing her goddess and her luck.

    It had all gone well at first. As long as they didn't try to intrude into the crypts or into the Southern Tower, the lich would leave them alone, no matter what else they did. The place had been ransacked a few times in the past, and while there were creatures in the castle that would resist intrusions, the owner of the castle couldn't be bothered with them or the intruders. It was when people intruded into those two places that things became difficult, and deadly. But since what they were coming for was a set of paintings, they were not expecting that much trouble.

    And then the Xiombarg-cursed heroes had shown up. An honest to goddess batch of do-gooders with a devout True-Believer among them, and the willingness to back up that bastard's decrying their evil. Of course, the monstrosity of a half orc's obvious branding didn't help much when two of the band were elven descended, and the fact that there was bad blood between their priest and the other party's soulknife hadn't made things any easier. The battle had been intense on all sides; their spellcaster had been hard pressed to keep the soulknife - who apparently had a good array of the psychic powers - and the two OTHER spellcasters the heroes had brought with them from decimating their ranks immediately. Mercurial, bless her black little heart, had kept the damn do-gooder-True-Believer from becoming a club wielding maniac, and had even wrecked whatever those glowing blue diadems or jewels the priest was wearing into oblivion. Savatiri's hands were full dealing with the elves - an archer and Xiombarg-blasted backstabber.

    And then, of course, the freaking vampires the do-gooders were here to kill dropped in. It would have been fine; they could have negotiated with the vampires, if the LICH hadn't arrived to see why in Limbo's Churning Maw the castle was falling down around her head.

    Mercurial's singing voice was impressive, but her shriek was even more impressive. She actually brought a halt to the entire battle with her scream, and even the damn backstabber didn't try and put a knife in Savatiri's kidney when she was distracted by it.

    The lich was standing in the doorway to the large hall, a porcelain mask covering her - presumably - hideous features. She had on simple grey robes and a variety of rings on her leathery, emaciated hands. Behind her were shadowy, inky figures, ones which Savatiri couldn't recognize off hand, but which she knew from experience had the look of the unbodied to them. As if that wasn't bad enough, a batch of zombies and skeletons waited in the wings behind them, and more gathered at the exit ways and doorways of the hall. Dead silence reigned for a precious few seconds.

    Naturally, the idiot heroic priest had to go and try to destroy the lich. A sizzling blue sphere of raw magical force had erupted from his hands, and melted into nothingness against nothing in front of the lich as it stood there. The vampires all started to turn to mist and the other casters readied spells, while the warriors - with the exception of Savatiri, who knew when she was fucking outclassed - started to close on the lich.

    It simply touched Mercurial, and she fell down, dead. With a gesture it sent the shadows against the vampires, and then it said a single word and killed the attenuated half-orc, already badly wounded. Savatiri didn't even think twice about running, despite her regret that Mercurial had died.

    The shadowy things were hunting her now. The zombies and skeletons that populated the castle, going about their duties like mindless puppets playing the part of simple servants - which they were, now that Savatiri bothered to think about it - ignored her as long as she didn't bother them or interfere in their duties. They had discovered this quickly, though the litter of bones and old corpses that existed in some of the passages bore testament to the heroes' lack of discretion about such things.

    And people wondered why she worshipped a Chaos Goddess.

    She finally had to stop and rest, when she realized that her fatigue was catching up to her. The blurred vision she could explain away as sweat from the battle and subsequent flight; the burning in her arms and legs she could ignore. But the shaking in her steps she couldn't afford to ignore. Collapsed unconscious, she wouldn't be able to deal with any threats at all. Still, her sword was a weapon of no small potency, and she could fight off a single wraith or shadow with some difficulty. It was the groups that were dangerous.

    Slipping into an unused bedroom Savatiri waked over to the bed and collapsed into it. She was far too afraid to sleep, but the comfort of the bed eased her muscles greatly, armor or not. With a shudder, she reached into her belt pouch and took out several of the vials there. She quickly picked out the pearlescent liquor she needed, and downed it, the taste as disgusting and the potion was pretty to look at. She tried not to think about what went into such potions too much; the gem-skinned magus had made a point of collecting samples of anything unusual they'd slaughtered for the purposes of potion making. Even the half-orc had refused to drink anything she'd offered after finding that out.

    Slowly Savatiri rose from the bed, most of aches and pains gone, but the deep exhaustion still threatening. She fingered the hilt of her bastard sword and frowned, resisting the urge to kick over the desk and scream profanities at her Goddess. She'd LIKED Mercurial, and the job hadn't been that difficult!

    Collapsing into the overstuffed, high backed chair near the desk she fumed for a few more minutes. When the door opened she didn't panic: wraiths or shadows - or whatever those things were - didn't open doors. As she rose form the chair, the servant-zombie slowly shambled into the room, fresh sheets - incongruously clean, thanks to the gloves and clean, though somewhat threadbare clothing the corpse wore - over its arm. Savatiri carefully stepped away from the bed, and out of the zombie's way. The zombie, true to form, ignored her as she stepped out the door and back into the hallway.

    While the hall was filled with zombies and skeletons going about their endless and pointless chores....well, semi-pointless, there were some cleaning up their dispatched companions. In brief flash of hysteria Savatiri wondered if the lich would recycle the corpses. Then she noticed something odd.

    One zombie's eyes were alight, bright sparks of strange fire in the, It didn't deviate or wander away from its chore, picking up the bones of a shattered skeleton, but it was definitely different. A chill started in Savatiri's spine as the light faded from the walking corpse's eyes....only to slowly ignite in the eye socked of a skeleton as it slowly swept the floor. These would fade, only to light in another of the animated dead; the chill became a spike of terror as the eyes of a zombie facing her lit up.

    And remained alight.

    She could plow through the small horde of undead easily. What she couldn't do was combat the group of shadows that had scattered about. She slowly glanced behind her, not at all reassured by the quiet and unceasing work of the undead in the hallway. The zombie slowly set aside the dead flowers it had been placing in a cracked vase, and started to walk towards her. Taking a deep breath, Savatiri simply waited, resting the palm of her hand on the hilt of her blade, in a relatively non-threatening manner.

    The zombie walked up to her, and stopped, a good six feet away. It too was ignored by its brothers and sisters in undeath, and Savatiri's skin crawled as she felt a cool wind start to swirl about her as it looked at her.

    ~The Mistress of this Place wishes an audience with you,~ the wind murmured into her ears with the voice of a girl-child. ~You are promised Safe Passage to the Southern Tower, where you will be met by one of your Comrades-in-Arms. Attempt to Flee and all of the Might of The Faceless Lady will be Brought to Bear upon you.~

    Savatiri licked lips gone dry, and smelled the stink of her own fear. Her bowels felt hot and loose, and nausea brought the taste of the potion back up into her throat. She swallowed, and spoke slowly. "I do not know how to get there from here." It was a lie, of course; she'd memorized every escape route and entrance to this hell hole before she'd even considered setting foot into the place.

    Naturally the zombie gestured for her to follow before turning and walking away from her at a sedate pace.

    "Xiombarg, you bitch," she murmured to herself, face flushed crimson as she realized she was well and truly fucked.

    The Zombie led her past its ilk and one of the wraith-shadows slid half-way out of a wall to watch as she walked past. She shifted her grip, actually taking the hilt of her blade in hand as she warily moved past the black shadow. It turned bodily to observe her as she moved past, and she turned to face it, though she was forced to keep glancing up the hall to avoid walking into any zombies - or Xiombarg-ignore-it ghosts. It made no threatening moves though; that did not help her to relax as they walked out the servant's passageway from the kitchens. She saw the corpse of a young boy, laid out fresh from the gutting and cleaning. There was no blood anywhere however, and the deep, ragged fang marks along his wrists and thighs told her why the heroes had been here.

    Walking around the storage sheds, she followed the zombie, noting that the heretofore closed door of the Southern Tower was now open, and the sigil that had been done in black and silver was covered by a small silken cloth. The wizardess had mentioned it was a symbol of death, when they had first seen it, but that it was far too distant to be a threat unless they went to the tower and walked under the archway. That it was now covered only made Savatiri more concerned.

    She could see the legs of some figure, dark leather breeches and soft boots of equally dark leather, casually crossed along the bottom steps of the stairwell the doorway opened onto. The door was designed to be barred on the inside, with no discernable way to manipulate the bar from outside. She took several deep breaths, and controlled the fear she'd been feeling....and then realized that it was ridiculous to be this afraid. Suspicious she stepped closer to the zombie and felt an atavistic chill crawl up her spine.

    Half awed and half exasperated, she swore softly at her Goddess. The cozening bitch of a lich had been spilling fear into her veins through some magic or another! The thought made her steel herself. It would get worse in person, but now she knew what to expect.

    What she did NOT expect was how the brand along her breast burned and the wicked, childish laughter of her Goddess resounded in her soul as Mercurial stood up to smile shyly at her when she reached the stairwell. Savatiri was at once suspicious and concerned. Mercurial was definitely breathing - she was no longer wearing her chain mail, but she did have her lap-harp and her rapier, along with the amulet and ring she'd been wearing before. "Not dead?" Savatiri asked quietly, ignoring the zombie as it waited by the door, its hand on the thick, iron-bound wood, clearly intending to close it after her. "How?" she asked slowly, her hand resting on her sword in a clearly threatening manner.

    Mercurial shrugged slowly. "The Faceless One touched me, and I could not move. I could barely breathe; it was like being on the edge of suffocation with your eyes wide open. I watched....much of the battle fallen upon the floor." She smiled faintly, her face drawn, pale, obviously still frightened, but those soft brown-doe's eyes looked fearlessly up at Savatiri. "Some of her zombies carried me here, and we talked. Cuvaros is still alive too." Savatiri blinked, even more surprised by the survival of the male priestess.

    "All right. Assuming you really are Mercurial, and not a semblance or the like, what does it want with me? I'm no one special, compared to the rest of the idiots we came with." It was, for the most part, truth. While she was an expert tactician, she was no great strategist, and everyone knew the clergy were the most dangerous to cross - with a close second being any of the druidic circles. Sure, she was a deadly threat to anyone she faced in single combat, and she could ply through most soldiery like a farmer through wheat, but all in all she was no more than a mercenary with a talent for killing spellcasters.

    Mercurial smiled and shook her head. "I don't know. She wouldn't say, but only asked me to bring you here." Savatiri felt a hot flash of anger; Mercurial had called her here, using the wind. Just as quickly the flash of anger faded. It made them even, in a way, and Savatiri did like the little bard. "She did say she didn't mean you any harm at all. If she had....well, I wouldn't have done it." The Harbinger shrugged mildly. "I am a pretty good judge of character, and she showed me a few things that were fairly convincing."

    Savatiri sighed. It wasn't like she had a choice. But Xiombarg had at least given her a respite from all the accursed fortune she'd been dumping on her head. After all, how bad could it be? "All right. But first....is there a privy in here? If not, I am going to walk back to the house and use it there. All I have are rags, and not much in the way of water." Mercurial nodded, smiling at she reached under her belt, pulling out a leather packet that was folded over, and larger than she could have possibly hidden behind her belt. Savatiri reached for it, and laughed as she revealed the perfumed silk squares inside.

    "Just tuck them in the pouch on the other side and seal it. It's nicer than cotton, and silk washes." She grinned wickedly. "The pouch prevents scents from escaping, but I've dipped some of those silks into a few lechers’ wine cups, and you can imagine the results the next day when their bellies and bowels emptied at the same time..." Savatiri laughed again as her friend led her to what was no longer certain doom.

    She'd taken a little time to was, the privy that Mercurial had taken her to being supplied with fresh water. "You can thank Cuvaros for that too," the delicate bard commented. "Apparently, it's because of him that we are still alive." At the odd look Savatiri gave her Mercurial smiled. "Apparently, his goddess is partial to liches and vampires and the like." Savatiri shook her head. Stranger things had happened.

    The Faceless Lady's rooms at the top of the tower were sumptuous, and surprisingly homey for a great and powerful undead creature. There were curtains in the window, a fresh herb garden under it - though nothing on the world could have convinced Savatiri to try anything that grew in it - and several chairs, overstuffed and high backed surrounding a coffee-table of polished mahogany wood burl. There were two zombies - the devout priest and the soulknife, wounds sewn shut with pale silk thread and smelling of burial balms - at either side of the room, dressed in simple black robes and gloved. One held a decanter of amber liquid, the other a tray of cut crystal cups.

    To add to this surreal sight, Cuvaros sat calmly in one of the chairs, sipping from a cup delicately, while across from him sat the Faceless Lady, still and silent. This close, Savatiri could see the burning embers of her eyes under the finely made mask, as well as the thin silver lines of the painted eyebrows and lips of the mask. The fear started, and Savatiri bore down on it, fortified by the chance to relieve herself of those things which made fear dangerous to anyone wearing armor.

    Cuvaros spoke first, calm and warm "Blessings of Evening Glory on you, Savatiri." His soft words explained much, and Savatiri blinked slowly. Savatiri turned to face the lich, who looked back at her, unperturbed by the hand resting of the hilt of her sword.

    "That's why you spared us?"

    "Among other reasons. That is prominent, however." Her voice was soft, dry, and slightly muffled through the mask. The androgynous form under the soft robes was given a more feminine grace by virtue of the feminine voice. Her accent was strange, but Savatiri shrugged it off as part of the fact that the lich more than likely had lived in a time where the language itself had changed. "I have a proposition for you, Savatiri Xiombarg's Servant."

    Taken aback by the lich's casual comment on her forbidden religious practices, Savatiri took a step back. A gentle hand along the small of her back brought her short and she glanced at Mercurial. The slight girl had the grace to blush and look down, and Savatiri rolled her eyes in resignation. Bards couldn't not sing, one way or another. Demanding strength from her mercilessly capricious deity, Savatiri turned back to the Faceless Lady.

    "What is it that you wish of me? I am not precisely anything more than a mercenary." She let go of the hilt of her sword. It was passing useless here anyways. Even effort it took to destroy such a thing was only a reprieve. Annoying immortal things was a good way to suffer horribly for years. "I haven't any interest in performing long term tasks, to be honest."

    "I overheard what you said to your companion downstairs. I have a need of someone of your....penchants." It was an odd choice of words, and Savatiri listened more carefully, arms cross under her breasts. "I have power to give, and to take, from a living mortal given unto my service. I have something precious which needs protecting, and I have found, as of late, that more and more of these adventurers seek to unsettle me from my home." She gestured slowly, making no noise. "This is nothing. I could manage to craft a place upon some other existence, but there is an insurmountable difficulty making such an act impossible."

    Curious now, Savatiri shook her head. "I need a bit more of an explanation than that I'm afraid." She turned to Cuvaros. "Is she telling the truth? Can some....someone like her do such things?" Cuvaros nodded slowly. "And why are you - and you!" she rounded on her lover. "Why are you two helping her with me?"

    Mercurial blushed, and smiled, shaking her head. "I'll explain later, in private. But Cuvaros is the one who decided that we should listen." Slippery as her namesake, the Harbinger set the blame on the priest's frail-looking shoulders.

    "My order is as persecuted as those who worship your goddess, albeit for entirely different reasons," he began. "It is a basic tenet of my faith that is involved, and if I were to turn my back upon a reasonable request, it would smack of faithlessness. However, I made no promises on your behalf, not will I stand aside for the lady if she should break the trust I have provisionally extended to her." That was somewhat more reassuring than Mercurial's sidestep of the issue.

    "All right, Lady. I'm listening."

    The gate at the top of the tower gave Savatiri the chills. The trio of would-be thieves stood facing the carven stone archway, looking at the hungry blackness that seemed to try and rush out from the doorway to swallow everything and anything. The lich stepped through, and Savatiri laid her hand on Mercurial's shoulder, turning the slight girl to face her. "You have been through this? Both of you?" She didn't look at the priestess. Such men were liars by profession. Mercurial looked up at her calmly and nodded. "And you know what is on the other side?" Another nod, and confusion dawned in the girl's lovely eyes. "Do you believe the lich?"

    Hectic spots of color appeared on Cuvaros' cheeks, and he frowned mightily. Mercurial grinned mischievously, then gasped as Savatiri’s gauntleted hand squeezed her shoulder warningly. Savatiri restrained her exasperation at the girl's not entirely fearful discomfiture, since she'd neglected to remember how rough the girl had liked their lustful games on the nights previous.

    "No, Sav....Savatiri. On My Harp, By My Song, I Swear: I believe her." Slowly Savatiri released her grip, and she kissed the girl, which prompted Cuvaros to walk through the dark gateway with a darkly unhappy mutter which they both ignored.

    "I believe YOU, then." She did, however, take the girl's hand as they walked to the gateway. Mercurial wisely said nothing of it, and they stepped through as one.

    The room was obviously in the catacombs. The presence of the dead bodies in there cerement wrappings in the small cupolas along the walls confirmed it. Here too were the surprisingly homelike touches that Savatiri had seen in the other room. Here, however, they were much more extensive.

    A harp of gold adorned with pearls sat near a large fireplace. The room was cozy, neither hot nor cool, statues that were placed here and there, and decorous paintings - none conforming to the shopping list the would be thieves had been given, something which Savatiri made certain of immediately - hung along the walls or rested on stands.

    The tank of glittering green fluid, capped with a strange brass and bronze device with many tubes, capped openings, and valves dominated one corner of the room. The lich stood before this, and stepped aside as she heard the startled gasp of the warrior.

    A figure hung suspended in the fluids, naked and quiescent. Hair the color of copper floated motionlessly in the liquid and milky skin gleamed like alabaster, despite the color of the liquid, as though the liquid were a mere backdrop rather than a fluid. She - for it was a fully adult woman - opened her eyes slowly, looking at Savatiri as Savatiri looked at her. There was an intelligence behind those eyes, but it was not even slightly human. Slowly the eyes closed.

    "This is my daughter Chloe," said the Faceless Lady. "A strange and powerful group of people did something to her which I cannot understand. I have been trying for many years to undo this strangeness, but it will be some time yet before I make any further progress." Savatiri swallowed slowly, considering the idea of an undead thing being concerned with time. "There are avenues I may explore yet, but they are closed to me for the moment." She walked slowly towards Savatiri, who stiffened. Mercurial walked over and leaned close to the glass, smiling in a slightly sickened manner at the woman within. The woman's eyes opened and she gazed back placidly.

    "Twice now I have been forced to defend this place - once this very room - from the depredations of those who see this work as abomination. I did not seek to question their motives, as they did not give me time to do so. I can only imagine those with whom you and your companions fought would have seen this in a similar light."

    Savatiri snorted. Mercurial stood up and turned away from the tank; Savatiri glanced between her and the tank, as the creature within closed her eyes. Cuvaros spoke softly, laying a hand upon Savatiri's arm. "My faith believes in the power and truth of immortal love. I have seen it here, and so I offered to make your introduction to the Lady." Savatiri turned on him eyes incredulous.

    He shrugged, speaking of something most faiths considered the highest form of blasphemy as a tenet of his own beliefs. Her own Goddess could not have cared less of course - there were only three things she did care about, and none of those....Savatiri blinked again, and then slowly turned to the Faceless Lady.

    This was too much. Xiombarg-be-run-through this was not happening.

    The lich looked at her, those fiery points of alien life lighting the mask from within. "You bear a Brand. Through this Brand you are more closely connected to your goddess, a goddess who chooses to give you her blessings."

    "Or withhold them!" Savatiri exclaimed in a slightly panicked voice.

    "Or withhold them," the lich agreed. "But the key point is that this Brand opens your spirit to magical energies of a kind which I can utilize. To your benefit. You would serve as a defender for me and my daughter. In return, you gain power and strength. There are other abilities I possess which will grant you magic and potency far beyond those of others." The lich reached up, and her white glove caressed Savatiri's weathered face lightly. "I will give you gifts and power. I ask for your sword in my defense."

    Savatiri asked the inevitable question, though she strongly suspected the answer. Xiombarg's laughter crackled gleefully through her head.

    "We would consummate out mystical marriage in the most traditional way," stated the lich with a firm, simple tone. "Mercurial has told me that you do not spurn the desires of women as you do men. I have no such desires, but I can please and be pleasured. Our unions would be brief....but not unpleasant."

    The Xiombarg-destroyed-by-fire lich wanted to fuck her.

    "I suppose YOU'D want to watch, you little minx," Savatiri said, slowly and with a voice shaken. She turned to Mercurial, who was leaning against a wall. The girl in the tank was watching the lich, and a slight change of expression rested upon the visage. It was almost....adoration. Savatiri focused on Mercurial, and suppressed a groan as the girl smiled winsomely.

    "I think it might be interesting. I'm certain it could be made into a striking ballad." The lich had stepped back, watching Savatiri intently.

    Cuvaros walked up to Savatiri. "There are two other rewards. If you acquiesce to this, she will give us the paintings. Your reputation will be untarnished in that respect." Savatiri's eyes hardened and she slowly turned on the priestess. Fearlessly he held up his hand and closed his eyes. Savatiri wanted to break parts of his body. "And I will speak to my Vowmaker about enchanting your sword further."

    That brought Savatiri up short. The bodied undead had been a gruesome but relatively easy task. The unbodied ones had been deadly. Cuvaros had cast a spell which had allowed her weapon to strike at them for a short while. To have such a spell upon her blade....

    She turned to the lich. "Show me your face," she said, standing proud and refusing to give into the terror that gnawed at her bones.

    The lich raised bejeweled gloves to the porcelain mask, and there were clicks, soft but incredibly distinct in the silent room. Mercurial leaned forward, her bardic curiosity getting the better of her manners. The priestess turned away, busying himself with the study of one painting or another, though it was impossible to say exactly why. Savatiri, on the other hand, was held in place by her own pride and the possibility of power and wealth.

    And perhaps a touch of curiosity.

    Two straps fell along the left hand of the lich and she lowered the mask slowly. With her free hand she swept back the hood, the roaring fireplace and the spell-lit container giving all the light Savatiri needed to see by. Perhaps more than she wished. It was indeed a shock.

    Both eyes were gone, the sockets long since dry and worn smooth. There was precious little flesh; what there was, was concentrated upon her left cheek and along the side of her skull there, a smooth, almost coppery looking burnish to the soft looking leather. Cords of dry sinew extended along her throat, rising from beneath the robes to grasp at her throat and jaw. Her teeth were shockingly perfect; two rows, largely unhidden save for along the left side, where her thin, dry lips pressed together. Her molars on the left side were still exposed. Thin, almost wispy hair floated along the right side of the back of her skull, silver cotton that responded to the slightest breeze. The ivory of her skull gleamed, polished smooth; it was strange and Savatiri took a step closer, curiosity overwhelming good sense. Yes, it WAS polished. The lich had cured her own flesh and polished her bones.

    The idea of vanity in undeath was appalling and fascinating all at once.

    Savatiri let her breath out slowly. The Lich held her mask out, nothing took it from her, and hung it from a wall. More nothing slowly lifted the hem of the Lady's robe, and Savatiri too another deep breath. Mercurial slowly walked over, her hand seeking the small of her warrior-lover's back, and she leaned in, eyes wide, fascinated. As nothing slowly undressed the lich, Savatiri found herself wondering. What would this be like? What would it be like to have those hands - bare of flesh but strong and hard - slowly caressing her? Entering her. The memory of the stricken Harbinger slipped in, and Savatiri forced herself to stand tall, avoiding the shudder that had tried to creep up her spine.

    The robe was carefully taken away and Cuvaros turned to look. His eyes widened, and Savatiri gaped. Mercurial simply stared.

    The Faceless Lady was largely fleshless, but beauty of an entirely different sort was hers. Her limbs were long and slender, bone tightly wrapped in smooth coppery strips of muscle and skin burnished to a polish cuirboili armor could only envy. What exposed bone there was equally polished, and shone warm in the firelight. But every limb had been lovingly, carefully wrapped in wire of silver and gold, not entirely, but enough to clearly be seen as a shimmering mesh of beauty layered over the grotesque artwork of the lich's body. Gemstones were pierced into the leathery skin, and molten gold and silver had been lovingly painted in swaths and pictograms across her exposed bones.

    Her breasts were small swells of wire bound leather upon a ribcage that was a patchwork of leather and ivory anywhere below. The shadow of her unbeating heart hung in her ribcage, and the leather of her belly was a shallow cavern of firm bronze. Her navel had been artfully pierced with a spike of silver, and her lowest ribs and her hips all spun threads of gold and silver, making a net from which was suspended a delicate copper and onyx spider, an improbable sculpture in the midst of horror.

    Bracers were carefully wired to her arms and greaves to her legs, soft leather gloves and socks of pale white hiding the hands and feet of the terrible beauty before them. The rings were carefully removed, save three, those which had no protrusions or sharp gemstones that could catch upon soft, clinging flesh.

    Savatiri's head was spinning. She did not know whether she was awestruck or stuck ill. Common sense bulled through her panic and she spoke softly. "Help me from my armor." It took a long moment for the words to skin in, and when they did Mercurial stared at the taller woman in shock. Cuvaros slowly walked over and began unbuckling and unfastening straps, carefully and inexpertly. Mercurial woke from her shock and helped, far more expertly.

    As she undid her armor Savatiri avoided looking at the Faceless Lady - much as she has avoided looking at certain critical particulars of the lady's naked...., no, bared body. Her mind was ricocheting in her head like a wild animal trapped in a space too small to escape from and not quite large enough to give it room to move in. She was undressing because the other woman had undressed. She was insane of course. That was the only explanation. No, it wasn't, that was a pipe dream. She knew this was something that fate - and it's wicked, capricious sister chance - guided by her wicked, capricious, and terribly imaginative Goddess had put before her. It was also a little rude to remain dressed when your hostess was naked. Though, considering the Lady's flesh had the consistency of leather armor and her decorations were undoubtedly of potent magical force, 'naked' was a little bit of a push.

    When she was naked she rose and presented her body as she had when she'd raced in the gladiatorial arena. Now she was grown tall and strong, her muscular body hard and slick from sweat. Scars crisscrossed her arms and her legs, but only two scars were present on her torso; the long tears of the dogbearpig that a goblin warrior had been riding gave to her in it's desire to play with her entrails, and the long, shallow cut that scored under her breasts, where she had lowered herself into the blade to save her belly from being opened.

    But like the lich, she too wore a decoration, but it was of a nature completely opposite that of the lich's decoration.

    It was not merely a scar, nor was it a brand. To call it a wound would be the most accurate thing that could be said of it. It was a symbol of her Goddess, but it was not the simple Eight Arrows of Confusion. To call it that would have been akin to calling her a novice who played with sticks. The cuttings were deep, and angled so that exposed, raw flesh could be seen. The skin had been sewn closed along every edge, but the muscle itself, raw, rippling flesh, was clearly visible through the almost finger width gaps in her skin. The intricacy of the single line cut was such that it drew the eye from the first cut, one of the angled-down arrow tips - not the lowermost, but the one to its left, arbitrarily chosen by the priestess - along the outer edged of each arrow, then to the slight, delicate curves within each arrow, the names of the Gods and Goddesses of Limbo. As she breathed, the gaps widened and closed; a living, breathing testament to the presence of the Goddess Xiombarg's will - or caprice - on the world.

    Shaven bare - carefully and cleverly, and at great length by her smaller lover - she presented a sweat shined example of the fiercer member of the species. Her skin was pale, and her rather wild blonde hair somewhat tangled, but she stood bare and proud. Savatiri Daughter of Eurago Son of Malachi would not be shamed by anyone, living or dead.

    She might have believed it if her heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of her chest like a small frightened animal.

    Savatiri let the lich drink her beauty in - for she did have a heavy, powerful sort of beauty to her - with the pinpoints of fire forever suspended within the bleak sockets devoid of aqua vitreous and muscle. She forced herself to watch, though it was hard. Not, admittedly the hardest thing, but that might come later. As long as she focused on the lich's fleshless face, she could put off discovering exactly what she had promised herself to for the sake of gold and magic.

    It was a pique of her perverse nature to honor a bargain she'd decided was in her best interest, and this one was a bargain done in her mind. But still, that walking corpse was daunting.

    Said walking corpse slowly walked towards her, eerily silent in the firelight and the magics of her sanctum. Savatiri steeled herself, and the lich's soft glove slid up her belly, along the firm muscles there, and to her breasts, sliding across the sweat-shined skin with an almost curious touch. Cuvaros quietly stepped back through the gate; Mercurial knelt, setting Savatiri's armor in order; neither watched as the Faceless Lady slowly ran her doeskin covered fingers into the unbleeding, open wound of Savatiri's Mark.

    Savatiri gaped and her knees quivered. She stood taller than the lich, though not as much as she towered over the delicate bard. The lich's eyes gazed on the open flesh, and she ran her finger deeper. The whisper of the creature’s voice slipped from behind teeth and parts of lips. "How deep does this run?"

    Savatiri hesitated before answering. She was already putting her life into the lich's hands - literally - and the knowledge would mean little enough in the face of the terrors a magus or priestess of her caliber could inflict casually. "All the way to my heart." A delicate cough occurred next to Savatiri, and the warrior blushed, cheeks heated at the Harbinger’s indelicate reminder. The lidless eyes glanced up, and the lich leaned closer, lips and teeth parting. A stiffened tongue, almost wooden in appearance, slid from deep in the creature's throat. Savatiri clenched her fists, and lowered her center of gravity. She would not flinch. She would not scream.

    The leathery tongue was softer than she had expected, but certainly stiff enough. The lich slowly pushed the desiccated organ into the soft valley she spread open with her fingers, tongue running along sensitive muscle and between lines of skin. Savatiri moaned with her mouth closed, a soft hum. She did not whimper. The Faceless Lady moved closer, her body only inches from the warriors, as the Harbinger looked up from the floor, watching in awe as the lich dragged her tongue through the permanently open wounds in Savatiri's breasts. The fingers, hard and stiff things covered in the softest of leathers, moved down, tracing a line along the underside of Savatiri's breast, then up, lifting her flesh into the wood-like tongue.

    The sensation was quickly turning from horror to pleasure; Savatiri thought it would be harder. When she opened her eyes, it WAS harder. There was an element of unreality to it, one she could not bring herself to try and avoid. Slowly, almost gingerly her hands came up, and she traced the slender shoulders, rail thin and cool. The big woman's fingers splayed and she ran her fingers along cool metal, hard leather, smooth ivory, leathery breasts. Pierced nipples, in a twist of further perversity. It was caressing a statue or a sculpture. And then the sculpture moved under your hands, as the lich did when she brought her lips and teeth in a full press against the soft flesh of Savatiri's breast, kissed the mark as intimately as she might a mouth or a cunt.

    Savatiri wondered idly if she'd always been this mad or if it was just a recent thing.

    Strong hands slid lower, exploring the hollows of the emaciated corpse, plucking lightly at the threads of silver and gold that made up the web within its belly. HER belly. Savatiri's heart started beating more quickly, and she shuddered. Still her hands drifted downward, but the lich pulled away. "No. You would find little enough there. Come with me." Mercurial looked longingly at Savatiri.

    "Whatever you wish," the warrior said to Mercurial. The lich's remaining lips twisted into a smile of sorts. The movement fascinated Savatiri. How could so little flesh move so much framework?

    Allowing the lich to lead her by the hand, she followed her into the next room, where an alchemist's laboratory fumed, bubbled, and frothed. There was little enough time to gawk; the Faceless Lady lead the two women to a doorway set into the side of the crypt. It was rather incongruous, for the hinges, indeed the door itself, was set onto the wall, rather than in the wall.

    Opening it lead the women and the undead monster to a palatial foyer, where nothing quickly gathered a settee, and laid out thick mattresses and sheets of silk. A harp was brought, a bejeweled thing standing nearly as tall as Mercurial herself.

    "Play for us, Meistersinger," the lich suggested softly. The Harbinger had already discarded the sight of her lover and the thing she would be mated to in favor of the glistening strings, the soft, subtle curves, the voice that could enchant and destroy.

    A bottle floated to the outstretched hand of the undead sorceress. Golden liquid with milky marbling slopped against the sides of the crystalline vase, mimicking the waves of the ocean. The lich offered Savatiri the bottle, the eyes of fire floating suspended within the empty sockets of her skull. "You will find this most efficacious," the whispery, dry voice said gently. "It is of a flavor that will appeal to you, I hope. It will also....please me." Savatiri opened the bottle curiously, and smelled it. Anise, and honey, and cinnamon. "It is a balm to....ease the passages."

    The harp was thrumming softly already, the young bard tuning the strings and adjusting the position of the harp near the settee with the help of nothing. Her eyes strayed often, however, gliding over the powerful curves of her lover, slipping quick glances at the thing she would be loving.

    "A massage oil?" Savatiri poured a generous amount into her hand and sniffed it more closely. Her tongue slipped between her lips, much to the barely seen amusement of the lich, and took a delicate taste of it. It was spicy and sweet, the anise lending itself well. The priestess had crafted something similar, and has used it to pleasure Savatiri in a way she had not expected at all. It covered the tastes well, she had said. "All right. Then, my lady, lie down before me, if you would."

    The lich started to lie upon her back but a firm, powerful grip upon her shoulder halted her movement. Her burning eyes turned upon that had and a sudden jolt of potent fear sent adrenaline rushing through the warrior's veins. This was not some two coin whore in an alleyway, but the hand remained firm. Savatiri could only be ruled by fear to a certain extent. "On your back, please. I wish to...look upon you, as I perform for you."

    Savatiri only slowly released the creature's thin arm. The lich gazed at her with an expression no one but a lich could have possibly read. Well, perhaps a ghoul to two. Savatiri smiled at her internal joke, though to be honest it was not that funny. The smile calmed the lich and she slowly sank to the bed, leaving Savatiri to stand over her, naked and proud.

    Moving to straddle the lich, the warrior glanced at her companion; Mercurial smiled and began to play, immediately loosing herself in the music. The strange, haunting melodies she preferred were not those of battle and prowess, but of longing and terror; still, they were beautiful, and in this perverse situation appropriate. Horribly, horribly appropriate. Savatiri held the bottle up, and slowly began to pour it over her own breasts as she stood over the Faceless Lady.

    The thick oil, smooth and warm, slid over the firm, hard breasts of the warrior. She was not a bosomy woman; no warriors were, despite what the old war dogs claimed. Still, her breasts were enough to let the oil slide slowly over and drip in long, thick streamers over the hollowed body of the lich. Savatiri’s nipples hardened and she kept her head up, slowly sliding the oil down her own body with her other hand, the thick liquid tinting her skin golden. She played with her breasts, hissing as the syrupy liquid slid along the open wounds of her mark. She'd forgotten about that in her haste.

    The lich watched the powerfully build fighter prepare herself. Already there was a moistening of her cleft, a flush to her cheeks. The lich, of course, could not respond in such manners. Hence the oil. Of course, the oil had other properties, ones which would ensure sensation for the lich....and bind the inelegant but very clever fighter to her. She enjoyed the music the Harbinger was playing as well. She decided it might be wise to keep that one as well, to help occupy Savatiri's free hours and days.

    It never occurred to her to ask, of course. She would suggest the idea at an appropriate moment. They would both agree, she was certain. The little half-elf with the trimmed hears would keep Savatiri from noticing the passing of days as well.

    The warrior continued to oil her belly and breasts, the oils dripping onto the emaciated form beneath her. She did not know if the creature would actually feel anything. But she knew it thought, and saw. So she catered to the senses she knew the Faceless Lady did have - her eyes and ears.

    The sensation of the thick oil sliding between her legs brought a soft shuddering gasp to Savatiri's lips. She slipped her hand down and ran her fingers over the bare cleft there. Mercurial had been insistent she be clean all over - including, in some wild fit of perversity, there. Since they had both been naked and the Harbinger had been the one with a razor, Savatiri had decided not to argue the point. She chuckled softly, and her eyes lit on the young bard, who was watching Savatiri oil herself as she played the beautiful harp.

    The fingers slipped inside slowly, parting her nether lips, the soft, heavier petals and the warm, more sensitive inner petals. She opened herself to the lich below her, as she ceased to pour the thick liquid. Her fingers dipped, spread, slipped out, and she groaned as the sensations became more acute.

    "A drug in the ointment, perhaps?" She shook her head before either of the others could speak. "It doesn't matter. I've eaten enough mushrooms before to not be too concerned." She slowly lowered herself over the lich, and smiled, not looking directly at the desiccated corpse but at the blankets framing her. "I have ruined these - I apologize." She could feel it now, some potent drug in the ointment. Or, another part of her giggled softly, her delusions gaining force to protect her fracturing mind.

    Savatiri told herself to shut up.

    The lich looked up, hands drifting idly in the sheets, the shimmering web of gold and silver taking on a gleaming hue unlike anything natural as the thick oils coated her. The warrior reached down and carefully reached around the web to dip both hands in the pool of oil that had collected in the lich's hollowed belly. She stroked upwards, and then around, sliding the balm over the leathery flesh and smooth bone. The sensation of the studs of gem and silver under her hands was intriguing, and she looked at her hands as she performed.

    It was like nothing she could have imagined. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was like rubbing tannin stretched hides over armor frames, to make cuirboili. But the frames didn't move, didn't REASPOND to the hands which stroked and rubbed. She oiled the Lady's breasts, her thumbs sliding over firm nipples, teasing the jewels. Experimentally she allowed one to get caught between her fingers and pulled upon it.

    If she had tried it without the Balm of Mnemosyne the lich would have felt little or nothing. But the Balm brought a semblance of life into the unliving flesh, and sensation, that while not truly pleasure, was akin enough to the undead that it could be believed to be pleasure. So the arching back, the softly breathed sigh, was quite real.

    The soft, delightful music - something the Faceless Lady rarely enjoyed now, as it was difficult to gain the attentions of a bard if your castle was infested by the hungry dead - was beautiful, and soothed the lovers immensely, despite the nature of the player. Mercurial watched, her hands playing of their own accord, the music living, breathing thing in her. The desiccated hands in their doeskin prisons slowly rose, sliding over the powerful body of Savatiri, who shuddered, half in fear and half in pleasure now.

    The strange, hard hands moved lower, stroking, feeling, sliding the oils along her sides, up her back. Savatiri responded by leaning down, giving her body to the lich, lips parted in pleasure. Her breasts brushed against the unyielding flesh of the lich and she forced herself to remain, to move. She rubbed her nipples slowly against the wire and gem studded flesh of the monstrous creature, enjoying the sensation more than she'd expected. The lich's leg moved and she felt the cool metal and hardened leather pressed tightly against her cleft, and she gasped, her eyes opening.

    There as a trick to it, Savatiri slowly came to realize. You pretended it was a toy, a wood, metal and leather toy. The moving of it was your lover's doing, and it was meant to be game. She tried to prove it to herself by parting her lips and delivering a slow, deep kiss to the undead wizardess.

    It worked, in a manner of speaking. The thick, hard leather protrusion slipped eagerly into her mouth, the oils she'd tasted lending their power to the lich so there was a semblance of taste on her part. Savatiri actually did taste the lich's kiss, and was surprised to find it tasted like heavily lacquered wood, with a hint of honey and anise. She closed her eyes - looking into the black pits with those tiny flames within was too much - but she continued the kiss, rubbing her body, her cleft, against the lich's stiff flesh and hard bone.

    She shuddered and ran her hand down the lich's body, sliding through the thick oil, occasionally catching on a gem or a wire. Then she felt it, the hard, glossy feel of the lich's tight, leather pudenda. Savatiri rubbed it, and she actually felt a response other than the thrusting of hips and the parting of legs.

    Under her oiled fingers, the opening to the lich's inner secrets parted, and the hard, twisted little nubbin of her jewel stiffened, moved. The sensation was maddening, but Savatiri thrust the ideas that tried to squirm into her brain away, forcing herself to treat the lich as a lover. It worked, and two of her fingers slipped into the virginally tight wizardess, slowly filling her. She kept her eyes closed, and broke the kiss. "You are very tight, my love." She smiled and slid her body along the Lady's, and the fingers moved inside, stroking eagerly, thumb caressing her hardened pearl of pleasure. "Open your legs."

    Oh, she must have gone mad.

    The lich did as she was bade, rising up onto her elbows as the warrior began to kiss, to lick her way down the emaciated body, nipping at places that were once sensitive, and now required dark magics to even be animate. The full lips parted and covered the warmed flesh of the lich's breast, tongue teasing at the honey-oiled pendant that pierced it. The lady gasped, throwing her head back at an alarming angle with no flesh to hold it from doing so.

    The lich shuddered, her boney hands sliding into Savatiri's hair. Mercurial gazed on in wonder, her music moving into stranger ranges, using chords and riffs that no other bard save a Seeker of the Song could have recognized. She twisted the music, warped it, used the lusts and her knowledge of the woman and the creature before her to let the music become something more than mere music. She felt the strains coalesce, form, obey, Live under her guiding hands....or perhaps she lived under its corona? She no longer cared, only played.

    Savatiri slowly kissed her way further down, the soft, surprisingly gentle stroking of her hair almost feeling like something natural. Then she was at the wires, the spider’s delicate web. She nibbled, tugged at the wires, made the lich move her body and played with her like a puppet. It helped, feeling that measure of control and she moved lower, her tongue tracing the solid, firm leather between the lich's legs. She licked the surface of her sex, pressed her tongue along its hard, curved surface. For a shocking moment she imagined how she had done a similar thing to the bare sex of her delicate bard, and she thrust her tongue into the tight channel of the Faceless Lady's cleft.

    The lich's response was immediate. Her body might not have retained the ability to feel pleasure as it once did, but her mind, powerful and disciplined as it was, could recall the memory of pleasure intimately. And the feeling of that warm, slick, soft flesh between her cold thighs brought a rush of remembered pleasures to the lich. The music consumed her even as her mind reveled in pleasure long ago experienced but never truly discarded. Savatiri gave the lich slow, forceful, lingering kisses there, delivered her desire to please to the most sacred places a woman had. She continued, her hands firmly gripping the stiff, hard leathery flesh and clean white bone of her soon to be mistress, running the full length, the broad surface, even the smooth underside of her tongue against that hard, strange flesh.

    Neither of them heard the whispered words, but both of them felt the potent desire the words imparted.

    ~release your pleasure for your minion's delight, oh sacred corpse~

    And the Faceless Lady, centuries old lich, death to scores of adventures, came as the warrior gave her the sweetest kiss.

    Slowly the deep, shocking, unexpected spasms passed, and Savatiri continued her ministrations, allowing the creature the full measure of her release. She shuddered, rising onto her arms and looking at the strange sight of the lich's body contorted in pleasure. The fires of her eyes were a deep crimson, no longer their unnatural blue they had been. Even as she watched the fires returned to their normal....well, typical glow.

    Slowly the harpist brought her music to a halt, almost reluctantly. She ran her fingers down the strings of the harp and then spoke softly. "Savatiri....I think you should lay back now."

    Savatiri swallowed heavily, looking at the earnest young bard. Their eyes met, soft brown and nondescript hazel, and the older woman nodded. She fell back, slowly, legs still tucked under her, her arms slipped behind her head, hands clasped together. The lich rolled over, crawled on hands and knees to turn about. It very nearly made Savatiri scream, because there was nothing natural, nothing even remotely human in those movements.

    Closing her eyes she concentrated on Mercurial's new, more strident song. The musician played quickly at first, then slowed; strangely, Savatiri's heart calmed with it. It was not a Power; Mercurial's bardic sect could not perform such things in that manner. Or so Savatiri believed. At this moment she did not care. The soft doeskin gloves were caressing her thighs and she could feel the bone and leather beneath, as well as she smooth, cool metal of the lich's remaining rings.

    A slow, slick tongue slid across her belly, surprising her. She opened her eyes and then shut them quickly, her mind not being prepared to deal with the sight of something that should be eating her so close to her unprotected belly, her thighs....her center. She clenched her hands more tightly and she felt the beating of her heart against the wounds that decorated her breast. "For my Lady Xiombarg, madness and delight," she whispered shakily. The strange licking - no, not licking. Rubbing. Caressing, yes. The sensation paused, as the lich looked at her. Savatiri did not look back.

    Savatiri felt the firm, stiff organ caress her thighs slowly and her clenched her hands even more tightly, concentration on the pleasure, not the images in her head. It was hard, until she recalled the stiff wooden toy sword handle, smoothed and polished by many young hands, being slowly pushed inside her so many, many years ago. The pain had been intense at first, but the pleasure had some, slowly and surely. So it would be now. But there would be no pain.

    Nor was there as the Faceless Lady slowly stroked her softer, most vulnerable flesh with doeskin covered bone and leather, rubbing the slick oils into her flesh more deeply. The music played on, gentle, and lulling her into a more relaxed state. She sighed softly. "Again." The lich complied, slowly sliding the soft doeskin against her nether lips. Then that firm, hard tongue - no, toy, not tongue, toy - pushed her open, slowly writhing, twisting, sliding into her body, longer than she'd expected and certainly warmer.

    Never mind that it had only been her own kiss that had warmed it.

    The tongue slipped deeper, probed gently, explored her. It moved inside her body in ways nothing else EVER had. Yet there was pleasure. The doeskin rolled, stroked her petals, her sensitive nub. The sensation of unforgiving, firm teeth brushed against her nether lips, and she found herself liking it. She has always enjoyed a little biting, and the sensation wasn't quite as foreign as what was occurring inside her. She thrust her hips slightly as the lich struck a pleasurable place deep inside.

    It had been ages - literally - for the lich to have explored these acts, but she understood intellectually what instincts had long since given up on reminding her of. She moved back, her tongue sliding back and forth along the places that had elicited such a reaction. Savatiri responded beautifully, her hands sliding from behind her head to twist, tangle in the sheets much as the lich herself had done. The music urged them on, encouraged, demanded more.

    The lich pressed her mouth open wide, inhumanly wide and Savatiri groaned, her mind envisioning terrible, beautiful things as her eyes clenched even more tightly closed and the teeth surrounded her cleft. The hard, stiff tongue of the undead creature pushed deeper, sought places untouched by man or woman, and found them. Savatiri began to pant, then to periodically cease breathing altogether.

    The lich pulled away and the warrior spasmed, her legs coming together, not fast enough to trap the lich's head but still shocking. Savatiri jerked violently, crying out loudly, her body responding to the pleasure of thought as well as deed, and she felt a strange chill settling into her body. Not fear, not the terror the lich had inspired before, but a calm, strange thing that grew firm and silent deep in her body. The music slowly faded and she laid back, her hands shaking, her legs and thighs twitching as she let the last pleasure of the experience slip away.

    The Lich had risen slowly, robed by nothing at all, her rings floating to her hands and placing themselves upon her fingers. She did not bother with the mask just yet, however. "You will come to enjoy our trysts more and more, and I will become tied to you, as you now are to me. Together, we will protect my daughter from the ignorance and hatred that seek her destruction."

    Savatiri and Mercurial watched the Faceless Lady leaving, the mask once more affixing itself to her fleshless face.

    Mercurial rested against the harp, looking down at the shining body of her lover. "Do you intend to stay, then?" Her voice was pitched low, and Savatiri fell back against the hot, damp sheets. "Xiombarg surely wouldn't care." The Harbinger made a warding gesture against evil luck.

    Savatiri stared at the ceiling. Her hand absently drifted to the open wounds of her Goddess' Mark. She considered for a long moment, and Mercurial smiled down at her, amused by the length of time the warrior took to get to her decisions. "Yes. I think I will. At least....I will, if you will visit me. I do not think being surrounded by the undead would be....entirely pleasant. Not to mention her 'daughter'. Besides, Cuvaros will need to be able to locate me to deliver my sword when it's done." She grinned up at the bard.

    "I don't mind. I think it will be nice to get to know my great thrice over grandmother."

    Savatiri merely stared at her lover.

    ~End.~