IkselamInfernal/CheyneAndSancha
Cheyne and Sancha Have a Chat
This short scene was what got me thinking about what I'd like Infernal Exalted to be. There were originally artifact stats for the SlaveMark attached, but I've deleted them; they're no longer relevant. _Ikselam
6/19/03
Although it was more than half an hour before Sancha Ninetails managed to excuse himself from the meeting -- he found the Despot to be a tedious, fat old man, but felt no especial need to antagonize him by simply walking out as she had done -- her trail was still quite clear to his keen fox nose. He followed her path down the streets of Gem to the gate, an auburn ghost slipping softly and silently from one patch of darkness to the next. He flowed past the sleepy guards and out of the city, into the blazing midday sun.
Even hugging the shadows of the rocks as he had been, Sancha was still panting when he reached the arroyo. He briefly wished that Luna had had the foresight to choose the -desert- fox as his Totem, but the thought was almost instantaneously squelched by his vanity; roasting in thick red fur was clearly preferable to sporting such ridiculously outsized ears. He sidled further into the shade of a large boulder, and peered down into the shallow ravine. She was there.
As he had secretly hoped, Cheyne was practicing her fighting style. It reminded Sancha of a Full-Moon wolverine he had once met in the Northeast; all brutal power and speed, constantly shuffling or sprinting or leaping forward, always attacking, never holding back. It was beautiful.
In concession to the burning sun, she had taken off her shirt and duster, leaving her naked above the waist except for a wide strip of cloth binding her breasts. Sancha had never seen Cheyne in any state of undress before; as he'd expected, she was lean and strong, wiry muscles standing out in sharp relief as she went through her forms. What he hadn't expected was the tattoo. He'd seen the sharp-edged markings swirling along the sides and back of her neck and up into her rough-cropped dark hair, but he'd assumed that it was only her neck -- possibly her shoulders, as well. He had definitely not envisioned a massive blot of tangled black lines and angles which covered almost every square inch of her back, thick clawed extensions curving around to her stomach and chest, barbed tendrils wrapping about her upper arms. It was impressive, even to one of Luna's Chosen; so impressive that he barely noticed the jagged scars scattered across her skin.
Cheyne finished her routine, standing with her back to him, feet planted, clenched fists held level with her hips, breathing deeply and steadily. Heat haze and the rise and fall of her shoulders made the tattoo seem to writhe under her sweat-slick skin. Sancha realized that he had been staring mesmerized for at least five minutes. He snorted softly and blinked, but didn't look away. Cheyne's head whipped around, pinning him with one eye.
"Finished spying, Sancha?" she called out sharply. Sancha cocked his head, trying to look like just another innocent fox going about his business. "Don't insult me," said Cheyne. "Red foxes don't live in the desert. Especially ones with two tails. I don't care if you watch me when my back is turned, but at least have the courage to come down and face me when you're caught." She spat out the word "courage" like it was a curse.
Sancha chuckled and stepped out of the shadows, putting on his human face. When he'd scrambled down the steep gravel incline, Cheyne turned to face him, orange eyes glaring beneath sweat-matted bangs. It had taken him a long time to realize it, but her eyes were the most expressive he had ever seen; Cheyne was always angry, but her anger had a thousand different shades and overtones, and they were all plain to see in those bright, fascinating eyes. Sancha met her gaze. He knew this game from the Silver Pact. It was the "I am not afraid of you" game, and it was every bit as important to a warrior's honor as the number of enemies he had slain in battle. Cheyne held his eyes for a minute, then looked away slowly and deliberately, making it clear she was doing so only because she wanted to, not because he could ever hope to stare her down. Sancha believed her.
The young woman turned her back on him and moved to where her shirt, coat and hat were piled on a rock. Sancha's eyes were once more drawn to the intricate black mark.
"It must have hurt, getting that," he said, in a tone of casual observation.
Cheyne replied without looking at him. "It did. A very great deal."
"What purpose does it serve?"
"The same as yours." She pulled her shirt over her head and turned, once more looking him square in the eye. Her expression might almost have been sad, if sadness were a type of raw fury. "It reminds me of what I am."
Slave Mark
This tattoo is the Mark which the Yozis place upon their true servants. Its tangle of black lines covers the entire back, with barbed extremities swirling out onto the chest, neck, and limbs. The overall effect is of a horrid, many-limbed monster grasping the person from behind, its hooked limbs biting into her in an obscene embrace.
This is not actually too far from the truth. Although the tattoo is not itself a demon, it is imbued with infernal magics of the foulest sort, giving it a sort of parasitic life. Unlike a normal tattoo, it extends deep into the wearer's flesh, fastened by a multitude of clawed tendrils. This causes constant pain, but anyone who has advanced far enough into the Yozis' service to wear a Slave Mark has long since learned that pain is just another source of power. This is most certainly the case with the Mark; not only is the tattoo itself quite resilient, providing some protection to the areas it covers, but the unceasing pain it inflicts lends great strength to the bearer, bringing her closer to the divine agony of her masters.
