Maylin/Basalt
Basalt grumbled as she curled tighter into a ball under cloak on the snow covered ground. Stupid Halta, stupid Torsil-Xanis, stupid…everything, she thought as she closed her functioning eye and tried not to shiver. It was wrong of her to blame anyone but herself for her problems of cold and hunger. She could only hope that soon she would come across a village where she could peddle her skills well enough to earn a warm room, or perhaps the right to lay next to a fire for the night, and perhaps some food. With a tiny whimper she let herself remember.
Some of her kind might have envied her for being born into a pleasure dorm, the forgotten centrals of sin from the First Age. They would have envied her breeding, the daughter of a vigilante and a lust demon. She was the granddaughter of a Solar. They would have envied her appearance, looking almost human save for the odd purple of her eyes and the slight gray of her lips.
In Basalt’s mind, they could take it. She would give up everything to be human and only human. To not hear her mother’s friends calling for her to return, to not be bitter towards anyone who sought the pleasures of the flesh, or believed that the world’s solutions could be found at the bottom of a wine glass. She wanted to be part of something that was…pure; something that was not her mother’s demonic orgies. Something that was not tainted and twisted with hedonism, blood, and screams. Something safe. She did not want to be accepted, even humans, she had discovered through her travels, did not accept other humans. Seeking out acceptance was a lost cause. Safety was not.
She had been born to the demoness Stalfyorian, the daughter of the succubus Ashen Lips and the solar Ziris, in the pleasure dome of Torsail-Xanis in the southwest. Basalt’s name had come from the gray stones that her lips looked like. Some would consider her lucky to look like her grandmother. Basalt had a few choice words for them.
Her life was not an ordinary life, but what demon’s was? Other children went to school to learn their numbers and letters. Basalt had gone to school to learn the parts of the mind most susceptible to seduction and control. While other children learned to ride horses and play with their peers, Basalt learned to command the infernal forces.
Her memories of home would have driven most humans made. She had witnessed more orgies in your young life than most Cynis Dragon-blooded saw in the entirety of their centuries. She had known more about sex at the age of five than most would know in a life time. She knew what potions to brew, what places to touch. She even knew the places on her own body, so often she had been forced to participate. Yes, forced was the right word. Her mother’s eyes were cursed to bespell who ever she looked at, and Stalfyorian had looked at Basalt often. Even when Stalfyorian chose not to go after her daughter, the Incubi and other demons that Stalfyorian allowed to reside in her home would turn their attention to Basalt.
The nights, and days, had swirled together in her mind, blurring together with all the faces, fingers, and bodies of the patrons of Torsil-Xanis. Calebration had been the worst. For it was then that Stalfyorian would allow the gates to be opened and let more demons enter her domain for their fun. Stalfyorian would send Basalt out to lure unwitting humans into the dome, and they would be the toys of the guests. Their screams echoed in Basalt’s nightmares, she saw their terrible fate for wanting nothing more than to help the little girl get her doll.
It had been in Calebration that Basalt had rebelled. Stalfyorian had approached her daughter to congratulate her on another fine catch of humans. She had found her daughter packing her few things.
“What are you doing?” she had asked. Basalt turned to her.
“Leaving. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Stalfyorian had purred, caressing her daughter’s arm. “This is your home.”
“This is not a home! This is a den of debauchery, more to the point it’s yours. I won’t stay here this Calebration, or any other for that matter.”
“But it’s a very healthy den of debauchery, Basalt, darling.” Stalfyorian’s nails glided up her daughter’s spine. Basalt struck her hand away.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” she snarled, glaring at her mother. Stalfyorian looked calmly at her daughter, the metal plate over her eyes revealing nothing.
“You can’t leave, Basalt. Soon I will be freed of this place and I will have to travel. You must stay and keep Torsail-Xanis running. This place, my place, is your fate, your inheritance. You can’t abandon it. Now stop being ridiculous and get out of those clothes. Imagine, clothing at Torsail-Xanis’s Calebration!”
“I’m not going to live your life, Mother. It’s not mine to have. Now move out of my way!”
Stalfyorian grabbed Basalt’s arm with a growl, her blood red nails digging in.
“This is your place! Running from it will only cause you pain!”
“I want no part of it!” Basalt replied, twisting to slam her fist into her mother’s jaw. The shock of being struck dazed the pleasure demon long enough for Basalt to flee out into the halls where the demon guests and ghosts had started to gather. Already the heady aphrodisiacs and Nymph’s Blood was taking its effect. Basalt held her breath and charged through. She heard her mother calling for people to stop her, but the guests were already getting deep into the thrills of the party, and those that heard Stalfyorian were too slow to grab Basalt. As she fled into the Banyon Jungle, Basalt heard her mother’s scream of rage and anguish.
She had been traveling ever sense. It really did not matter to her where she went or ended up, just so long as she was far away from the south west and all the horrors there. She peddled herself out as an exorcist (which she had no skill in), a gladiator, a bodyguard, and in a few rare cases had conned a grieving parents or spouse into thinking that she was a medium who had received word from their deceased loved one and had a message for them. She hated doing that, but when she was hungry enough, she would. At night she would see her mother reaching for her, grief in her eyes. At night, Basalt would cry.
Like her mother, Basalt labored under the curse of lust. In the demon-blooded’s mind, there was no greater sin than that. She could suppress the urges of her body well enough, but there were times when she would loose control. Sometimes she could feel them coming and would flee deeper into the wilderness. Far from mortals, far from anyone she could hurt, she would stat her lust herself. The most frightening times were when she could not sense it happening. An opponent had inflicted a wound too deep, a demon had fought too hard, or when the nightmares would become too real, she would loose control. She could not stand the touch of men most of the time. Only the softness of women truly stated her. Her memories of the incubi that would use her were violent and terrifying. She had screamed in pain, only exciting her tormenters more. The succubae memories were not much better for they could get just as violent, but Basalt remembered they would be cuddling and sweet afterwards. Of course, Basalt would not even admit to herself that she wanted to be cuddled.
So she traveled, every day walking farther from her home, and sometimes riding if her winnings in an arena, or her employer was kind to his bodyguards and would give them a horse. Horses, however, often started away from her, and so she avoided all breeds but the hellish beasts the Abyssals would ride. Only these horses never started away from her.
The times when she was in the employment of someone, one particular Deathknight had been kind to her, well as kind as that breed went, were her favorite. For a brief time she would belong to something, would be noticed by someone. Her appearance often attracted her employers. She had inherited a rather lovely amalgamation of her mother’s and grandmother’s features. Her eyes were pale lavender, making it seem as if she had pure white eyes from a distance. Of course one had been cut badly in the arena and she now wore a black metal eye patch over her left eye. Her hair was black enough to reflect like a black birds wing blues and purples. She had cut most of it off and wore it as a single black braid on the left side of her face. Her lips were full and pouty, but were a slate color. These lips were both a curse and a blessing. Some people assumed that her lips were ritual make-up of some important position in her tribe and would great her as a shaman, others would screech and run away, casting her from the village and send her traveling again. As she had begun selling herself out to rich travelers and to the arenas, her lips had become her trademark.
Despite the oddities of her form, her skeletal structure was no less lovely than those that were worshiped in gold statues and fine artwork. Slim, with a little more muscle around her shoulders than conventional beauty would permit, she moved with a practiced grace, walking on the balls of her feet for speed and stealth. The curves of her form were more muted than her mother’s due to muscle and Basalt’s loose clothing, but were no less impressive. Some would have gone so far as to call Basalt beautiful, or even alluring.
At last the cold became too much and Basalt realized she would need to move, or risk freezing to death. With a groan she uncurled and sat up, stretching and purring as every spine in her back popped audibly. She rolled into a backwards roll and stood with her sword in hand. The weapon had been an expensive “gift” from a former employer. Basalt never stayed with employers for more than two towns, sometimes not of her own volition. Priests would see her for what she was and scream that she was unholy and would damn any soul she touched. Basalt had never made the mistake of thinking that she would be defended by her boss, and she would flee. Even when there were no priests, there were the relics in ever city. Basalt could not stop herself from destroying them. Even in her best efforts she would turn, a purple flame in her eyes and crush the offending relic. She would leave soon after that.
Basalt began her morning routine with easy skill, her body having memorized the pattern of movements; it let her mind to continue on its track of memories. It had been the Abyssal lady, Wilting Rose on the Grave, servant to the Deathlord Ashen Lips, who had given her the sword in Chiaroscuro. Only the Deathknight had ever laughed as Basalt had smashed the relics. Only Wilting Rose had made her stay until the Deaknight had no further use of her. The red tinged blade was handled with a black rose, with wilting petals providing a grip on the hilt. With the Abyssal was perhaps the only time Basalt had felt she belonged, but when their contract has been terminated, Wilting Rose had not asked Basalt to stay. Even among the servants of Death, Basalt was an abomination.
Her limbs loosened and warmer, Basalt packed her few supplies and began following little more than a hunter’s path north. Her stomach rumbled, but Basalt ignored it. She had precious few supplies and no knowledge of where the next town was. She had to save her resources. To keep herself distracted she tried to recite the few stories she knew, unaware of the hunting party gathering above her.
