The waves of disorientation were beginning to recede as she was helped into the boat. All three of her companions came with her, refusing to leave her to her fate.
“Besides,” Ivers shrugged, “we’ve already seen the good stuff. The rest is just eating leftovers, mostly anyways.”
Frare looked crestfallen at the notion of missing dessert, but still he clambered aboard. Of all three, however, Niche held her attention the most. His face was pale, and although he did a good job of mastering his expression into a careful neutrality, he could not stop the shaking of his hands. Sorore decided not to press him, at least not when her own head wasn't entirely on straight.
The man in the smooth mask said nothing as he pushed them through the press of boats. They were taking through lantern lit streets alive with people clamouring and singing, passing underneath as a grey shadow. The city took a unique charm in the evening, especially with all those lanterns washing the stone and wood in oranges and red. The overall effect, combined with the heat of the evening, was one of spectacular warmth.
This changed once they got to the northern wash, and found that the entire bay was covered in floating lanterns. These ones, unlike the predominantly warm colours of the city, were all kinds of colours. Purples, creams, greens, oranges, the waters of the lagoon had them all in spades. The hall of the dead rose in the distance, a dark complement to the field of light.
“For the fallen,” Ivers said, chewing on the last of a skewer that he’d held in reserve, “every light’s a person. The hall sets them out on the festival day - that’s why they’re so damn busy around this time. More priests rushing around than any other week of the year.”
She turned to the Occluded poleman, who nodded ever-so-slightly to the implied question.
“It’s so pretty,” she said, placing her hands in the water, admiring the water’s ripple distorting the play of lights along its surface.
“Yea!” said Ivers, “it’s even more beautiful at the crack of dawn, when the first light starts to creep up over there.”
He gestured to the south-east, where the mountains fell into the ocean.
“All the reds and pinks, and it’s usually calm on summer mornings,” he said, “it’s like… it’s like… Oh, I can’t describe it other than it’s magnificent. Come! Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you out.”
Frare perked up and looked at the boy.
“Really? Can I come too?” he said.
Sorore frowned at him - she knew he probably wasn’t coming for the beauty of the sunrise, but her head was still aching.
“Yes, yes,” said Ivers, waving him away with a smile, “you can come. And you!”
He called over to the stone-still frame of Niche, who mumbled a vague affirmation to Ivers.
“I’ll have to bring breakfast on the boat, we can have it here, watching the sun rise!”
Disappointed it wasn’t just the two of them, but realising it was unfair to withhold their host’s graces from family and friends, Sorore let the feeling go.
They were brought around the side of the temple this time, drifting close to a small dock rather than the entrance stairs. There was a pair of heavy wooden doors that were raised slightly above the water. Multiple boats moored near, all with the exact same grey trappings as the one they were in. Most were manned by those in the same dress and mask as the one that pushed them along.
Sorore tried to laugh at the more comic sight of some who’d pushed up their masks and were attacking steaming bowls and plates. Possible some kind of reward for their services from the festival organisers. The whole thing had been so strange, at first, but now Sorore was perfectly willing and able to accept it as some silly little tradition of these people. She even felt grateful for the ‘Occluded’ that had pulled her from the water. She wondered if she could ask after him, maybe find some way to repay him for his efforts.
She banished the thoughts as they were escorted up and through the doors, returning to the dark catacombs that they’d been in earlier that day. There were red-robed priests, tending to the various ills of the party goers. Most were either actively drunk, or recovering from it on provided benches.
“Erm, now that we’re here,” said Ivers, “you wouldn’t- er… won’t mind if I check in on my friend. Would you?”
“Of course not!” Sorore put in, before her brother could say something silly, “I can come with you, if you want?”
“I’d… I actually do,” he said, offering his arm.
Sorore took it with a smile and let him lead her on and upwards to the main floor of the hall of the dead. Ivers asked a priest where his friend might be, to which the man’s face fell.
“I’m afraid… I’m afraid he is not well enough to be taking visitors at the moment,” said the priest, “he just survived a serious treatment. He’s resting.”
“Serious treatment?” said Ivers, his brows furrowing in concern, “what do you mean?”
“I… I don’t want to…”
“Well? Say it,” said Ivers, stepping forward as his eyes grew wide.
“The infection was too far,” said the priest, his eyes firmly fixed to the floor, “the arm had to be removed.”
Sorore felt her heart drop into her chest as Ivers stiffened in her grip. Then he wrenched away, nearly sending her to the floor in his haste. She chased after him as best she could, following him up to the second floor, where he’d stopped before Claralelle, once more splattered with blood. Ivers pushed past the smiling woman as he pressed towards one of the rooms.
“Claralelle?” said Sorore, stopping a moment to gather her breath.
“Yes?” she said, her smile not broken in the slightest.
“What is it? What happened?” Sorore said, managing to right herself.
“Well, I took someone’s arm off!” she said, in that cheery voice of hers, “It’s been a while since I’ve had to do that! I enjoyed it.”
Sorore’s heart was turning over and over in her chest at the words. She gaped at the woman, who continued that smile in defiance of her horror.
“Is- Is he going to live?” she said, forcing the words out one by one.
“Maybe!” said Claralelle, “He survived the procedure, and his fever’s gone down a little bit, as well as his pulse. We’ll see.”
Niche and Frare, who’d at this point caught up with them, were caught staring at the woman.
“Again?!” said Niche, not reaching for the blade at his waist this time.
Frare did not help matters much with his peels of laughter.
“For Lost’s sake woman!” Niche said, “clean yourself up before you stop someone’s heart!”
“What would cleaning have to do with that?” she said, staring at him, then at her ruined clothes.
“Just- just,” said Frare, barely managing the words as he held onto the railing, “just cl-clean yourself up, Clara.”
“Okay!” she said, “I love this place. So much water that’s so easy to access!”
She held her hand out to the side to indicate the railing, about ten metres below lay the smooth surface of the water.
“See?” she said, as, with a running start, she leaped on top of the railing, using it to propel herself past the flared stone base with a thunderous splash.
Sorore and Niche rushed to the side, to see her swimming around the corner to the entrance steps. Frare could barely hold himself off the floor between howls. Sorore, remembering what she’d just said, rushed around the corner of the building and found Ivers arguing with a stout man. He was dressed in a deep blue, the exact same shade as the belligerents who were calmed by Kieren the day before.
“What’s going on? Ivers?” she said.
“This… this- hattlia won’t let me see my friend!” he said.
The stout man began to say something in the Karkosian language, before being cut off from a murmur inside the room. He stepped aside, letting Ivers rush into the room. Sorore however, was cut off, watching Ivers as he knelt down beside a blanketed youth and took his hand. Tears began to steam down his face as he began to exchange quiet words with however was in the bed.
The man in front raised an eyebrow and nodded his head to the left.
“Right, yes, of course,” she said, feeling her cheeks redden as she hurried away from the scene.
Her brother had recovered from his laughing fit by now, and came to stand beside her in silence. Moments later, Ivers emerged, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he came up to them with a shaky smile.
“Well…” he said, trailing off as he tried to wipe his face again, quickly growing red.
“Why don’t we go get something to eat?” Frare said quietly.
“Yes! Right, we should! A great suggestion!” Ivers said, sniffing as he tried to move on past them.
“Is he alright?” said Sorore.
“Yes, he’s fine. At least the bastards didn’t get his sword arm, he said,” he said with a brittle laugh.
Neither of the twins said anything, rather, Sorore laid a hand on his shoulder. The man blanched like he’d been struck, and turned to look at her with red eyes. Before he could speak however, Niche cleared his throat.
“We hope that he pulls through,” he said, “but I’m afraid that the lord and lady should really be getting back to bed.”
“What?! It’s barely evening!”
“Yes, and you said you wanted to get up early tomorrow,” said Niche, “and you’ve been running around the city like mad. It’s not good for the humours. We’d best get back. We can visit your friend in the morning, when he’s had more time to rest.”
“Yes,” Ivers said, gently disengaging from Sorore, “Yes, you’re right master paladin. We should get back to the house. We’ll have it to ourselves for most of the night.”
The main floor of the house of the dead was largely quiet, with only the occasional whispered word or moan of a patient. Ivers was walking decidedly too quickly for her, and she was nearly tripped up by her long sleeves. Her brother righted her, just in time to narrowly avoid bumping into a man standing in the cloister.
He was standing, staring up at the wooden ceiling, a trickle of drool running from one corner of his slack mouth. His fingers twitched at the sight of them, eyes rolling to focus on them, yet his pupils shifted open, closed, closed, ever changing. He seemed to be trying to formulate words, to say something to them, but was failing. A priest nearby murmured an excuse and gently guided the man back to a bed.
Sorore’s words were stuck churning in her chest, a deep seated nausea dragging her organs down. Her brother was gripping her so tight that she thought he might draw blood from her shoulders. There was something wrong with the man, so wrong that it would’ve drove her to run, to scream, to surrender to the most fundamental instincts of her body. That something ran like fire through her veins, alighting every nerve and standing up every hair.
As if a spell was broken, they sprinted past both Niche and Ivers, out the front doors and down the steps, stopping just before the waters.
“What’s going on here?” Niche said, hurrying out after them.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” said Sorore, “please. Let’s go.”
Niche looked around to the front doors of the halls of the dead, set his features, and turned to Ivers.
“Of course. Would you draw up a boat for us?” he said.
Ivers, either too tired or too deep in grief to respond, hailed a boat and soon they were pulling up to the now-familiar red and blue laden home. Ivers led the way up into the meeting hall, which was largely empty save for the occasional family member who’d retired early.
“One more thing,” said Niche, “would you mind possibly sending a message to my sister-in-arms? I would prefer to send it in a note, if possible.”
They began to speak of what arrangements were necessary, while Sorore glided past them to the step. The two twins were almost in a trance, the sight and sounds of the pyramid lost to them in a sensory blur. Sorore, beginning to tremble uncontrollably, found herself at the pool’s edge, not entirely sure why.
Sorore tugged at the laces and ties that held her outfit together, and slipped down into the pool, her brother following suite. She sank to her shoulders, the smothering half-warmth of the pool still not settling her senses, but rather only adding to her agitation. Still deeper it beckoned, deeper, and darker in the candleless room.
Ivers was there, the boy’d run after them, perhaps out of concern or perhaps to court their attention. He seemed surprised at the twin’s nakedness, moving slowly through the pool. His words were lost among the chamber as Sorore turned to him, dying in his throat as his face contorted in confusion and fear.
The chambers were still dim, but now the water had a milky cast, light spilling forth from the scars on their arms. Ivers slipped back, saying something as he fell hard on the stone edge of the pool. Her brother was pushing through the water with long, graceful motions. In a single, fluid motion, simply stepping up and out rather than pulling himself, he emerged from the water onto his knees.
Ivers didn’t know what to do as the boy came forward, pale light tracing up his arms as he crawled to him. His hair was dark and damp, hanging over his face as he came on top of Ivers, but Sorore could see the faintest green glow coming from the eyes beneath. There was something warm and wet trickling down her lips and chin and throat, the taste of iron rich in her mouth.
Her brother leaned in, his wet hair pulled back from an expression of inscrutable intensity. Lost, what was he doing? This was too much, her head hurt, and it was getting hard to breathe. Her body felt hot and heavy, as if in the midst of fever. She tried to speak, to call out, to move even if it was just a languid splash.
Then suddenly, the scene was not the pool deck, but rather a mirror of water, slamming into her.
She sank beneath, feeling tiny bubbles rising up her arms and face as she squeezed her eyes shut. She was somewhere deep, somewhere cold, where no air nor sound could penetrate.
She opened her eyes and beheld darkness. Pure, perfect, without end or mercy.
Far above her, light streamed down, pale fingers piercing the abyss she floated within. Against that light, however, there was a long, immense shadow, coiling not far from her. She was immediately made aware how fragile she was; her bones could be crushed to powder, her innards squeezed to pulp, all by this writhing thing above her. With horror, she realised it was already happening, as her body began to vibrate so violently she was sure she’d fall apart. The roar of the thing echoed through the abyss, the water throbbing with its malefic rage.
Lost, Lost! Spare me! She managed to cry.
There was another sound, barely discernible before the howl, almost like the rustling of pages.
Before she’d managed to identify it, once again she was violently spewing water.
She was back on the deck of the pool, her brother and Ivers holding her, dealing blows to her back in panicked sequence. She coughed, tried to draw breath, coughed more, and finally managed to get her companions to stop hitting her. She was helped onto one of the numerous chairs that lined the pool edge, protesting ineffectually that she was fine, that she could walk. All of these, of course, she couldn’t, but it would be considered unseemly.
She at the moment had completely forgotten that both she and her brother were completely naked. She only remembered when Ivers ran to fetch Niche, having already determined that this was something beyond his abilities to aid. Sorore managed to rapidly pull her discarded clothes over her, urging her brother to do the same.
“What does it matter?” he said.
His tone, rather of casual indifference or feigned ignorance, was one of genuine terror.
“It’s coming.”
The waves of disorientation were beginning to recede as she was helped into the boat. All three of her companions came with her, refusing to leave her to her fate.
“Besides,” Ivers shrugged, “we’ve already seen the good stuff. The rest is just eating leftovers, mostly anyways.”
Frare looked crestfallen at the notion of missing dessert, but still he clambered aboard. Of all three, however, Niche held her attention the most. His face was pale, and although he did a good job of mastering his expression into a careful neutrality, he could not stop the shaking of his hands. Sorore decided not to press him, at least not when her own head wasn't entirely on straight.
The man in the smooth mask said nothing as he pushed them through the press of boats. They were taking through lantern lit streets alive with people clamouring and singing, passing underneath as a grey shadow. The city took a unique charm in the evening, especially with all those lanterns washing the stone and wood in oranges and red. The overall effect, combined with the heat of the evening, was one of spectacular warmth.
This changed once they got to the northern wash, and found that the entire bay was covered in floating lanterns. These ones, unlike the predominantly warm colours of the city, were all kinds of colours. Purples, creams, greens, oranges, the waters of the lagoon had them all in spades. The hall of the dead rose in the distance, a dark complement to the field of light.
“For the fallen,” Ivers said, chewing on the last of a skewer that he’d held in reserve, “every light’s a person. The hall sets them out on the festival day - that’s why they’re so damn busy around this time. More priests rushing around than any other week of the year.”
She turned to the Occluded poleman, who nodded ever-so-slightly to the implied question.
“It’s so pretty,” she said, placing her hands in the water, admiring the water’s ripple distorting the play of lights along its surface.
“Yea!” said Ivers, “it’s even more beautiful at the crack of dawn, when the first light starts to creep up over there.”
He gestured to the south-east, where the mountains fell into the ocean.
“All the reds and pinks, and it’s usually calm on summer mornings,” he said, “it’s like… it’s like… Oh, I can’t describe it other than it’s magnificent. Come! Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you out.”
Frare perked up and looked at the boy.
“Really? Can I come too?” he said.
Sorore frowned at him - she knew he probably wasn’t coming for the beauty of the sunrise, but her head was still aching.
“Yes, yes,” said Ivers, waving him away with a smile, “you can come. And you!”
He called over to the stone-still frame of Niche, who mumbled a vague affirmation to Ivers.
“I’ll have to bring breakfast on the boat, we can have it here, watching the sun rise!”
Disappointed it wasn’t just the two of them, but realising it was unfair to withhold their host’s graces from family and friends, Sorore let the feeling go.
They were brought around the side of the temple this time, drifting close to a small dock rather than the entrance stairs. There was a pair of heavy wooden doors that were raised slightly above the water. Multiple boats moored near, all with the exact same grey trappings as the one they were in. Most were manned by those in the same dress and mask as the one that pushed them along.
Sorore tried to laugh at the more comic sight of some who’d pushed up their masks and were attacking steaming bowls and plates. Possible some kind of reward for their services from the festival organisers. The whole thing had been so strange, at first, but now Sorore was perfectly willing and able to accept it as some silly little tradition of these people. She even felt grateful for the ‘Occluded’ that had pulled her from the water. She wondered if she could ask after him, maybe find some way to repay him for his efforts.
She banished the thoughts as they were escorted up and through the doors, returning to the dark catacombs that they’d been in earlier that day. There were red-robed priests, tending to the various ills of the party goers. Most were either actively drunk, or recovering from it on provided benches.
“Erm, now that we’re here,” said Ivers, “you wouldn’t- er… won’t mind if I check in on my friend. Would you?”
“Of course not!” Sorore put in, before her brother could say something silly, “I can come with you, if you want?”
“I’d… I actually do,” he said, offering his arm.
Sorore took it with a smile and let him lead her on and upwards to the main floor of the hall of the dead. Ivers asked a priest where his friend might be, to which the man’s face fell.
“I’m afraid… I’m afraid he is not well enough to be taking visitors at the moment,” said the priest, “he just survived a serious treatment. He’s resting.”
“Serious treatment?” said Ivers, his brows furrowing in concern, “what do you mean?”
“I… I don’t want to…”
“Well? Say it,” said Ivers, stepping forward as his eyes grew wide.
“The infection was too far,” said the priest, his eyes firmly fixed to the floor, “the arm had to be removed.”
Sorore felt her heart drop into her chest as Ivers stiffened in her grip. Then he wrenched away, nearly sending her to the floor in his haste. She chased after him as best she could, following him up to the second floor, where he’d stopped before Claralelle, once more splattered with blood. Ivers pushed past the smiling woman as he pressed towards one of the rooms.
“Claralelle?” said Sorore, stopping a moment to gather her breath.
“Yes?” she said, her smile not broken in the slightest.
“What is it? What happened?” Sorore said, managing to right herself.
“Well, I took someone’s arm off!” she said, in that cheery voice of hers, “It’s been a while since I’ve had to do that! I enjoyed it.”
Sorore’s heart was turning over and over in her chest at the words. She gaped at the woman, who continued that smile in defiance of her horror.
“Is- Is he going to live?” she said, forcing the words out one by one.
“Maybe!” said Claralelle, “He survived the procedure, and his fever’s gone down a little bit, as well as his pulse. We’ll see.”
Niche and Frare, who’d at this point caught up with them, were caught staring at the woman.
“Again?!” said Niche, not reaching for the blade at his waist this time.
Frare did not help matters much with his peels of laughter.
“For Lost’s sake woman!” Niche said, “clean yourself up before you stop someone’s heart!”
“What would cleaning have to do with that?” she said, staring at him, then at her ruined clothes.
“Just- just,” said Frare, barely managing the words as he held onto the railing, “just cl-clean yourself up, Clara.”
“Okay!” she said, “I love this place. So much water that’s so easy to access!”
She held her hand out to the side to indicate the railing, about ten metres below lay the smooth surface of the water.
“See?” she said, as, with a running start, she leaped on top of the railing, using it to propel herself past the flared stone base with a thunderous splash.
Sorore and Niche rushed to the side, to see her swimming around the corner to the entrance steps. Frare could barely hold himself off the floor between howls. Sorore, remembering what she’d just said, rushed around the corner of the building and found Ivers arguing with a stout man. He was dressed in a deep blue, the exact same shade as the belligerents who were calmed by Kieren the day before.
“What’s going on? Ivers?” she said.
“This… this- hattlia won’t let me see my friend!” he said.
The stout man began to say something in the Karkosian language, before being cut off from a murmur inside the room. He stepped aside, letting Ivers rush into the room. Sorore however, was cut off, watching Ivers as he knelt down beside a blanketed youth and took his hand. Tears began to steam down his face as he began to exchange quiet words with however was in the bed.
The man in front raised an eyebrow and nodded his head to the left.
“Right, yes, of course,” she said, feeling her cheeks redden as she hurried away from the scene.
Her brother had recovered from his laughing fit by now, and came to stand beside her in silence. Moments later, Ivers emerged, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he came up to them with a shaky smile.
“Well…” he said, trailing off as he tried to wipe his face again, quickly growing red.
“Why don’t we go get something to eat?” Frare said quietly.
“Yes! Right, we should! A great suggestion!” Ivers said, sniffing as he tried to move on past them.
“Is he alright?” said Sorore.
“Yes, he’s fine. At least the bastards didn’t get his sword arm, he said,” he said with a brittle laugh.
Neither of the twins said anything, rather, Sorore laid a hand on his shoulder. The man blanched like he’d been struck, and turned to look at her with red eyes. Before he could speak however, Niche cleared his throat.
“We hope that he pulls through,” he said, “but I’m afraid that the lord and lady should really be getting back to bed.”
“What?! It’s barely evening!”
“Yes, and you said you wanted to get up early tomorrow,” said Niche, “and you’ve been running around the city like mad. It’s not good for the humours. We’d best get back. We can visit your friend in the morning, when he’s had more time to rest.”
“Yes,” Ivers said, gently disengaging from Sorore, “Yes, you’re right master paladin. We should get back to the house. We’ll have it to ourselves for most of the night.”
The main floor of the house of the dead was largely quiet, with only the occasional whispered word or moan of a patient. Ivers was walking decidedly too quickly for her, and she was nearly tripped up by her long sleeves. Her brother righted her, just in time to narrowly avoid bumping into a man standing in the cloister.
He was standing, staring up at the wooden ceiling, a trickle of drool running from one corner of his slack mouth. His fingers twitched at the sight of them, eyes rolling to focus on them, yet his pupils shifted open, closed, closed, ever changing. He seemed to be trying to formulate words, to say something to them, but was failing. A priest nearby murmured an excuse and gently guided the man back to a bed.
Sorore’s words were stuck churning in her chest, a deep seated nausea dragging her organs down. Her brother was gripping her so tight that she thought he might draw blood from her shoulders. There was something wrong with the man, so wrong that it would’ve drove her to run, to scream, to surrender to the most fundamental instincts of her body. That something ran like fire through her veins, alighting every nerve and standing up every hair.
As if a spell was broken, they sprinted past both Niche and Ivers, out the front doors and down the steps, stopping just before the waters.
“What’s going on here?” Niche said, hurrying out after them.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” said Sorore, “please. Let’s go.”
Niche looked around to the front doors of the halls of the dead, set his features, and turned to Ivers.
“Of course. Would you draw up a boat for us?” he said.
Ivers, either too tired or too deep in grief to respond, hailed a boat and soon they were pulling up to the now-familiar red and blue laden home. Ivers led the way up into the meeting hall, which was largely empty save for the occasional family member who’d retired early.
“One more thing,” said Niche, “would you mind possibly sending a message to my sister-in-arms? I would prefer to send it in a note, if possible.”
They began to speak of what arrangements were necessary, while Sorore glided past them to the step. The two twins were almost in a trance, the sight and sounds of the pyramid lost to them in a sensory blur. Sorore, beginning to tremble uncontrollably, found herself at the pool’s edge, not entirely sure why.
Sorore tugged at the laces and ties that held her outfit together, and slipped down into the pool, her brother following suite. She sank to her shoulders, the smothering half-warmth of the pool still not settling her senses, but rather only adding to her agitation. Still deeper it beckoned, deeper, and darker in the candleless room.
Ivers was there, the boy’d run after them, perhaps out of concern or perhaps to court their attention. He seemed surprised at the twin’s nakedness, moving slowly through the pool. His words were lost among the chamber as Sorore turned to him, dying in his throat as his face contorted in confusion and fear.
The chambers were still dim, but now the water had a milky cast, light spilling forth from the scars on their arms. Ivers slipped back, saying something as he fell hard on the stone edge of the pool. Her brother was pushing through the water with long, graceful motions. In a single, fluid motion, simply stepping up and out rather than pulling himself, he emerged from the water onto his knees.
Ivers didn’t know what to do as the boy came forward, pale light tracing up his arms as he crawled to him. His hair was dark and damp, hanging over his face as he came on top of Ivers, but Sorore could see the faintest green glow coming from the eyes beneath. There was something warm and wet trickling down her lips and chin and throat, the taste of iron rich in her mouth.
Her brother leaned in, his wet hair pulled back from an expression of inscrutable intensity. Lost, what was he doing? This was too much, her head hurt, and it was getting hard to breathe. Her body felt hot and heavy, as if in the midst of fever. She tried to speak, to call out, to move even if it was just a languid splash.
Then suddenly, the scene was not the pool deck, but rather a mirror of water, slamming into her.
She sank beneath, feeling tiny bubbles rising up her arms and face as she squeezed her eyes shut. She was somewhere deep, somewhere cold, where no air nor sound could penetrate.
She opened her eyes and beheld darkness. Pure, perfect, without end or mercy.
Far above her, light streamed down, pale fingers piercing the abyss she floated within. Against that light, however, there was a long, immense shadow, coiling not far from her. She was immediately made aware how fragile she was; her bones could be crushed to powder, her innards squeezed to pulp, all by this writhing thing above her. With horror, she realised it was already happening, as her body began to vibrate so violently she was sure she’d fall apart. The roar of the thing echoed through the abyss, the water throbbing with its malefic rage.
Lost, Lost! Spare me! She managed to cry.
There was another sound, barely discernible before the howl, almost like the rustling of pages.
Before she’d managed to identify it, once again she was violently spewing water.
She was back on the deck of the pool, her brother and Ivers holding her, dealing blows to her back in panicked sequence. She coughed, tried to draw breath, coughed more, and finally managed to get her companions to stop hitting her. She was helped onto one of the numerous chairs that lined the pool edge, protesting ineffectually that she was fine, that she could walk. All of these, of course, she couldn’t, but it would be considered unseemly.
She at the moment had completely forgotten that both she and her brother were completely naked. She only remembered when Ivers ran to fetch Niche, having already determined that this was something beyond his abilities to aid. Sorore managed to rapidly pull her discarded clothes over her, urging her brother to do the same.
“What does it matter?” he said.
His tone, rather of casual indifference or feigned ignorance, was one of genuine terror.
“It’s coming.”
