Newt-Ella Doe-Knott

What's the matter, honey?

They swirl around me: one minute, the voices hiss behind my head, but then they lie above me the next. I shake my head frantically, trying to catch whoever is speaking to me, but I never glimpse so much as a shadow. Are they even here? What's happening? My breaths race and my heart thumps as panic rises in my brain. My head goes numb. My sight goes blurry. Though I can't remember raising them to my mouth, my nails are bitten beyond shreds.

Hi! My name is Newt-Ella Doe-Knott...

No. This can't be. But suddenly, the shadows start to look familiar, and I realize why: the teeth-like peaks before me are my bangs, falling before my eyes; the two suns in the sky, so bright to my senses, are my eyes; the never-ending pit a few feet in front of me is my mouth, my throat, my stomach. It might be an exit – there has to be one somewhere –, were it not for the teeth that bar them off. To most people, this kind of introspection is a blessing. Having spent so long here, before, I know much better.

My mind is my prison.

Now, pet, there's no need to be melodramatic, is there? We had some good times, once...

Fuck off, Pete.

His voice is unmistakeable, strange as its appearance might be. The mere sound of it sends a feeling like shivers down my spine or spiders creeping comes across my neck. His high, tenor-like tones sound like a screech where they once were a beautiful melody. There was a time, once, where our conversations were a duet; now they are two dissonant melodies played an organ, the right hand dancing a G major where the left slams a B-flat minor. Our tune would be deafening, had I any ears to hear it.

Wetness splashes against my consciousness, filling me with coldness. I could try to describe the strangeness of this, having no body but my mind, no sense saved for sensation – is there even anyone reading? Who am I speaking to? – but there's no proper way to capture it. Even as I live it, I can find no concreteness to it. To speak it would be pointless; to explain it, fruitless.

I imagine a shark, floating towards me. Perhaps that's where the wetness came from – imagined as well, like the rest of the world I live in. I can picture every inch of him, from the razor-like teeth that fill his gaping mouth to the slightly crooked fin resting beneath its stomach. It snaps its jaw at me and splashes me with its tail. A shriek sounds in the air.

"Kill me," it says.

"Why? That makes no sense."

"Because you won't. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You think killing is wrong. It makes you hold back. It makes you weak."

"Killing is wrong. It ends a person. Forever."

"But it makes you stronger. Think about it. What would I be if I didn't kill? I'd starve and die."

"Well, yeah. But I don't need to eat you to live."

"Your magic does. It's its nature."

It can't be. It won't be.

Come on, darlin'. What do you think? Do you have it in you?

I shake my head. The shark swims away. Even Pete's presence fades, and suddenly I am truly on my own.

Hi! My name is Newt-Ella Doe-Knott, and do I have a story for you!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mikaela Gavreel

"Mikaela," I warn myself, carefully toeing over a particularly brittle-looking skeleton, "you've seen worse." A bone splinters beneath my heel. "You know you have."

I continue my trek across the massive boneyard. When it comes to pathways in this carcass-covered cemetery, they don't serve much of a purpose. The land is piled high with skeletal remains, but the walkways aren't spared a scattering. I take a deep breath, numbing my nose to the acrid scent of death and decay. "You know you have."

A mutter follows my next breath out. "But you haven't."

"I expected you to be steelier than this."

The smooth, clean voice slices my thoughts like a knife. My head snaps up, eyes widening.

From behind me, I hear a devastating sigh. "Aurelia was right when she said you can take care of yourself, I'll give her that."

Footsteps. They get closer, the steady clack of boots against stone crawling down my spine. Forgetting to fear what I'll see, I step back, spinning around so quickly that my mind swirls. My eyes lock with a pair of grey ones, their silvery hue so intense that I'm scrambling to grow the distance between us.

"For someone who's taken the Rakdos shift alone, you seem exceptionally spooked," says Lavina, drawing her fingers away from the hilt of her sword. "I would've thought a few days alone would make you toughen up a little. I was wrong."

A pause hangs in the air as I stare at her in silent, wondrous horror. I force a lump down my throat. The angel before me looks sickly in death, and yet, somehow, the same power radiates from within her to the very tips of her wings. Her glow isn't that of an angel's warm hue, but rather an unearthly aura of withering greens and brown fields. Lavina is no longer an angel. She's a member of the undead.

The memory resurfaces in a burst of flames, too compelling for the truth. The barriers I'd put up against it crumble and fall away with a gale. "L—Lavina I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologise until you've fixed it," she says. It appears that in my mind and hers, I'm apologising for two entirely different things. Reaching up, she gives the leather chain round her neck a quick, hard tug. It comes loose with a snap, swinging wildly from within her tight grasp as she holds it out to me. Emblazoned on the wooden surface is what I didn't see before—the green symbol and dark sheen of the Golgari signet. She tosses it at me. "Take it."

I fumble, managing to snag the signet in my haphazard grapple. The wood plummets into my hand like a deadweight. Bewildered, I cast a glance up. "That's it?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You wish it was that easy."

"It never is, is it?"

"Not really," she says. "No." As if triggered by the negatives, her expression hardens. "So you've got the signet," she states. "Let's see if you can leave with it."

I draw back as a gust of wind hits me in the face, the steady flap of feathered wings almost howling through the narrow corridor. I squint against the force with an arm up, bracing against dust and the darkness of Lavina's sustaining magic. My eyes travel upwards in the quickest of glances. All of a sudden, the ceiling seems high.

"How long does this last?" I call up. All I feel is the sudden urge to tear myself apart limb by limb.

A reddish sphere spins itself in Lavina's right hand. She pulls it back, ready to fire. "As long as it takes you to step over my dead body."

The ball hurtles towards me. A sizzle zips past my ear as I swerve, bringing my arm up to shield my face. Pain sears its way across my knuckles, and I unclench my fist to find the singed surface of the signet. The damage is just small enough to not warrant a penalty. Even in death, Lavina has a plan. Not for the first time, the pure genius in it astounds me—one tweak of the rules and she's turned a battle into a guarding drill, even sparing herself half the trouble. I shove the signet into my satchel just as a second attack comes barrelling down, leaving me with only the time to duck and none to spare.

"If you want to move on, you have to move out," she warns.

Something about her words slides into place with a click. Slowly, I straighten, squaring my shoulders in a ready stance. Her next blows come in succession: one, two, three. One by one I dodge them, regaining my balance with both feet planted on the ground. A tingle at my fingertips comes with the rush. I raise my hands, the magic just inches away from blasting out of its cage. The first traces of it seep through my palms and an oncoming wave rises to burst forth, and then—

Fire.

Still feeling the buzz from my head to my toes, I pause, brows knitting deep. My eyes flutter shut and in the split second they remain closed, images resurface in static flashes. I let out a long breath and look up. My arms drop to my sides.

Lavina pauses as well, pulling back. She appears mildly irked. "Mercy is fear on the battlefield."

I shake my head. "It's neither."

I'd come close to killing before. Every time I so much as touched something in my burning state, it withered and died. It was always the same story—Elijah in Izzet, the monster in Simic, Lavina in the dream. All it takes is something to set me off and I can burn down most anything that stands in my way.

I don't want to do that. I refuse to.

It'd always be accidental, never controlled. It was never in my plan to hurt Elijah, and even when I'd asked him to anger me in Simic I'd been praying for a miracle as I tore down the entire corridor, hoping I'd catch the beast with some part of the fire. If I'm to kill someone—in my memory, again—, I'm not letting it be an accident. I won't kill her in anger.

If anything, I'll win with my own might. However hard that proves to be.

Reaching down, I rip the dagger from my boot. Raising it above my head and narrowing my gaze on target, I swing my arm forward and let the knife fly. It hurtles through the air and hits the bullseye with a thud, right on the third joint of her wing. Almost instantly, Lavina struggles. She flaps the unimpaired one, swerving dangerously to the right and landing with a stumble.

I pull my shoulders back again, losing my throwing stance. "Combat's always best from the ground," I say with a smile.

She rips the blade from her wing, letting a spillage of murky blood stain the feathers brown. My grip is on her wrists before she can cast another spell. Raising my knee, I drive it into her stomach to send her backwards. I throw my first punch which she deftly blocks, then another two in succession that find no way around luck.

"Come on, Mikaela. You're only going to get out if you come at me with all you've got."

I aim upwards with a roundhouse kick.

"Faster. You're not doing your best."

She throws commands, the boneyard fading into the background as her words fuel the battle. And suddenly, in the heart of Golgari, I find myself a slice of home. It feels like I'm back in a training centre as the heat in my hands slowly ebbs away and my focus seeps into the fight. The movements. Eyes on a trainer as I parry deadly moves. Sweat trickles down my back and the sides of my face, clinging to my skin like cold dew. For the first time in a while, I feel my veins burning with something more than magic.

The fatigue begins to set in, but I push against my slowing movements. The sweat on my palms makes my grip slick. Lavina, barely out of breath, picks up the pace. Finding no opening, I slip back into the defensive, dodging her blows one by one. Just as I begin struggling to keep up, her fist catches me in the ear. A loud clack reverberates through my jaw as teeth clatter against teeth. In my head is a wild sting, and then my palms hit the cold ground.

When I open my eyes, Lavina and I are face-to-face, a sphere of angry red burning in her hand. Instinctively, my own flies up to grab her round the wrist. A searing heat rakes across my cheek. As her hand begins to move, I push back with all my might, gritting my teeth against the strength in her arm alone. Forward she inches towards my face, the light becoming blinding, my eyes tearing, burning like there's lava on my skin.

In the small space of the corridor, my mind runs wild with memories. Nights spent under the stars in Selesnya, nights in the quiet compound of Simic, days under her wing with her clipped commands and pointed instructions. It occurs to me how natural it became for us to share a dorm, lying across from each other in the quiet silence between interminable speeches about home.

It occurs to me how different everything is in the face of death.

With my last burst of strength, I turn the tables. Rolling over and pinning her to the ground, my arm finds her neck and presses down against it till the last of her breaths drift away in the silent wind.

When I pull back, my hands are shaking, but they tremble from neither fear nor the gore. Reaching out, I rest the side of my hand over her eyelids, pulling them shut for the last time. Then I stand, steeling my nerves to leave Golgari alone.

If I could leave her body behind once, I'm strong enough to walk over it twice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mars

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Iracun Rumpig

"What about Golgari?"

"Questions! Too many questions! Your inquisitiveness is hugely not appreciated."

It wasn't until Iracun, such a young and yet old man still, went to obtain his signet from the Golgari that he truly realized how stupid of an idea it was for him, a small goblin who was somewhat a coward then, to try and become Guildmaster. Doubts filled him in the form of questions. Pages of pages could be written over his insecurities, which were akin to that of a teenager with brazen acne and crooked teeth trying to win over the heart of his crush. No, that football player would never date him. And Iracun would never be able to defeat anyone. Ah, it was a useless task for him to go on, so he didn't.

Instead, Iracun sat down at the edge of his bed, refusing to move. He wouldn't move. It wasn't right for them to make him go through impossible challenges. Surely, there were other ways for him to prove himself. "I already proved my strength earlier," he muttered to himself. "Only one test over intelligence so far. Pah! No wonder Ravnica has been going downhill. Look at this place! They're falling apart. I'm done. Tired of this. My feet ache and I'm heading home!"

Yet, just standing up and stretching left echoes of doubt in his mind.

"Grandfather, I'm bored! Come help me with this. I'm almost done screwing it up-"

"Glarg! Can't you let an old man write?" he asked, turning back in his seat to face her. The stubborn girl avoided his stern eyes and instead pouted, flouncing around her arms as though she were dying or something. So needy, he thought to himself.

"No!"

He turned back to his writing, shouting back a quick "Yes!" before ignoring her.

Ah, to tickle his fancy he found himself walking into a tavern and buying himself a drink. It wasn't much of a drink, but he wasn't feeling much like himself. A pretty boy winked at him, but he didn't have much money, so he walked back out and let himself wander around aimlessly. Perhaps he could have headed home, but something in him didn't want to accept defeat.

In fact, that something seemed rather insistent that he try.

"You want to get yourself killed, Ira?" he asked, looking down at his weak hands. A sigh left him as he reached up and scratched his ears, tugging at the rings he kept up there. He was quite stylish back then, with his nice shirt, trousers, and those rings in his ears.

"You're neck too, Grandfather!"

Yes yes, his neck too held a double ring. Ah, to touch those were to touch his memories, his past. To see into what was and then move forward into what would be.

"Grandfather, where did you get those rings?"

He looked up, blinking and smiling at the young girl. "Ah," he said, a far-off look in his eyes, "Sandrigo." There was something about his tone that said he wouldn't say anything more, but she didn't need his voice to stop her. The name itself was enough to warrant her shutting up... It was a strong, male name. One of a clan that lived far away, outside Ravnica, and one that she'd only heard bits and pieces about over the years. "He was...a good friend of mine, when I was your age. I hear he has grandchildren of his own now." Bitterness, like an old smell, lingered at the edge of each word. Woven in was a longing, but for what could not be known.

For the next hour, he wrote about the Golgari, about him finding the courage to fight, about chasing after his dreams in the wake of a dead man holding fast to a signet that was desperately needed. He spoke about losing one of his toes, and how he allowed it to trick the dead man. Oh, it was another competitor, his opponent was. The Golgari were crude, and he knew better than to expect more from such people. Winning their favor meant having to play dirty.

Living close to the ground as he did, Iracun definitely knew how to play dirty.

It was a daring growl they let out, one that sent chills down every spine. Iracun shuddered in fear, yet knew that he couldn't turn back. It wheezed and spoke, liquid falling from its mouth with every syllable as it drug it's rotting body across the ground. A protruding knee stuck out, broken in three different spots, and he swallowed back the sharp bile that rose in his throat. The burn was too much and he coughed, which was all the distraction that the gruesome creature needed.

Halcyon, from Simic, was a merfolk--which meant he was one of their pretty kind in life. In death, he reeked of fish, his body controlled by an unnatural force. There wasn't anything inside the creature except body parts that had stopped working long ago. To not give credit to him for his aiding in Iracun's signet gaining for Golgari would be just wrong, so he's now saying thank you to the boy.

For it was Iracun's realization that the boy was dead that allowed him not to care when it came close. It was his inability to breathe that allowed Iracun to punch him in the throat, to choke, and then realize that it was useless. The creature couldn't breathe, it couldn't do anything. Defeating it would mean to outsmart it, which meant he'd had to use the greatest gift he ever obtained.

His mind.

Just the thought of going back to that night left Iracun empty inside. He didn't feel fear, or anger, no sadness or joy, just a plain nothingness that wouldn't go away. The Undercity was a dangerous place, and having gone there twice within such a short span left Iracun scared to go back, but he didn't mind it so much anymore. A younger person held fears and worries, but in his age, he'd learned to give much of those up. Yet the nothing he felt inside at recalling that memory...it stuck inside him like there was something he couldn't quite remember. A suppressed memory, of a disconnect from the memory. That night, horror had come alive in front of him and he'd fought it tooth and nail until there wasn't anything left but blood, skin, and bones scattered across the ground. Whole limbs in places, bitten off bits of others. Iracun's toe lay on the ground and his foot bled heavily. He had been tired when he left, but the signet was in his hands.

His breath had been heavy and his heart heavier. Shoulders, normally proud and carried high, slouched and there was something missing from him. He looked grayer than normal, almost pale at that, and what hair he had lay flat against his scalp, sweat coating it to his patchy skin. His fingernails had blood stuck underneath them that would last for ages. He'd never know how much of it was his own.

That night, Iracun had fought and won without restraint.

That night, he'd torn to shreds another person. He killed them, in a way. But how much can one kill something when it was already dead to begin?

The Golgari signet was hard earned--by the end of his bloody battle, he was left with more scars, a torn earring and a bloodied ear, a missing toe, a well-earned signet, and a tired body that desired sleep. For once, he was left with a jarring thought, one that he would hold in his heart for the years to come. At what point, he would ask himself at night, does my mark on this world begin to take away from the lives of others? At what point is my life worth more?

It was that which Iracun truly gained as he left that task.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heccan Kirkeus

"O Earth, O Earth, return!

Arise from out the dewy grass;

Night is worn,

And is the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass."

- From "Introduction": William Blake, Songs of Experience

"I killed an angel, I think. Was it you?"

There comes a time in a young person's life where they have no choice but to ask a question they wish was never answered. Thankfully, a potential murder is not on most lists: in our cases, it tends to be something closer to 'what was the answer to question 4c?' when we know very well that the answer will be 'the first secretary of treasury in the American government was Alexander Hamilton' because the test we just took was a math exam, not American History. Unfortunately, the stakes of Heccan's questions were much higher than those of our own (unless, of course, you think that a wrong answer on a test is more difficult to bear than the moral weight of murder, in which case some severe introspection is probably required).

Lavina laughs. It chimes – not quite like bells, but rather like the feeling of purity one gets when snow falls on the fresh ground for the first time that year. Just what one might think of angel; not quite what might be predicted from a person asked about their murder.

"No," she says.

Needless to say, the weight removed from his chest bears Heccan considerable relief, much like when the friend you asked replies that they wrote 'a number' as the answer of question 4c, and you realize that, while you may both fail out of college, you can at least have a cool joint stripper act. A giggle, purer than fresh snow, and closer to the smile of a newborn baby, erupts from his lips. It goes on for minutes before he finally takes a sigh and pushes his bangs out of his face.

"Oh, thank Guildmaster Jared," he replies.

"I wish it had."

Heccan blinks. "That's a strange thing to say. Isn't it, Fluffy?"

The rabbit nods and paws at its hand. With a roll of his eyes, Heccan bends over and picks him up. He never used to, and Fluffy always preferred to roam free anyway, but Heccan has to admit he's been lonely, lately. He hasn't seen any of the animals since the Izzet tower, and he hasn't talked – if that's the right word for it – with Calais since after being attacked by the creature in the Simic Undercity, when he laid down to take his nap. She'd still been asleep when he'd woken up, and it hadn't seemed polite to him to wake her just so he could have company, so he'd wandered along, trying to find the others. Somehow, that had led him here, to the sixth signet. I wonder how Calais is doing. Is she awake yet?

He tilts his head. Maybe she's dead. That would be sad – but I could make her talk more! That'd be fun.

"It's only strange because you don't understand." Lavina's eyes light up in a way he hasn't seen before. There's something there which definitely isn't her: a sparkle, of sorts, but darker. It could be described, perhaps, as the first signs of night breaking through the sunlit sky; beautiful, but dangerous, too, and full of a new, strange type of life that simply can't be grasped. "We suffer, you know."

"I knew that," says Heccan. "Dying isn't really comfortable. But you just said I didn't do that, so I don't know why you're being so mean to me."

"Because he wants me to. You didn't think we could just do whatever we wanted, did you?"

Heccan frowns. "Well, yes. That's what Fluffy does."

"No it isn't," spits Lavina. "He loves you because the life inside him is yours; whether you know it or not, you make every decision for him. He's just a skeleton, after all."

"That's not true!" hisses Heccan. "You're lying to me."

Suddenly, the boneyards darken, much like the sky does when an unexpected thunderstorm appears out of nowhere and completely ruins your picnic, leaving you scrambling for safety. The ground begins to shake under him as the bones begin to scurry around. Heccan shudders. Goosebumps crawl down his spine. A chill scratches the back of his neck. Why is it so cold? He felt perfectly fine a moment ago, but now his hands wrap across his torso, and he pulls himself together, his teeth chattering all the while.

Lavina speaks, but the voice that tears through her lips is in no way angelic, and certainly isn't hers. Rather, she talks in low, gravelly tones, and yet the voice has an eerie smoothness to it, as though it had crushed everything in its path to pass through entirely unopposed: "Enough, boy," it booms. "You're acting ridiculous."

"Who are you?"

A sneer rips across Lavina's face. "You should know that by now. Who do you think would have the authority to possess a former initiate?"

"Well," says Heccan, "I don't really know what happens behind the scenes. That wouldn't really be fair."

"Idiot."

"That's rude." Heccan pouts. Fluffy hisses.

Lavina sighs. "I guess I'll have to do this the hard way, then. Just remember that you asked for it."

A shocked squeak echoes throughout the boneyard as Fluffy bites Heccan. Flinching, he drops the rabbit to the floor. A crack sounds as it lands on its paw; a limp forms as it hops on to the other, staring up to Heccan with big, hurt eyes.

"Come here, boy," says Heccan. "I'll fix that up for you."

Lavina rolls her eyes as Heccan grabs the snapped piece of bone and merges it back to Fluffy's front left paw. "Do you get it now?" she asks. "Anyone possessed, even for a split second, will do whatever their master commands."

"Maybe, but it's better this way. Fluffy, Lavina – neither of them would be alive right now."

"They still aren't alive. They're empty. You're haunting them."

Heccan frowns. A gust forms in the centre of the room. "I don't like that."

"What, that your silly rabbit isn't actually alive? That your Sunday dinners with your family are really just you, all alone, surrounded by dead bodies with no mind of their own?" Lavina smirks. "That's a shame, because it's the truth. Now get out of your bubble and get used to it. You could be powerful, you know."

"Stop it!" shouts Heccan. Lightning flashes across the room. The spark disappears from Lavina's eyes and she falls, crumbling down like a puppet whose strings have been dropped. She lies on the floor, her eyes frozen open even in death. Though he doesn't want to think about it, her gaze points directly into his eyes, and the two stare at each other. He doesn't dare to move.

Suddenly a voice echoes: "You're a monster, Heccan Kirkeus. Own up to it. Accept it."

And sure enough, the words pour straight out of Fluffy's mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Calais Agate

The bones were unidentifiable—mixed and matched and strewn about for plucking, there was nothing to distinguish an elf from a dryad, save the size of their bones. And some most definitely weren't fully sentient: there were large bones that seemed more like stewing bones than the bones of any creature living in Ravnica of its own accord. She looked down and touched a small bone with her foot. It was nice, almost, to see that everyone turned into the same thing when they died. And yet, the dampness of the crypt chilled her. It was unsettling, being round such death and carnage. While many ogres would love to feast on half-rotten carcasses, she was less inclined for the taste, instead preferring greens or roots.

There wasn't anyone else around her. The rest of the competitors were waiting for her to return—possibly. Some had already went, but she didn't know where they exited. This was Golgari territory, a far cry from Calais' own morals and ideas of how to run a guild. Though, she had to grant, Heccan was from Golgari, so not everyone there were of the form to use a boneyard for their ritual picking.

There was a clearing just past the bones she was prodding, which was centred by a large, dry fountain, three tiers high. On the opposite side, she would soon discover, sat a beast.

She approached it with lumbering steps, carefully trying to avoid snapping or breaking any of the bones around her. With her stature, though, destruction was inevitable. She noticed the creature in the shadows. It seemed like it knew it had been spotted, for it stood up seconds later and turned to face her, its huge build intimidating as it walked into the dim light that streamed from bulbs half-dead far above.

It was her partner, the one from Gruul. He looked far worse for the wear: while his eye had been out since his days back in Gruul, now his skin hung in ribbons down his body and his mouth was lopsided with maggots and insects crawling from between his half-skewed teeth. He had a necklace around his neck. He grunted.

"Give me the signet," said Calais. She didn't expect him to relent, and he didn't, instead sending a shockwave from his feet across the ground. She teetered for a moment, and he roared.

"Mine. My signet. Not yours."

Grunt-Man was always seen as more of an odd specimen in Gruul. He was a great warrior but nothing ever really set into his mind. He was simple but fierce, easy to please but vicious. He used to fight along the ranks of Calais' father, though she would not have known that.

She approached him gently, treading carefully. She didn't want to hurt him, she didn't want to hurt anybody anymore. It took a moment for her to realize he wasn't alive, and that he couldn't be hurt more than he was already dead.

"You are weak. You can't face me. I am strong. Mighty. Fierce," he said, bugs falling sporadically from between his teeth. He rubbed his hand over his mouth and swung the club that was in his right hand around. She ducked.

"I am not weak," she said. "I'm as strong as you are."

With that, she felt for one of the first times her emotions building voluntarily. Power flooded through her as she stood face to face with the ogre from his clan. She sent a force towards him and drew up vines that were tangled on the ground.

The power of her magic sent Grunt-Man stumbling back, and the vines she conjured wrapped around his ankles. It was a comic sight—a dead, decomposing ogre tied against vines with a necklace around his neck. Still, he swung the club around so there was little chance of Calais reaching the signet without being hit.

They sparred, magic between the two flaring and dying in intervals.

One thing that did not occur, however, was the diminishment of Calais' personal values, like so many of her other adversaries had chosen to exploit before. Grunt-Man was kind even in his most adversarial. There were few other vines around, not enough to vound his arms. She moved forward, and as he swung his club she pushed it into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the empty fountain.

Grunt-Man hit his head.

In an unconscious state, he looked more menacing and far more dead than he did when standing. And yet, it was with little care, fear, or worry, that Calais took the signet from his chest. For once, she was content with what she had inflicted. She did not know whether or not to be worried by such a fact.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elijah Karsur

A jet black rat scurried by, its coat covered nose to tail in grime.

Jerking back on instinct, Elijah eyed it until the vermin had disappeared into a crack in the stone work. A shiver ran up his spine, and he rolled his shoulders to shake off the lingering feeling. A small, breathy laugh came from his left, and he turned to cock an eyebrow at the girl.

"Problem?"

"No," the angel answered, though a slight smile rested on her lips. "I just thought you would get along better with that member of your family."

Eli rolled his eyes as he let out a small huff. Bit by bit, the atmosphere between them was becoming a little more bearable. Silence nestled softly in the few feet of space they had left between them. Glancing ahead, Elijah found the outlines of Heccan and Calais shrouded in mist. As they walked, the group had begun to drift apart. He chewed on this thought for a moment and dismissed it. There was no point in seeming needy by pointing that out. Besides, the silence was better when he wasn't getting shot any glares.

Stepping over a gnarled tree root, the man glanced down. Beneath his feet, weeds began to weave their way through the cracks in the stone ground. He would've called them an eyesore, but they fit so well that he might've even thought them intentional. The floor wasn't the only place burdened with trees, however. Vines had snuck their way up the columns, curling around the bases for extra support. If the place hadn't been in such a gloomy region, he might've even compared certain parts of it to Selesnya. But it was, and it hung over the area with a heavy fog and a sense of foreboding that clung to the skin like dew.

With a sigh, he raked his fingers through his coarse hair. Some areas had grown matted from the environment and he tugged at them harshly as he gazed out ahead. The scenery had slipped from tall buildings to a crumbling area of shrines without him noticing. Pressing his hands into his pockets, Elijah glanced at Mikaela who had fallen a few feet behind. Her eyes were off wandering the cloudy skyline, brown eyebrows knit deeply. He paused to wait for her, not necessarily because he cared that she would be left behind but more for the fact that having a nuclear angel around was a safer bet than examining any of the abandoned shelters alone.

"Having any luck searching the clouds?"

Mikaela jumped a little, her expression settling when she realized who was standing beside her. "No, but thank you for asking."

Her sarcastic tone made Eli smile. Noticing her eyes drifting again barely a moment later, he cleared his throat. "How're you feeling?"

These turned out to be the wrong words. The atmosphere shattered. The corners of her mouth ducked into a frown, and she found a spot to stare at in his opposite direction. It wasn't like he had expected her to suddenly launch into a huge explanation or anything. Hell, if she'd been the one to ask, he would've lied a quick fine and been done with it. Rubbing his forehead, he pulled his eyes away. At least he now knew something not to do. Silence settled back in but it clung uncomfortably to his lips.

A rush of wind brushed against his back. It sent with it a sudden clarity, lifting the fog so he could make out the better hues of green and white and brown. However, the breeze faded as quickly as it had begun. He glanced at Mikaela, but she hadn't even bothered to comment. That was, until a set of footsteps sounded behind them. She turned her head enough to make eye contact, raising a silent eyebrow in question. The answer was given to them by a voice.

"Mikaela, how could you?" Lavina's voice echoed in the large space.

Elijah turned in surprise, though his wasn't as great as his companion's.

"L—Lavina?" Never before had he heard such an obvious stutter in Mikaela's voice.

His eyes scanned over the angel behind them. She still looked the same, steely eyes complementing a harsh sneer as she stared at each of them in turn. Her armor was polished, but her hair fell down in tangled knots. Hidden behind her back, he could see feathers beginning to blacken on her wings. Her skin, which had always been fairly pale, was beginning to look sickly. A frown crossed his own expression when he noticed the necklace hanging above her breastplate.

On instinct, he stuck a hand out when he noticed Mikaela step forward. It was slapped instantly, a stinging breaking out across his skin. He pulled his hand away and glared at her to find her dark eyes narrowed back at him.

"Don't hold me back."

He bit into his lip to keep himself from snapping. She wasn't seriously just going to walk up to her, was she? Elijah swallowed his words and waited. Mikaela's steps were nervous. Her normally high held shoulders had stooped in on themselves as if she expected a scolding.

"Why did you do this to me?" a broken voice choked its way through Lavina's lips. "I trusted you. I helped you."

Eli's face twisted into a scowl. Did she really think lying would get her anywhere?

"I'm sorry. I know, it's my fault. I—it was an accident," Mikaela bumbled.

She couldn't be serious. Elijah watched, his body beginning to itch as she took another step closer. He watched Lavina's hand curl around the sword on her belt. His own fists tightened. Mikaela stepped closer still, and the weapon was removed from its sheath.

"I tried to fix it. I wanted to—to resign," she continued to explain helplessly.

They were standing too close. There wasn't enough time.

"You deserve to pay for what you did." The words struck the air as the sword tip scraped the sky.

His hands bit the gravel. The clang of metal against stone struck his ears. Elijah scrambled back up, trying not to fall back on top of Mikaela. When had he decided to push her? The action blurrily replayed in his mind as he tugged her to her feet. She glared him down but he stared back unflinching. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her raise the weapon again. Curling his hand around her wrist, he tugged out of the way.

"Let go," his eyes brimmed with uncertainty and his heart stuttered.

"No. I don't give a shit," he snarled at her, gripping her jaw and squeezing it. "Will you listen to me for one fucking moment? That's not Lavina."

"Of cours—"

He felt his hand begin to burn, but he held on. "No, it's not. Not now anyway. Can you stop dwelling on whatever you think you did and realize that?"

Slowly, she nodded. Elijah yanked his hand away, catching an eye of the blisters that were now littering it. They were a second priority. He watched as she took in her guild mate for the second time with fresh eyes.

"What are we supposed to do? Can you..." she trailed off, not quite sure how to ask if there was a way to make her drop dead again.

"That's not exactly in my wheelhouse," Elijah responded reluctantly.

A sword interrupted them. It sliced through the air above the girl's head, forcing him to duck down. Still clutching her arm, Eli tugged her out of the way as the thing stuck through the air again in an attempt to slice them in half.

"You're going to have to do it," he muttered between breaths.

Mikaela's eyes went wide. "I can't, I-"

"Look. I'll be fine and you didn't even do it the first time so just-" he heaved out a sigh "-think about the fact they're using her against you."

She nodded reluctantly, though sorrow picked at the corner of her eyes as she turned to watch Lavina striding towards them. The sword was deadly sharp. There was no hesitation, there couldn't be any on her side either. Sucking in a breath to steady the shaking of her arms, Mikaela aimed the best she could as Eli took his chance to put distance between them.

The flash was devastating. Flames licked at the edges of clothes and incinerated so many of the small vines that had seemed to hold the structure together. Mikaela slipped to the ground. Sweat had pooled on her brow, her eyes a little dazed. She threw her head back and glanced up at Elijah.

"So, what is in your wheelhouse?"

"Having you save my ass, apparently."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hesperia Haera

The crows burn with

the undead.

Death haunts;

Hesperia quivers with the look

of the dead, of dead, of gone.

it's breath; it's life.

Hesperia wanders about the land, her toes in tune with slowness, numbness. Thoughts of Angelique flow through her as the night sways back and forth with nausea and the drowsy. The clicking of dislodged bones against her feet echo across the boneyard, the Undercity's darkness compacting to a single yard, an aisle of blurred vision stretching out before her.

She can't see too far in front of her, nor can she see back. Nothingness lurks in the shadows- it's almost as if the gravestones are shaking beside her, the ground tremulous and hectic. Hesperia's hands rest on the wall of a crypt; it's concrete or stone or cobble surface feels cold against her skin.

And suddenly, she shudders. The shiver doesn't stop. Her forehead leans into the crypt, sweat pooled and wet; her knuckles scrape against the rocks, her balance wavers, and a shadow looms from behind. The material of the crypt is lit orange by a flickering flame, but a silhouette casts itself over the light.

Hesperia's eyes are closed, however, so she doesn't see it enlarge, coming near. Its feet drag on the floor, scattering dirt and leaves and dryness around the crypt's foundation.

The breaths are what Hesperia notice first; they're heavy and dragged and dispelled from something more than a simple lung. It sounds unalive; it sounds like an impossible cloud.

For a second, she believes it's her own heart exploding inside her chest. She's never felt so bombastic and in love; Angelique, she yearns, how I feel your breath against mine! Come nearer, please, I wish you to be more than sound.

Her heart stops.

Angelique? Are you there?

Then, the growl- Angel, my fair lady, come here- a frivolous and fluttering grunt, like mud whirled by wind- love, it's endless- and a rattle.

Hesperia hears it with a hammer. It goes through her ears and travels about her head, like an electric signal across vast, tired space. At first, she doesn't know what it is, but after turning around-

The sharpness is riveting, and she stares at the face of a woman. Hair of a raven and eyes of a blade- she's everything Angelique is not. Hesperia wonders; hadn't she wished for something else?

Around the woman's neck hangs the signet, the object of Hesperia's supposed desire. But truly, among the crows and the footfalls, what is Guildpact? She twists her head at the near-skeleton figure of the woman and smirks. Guildpact means nothing, not in this moment... but the woman keeps moving...

An escape-

Hesperia straightens her spine. An escape. Hesperia's lips part and coolness slides past; an escape of what she truly is; Hesperia steps back into the crypt.

Hesperia has stolen the life of her family- what's stopping her from killing this woman, too?

She lingers among hesitation. The torchlight suddenly vanishes, snuffed by an absent wind, and darkness is left to fill the gaze between her and the woman. It's elastic- Hesperia's eyes flit back and forth between the left and right eye- the woman's face seems to curl under anticipation. As if waiting for Hesperia to reach for the signet.

Then, with a whisper locked in her fingertips, Hesperia does.

The crows wait for the kill

and she strikes.

The bones quake;

Hesperia reaches for the

world beyond her own.

it's reality; it's unalive.