Xellyndra: Innocence Marred
The barkeep watched her walk through his door, the oddity of her human features standing out among his other patrons. He continued his cursory wipe-down of the bar as she approached, slight curiosity marking his wizened face. After all, not only was she apparently a human, but a very young one at that, certainly no more than fourteen by her features, though her size made his estimate lean more to ten. He looked on, amusement quirking his lips into a grin, as she scrambled up onto a barstool with some difficulty. Finally reaching the height of her Everest, she deposited a generous handful of silver on the counter, not bothering to count it. The barkeep glanced down at the impressive mound, counting automatically, and his smile widened greedily, “What’s your pleasure little one?” Quite abruptly, his smile disintegrated as his eyes met her icy green gaze. He stepped back in reaction to the flash of murderous rage that bored into his skull, bottles rattling on the shelves behind him as his back connected. A moment later he shook himself, questioning his own eyes. The wrath in her eyes had disappeared as quickly as it came, or perhaps it was merely concealed. She sighed slightly, “I’ll thank you not to call me that, and you’ll thank me for not eating your heart out of your chest.” The tender gulped slightly, knowing that his eyes had not lied to him about the look. The voice coming from that young body was the voice of a child, yet filled with a calm, almost bored, menace, an assumed assurance that she was capable of carrying out her words. It was not spoken as a threat of bravado. It had more the tone of simple fact. He nodded quickly, forehead crinkling a bit as he reevaluated his unusual patron, “What can I get you mistress?” His fear-clouded mind barely registered the term of obeisance as it leapt from his tongue, nor his suddenly respectful tone. A small smile flickered across the girl’s eyes and was gone, “Whiskey. . .the whole bottle. That should cover it.” She absently indicated the pile of coin on the bar in front of her, certainly more than enough. His look of surprise at the request from one so obviously young was not lost on her. Neither was his hasty scramble to comply with her request despite his shock. Amusement tinged her own features now as she deftly opened the bottle, poured her first glass, and raised it to the tender, “My respects upon your establishment good man, and my hopes for its continued prosperity.” This said, she proceeded to summarily drain the glass, the burning liquid sliding easily down her throat, leaving a slight trail of warmth which paled in comparison to her own inner fire. Noticing the curiosity marking the barkeep’s expression, she poured herself another glass and looked up at him, an impish gleam in her green eyes. They always had the same questions, and for some odd reason, she was in the mood to talk this night. She began to speak in a flowing alto voice. “Though it seems rather hard to believe, I did have a childhood. The memories are mostly muddled, but I know a time existed before my new Mother saved me, and even before my solitary wanderings previous to our meeting.” She paused and flashed the keep a wry grin. “You look at me strangely.” She nodded slightly, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. “Yes, it sounds odd, considering my age, that I speak of my childhood as though it were past, as though my younger years were far in the annals of history.” Her clear alto voice grew softer as she looked thoughtfully at her hands. “Well. . .it was long ago. . .lifetimes. So many things I have seen, things a child could never see. . .” A dry chuckle bubbled from her throat. “. . .not and stay sane anyway.” Here her attitude became thoughtful, icy green eyes darkly contemplative. “Perhaps it is that. Perhaps I have not grown so old, but merely insane. At times I wonder. I wonder what has come over me, why I do the things I do, feel the way I feel.” She shook her head as though to clear it of the doubting thoughts, her voice coming stronger as she held her hands up a bit. “These hands, they appear young and soft, the hands of an innocent. They have been sullied by many acts, dealt out retribution and mercy, been washed in sweat and blood.” A long pause ensued, during which, she bowed her head, tiny hands drifting back to her lap, a long sigh dragging out of her throat. “But we were not speaking of that. . .”
The day is warm, sunny; a soft breeze blows from the west. It carries a light scent of spring flowers and the chiming of childish laughter. Gently rolling hills, clothed in fresh green grass, extend to the very horizon. Here and there, a small grove of trees decorates the pastoral landscape. A sizable flock of sheep grazes upon the next hill, fluffy white clouds come down from the heavens to blanket that rounded mound of earth. Twinkling laughter floats on the wind again. Near the flock of sheep, a handful of small children, none elder than seven winters, engage in some imaginative game. It seems to involve a good deal of leaping and running about, and a healthy dose of smiles and laughter. But as with most children’s games, the purpose is unclear to older and wiser eyes. An argument breaks out, apparently over some obscure yet vital rule of the frolicking game. Almost as one, the children turn to the smallest of their number. With an expression of utmost solemnity, she hears the debate of each side before speaking a few words. The game resumes without further discussion, laughter once again ringing in the air, and the sparkling giggle of the tiny leader can be heard dancing melodiously over all.
A sweltering sun beats down on the countryside, driving older and wiser heads into the cool of the shade at midday. In a protected cove along the river, the same group of children is engaging in another vigorous game. This game seems to consist mostly of a joyous splashing about, punctuated by leaps into the cool water from an overhanging branch, heavily laced with the presence of smiles and squealing laughter. A rag-tag group of older children suddenly appears, claiming the cove as their own and demanding its private use. The younger group steps out of the water en masse and a confrontation ensues, childish voices raised in indignant protest. The older group begins to broil, shouting ludicrous insults and pelting the supposed interlopers with small rocks. Slowly, the younger group parts down the middle, allowing their smallest member free passage to the front. Her tiny hand whips out, deftly snagging a rock out of the air before it can connect with her skinny body. The older group falls to a surprised stillness as she turns her backs on them to run a concerned gaze over her friends. Seeing a few small cuts scattered among their number, her delicate jaw tightens in youthful anger. She turns back to the bullies and speaks a few words in a soft, yet cutting, tone, meeting the spite-filled gaze of their leader with a piercing one of her own. A tremor of doubt runs through the arrogant group as their leader hesitates before replying, his voice tinged with false bravado. The tiny girl steps slowly forward, holding the gaze of the lead bully as she speaks softly. Before she crosses half the distance between them, he begins to back up, finally turning and leading his cowed group of followers away. The younger group surges forward on a wave of triumphant laughter, lifting up their pint-sized leader and dumping her into the river before leaping back in themselves to continue the game. The sounds of wild splashing, chiming laughter, and a particular distinctive giggle harry the retreating band out of earshot.
A brisk breeze carries a hint of a chill as it rattles dry leaves on the trees and blows fallen ones across the ground. They gather in colorful eddies here and there before scattering once again, dancing over the rolling hills in complex spins and leaps. The same gang of children dashes along in their wake, their newest game seeming an imitation of the leaves’ chaotic motion. Peals of childish laughter punctuate the soft wailing of the wind. Tiny bodies dash this way and that, leaping, tumbling, and rolling. The smallest of them leads the way, her carefree giggle serving as their battle cry as they scamper across the hills. As the afternoon wanes, the chill in the air grows. Noticing some of her playmates shivering, but each one obviously unwilling to be the first to back down, she takes it upon herself to suggest an end to the game. A grateful nod ripples through the group. They dash off again, turning toward home, eager for a taste of warmth. Scampering noisily into the quaint town, the group draws amused smiles from older and wiser lips. It not yet being the hour for supper, they do not scatter to their various homes, but instead tumble into the village inn, gathering around the large hearth to soak up the heat of roaring flames. They each settle down comfortably, the arrangement carrying an air of habit, for this is a common occurrence. Their chosen leader receives her customary place of honor, sprawled nearest the hearth, facing the makeshift circle of her peers. A cry goes up for a story and the small one smiles, accustomed to this demand from her friends. She gives a slight nod, smiling brightly, and they settle to utter silence, leaning forward in anticipation of what miraculous tale will drop from the tiny one’s lips this time. After a moment of serious consideration, she smiles again, causing the gathered to smile around at each other, excitement in their eyes. She begins a captivating tale, the smooth alto voice rolling off her tongue seeming too low for her tiny form. Rising from her languid position, she adds the movements of her body to the expressiveness of her words. Her slight form takes on a larger than life appearance, backlit by roaring flames. As she narrates the adventurous story, the fire itself seems to respond to her words, dancing higher at critical moments of the plot. Hours pass as her tale unfolds, hardly a breath stirring among the children as they sit wide-eyed and entranced.
The quaint room is dominated by a heavy wooden table, large enough to seat the small family and many guests besides. Tonight however, the only occupants are a man and woman, gentle and caring in their appearance. The man stirs the fire to greater activity, throwing more logs on to hold back the icy chill of the night. Puttering about the table, the woman places plain plates and silverware in three settings. The door springs open and in tumbles the little girl, accompanied by a swirling aura of snowflakes and a bitterly cold gust of wind. Pushing the door closed and brushing herself off a bit, she crosses the room in a sprightly manner, dancing to the tune of her own infectious giggle. She places a quick kiss of greeting on first her mother’s cheek and then her father’s before scrambling onto her seat at the table. A soft smile of loving indulgence passes between the man and the woman before they are also seated. The meal is of simple fare, but tasty and filling, happy conversation serving as greater adornment than any exotic spice. As the meal comes to a close, the door slams open, thudding against the wall. The father, being seated nearest the door, has barely the time to turn before he is flung bodily across the room, a painfully surprised expression marring his gentle features. Before he even strikes the floor, a dark blur vaults across the table and the woman joins her husband in the air. The little one sits in shocked silence, as the blur crosses the room to her father, now struggling to stand. She turns her eyes to her mother who lies in an unconscious heap against the wall. Turning back to her father, she finally gets a bit of a look at the attacker, as it rips her father’s tongue from his mouth. Blood sprays across a tall, thin, black-cloaked figure. The creature restrains the man with ease though he struggles violently, using all his strength. Before long, he simply hangs there limp, weak, pitiful cries falling from bloody lips. His body is a mass of ragged cuts and already darkening bruises. Stark white bone juts from each twisted leg. The creature drops him like a piece of trash, letting the dying man splash into large pool of his own blood before approaching the woman, who is finally beginning to regain consciousness after long minutes. The trembling girl rises from her seat, staring horrified at the menacing creature, but she can’t seem to move any further than that. Her mother, coming fully awake, screams at the girl to run; yet she still stands in mute terror. Harsh laughter bubbles from the creature’s throat as he lifts the woman by her neck, staring into her eyes with an animal hunger. Eyes widening as she realizes the creature’s intent, the woman screams again for her daughter to run, not wanting her to witness the act. Still the girl is rooted to the floor, innocent green eyes riveted on the scene before her. And so it is that the young leader bears witness to the primal violation of the most precious person in her small world. In its fit of carnal ecstasy, the creature reaches out a clawed hand and tears the woman’s throat out before letting her slump to the floor to bleed her life away. Slowly, the tall figure turns it evil gaze upon the tiny girl. She looks over that hard-planed face, pale gray skin, bloody-fanged smile, and reaches the eyes. Emerald burns into emerald as they glimpse the other’s soul for one brief instant. Periphery recedes. The totality of existence resides in that single moment. Birth. A strange understanding claws its way into the light, forcing itself upon the unified mind. Pain. Souls intertwine like the bodies of passionate lovers. Death. In a blur of motion, the creature streaks across the room and picks up the child by the throat, hurling her in the same motion to slam against the far wall. Blackness descends. . .
“I woke scant minutes later, blood pooling under my head.” She poured herself another glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, green eyes staring hard into the distance. “I laid out the ruined bodies of my parents, side by side. I spoke the traditional ritual over them, and then I set our home aflame to serve as their pyre.” Another mouthful of whiskey ran down her throat. “I knelt in the snow and watched it burn all night, sobbing quietly and screaming in rage by turns. In the morning all that was left was a smoking remnant. Only then did I rise and turn to walk away. I never returned. . .That was the end of my childhood.” She finished simply. After a long pause she poured another glass of whiskey and tossed it carelessly down her dry throat. Looking at the bottle and finding it empty, she set the glass gently on the bar and slid down off her barstool. She smiled wryly at the riveted attention of the tender. She always had been an excellent storyteller after all, but it didn’t really matter this time. Without another word she turned and walked out the door. The tender looked at the empty bottle and glass in front of him and wondered where they had come from. Forehead wrinkled in confusion, he took them and set them behind the bar and continued wiping down the counter. Chancing to glance out the window, his jaw dropped in shock. When had it become so late? What had happened in the past hours? He shook his head at himself, wondering if perhaps he was getting old, and went back to his cursory cleaning. Yet he couldn’t get a lingering image of icy emerald eyes out of the back of his mind.
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