The Song of Roland Ch. 20

Kelsea couldn't get the memory of the Priestess' eyes out of her mind. Even as she ran between the curling unearthly fog, flanked on either side by tombstones taller than her head. Even as she ducked between a cleft that separated two entwined grave markers like the coiling spiral of interlaced vines. Even as she listened to the sounds of monsters making war upon mankind, and smelled the pungent stench of burning flesh and acrid smoke hanging in the air all around. Despite the madness that surrounded her, it was all she could think about.

The Succubus could visualize their copper hue, could picture the sharpness of her gaze, the hidden warmth reserved behind a screen of caustic disdain. Just thinking about it made her inner need rise.The woman whose humanity was a mere false facsimile could feel the heavy blush upon her face, the trembling shudder in her inner thighs, the burning heat of her nethers and eternal wetness that lay between her legs.

"I am putting my faith in you." Almyra had said. Such words, coming from a woman of the cloth, meant more to Kelsea than almost anything else in the world... save, perhaps three carefully chosen words that Roland had yet to utter.

Kelsea shook her head from side to side, cursing her wayward mind for dwelling on such trivial things in this dire moment. She had enough to worry about without picturing the way those astounding orbs looked when locked upon her own. Kelsea wanted to debase herself before her, to surrender her body to the gentle benediction of this woman whom she worshipped like the God she served-

"Stop." She commanded the darkest part of herself, grabbing a handful of her right thigh and digging into it hard with her fingernails, drawing blood through the fabric of her pants. Nothing seemed capable of halting her profane concupiscence, nor assuage her boundless arousal. Sprinting through the Cloister graveyard she shivered as she felt the biting anguish of her fingernails. Even pain was pleasure; Kelsea knew firsthand that mere physical torment was not at all an impediment to a Demon's carnal delight. If anything, it enhanced it.

There was cackling in the distance. Like prey noticing the sound of an approaching carnivore her head snapped to the right, peering through the inscrutable mists as she came up short in front of a few, ancient mausoleums. They seemed older, more weather worn and corroded compared to the stones all around. Their designs were boxy: sharp angled and severe. Judging from their size they did not seem to have been built to house humans within them. Kelsea noticed that their stonework was the same, pale white as that of the Inner Cloister's crumbling, stone walls.

Impish laughter carried through the night. There was a sudden, harsh scream, and Kelsea could hear farther away the shouting of men and the sound of battle. In the far distance, blue lights rose beyond the opposite side of the Inner Cloister's circular walls. They arrived from the same direction whence she had abandoned her lover, near the charred remains of the wall the hitherto unseen other Succubus had smashed a hole in. Kelsea bit her lip.

Shaking off the fearful malaise that the Imps instilled in her, Kelsea ran onwards. The graveyard took up the southeastern quarter of the Outer Cloister's area, a ramshackle collection of varying architecture and mismatched grave markers that were arrayed like ever decreasing notches of a measuring stick: the farther she went, the further she delved into the centuries. She reached the other end of the cemetery, coming to a rusted gate that demarcated the border between the living and the dead. At the fence line, the fog seemed to lift, or at least dissipate somewhat.

Rising up from the unearthly mists there appeared the looming monoliths of tall grey spires. As Kelsea's vision cleared she could see two-story buildings of far more solid build and makeup than that of the western half of the town. Instead of straw huts there were true buildings made of lashed logs filled in with plaster, and topped with slanted slate shingles. Though arranged in a somewhat haphazard fashion, she could make out the sight of shops and signs hanging high above the framed doorways. Having just come from the desolation left behind from the Imp attack, it was somewhat jarring to see a place so hale and whole, untouched by their barbarism.

Kelsea leapt the paltry barrier betwixt the graveyard and the mercantile quarter, glancing up into the sky and noting that the gloom of the evening had somewhat receded, revealing a dark sky kept in permanent obscurity by its trickling grey fingers. Kelsea silently prayed to Gosvin that he keep Roland safe for the night, till his holy light could rise on the 'morrow. She prayed for his sake more than hers - if indeed the prayers of Demons counted, or were even noticed by the Gods. She did it anyway.

As Kelsea slinked through the narrow streets, keeping an eye ever on the horizon for trouble, an immediate fact became clear to her: there were no Imps anywhere to be found. A mental map of the town lifted in her head, and she realized she was at almost the opposite end of the village where the wall had been punched through. Demons - never the subtle type - had foregone the flanking tactics of warfare and merely thrown themselves like a wave against the vastly outnumbered peasants of the Cult's community. If there was a single place that was safe from their presence in the Outer Cloister, it was here... for now.

Kelsea flitted from cover to cover like a nervous mouse in the realm of hunting night owls. She was painfully aware of the natural draw that her very being engendered in the Imps. To them she was the supreme prey: a creature born to bear more of their kind in an endless cycle of sacrilegious copulation and germination. She shuddered at the thought, wincing inwardly at the scurrilous twinge of excitement it brought to her inhuman side. The little voice that buzzed in her head was getting louder now, getting more agitated and inflamed.

They're waiting for you. Grevich's voice said, though the thought was her own. It created a repulsive melody in her head. They want you. Take them for yourself. Make them your tools.

Tools for what? The question hung heavy in her mind as she glanced at the swinging signs that indicated a local barber-surgeon's shop, a bakery and a goods store. Kelsea didn't want anything; she'd never wanted anything resembling the things the voice imposed on her. Power was merely an abstract concept to her; rulership was a man with a sword who spat out rules that no one listened to once the vagabond had vacated the immediate area. What did she care for power, or dominion over others? Why did the voice crave things for her that she'd never coveted for herself? It was lust without depth, desire without meaning.

Her mother had always chided her on the ambiguity of her dreams. Kelsea had only ever known what she did not want to be: a person who sold herself to others based purely on the merit of her corporeal flesh. Her desires were insipid, her hopes little else beyond finding joy in whatever little nook of the world she could fit into. She worked for bread, struggled for security, and hoped for love... but she had no grand design to guide her, no abiding passion or skill that had driven her to commit great deeds or accomplish impossible tasks.

Perhaps that was why she had fallen so easily: her puerile aspirations had wilted in the unflinching crucible of Grevich's cave. He had moulded her, shaped her like malleable clay into this thing that wore a mask of humanity but only bore the barest hint of the person she had once been. As she searched in the dim lamp light for the tavern she had been told was there, she reflected on that old, existential question that had dogged her since she had first been cast out into the world by a bored and annoyed Grevich:

Am I still Kelsea? ...Am I still "me?"

That question had seemed to have been already answered by the simple nature of her biology. 'Kelsea' had needed to eat, she had needed to sleep. The girl she had once been had loved to hear the harmonious sound of a choir's tone, had lain in the sunlight and basked in Gosvin's blessed glow. 'Kelsea' had played like an older sister with the street urchins of Arjal, chasing one another and playing senseless games in the dark alleys of the red light district.

Whatever creature she was now, however, did none of those things. When she risked the bramble path of dwelling overlong on her past, she became caught within the cycles that now permeated her mind like a virus. Memories that had once been but warm recollections from childhood became warped, twisted and perverted... often quite literally. Instead of recalling the smell of her mother's hair, she imagined the smell of it mixed in the midst of sexual intercourse and frantic mating. When she thought of her small troupe of misfits and ne'er-do-wells dressed in filthy rags and sporting gap-toothed smiles, she pictured instead the lot of them naked, exposed to her like the slaves the voice in her head kept demanding her to make.

Not even her previous life was safe from desecration: memories were just another torpid fantasy to wile away the hours while the mortals slept; her very innocence was a stolen anguish. Until she met the roughspoken man with the deep blue eyes and mane of fiery hair to whom she was now irreparably indebted, the question itself had - in her mind - been a long buried corpse. She was a Demon. And a Demon needed to feed.

But now that Roland was here, the vexing query only grew in the back of her mind. Was she Kelsea? He certainly seemed to think so. The way he'd asked her for her name, when they had first met had jarred something deep within herself.

Perhaps it was pointless. As Kelsea at last found the entrance to the tavern, she reflected that she no longer knew what 'Kelsea' would have thought of the actions she now took and the choices she'd made since she had been forcibly transformed. Killing people, fucking people, controlling their wills... as she walked into the tavern and spotted the discernible silhouette of one of her victims the Succubus who bore a dead girl's name realized that it was a mystery, likely never to be answered.

An arrow struck the wall right to the left of her head, throwing all such thoughts from her mind in a flash.

Kelsea let out a yelp of surprise, jerking in place as the red feather shook from the force of the impact against the wall. Her blue eyes widened with sudden clarity as she realized just how close the arrow had come to striking her. She turned, staring wide-eyed at the man behind the barkeeper's counter as he held his bow aloft, still pointing at her though the arrow had already been loosed.

Carl, the boyish-faced mercenary, stared back at her, a hardness to his brow that only deepened once he caught her expression. He blew a spout of air from the corner of his mouth, his bow lowering only after he reached with his free hand to grasp the mug of ale sitting beneath the bartender's counter. Carl sized her up, his one eye never leaving her as he upended the wooden cup and chugged the whole of its contents in a single, protracted sitting. He smashed it down onto the countertop, letting out a hefty breath and wiping blithely at the suds that built in the corners of his lips.

"Should've figured it'd be you." He said, his voice free of malice but coated with disdain. He turned away from her, tossing his beloved weapon aside like unused kindling towards her general direction. It clattered down onto the floor, sliding beneath one of the few tables in the humble tavern, bumping against a rickety chair. The sound of gushing liquid told her he was refilling his cup from the tap.

"Carl." She said, ignoring the subtle glow that seemed to fall upon him from the roaring hearth to their right. It disturbed her that such an inconsequential detail could cause her thighs to tighten and her lower lips to moisten. There had been so little time to flee that the absent barkeep had neglected to snuff it out. The flames were beginning to die now, but for the moment it cast the room in a gentle, orange glow. "The town is under attack. The Imps are-"

"I know they're here, Succubus." He said, tipping the cup to his lips and taking a deep swallow. "A deaf leper could've noticed all the commotion going on outside." He took another swig.

She moved into the tavern proper, closing the heavy door behind her and bolting it from the inside. "Then what are you doing here?" She asked, staring at the back of his head and wishing for all the world that she could think of anything other than their illicit tryst above the cliff, two days before.

Carl let out a hearty laugh, ignoring her as he picked up another mug and filled it to the brim. Taking both in hand, he circled around the counter, putting them down upon the nearest table and collapsing into the vacant seat in front of them. He leaned back, planting a leg atop the table as it spasmodically tapped at the air. Carl gave a caustic grin, taking the first mug and pulling from it once again. Kelsea could hear the audible gulping as he spilled twin lines of gold down his sallow cheeks.

A blush of indignation rose to her face. The way he looked at her... it was like she was an object; a thing to be ridiculed. "Carl." She said, her voice dark and commanding. He ignored her.

"Go pester some other unfortunate servant, Succubus." He said, sitting back in the chair so the front legs were off the ground. "I'm sure by now you've got plenty of admirers waiting to have their souls sucked out through their cocks by you."

"Everyone else is out there," She said, thrusting her hand behind her as she gestured to the door. "Fighting. Dying. And if you don't go out there yourself-"

Carl's yellow eyebrow quirked, "I'll be enslaved by a Demon?" He laughed again. "Spin me a sweeter pitch, little slut; I need a better offer than the one I've already got."

Kelsea's fists clenched. She stalked over to where he was sitting, looming over him as he plied his inebriated insolence. The Succubus glared down at his irascible face, the arrogant smile an insult to her senses. She wanted to slap him and kiss him at the same time. He was maddening in his ability to irritate and arouse her.

The man's cocky grin grew wider. He patted his spread groin. "Aye, that's it: come sit in my lap, like a lovely, wanton wench. I'll ring your bell and you can rip out my waggling tongue, just as soon as it gets a taste of your soppy socket." He took another sip and flung the half-filled cup at her feet. The force of the throw sent it spinning between her spread legs, spraying ale about as it clattered on the floor. Kelsea was taken aback, but she stood her ground.

Carl eyed her nonresponse. "Well? What are you waiting for?" He gestured in dismissal. "Be off! I've got half a keg of sour piss to drink 'afore the hideous little shits break down the door."

"You're coming with me." Kelsea said, her voice low as the mercenary reached for the other mug. She set her palm atop the rim. He tried to pull it away from her by the handle but her unholy strength made it an easy thing to keep it planted to the table. He gave her a dark look.

"Let go. Of my drink." He said with slow menace, "Succubus." He snarled.

"What are you doing here, Carl?" She asked, ignoring his toothless threat. His nostrils flared.

"I was sedating myself, till a fiendish whore walked in and started touching my cups." He snapped.

"There's a war going on outside." She said, "-And we need a real warrior to help us fight, not a drunk to wet his drawers."

The front of Carl's chair slammed down upon the ground. His leg removed itself from the lip of the table. "The last time you 'asked' for my help in a fight," He said, "I murdered my companions and betrayed the men I'd fought with for years. Pardon if after that I don't become some fervid paragon floating above the ground, ready to die for the sake of a bunch of religious nutcases, a traitor, and a Demon!"

She pulled the cup away from him, it scratched across the wooden table. "-So you'd rather just curl up and wait to die? The Imps won't spare you any more than they will the rest of us."

Carl's eyes turned to stare straight at her. Something fiery dwelled within them. "You're goddamn right I'd 'rather!'" He shouted, standing up in a rush and knocking his chair over in the process. Instead of reaching for his cup he tipped the table over, spilling a torrent of ale and causing such a ruckus that Kelsea involuntarily shrank back. However, Carl surged forward, grabbing her by the face under the chin, clenching his fingers and thumb against her cheeks as he squeezed. "You haughty fucking whore!" Carl yelled. "You have the nerve to keep doing this to me, leading me along like I'm some dim child?"

Kelsea shoved him, and he spilled back against the overturned table, stumbling a bit from the drink. He nearly tipped over, but he righted himself, holding fast to the edge of the table. Carl gave her a black look. Kelsea herself was on the verge of hitting him.

"Don't touch me, Carl." She said, striding over towards his discarded weapon. "Don't question me," She bent down, consciously giving him a view of her rear as she picked up his bow, "Just take this and follow me!" She tossed the weapon at him. Instead of catching it he merely let it whap against his chest and fall to the floor.

Carl shook his head from side to side. She could see something wet in the corners of his eyes. "...You won't stop, will you? Stealing my wits and ruining my life wasn't enough, was it? You want a driveling toady to follow you around while you play 'consort' with Roland. A spineless sycophant to do your dirty deeds and sweep your crimes under the bedsheets as you give doe eyes to that ginger-whiskered deserter."

"That's not-"

"You made me butcher my friends!" He shouted at the top of his lugs. Carl's voice was screeching, hysterical and high-pitched. His eyes bugged out of his head and his fists shook with rage as he kicked the stricken table behind him. "Do you forget your sins so easily? You are a heartless harlot underneath all of that 'kindhearted' bluster." He spat a wad of saliva at her feet.

"You have ruined everything I've ever worked for in the space of a month. You've turned all my dreams into charred ashes, and now you come crawling to me asking for help?" He laughed with bitter acrimony. "You can't even loan me your cunt for a day, what makes you think you're worth dying for, eh?"

His voice began to break, his arm shaking as it struggled to support him against the table. "By all rights I should have sworn an undying oath of vengeance against you. You should be my mortal enemy." His spine shivered, his green eyes looking up with distress at her own. "Y-yet all I can think about is settling in your arms and kissing your lips, till you gasp into mine."

"Don't you get it yet, you unforgivable bitch?" He clenched his teeth and looked down, sinking slowly to the ground as he collapsed upon his own melancholy. "Don't you know what it's like to want - to need someone whom you utterly despise? Don't you see what you've done to me? What you're doing to me?"

I do. Kelsea thought, but she shoved that glimmer of shared empathy down into her chest. She shook her head back and forth. "Carl," She said, her voice softening as she lowered herself to his level. She clambered to her knees and began to crawl towards him. Her eyes lidded, her consciousness reaching out to caress that little, lingering fiber that bound them together in an imperceptible compact. "There's no time. We need you." She pulled harder, feeling his eyes turn with an involuntary twitch to meet her own. "I need you." She breathed.