Second Story

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

The scent of fresh blood was heavy in the air as the midday sun passed high overhead, and the young swordsman lay dying upon the grass, two very dirty and very barbaric-looking bandits standing over him, one sitting on the grass eating some of the food from his pack, the other holding a blade recently wet with the young one’s blood. As for the young one’s blade, it lay in three pieces on the ground in front of him, broken.

The young swordsman was originally blond, small, with powerful muscles from training. He couldn’t have been over twenty-one, tops; however, it was quite clear he wouldn’t be alive for much longer, and a miracle he was still able to breathe, really. The entire left side of his face had been completely shorn away; even the eye had been stabbed out, and the other side of his face was cut up so bad that one even see bloody fragments of bone now and again. His throat slashed, his clothes in ragged tatters (what was left of them) and so many slashes and cuts had been made on him that with each breath he took, it managed to push some more of his sliced and bloody innards out toward the surface, occasionally spilling onto the ground beside him.

The taller of the two bandits, who looked like a cross between a human and a bear, gave a grunt of annoyance, although he was breathing very heavy. He had quite a few cuts and slashes all over him; the child had clearly put up a fight. “Feh. Such a foolish kid. Still, he was one scary intense bastard; can’t believe he’s still breathing after that. By all rights he should be dead a thousand times over.”

The other one, who looked a bit like a weasel, gave a cackle and said, “Yeh should be ashamed of yaself, Bear- yer a great effin’ demon, for christ sake. Kid just ein’t more’n a human child, or leastwise he ein’t got no magical powers.”

The one called Bear turned and gave the other one a dark and dangerous look. “Fuck me if that’s a human; he’s hellish strong. He nearly got me about seventeen times, straight through the neck; I’ve never even met another demon who can fight with a sword as good as he. Not only that, but he’s still alive; he didn’t even seem to feel the pain for the slashes I gave him; he may not be too fast or strong, but hell, he’s definitely got skill!I don’t care what he is, that is one effing intense bastard!”

“So kill ‘im already.”

Bear took a step forward, then hesitated. “Fuck. I can’t. Weasel, you do it.”

The smaller one, Weasel gave Bear an odd look. “What the shit, man, you can’t kill a defenseless kid? Just chop off his damn head; he obviously can’t move now. Just take his effing head off.”

“I really don’t think that’s wise. I mean, seriously, you saw this kid fight; he’s fucking intense! If I move any closer to him, I’m scared to death he’s gonna pull out some trick or another and take my head off instead of his. That’s how good this fucker is; even half dead, I don’t want anything else to do with him, man!”

“At least you’ve shown you have some sense, then, fool.”

Both Weasel and Bear turned their heads at the sound of a third voice. “Wha- who the fuck are you?”

From out of seemingly nowhere had appeared a man standing over the near-dead body of the blond-haired one; he looked a bit, one might say, unusual, under any circumstances. He appeared to be around thirty years of age; however, he had bright pink hair with silver spikes atop of it. His skin type was Caucasian, and he only wore tight black leather clothing; sleeveless tank top, shorts that went to the knees, and he was barefoot. He also had black snakeskin belts diagonal across his waist, one diagonal from the right and one diagonal from the left, with fingerless gloves on both hands and wore a small silver chain on the side of his shorts. His right arm, from the shoulder to the wrist, was completely tattooed with closely spaced thin black stripes, with three red stripes going through all of them in a continuous unbroken line down the arm. His left arm was completely tattooed over with a pattern of bird feathers, the same as a black raven might have, and colored black as well, so that the entire arm was black save for the white outlines of the feathers. His left leg was tattooed with a pattern of barbed wire criss-crossing and going around the entire leg going down the entire leg, and the right leg was a tattooed pattern of green and purple flames. He wore black lipstick and looked like he used eye liner; he was quite skinny, scrawny, small, looking like a single gust of wind could blow him away. He had metal studded bracelets on his wrist, and wore a black spiked dog collar; he also seemed to have half a million piercings on him.

There were about eighteen silver hoop earrings in his right ear, along with two metal studs, a small black skull-shaped icon, and what looked like a fish hook; in his left ear, there were seven black hoops, a pentagram ring dangling down, six metal studs, and another black skull. He had all four ends of his eyebrows pierced with small little hoops, all three nostrils, and what looked like vampire fangs bolted into his lips, both top and bottom. Embedded in his left cheek were about seventeen rings set along a reverse pentagram tattoo; in the right cheek there was an actual, large, pentagram-shaped item painted black what looked like physically bolted there. There were three small rings in his chin, and a metal bar on his tongue. It was doubtless that he has piercings in other places, too, judging by how many he had there. Even more interesting than his piercings, however, were his eyes: one was bright purple and the other yellow at the moment, but they were constantly changing color, and never stayed the same color for more than a few milliseconds. Not only that, but it appeared they were never the same color, either.

Weasel and Bear were staring at him as if he were some kind of massive freak. He didn’t seem to notice; his face was extremely expressionless and he completely motionless except for his stomach going in and out showing that he was breathing, and when he blinked, it just seemed wrong, as if he was a moving statue. “My name is Nesoma. If you value your lives, I suggest your make full reparations on the harm you have caused this child.”

Bear and Weasel looked at each other, and suddenly cracked up laughing. Nesoma didn’t even blink. “Very well, then. If that’s your answer, then die.” Suddenly, the fingers of his gloves turned into black, glossy hawk-like curved talons, and then he seemed to disappear for a moment; a second later, something kicked Bear up into the air and shot up right behind him, massive bat wings having come out of its shoulders. Nesoma’s newly taloned hands reached around and, in one swift movement, speared his body right through and tore it into two pieces, spilling his innards all over the ground. Landing softly himself as the two pieces of Bear’s body landed about five feet from each other, he gave Weasel a stone-cold glare. “Your turn.” Weasel would have blinked in disbelief right then if he had been given the time; however, in that moment, Nesoma had appeared right in front of him and speared his face completely through with all ten talon-fingers, leaving ten holes one could see all the way through out the back of Weasel’s skull in his head.

Finished with the bloody killing, Nesoma’s hands returned to normal and he walked over to stand above the body of the young swordsman. Pressing two fingers to the temple of his head, he said aloud, “This is shape shifter Nesoma Gasuka of the Forest Clan requesting assistance from the Wraiths. I have here a severely wounded child you might be interested in. I saw him fight; I like him. If you choose to accept him into your ranks, I can assure you he has great potential. His eyes show a burning ambition and thirst for power. It terrifies me.”

[Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander]

Very interesting. You write very well, might I add, this a very good piece and I hope it evolves into something more. :3 I'll be awaiting more to read!

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Thankees! I don't have any more of it typed up at the moment, but this is the second part of this story, at least. It's probably not as good, but it's a required lead-up to a major transition in the story.
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Wha… I’m alive?

The blackness of the night, judging from the level of the light shining in from wherever, was giving way to the day; the young one could feel himself just laying there, and he could only see out of one eye. That much he already knew; he could remember a little bit before he passed out, being in extreme pain but fighting to prove himself. By all rights, he shouldn’t be alive right now, not with the damage he had taken. At the moment, he couldn’t feel any pain, but he also couldn’t move; all he could do was stare up at a brown, rocky ceiling, likely the inside of a cave while laying on something that felt really soft, like furs or the like. Somebody had probably saved him from the thieves; he doubted, however, that they had caught them. He had been training his whole life with the blade, and whoever his foe was, they had been truly strong.

Suddenly, to his shock, an extremely decorated head with pink and silver hair appeared above his line of vision; two of the five pierced rings o his chin looked rather new. His eyes scared the young one; they looked rather like they would kill without hesitation if needed, and they were truly expressionless. The mouth opened, and the pink-haired man said, “Good. You’re awake. You’ve been out for seven days, six hours, and forty-three minutes.”

The young one stared up at this weird man with some confusion; he would have asked him who he as, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

“Do not try to move, demon slayer Azrael Drakun. Rest assured, the bandits have been taken care of, and you were at the brink of death. I believe we both know you should have been dead a few days back by now. My name is Nesoma, but within this place it is Transitional, and-” he pointed to the two new-looking piercings on his chin- “these are the lives of the two who did this to you. I killed them before attending to you.”

Azrael, the youngling, drew in a sharp breath; obviously, if this one had managed to take out both the bandits and save him, he was probably pretty strong. Either that, or he had strong allies. If Azrael managed to recover, he would have to beg this man to teach him how to be stronger.

At that moment Transitional turned his heard toward the source of the light. “Good evening, Lady Midnight. He has just awoken.”

A soothing, beautiful female voice answered in return, “This is good news for you, Transitional. Had you wasted our time with this offering, rest assured, you would have suffered quite heavily for your error.”

Transitional seemed to give a graceful bow to the speaker and said, “Indeed. That is why I have remained here. I do not believe that leaving while he was wounded was a wise decision. I do not desire to be the next target of an executioner.”

“You still very well might be, for he is still quite wounded. You should have gone out to help him out earlier; if he is unable to fully recover, we will take payment for having to care for him out of your flesh.” Suddenly, Azrael felt himself go limp and lift into the air, made to stand upright while floating in the air, and from there he was able to observe the whole room. The room, by the way, was a small cave, with a forest outside, hidden by a waterfall, and he had been lying, as he had thought, on a bed of furs. There was nothing else in the room save Transitional and the girl called Midnight.

Midnight, by the way, was a tan-skinned girl, as if she lived somewhere quite tropical and with a lot of sun; her form was graceful and slender, and very beautiful. It seemed she had captured the essence and beauty of the moon itself, and it radiated from her graceful body like moonlight. She wore a slim, tight black dress that seemed to be made of satin, with long, luxurious black hair with an occasional black butterfly clip spread throughout it hanging in braids halfway to her waist, wearing both black lipstick and black eye liner/shadow. Her feet were exposed; she walked barefoot, and both her finger and toenails were painted black. The dress was designed to show off her looks, apparently; it was open at the sides from the waist down, and there were no shoulders to it; also, the top and bottom halves of the dress were connected only in the front; the sides of her dress above her waist were also open. She seemed to walk n a rather seductive and enchanting way, full of grace and elegance; from her shoulders, large wings, like black dove’s wings, were present, and they seemed to wrap about her body from behind to frame her beautiful, slender frame. Her dress was sleeveless, and she had a tattoo of a thorn pattern running criss-cross down both her arms, with occasional blue flowers amidst the green vines of the thorny tattoo. These ended on her hands with a black flower on her left hand, a white on her right, and she wore a solid black ring with golden runes on her ring finger of her right hand. Around her neck was a silver chain, with a shiny black onyx cross with a diamond-shaped emerald set in the middle of it.

“Hmm… it seems his wounds have made little progress, even with our healers, Transitional. And if he is awake, I should like to talk to him. Is this permissible?”

“It is, Lady Midnight.” Transitional gave her a most elegant and graceful bow.

Pointing one finger at Azrael, a flash of unusual light appeared at the tip of her finger, and suddenly there was a red light around Azrael for a moment before it faded away again. Staring up at him, the Lady Midnight said, “Your name is Azrael Drakun, and you are a demon hunter. Am I correct in these details? If you desire to respond, focus your thoughts on projecting your words from your mind, and speech will be allowed to you.”

It took Azrael a couple minutes, but he managed to figure out how to speak using only his aura following her instructions, and with his newly restored voice, the first words out of his aura as he glared down at the lady in front of him were, I am. Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Mistress Lilith, queen of the gothic emo bitches?

Lady Midnight did not take that comment well; while giving him a look that pretty much said that he would burn in hell for that comment, she herself vocalized, “Another comment like that, and I will teach you a new definition of pain, Azrael. I am an Elder of those who reside within this forest, and it is only by our good graces that you still live.” She gave a smirk now, showing off a pair of vampire fangs stained a rustic brown with years of usage within her mouth amongst some other perfectly white and flawless teeth. “And I do so like your blood, as well. You are of both the Creation and the Void, are you not? A worthless half-breed who has no natural abilities other than that he can take a beating and those of a human. I must admit I whole-heartedly approve; you will make a good addition to the legions of the Wraiths.”

Azrael narrowed his eye at her. And just what in bloody fucking hell is a Wraith?

Midnight fixed him with a rather bored gaze. “Hm. He has quite the foul mouth for one so young. It is a true pity his body will never recover from that last fight properly, however.” She gave a petit little smile. “But I can help you there. You, born without powers- you seek to eradicate that problem, right? You seek the rightful strength that was robbed from you at birth, do you not? The Wraiths can help you. We can restore your body, better than new; we can give you the ability to use magic, to be strong, to give you everything you might desire… and all you need to do is make a few small sacrifices, just to obtain it all. If not, you will be killed; it will be a far greater mercy than letting you live as crippled as you are. Forever unable to move, you would starve to death within a week, without being able to have a drink, to feel the moist taste of food on your tongue, or even do anything more than sleep, and stare at the ceiling. You can’t even speak without our help. Do you truly want to die, like that? Or will you seek our help, our power, and give yourself to us?” Midnight walked over to him and began stroking his cheek beneath his one good eye. He couldn’t even feel it. “We of the Wraiths can help you, Azrael. All you have to do is pledge yourself to us, and we will make you one of us. We will make you a demon, Azrael; just join us, and we can restore you to a life far better than any you have had before. Say yes, and I’ll heal your body.” She gave a smirk, and drew her face in close to his; she didn’t look any older than a teenager; seventeen, at best. “So. What do you say?”

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

MATURE- 18+ ONLY PLEASE SO LEGAL TROUBLES DON'T OCCUR FOR YOU. I WILL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE. YOU WERE WARNED.




The third part of the story; no, the story's not done yet after this, but I thought it was a good way to end it.
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The full moon was high overhead a small forest clearing, in the middle of a deep valley in the deepest part in the middle of a forest that stretched for miles upon miles, covering an entire country in shadows. In the area around the perfectly circular clearing, there were several torches casting an eerie light upon the proceedings that were about to begin that clear-skied starry night. All around the forest clearing, close to five hundred beings watched with bated breath, neither living nor dead, invisible to the naked eye, all of them Wraiths, all hanging out and about in the trees. In the center of the clearing stood Lady Midnight over a body covered in a white sheet; Transitional stood near one of the torches, in front of her. Lady Midnight stood up straight and tall, her eyes gazing skyward, directly at the moon, with her hands at her sides. In one of them was held a knife with a handle and blade both made of black onyx, with an ancient rune word set into the handle made out of rubies shining bright, the color of blood, reading Hatred.

Finally, after what seemed like several minutes, she looked down at Transitional, and, slowly walking around the body in three circles, seemed to look at each of the Wraiths hidden in the trees individually, and yet all at the same time, even the ones beyond her line of sight, or even behind her.

“My fellow Wraiths, I welcome you to yet another gathering- our six hundredth and sixty-sixth, in fact. It is on this night, under the light of our sacred Mother Moon, that we are here to commemorate the death of the demon slayer Azrael Drakun, and-“ she looked at Transitional quickly- “to welcome a new member to our growing family, the first in over one hundred and seventy-five years. I beg of you, those who are with us still, who have not died since the Wraiths first came upon this world, to not only pay homage to the passing of the life of this young soul, but to all our brothers and sisters who have died in the three thousand and seventy-two years of our existence. I, the oldest living and only remaining of the original Wraiths, welcome you here as is the duty of the Queen of the Ceremonies, accompanied tonight by an outsider, Nesoma Gasuka, known to us as Transitional. He has done a great many deeds for us before, and it is only because of him that we are able to join with us another member of our great and powerful family this night.”

Midnight raised one hand, and, pointing it each of the individual torches, they all suddenly flared and went out. Incidentally, there were only thirteen torches. “As is customary of our race, we do not allow light to expose to undesirables what we do in order to obtain our power. Tonight, there are precisely an even amount of people in the audience; for the first time, as well, an even amount of males and females. This means that, as I have the newest member of our family to deal with, each of us has a partner for the Dance of Sun and Moon, uniting our energies into one great cosmic force, exchanging our powerful spirit energies and welcoming into our order he who shall henceforth be known as Spirit.”

She walked over to the white sheet on the body and snapped her fingers; almost immediately it vanished. Azrael’s body beneath it, still as death, was flawless as ever; no wounds or scars anywhere, shaved hairless save for the blond hair atop his head. His body was not clothed in anything, and he lay there, still as death, as if just sleeping. Nesoma, from the trees, just watched with the eyes of an owl, so that he might have night vision, as Midnight removed her dress, and the sound of many others within the trees were doing the same. “My brothers and sisters, in order for us to proceed much further into our sacred ways, we must first complete the ritual of unity of Sun and Moon.” She raised her hand that had the dagger and, suddenly, she flung it down- right through the heart of the body of Azrael. The body did not even move an inch; there was no other sound other than the knife going in, not even of crickets chirping within the woods. “The spirit receptacle is ready for our dance to begin, brothers and sisters. I would like you to begin the Dance of Sun and Moon.”

From all around the clearing, the trees suddenly began to sound out, with their leaves rustling and bodies moving within. It was near an hour before any of them stopped, with Lady Midnight standing perfectly still in the center of the clearing, her feet planted apart on either side of Azrael’s body’s head, her arms flung out to her side, eyes closed, staring up at the moon. When the last of the leaves had finally stopped shaking, her eyes opened, glowing red, and suddenly she brought both fingers together over her head, then bent over, touching the tip of the blade of the knife with the very middle of them, the third finger going either way, counting the thumb.

There seemed to be a sudden jolt of energy; all around the clearing, the trees rustled with the sound of wind, although there was none, and Azrael’s body suddenly jerked, as if all the body’s muscles had suddenly gone tense. That included one male-specific part as well. Lady Midnight’s eyes, no longer glowing red, looked at it for a couple minutes before standing up and resuming the position she had been in during the Dance of Sun and Moon.

“My Brothers of Life; my Sisters of Death, I thank you. For your contributions, I can feel the energy slowing becoming that of us. Spirit shall soon become a Brother of Death, and in this we well henceforth be ever stronger. However, his ascension is not complete. We of the Wraiths are creatures of sin; our very existence is an affront to the gods of the humans, a rejection of the morals of all other races, and a defiance to the laws that dictate what we can and cannot be. We must further awaken our newest Brother of Death; I beg of you, be generous. Share with him more of our power; to deny the laws of the world is no easy task. We are now upon the second of three stages for our Dance of Sun and Moon. With this stage we will not only give him forth the breath of life, but also of our own strengths. Please, I beg of all our brothers and sisters, will you not give him of your very soul itself? I, too, shall join in this dance, as is custom; I, the vessel chosen for awakening by our Mother Moon will be the vessel with which to directly share spiritual energies with the purity of his soul. Please begin, and I shall join as we go.”

Once again, the rustling in the trees began; after a few minutes Azrael’s body began to glow red, and one could literally see energy flowing into his body. Midnight, watching his aura and the flow of energy, couched down and began to rub against him, and then leaned forward to begin the sharing of her spiritual energies with his body.

At that time, a suddenly loud and unpredicted shriek, not unlike that of a most horrid banshee, broke through the air, brining a sudden and deathlike halt to all the dances currently going on. All eyes gazed toward the center of the trees where Lady Midnight stood, her face, wide-eyed, just above the still-closed eyes of Azrael, frozen in both shock and silence. Nothing had ever interrupted the sacred Dance of Sun and Moon before. Unable to contain her surprise, with all eyes on her, she suddenly gave a cough and almost fell onto the body of Azrael, blood splattering the golden locks of the silent, still form. She tried to stand up, but felt a restriction within her chest, between her two large areas of the upper torso; shaking, she looked at them, and, to her absolute terror, saw blood running down an arm that not only went into her chest, but she could feel coming out the other side as well. Her eyes looked back the still-closed eyes of the seemingly lifeless form, starting to glaze over, just as they fluttered open, yellow, and gazing back into hers.

Spirit Drakun, newly born, not even knowing his own name, awoke for the first time that night, with no memory of who he was or how he got there. The only thing he new for certain was that there was a breeze, his hand hurt, and somehow, without any knowledge of the event, he had managed to kill a stark-naked lady on her hands and knees leaning over him, who was staring at him with no emotion other than astonishment. A truly beautiful lady, he had thought, an he had killed her.

He decided in that moment, in the first hour of his life, he could never live with himself for what he’d done.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Nesoma sighed as he walked through the lush, green forest, heavily surrounded by trees on all sides and walking down a very old and decrepit trail of stones set in the ground that was barely visible underneath al the voilage that had grown over them since the Wraiths had first appeared. Today was the first day in five years he was able to head back to the Wraith territory; up until then, his own clan had needed him. He had received the summons the morning after the failed ritual to return home; he had heard they redid Spirit’s ascension ceremony, but he wasn’t there for it. In the meantime, he had received no word of the fate of the child so far; they had called it an accident and let him go. Wraiths were like that: cold, heartless, didn’t care for even others of their own kind. They were only interested in obtaining power, and to them Spirit had been a curiosity. Lady Midnight had been the first-ever Wraith to have been killed by a physical method; supposedly, they were unable to be killed that way, their physical bodies truly immortal. One could only wonder what had really happened. Nesoma hadn’t seen Spirit since the day before his ritual; even if they met up, Spirit would not recognize him. Upon ascension, all Wraiths lost all memories of their previous identities. They might remember things later, but it was only the equivalent to them of reading about somebody’s life in a book. It wasn’t their life or their experiences- just an event to them.

“Nesoma Gasuka. I request that you cease immediately.” Nesoma froze; the voice had come from behind him; no Wraiths ever came out this far. Unless…. But no; they never came anywhere near the Wraith Grounds, not unless called, and thankfully Nesoma had never met them. They were, reputedly, the most powerful and deadly demons in all the world; Nesoma could think of nothing they might want with him. Patiently he waited for the speaker to continue. He didn’t have to wait for long. However, what the speaker said next nearly made him wet himself.

“I am Kekkai Dhampir of the Thirteen Executioners. You have been targeted for elimination by our most powerful and graceful Lord Darkness. Please do not resist; the more you do, the more painful it shall become. Now. Turn around and face me.”

Nesoma broke out in a sweat of internal terror; so it was them, after all. The Executioners never used their real names, followed the Religion of Ishiki- the same religion Nesoma followed- and were the most feared and dangerous of all the Wraiths. There were only ever thirteen, and whoever they chose to train; they were considered as equals to the Lords and the Elders of the Wraiths as well, and while they didn’t live with the Wraiths, they always traveled around the world, growing strong and powerful against everything they could, learning all they could. The only thing Nesoma knew about them was that they were all supposed to be either sadists or masochists- quite often both. They still had some emotions, but only dark ones: hatred, wrath, lust…. They were said to be the ultimate killing machines, but they never killed without a direct order from the Elders because of their religion. Instead, rather, they tortured their targets within an inch of their life, keeping them alive through magical methods, and then once they’ve had their fun they heal the bodies of their victims like new. Executioners were bad business; they were very bad people to get involved with. Aside from the obvious of killing, they also brought bad luck like a plague wherever they went.

Nesoma turned around shakily; the Executioner in fron tof him was wearing the typical all-black assassin’s uniform; only the hands, feet, and head were not covered. The pants and shirt were usually made of either silk or satin, with rock-hard body armor vests, a belt at their waists with a sword sheathed upon it, a couple pouches here and there for various materials, and a couple knives for throwing. They kept at least four hidden blades on them at all times as well. Sandals were part of their uniform; although they looked normal; however, by releasing a hidden seal beneath the soles of their feet, a spiky, jagged blade appeared surrounding the base of the foot, or at the bottom, so that they could scale cliffs of trees with ease or even deal purely devastating kicks. Nesoma had seen the hands of a foe who had been holding the sandal when the seal was released when Nesoma was on cleanup duty once for an assassination just outside the domain of the Wraiths; it was perhaps one of the most gruesome things that could have been done to somebody. At their back, all Executioners carried a small pole the length of their back; by focusing their energy, this pole could become a large variety of weapons, including an axe or a spear. Not only that, but it was actually hollow inside, with three spare lengths; by opening it, the pole could actually become four times its actual length. A headband was worn around the forehead just under the hair; hidden in it was a diamond-hard piece of armor that, should any weapon strike it, the weapon would disintegrate and any limb that held the weapon would become suddenly paralyzed for a minimum of fifteen minutes. The headband went all the way around the head, and was custom-made to fit the wearer’s head. On their hands they worm fingerless gloves; these hid tiny pieces of metal that, should the executioner activate them, would surround the fingers to make razor-sharp hooked claws for tearing and slicing. Once again, these were custom-made.

The hair of this particular executioner was pitch-black, flat on top, hanging loose and brushed to the sides of his face; it was shoulder-length and remarkably glossy. What looked like it was literally bolted onto his skin was a black, shiny, metal reverse pentagram, but that was the only bit of Penance Markings on this Executioner’s skin. That meant he had only killed one person before- he had only added one bit of body art or body restrictors. The skin was pale, almost enough to see the veins beneath the skin; this was typical of Wraiths. The eyes were a piercing yellow, extremely powerful, extremely intense- and then Nesoma recognized the Executioner. It was Spirit. Nesoma didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved. If Spirit was already an executioner, that meant he could only be Position One, the weakest Executioner of the total Thirteen. However, the fact that he was already strong enough to be an Executioner was a very worrying fact.

Wraiths, typically, who had absolutely no magical power, ability, or resistance before they were Awakened were generally about the level of a D-class magical being when they were Awakened- the second weakest class. However, every year for eighteen years their power doubled at the start of every year. Usually, by year thirteen, they were already am above-S-class demon, the strongest class. By year fifteen they were usually as strong as demigods. By eighteen, they were nearly invincible in magical fights, and while they still had almost no magical resistance, save to their own magic, they were incredibly hard to kill. However, at eighteen, their ability to gain power either stopped completely, or, in the case of Executioners, slowed to such a crawl, it took a hundred years of training to get even the slightest bit stronger. Executioners, for that reason, were only chosen after their first fifty years; Spirit had to be the first-ever Wraith chosen to become an Executioner before then. Executioners, once chosen, did almost nothing but train once they were chosen; for this reason, while Wraiths were one of the most powerful things in the universe- nay, in any universe- Executioners were without equal. Not only that, but Wraiths were True Immortals- those who could not age or die, not without a hell of a lot of magical attacks. They could not die through physical methods, and only gods, demigods, or another Wraith were said to possess the power to kill them- although it was possible for others, it was just incredibly difficult.

Nesoma turned to face Spirit full-on. “So. You’re an executioner.”

Spirit nodded. “And you would be Nesoma Gasuka, correct? I am the Seventh-Position Executioner, Spirit Drakun, alias Kekkai Dhampir. Prepare to die.”

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Nesoma stared at Spirit incredulously. Seventh position.... but…. That means he must have a truly insane amount of power... Nesoma wasn’t sure if he should try and run or not. Executioners were so hard to kill, they had only ever been thirteen- all of them second-generation Wraiths, from about fifty years after the original Wraiths had appeared. Only one had ever been killed, although they were never replaced, so there had been an open spot, but still… With Spirit in seventh position, and the fact that Wraiths could only gain power in the doubling at the start of the year- never between- and another fact that only the first thirteen Executioners had ever had the ability to gain power after the first eighteen years, this was quite worrisome. It meant that Spirit, of only five years, was already stronger than six fully matured centuries-old Wraiths who had been training for years- and he still had strength to gain, yet. It was for certain that eventually, Spirit would be Thirteenth Position, the most powerful, possibly even within a years’ time.

Nesoma cautiously asked, "Why am I targeted?"

Spirit responded without hesitation, and without emotion. "You have been declared an enemy of the Wraiths for being directly responsible for the death of Lady Midnight. As it was you who brought me to the Wraiths, and as you were the first outsider to ever witness the Awakening of a Wraith, thus meaning that you are also directly responsible for the interference of the aura of the Wraiths. You also did not take part in the Dance of Sun and Moon, which may have resulted in a cosmic misbalance. Thus, the Executioners ourselves have petitioned, and thus deemed, that in ways we do not fully understand, you yourself and you alone are directly responsible for Lady Midnight’s death. Punishment is scheduled to be torture followed by death. It is lucky you ran into me." Standing stark-still as a statue, he raised up one hand, fully exposed, and Nesoma’s eyes shot wide open. In the entire arsenal of techniques Wraith Executioners were taught to do by manipulating pure energy, only one of them required an open palm. And it was by far the most deadly.

Nesoma activated his power attempted to shoot backward at twice the speed of light, which, of course, was his fastest speed. He set in motion the exact millisecond Spirit said the fatal activation word:

"Pulse."

There was a tiny, bright flash of light right in front of Spirit’s palm, and then came the much larger flash of light in the shape of a sphere. Nesoma’s right arm wasn’t even caught in it, pulled out just as the attack hit. However, still, suddenly a large amount of slashes and cuts blasted out through his arm, spilling blood everywhere, as every single one of his veins burst open through the skin. He cried out in pain as the fiery, hellish torture hit him; he tore off his own shirt and wrapped it around the arm. He was incredibly lucky; he noted that as he looked up, and what he saw scared him more than the Executioners ever could.

The diameter of the sphere had been twenty feet. In the space where the sphere had been, there was absolutely nothing remaining. No trees, rocks, bugs, dirt, not even bacteria. That was the power of Pulse: it accelerated all types of energy, so fast and so much, that anything caught in it would be purely disintegrated by its own power, to the point there was nothing left. It was true hell; not even a soul could survive a Pulse. Worse, Spirit’s had been twenty feet; while most Wraiths, other than executioners could do it, they were lucky in the diameter ever got over two feet. Most Executioners, he had heard, couldn’t get over seven. Nesoma had been extremely lucky; this, he knew.

Spirit, on the other hand, looked winded, crouching down and using one hand to support himself. "Excellent. You survived. If you’re smart, you’ll run."

Nesoma gaped at him. "Wha-"

"Ishiki’s code of honor. You saved my life once, I’m saving yours. Go, or die."

Nesoma needed no more incentive to run like hell. He didn’t stop for two days, until he reached the ocean’s coast; there, he gave himself gills and continued, and when he reached land he just kept on running. When he finally stopped, he was dead tired, and slept for two days. He had run all the way to the other side of the planet in eight days.

Spirit, in the meantime, was found only three minutes later. Standing up, he was ready for more. Pulse took a lot out of somebody, but they recovered quickly. Another Executioner was there at that point. Spirit looked him right in the eye. "Requesting permission to join the search and annihilation team. The bastard managed to escape; next time, I kill him."

[Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander]

Wow. It just keeps getting better every time I read. Keep up the good work! n_n

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[Sparkfyre Lyras]

This is not an actual story chapter; however, it IS important for the next few sections, I suppose. I am taking this small break from the story both to lower expectations so that don’t disappoint if I write a bad section and so that I can describe two important parts about the story: the next setting, and the religion of Ishiki, which is important for various reasons. Also, keep in mind, after this the story will start to have more mature sections.

Rusalka, the Den of Evil

Rusalka is within the heavily forested country of Rhamnusia, which is to the northeast of Ymir, where the Wraiths live. The other parts of the island are Helios, to the east of Ymir, Undine, to the southeast, and there’s a large mountain in the dead center. That aside, in Rhamnusia, there’s only one city: Rusalka, known in that point of the story as the den of evil. It used to be the world’s utopia, perfectly peaceful; however, while this whole story is going on, there’s actually a war going on around the entire world that was started by two races known as the Creation, said to house the power of the embodiment of the purest Beginning, and the Void, said to house the power of the embodiment of the darkest End. Generally, when I say that, I mean the beginning of the beginning of the beginning of the… well, you get the point. It’s infinitesimal; it could never be because there’s always something before something. The same goes with the Void; there’s always something after the end of whatever. Even nothingness can’t truly be nothingness, because nothingness is still something, even though it’s nothing. It’s a very confusing concept; for that reason the Creation and the Void make up two of the five Pentagram Races, or, more commonly called, the Paradox Races. Gods are another of them, and so are Wraiths: those who never died, but are already dead. Something that has no shred of life yet, and is completely filled with life. The Paradox Races are said to be unable to exist, because there’s something about them that’s wrong, two conditions to be met for their existence that cancel each other out, and negate their existence. It’s sort of like going back in time and killing yourself; you obviously can’t, because then if the you that you just killed is dead, and the future you killed the past you, then how, if the future you couldn’t exist because he was already dead, and thus never existed in the first place? Anyways, the fifth race is called the Chaos, and they’re a Paradox Race because they command the forces of chaos, and what is chaos but something that can never be defined? See, if chaos is the norm for chaos itself, then it has to be even more chaotic, and then when the new level of chaos becomes the norm, then it has to get even more chaotic. Also, what we consider normal is chaos to chaos itself. So, chaos cannot exist because there is no such thing as chaos, even though chaos is all around us. Chaos is the power to twist the very nature of things; it’s completely unpredictable. Naturally, no Chaos has ever been found, so they haven’t been proven to exist.

Anyways, the Chaos twisted the nature of Rusalka a long time ago; it’s now a dark, twisted place, said to be devoid of even one good soul still within it. The city pathways are nothing more than dark, twisted alleyways, and they seem to have random invisible warping places all over, so you can never tell where you’re going. There’s no large, open space; no building here is under three stories and over twenty; also, it’s all mostly colored black, like the deepest pit of hell. There isn’t even a normal street, so nobody can drive cars or anything. It’s always raining, although what the rain’s made of is what changes. Sometimes water, sometimes acid, sometimes blood, frogs, kittens… one can never tell. The city is about the size of our Chicago, so it’s pretty massive. Only the first floor of most places is used, or the basement; the upper floors are usually in various states of disaster or decay, like there was a massive fight there between two juggernauts. There is not sort of law here except one: the strong take all, and the weak be damned.

There are no good souls here; everybody here has done a major sin, such as rape, murder, or worse. They say the city’s beyond saving; it’s got slave markets, brothels, and pubs everywhere. The entire world fears Rhamnusia, but they fear Rusalka far more; it’s like comparing a nice, sweet, gentle butterfly (Rhamnusia) to a giant, poisonous, immortal, invincible, bloodthirsty enraged dragon (Rusalka). Ironically, Rusalka is said to be the best place in the world to go if you are truly trying to hide, if you’re strong enough to keep yourself safe. While all Rusalkalas (what the citizens of Rusalka call themselves) are all incredibly hard-hearted and evil, and usually incredibly strong, the one thing you can count on is that if you threaten one citizen, you threaten them all. And then they’ll all put their differences aside and gang up on whoever threatened them. In that way, it’s incredibly dangerous here; even the gods fear to tread here. Of all the Paradox Races, the strongest beings in the world, only an army of gods or the Wraiths (more specifically, their executioners, all banded together) would have a chance at cleansing the city. The Wraiths just don’t care enough about others to do it, and the gods squabble too much for something like that. And I think you get the basics now; time to move on to our other topic.


The Religion of Ishiki

I’m not going to cover all of it, just a small tidbit: their Penance Markings. The number-one rule of Ishiki followers is that they’re not allowed to kill- under any circumstances- unless it’s in Rusalka. There, they can kill as much as they want and not have to do penance for it. As the Wraiths all follow this religion, the Executioners naturally have to kill quite often. When an Ishiki follower kills, even by accident, they either mark their body with a piercing or a tattoo, as a penance, and then they have a minimum of carrying around that penance thing for five years. Minimum. Most, however, choose to keep wearing their Penance Markings for every kill throughout their entire lives. Also, most choose to go with piercings for a while at first; this is because piercings can be taken out. Each Penance Marking piercing weighs a minimum of five pounds; this means that everybody who follows the religion is always training their body. For some people who have killed more than fifty people who have only piercings, they’re carrying around a lot of excess weight; however, when they’re all removed, they can move incredibly fast and are incredibly strong.

The Penance Markings are a way of honoring the dead. Ishiki’s philosophy is, “In life, you were enemies. In death, you are equals.” This means that all the dead, no matter who they were, should be properly honored; it means that you should always respect your opponents and more. In exchange for taking the foe’s life, one has to take on a burden of the soul, symbolized by Penance Markings. Also, if they come across dead who have not been honored, then they are to take on the duty on honoring the dead themselves. If they meet somebody who dishonors the dead, even by saying an unkind word- even if they were the absolute worst person in the world- then the Ishiki follower’s task is to severely beat the “criminal” for their insult. So, essentially, the Executioners are allowed to torture targets within an inch of their lives, just not kill them or let them die by the Executioner’s actions until after the person is recovered enough to be healthy and survive on their own.

This is hard for me to explain; hopefully you get it. Anyways, I’m going to end this description there; the next section will be a continuation of the story.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Spirit grinned to himself, just a little bit, wearing a tight black leather sleeveless shirt, denim jeans, his sandals, a spiked dog collar, and a pair of black metal bracers. Here he sat in a small, seedy tavern somewhere in Rusalka, sipping on some sort of purple, clear liquid, surrounded by some of the very people on a manhunt for him. Seven days ago, Spirit had been sent here to await the arrival of Nesoma to this city, as he would, inevitably, come here, by the Thirteenth Position Executioner himself, the strongest of all Wraiths, while he and two others set out to go and shepherd him to this location. Once Nesoma was here, they were going to annihilate Rusalka and all of its citizens. The day Spirit had arrived, he had wandered right through the labyrinth alleyways and accidentally stumbled upon the scene of four demons attempting to have their way with a young girl. Spirit promptly killed them, and soon after discovered the secret rule of Rusalka: kill one, and you’re in trouble. Kill two, and you’re better off committing suicide. Kill three, and they start a manhunt for you. Spirit had killed four- the first day. In the following three days he was forced to kill forty-four more. They were like freakin’ ants; for every one you kill there were two more to take its place. Still, after the first forty-eight kills, he was able to relax a bit; he was by now considered one of their citizens and was able to hide better. The fact that he had been covered in blood for the first few days had been perfectly natural for this time. All in all, in the first week alone, he had killed fifty-two people, forty-eight of them trying to kill him. The Thirteenth Position had asked him to narrow their numbers a bit while Spirit was here; so far, so good.

He took a deep, hard draught of the cool purple liquid; it tasted a bit like a mixture of blood and booze, and damn did it taste good. So far Spirit hadn’t had time to fully indulge in life here; he had yet to visit the slave market, the black market, the brothels… he had been too busy killing things and looking for a place to live. The best part was he didn’t have to add any Penance Markings while he was here; he didn’t have to follow Ishiki’s teachings so strictly within Rusalka. He grinned, enjoying his booze; it was going to be a long night, finding a rat hole in which to live for likely the next few months. Nesoma was no fool, he had heard; if he was running, it would be almost a year before he even thought Rusalka might be safe. Minimum. Spirit would be stuck here for a while; he had been ordered by the Thirteenth to ignore all other orders and just stay here. Spirit was more than just obliging happily; this was his kind of city.

After draining his glass, he realized it had been his seventh; putting it down, he got up and staggered out the door. With a loud, squishy, bloody and messy pop, a kitten with its throat slashed landed right in front of him. Great. It was raining kittens again, and he could hear the screeching of the fliers above him. They were “training” again; it was just a game to them- see if they could slit every cat’s throat before it landed. Most days, they succeeded, and then the demons on the ground came by later and ate the corpses.

He continued to walk through the blood and gore showering down on him from above. Quite often, to add a bit of pleasure to their game, the fliers not only slit the throats of the cats, but also shredded them to bits. Already he could hear the far-off sounds of dead kitten parts being eaten by the bottomfeeder jackoffs in the city; he frowned, but dared not open his mouth. This truly was a disgusting, evil city. To believe this had once been a utopia to rival the promises of heaven itself was truly laughable. If Spirit ever ran into a Chaos, he would just kill it out of spite.

The buildings here seemed to respond to his desires, as he was considered a citizen of the city; for those who lived here, the random warp-points helped them get to their destinations faster. For those who didn’t, the city just tried to kill them, warping them around every few steps. Spirit soon found himself on the doorstep of a slave market; he had been headed here to go in and kill the people within. The city seemed to coincide with his desires; it seemed to desire to be purified as well. Spirit had not the power, and Rusalka seemed to understand that; however, it had been a major help to him, and if it hadn’t been for the city, he would have been killed the second day he was here. The city was truly his friend for now; hopefully, it would continue to do so. He could never be certain.

Walking inside, he realized this was one of the smaller markets, just a bunch of rich assholes and one or two bodyguards for themselves. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty people to kill here, tops, with about seventeen slaves to free. Grimacing with a frown, he stepped forward, to partake in the slave marketing. He was only going to free one; a place like this wasn’t worth his time. He wanted the bigger markets; this was just small fish. Might as well play by their rules for now.

The slaves themselves were nothing special; they were intruders into Rhamnusia from other countries who had gotten caught. Typical; every now and again somebody wandered in. Only one caught his eye, a female who had been bound by chains, tied up and in a burlap sack, only her head poking out. From what Spirit could see of her trough the bag, she was quite hot; she also had a smaller black bag tied over her head, with a small hole for breathing, but only through her nose; her mouth was gagged. Spirit was quite impressed; none of the slaves had been treated that way, and he was sure that meant she was incredibly dangerous. Spirit wanted her, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She turned out to be the last one up for auction. All the other slaves had been bought already, to be sent to work in either harems or for physical labor. At the moment, nobody had sold for more than about twenty dollars; the auctioneer brought her up and said, “Finally, we arrive at our prize target. I must warn you, for whoever thinks that this one will be an easy one to control, I can assure she is not. These are magical restraints here; she took out more than thirty of my men just trying to capture her. Bidding starts at no less than one thousand; I can assure you, if you tame her, it’ll be well worth it.”

Spirit took his chance; suddenly, he was up on the stage, a knife at the auctioneer’s throat, growling, “Take the bag off her head. I will take her- no charge. If anybody else wants her, I’ll kill them over it.”

The auctioneer, surprised at Spirit’s actions but with no desire to loose his life, made a signal to the pair of bodyguards holding her and said, “Fine. Take her. She’s yours. No skin off my bones.” The two bodyguards removed the black bag over the girl’s head, and Spirit looked at her for but a second.

A second was enough to get him enraged; to fully recognize the girl they had bound.

His face went white, and only one word escaped his lips before he turned back to the auctioneer’s face, his own white with rage, while the auctioneer was looking confused. Spirit reached up and tapped the reverse pentagram on his cheek. The auctioneer suddenly seemed to understand, and went white with fright. “A Penance Marking. So that means-” He didn’t finish his sentence. Spirit slit his throat, and then turned to the crowd, a murderous light in his eyes. He. Was. Pissed.

For, you see, the one word he had uttered was the girl’s name, Ishiki.

Ishiki was the Goddess of the Wraiths.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

WARNING: MATURE-BLOODY GORY DEATHS- 18+ only please!

There were, quite simply, no words to describe just how angry, how pissed, how absolutely freaking livid he was at this moment, as he stood white-faced with rage, a murderous glint in his eyes, in front of the small slave market, the auctioneer dead at his feet, and two bodyguards backing away from the “servant” Spirit had just “bought”. It was a very rare and unusual situation; after all, how many times in their lifetime does one walk into a slave market and find their goddess being sold off? Not to mention, the Wraiths were a very proud race; they did not take insults easy, and this was perhaps the greatest, most horrid insult one could give them. Most certainly, it was doubtful even his patron goddess Ishiki could calm him at the moment.

“How dare you. How dare you, all of you stupid, moronic, ass-bred demons. Do you not realize a goddess is not a slave? I will make you burn in hell for what you have tried to do here; you will die. You will die, all of you, and I will not relent. I will fucking kill you, you fucking bastards; I am a Wraith Executioner, and this-” he gave a sharp, quick point in the direction of the goddess, still gagged and chained up inside a burlap sack, now laying on the floor, stuck, as she couldn’t move for being bound- “this is a most inexcusable insult to my entire RACE! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU! DIE, ASSHOLES!” With a cry of rage, suddenly Spirit raised one hand, and a bolt of lightning shot out of it, striking the ceiling; all of a sudden, there was a dome around the building, trapping everybody inside, although they couldn’t see it inside. With that, Spirit’s eyes turned from a bloodthirsty yellow to an insanely intense and powerful red; realizing that they were going to die, the slave owners began to scream and try and run from the room, seeking a place to hide. That would, in no way whatsoever, help them now. One of the unluckier fat, rich victims was too slow in leaving the room; he suddenly found himself blasted into many tiny pieces, the largest of them not even big enough for a mouse. He, like all the others, would be kept alive through magical methods, in absolute writhing agony worse than anything hell could dish out, for another three hundred hours, of which would seem like an absolute eternity, unable to sleep, unable to move, and there being nothing there but absolute pain.

Spirit then set off like a rocket; the slaves had been left behind as sacrifices, but Spirit just ignored them- they were not his target. He grabbed some chains as well; chasing them down, he found several hiding on the second of four floors, and, using their own magical energy to paralyze them, he covered his hands in chakra energy and turned them into claws and over the next seven hours slowly tore them apart piece by tiny piece, allowing them only the ability to scream, as to inspire terror in all of those who remained.

The next one he found was by their lonesome; leaping on them and tearing them apart like a wild animal, he left them intact enough to shove the chains he had taken from the slave room up their rear end, drag them through the entire digestive system backward, and make them red-hot, then speared the person in place so they would be unable to move as they took their hours until they died in absolute agony, unable to do even the slightest bit to distract them from the pain. A Wraith’s wrath was a terrible thing; just as Spirit had promised, he offered absolutely no mercy.

By his count, he had now exacted revenge on twenty of the twenty-nine people there. Only one had died easy- the auctioneer. The others would feel his wrath. He found three in a group next, squabbling over who got to hide in a certain hiding place. Once again, he paralyzed them, and then, with them unable to move, he brought out three tubs and half-filled them to the brim with salt. Taking each of the bodies, he stripped them down; stripped most of the flesh from their very bodies, and then speared them through and through with about twenty-three metal spears each. He then tore off their ears, their fingers, their toes and lips, cut out their tongues, cut wide open and cracked open their male-specific parts, and cracked their noses in half. Then, grabbing them roughly, he put each in a tub of the salt, and then finished filling them with salt. The three people he had just effectively killed were no longer able to even breathe, as salt would pour into their lungs, sting their eyes, go up their nose. They were as stuck as if they had been bound in cement, and not only had Spirit made it so that the salt would magically replenish itself if it started getting low, he had also amplified their pain, ten times over.

Six people left. Spirit found they had all returned to the slave room, where they were desperately trying to break down the barrier. Spirit cleared his throat, and they all slowly turned around in horror. Letting himself go over to his unholy wrath, he attacked them, like a wild, feral beast, mutilating them far more than he had ever hurt any of the others. When he was finished, he looked almost like he had been bathing in blood, deep red eyes staring out of what looked like a psychopathic murderer’s face, caked in dripping-wet blood in most areas. He turned around and looked at the prisoners; they were all cowering together, screaming and crying, terrified witless. Spirit snapped his fingers, and the barrier disappeared; he stood up most of the would-be slaves and pointed to the door without a word; they left, screaming and running n absolute hysterics. Then, finally, he turned to the last prisoner- the goddess Ishiki, still gagged, still wrapped in chains and a burlap sack, who was looking at him both in fear and rage. Spirit grabbed her and hefted her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes; then, before anybody else could arrive, he left, leaving behind him some of the most gruesome murders that had ever taken place in Rusalka.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

WARNING!MIGHT BE CONSIDERED MATURE! POSTING A WARNING JUST IN CASE! IF SO, 18+ ONLY PLEASE!

By the time Spirit got to the other side of the city, his eyes were yellow, and he was mostly calm again. He was only mostly calm because there was a struggling goddess on his shoulder tied up in a burlap sack and gagged, trying to kick him anywhere it might really hurt, screaming at him through the gag, and clearly enraged. Not something Spirit wanted to unleash on himself right now. Luckily, he was in a more abandoned part of the city, where, apparently, only he was able to go; the buildings here were in almost-new condition. Finally, he chose one, and, breaking down the door, went in; apparently, it had once been a hotel. He wandered up to the seventh floor before he entered one of the rooms, shutting and locking the door behind him. The whole place was dusty, the only thing there being an old, decrepit bed. Spirit laid Ishiki down on the bed before sitting on the floor and beginning to meditate; this took him a while because the goddess was still screaming and struggling on top of the bed. At one point she fell off the bed, and Spirit, not moving, said over her protests through the gag, “That one’s your own fault. I’m not helping you until I’m done, so shut up.” It took a couple minutes, but after that, Ishiki was quiet and Spirit was finally able to concentrate.

It took nearly an hour, but Spirit was able to focus his energy and remodel the room around him into a powerful magical dwelling, protected against any possible method of intrusion. This was something all Executioners were taught during their training. He opened his eyes and looked around.

All of the dust was now gone; the carpet was black and luxurious, extremely comfortable. There was a door leading to another connected to this one, but he hadn’t messed with that; the door on this side was painted black, but he was going to let Ishiki clean up her own room. There was also two beds, both brand-new and very comfortable, with sheets and blankets of silks and satins, and the pillows as comfortable as could be. There was a window with black curtains and black blinds in front of it; from there he could check the weather and the surrounding area with ease, like a large security camera. There was a speaker next to it; it would alert him if anybody came close. The door he had come in now had about seventeen top-grade locks and was stronger than a steel door, also painted black, like the walls and the ceiling. The walls also had silvery spider web patterns on them with 3d spiders con them, in various species and doing various things, and the ceiling was a 3-d version of the night sky, with the symbols of the Celtic zodiac in red in a circle around the light, which was shaped like the moon. The lamps were all black, same with the shades, and had either green or blue colored light bulbs. The bathroom had all the necessities, although he didn’t feel the need to go into detail like with everything else. It was mostly black, naturally. Spirit liked that color; it was the color of death. There was also a small coffee table and a black couch on either side of it, for sitting, at one end of the room, a black refrigerator, and a black dresser that stored a lot of clothing.

Finally, he got up and picked Ishiki up off the floor, putting her on the bed, where one of her flailing limbs inside the burlap sack finally scored a winning hit in a sensitive area. Spirit keeled over, deep in pain; while Wraiths generally trained themselves to ignore all pain, he hadn’t gotten to that part yet. His yellow eyes turned red for a moment, and then back to yellow as he reached up and tore the gag off of the goddess. “You better start effing apologizing for struggling so much while I was saving your life, or I just might not let you out.”

Ishiki just glared at him, and suddenly the chains and burlap sack weren’t there anymore; it appeared that with the removal of the gag, her powers had returned. And then Spirit realized she wasn’t decent, immediately averting his gaze, looking at the walls, blushing deeply, while Ishiki glared daggers at him.

She hissed, quite deeply at him, “What the hell were you thinking, Wraith? Are you stupid? I know you follow my teachings; don’t they say not to kill? You just committed a fucking massacre right in front of me! What type of ignorant dumbass goes and just slaughters that many people right in front of their goddess, anyway? You should be annihilated for doing something so stupid! And you will look at me when I am talking to you!”

Spirit, grudgingly, looked at his goddess; she did, of course, have a point. However, she was quite beautiful, and he didn’t exactly think having impure thoughts about her would make her happy- not that she was a bundle of sunshine in the first place. Her voice was smooth, sweet, beautiful, exotic, like a panther’s; he wasn’t surprised at that, after all. She was supposed to take on the resemblance of a cat demon.

Her skin was tan and beautiful; she was as tall as he was too (although he was only five foot eleven) and her long, black tail coming out of the top of her lower waist twitched behind her in an absolutely irritated manner. She had cat ears instead of normal ears, of course; black in color. Her face looked quite sour, but was still beautiful; she had bright orange eyes with cat-slits in them. Her hair was black and glossy, grown out down halfway to her waist, and Spirit could just imagine himself running his hands through it; just how soft it would feel; probably like Heaven’s clouds themselves. While she didn’t have whiskers, she did have six fingers to each hand and six toes to each foot, all of them perfectly normal, sort of like having just a slightly wider hand with an extra middle finger to each. Naturally, they had black fingernails; he had heard when she was really pissed these would cover her entire hand and turn them into razor-sharp claws. If tat was true, at least she didn’t want to kill him at the moment. She was extremely well endowed, and had an extremely perfect body; Spirit couldn’t help but stare at certain parts of her, which caused her to get really ticked off and end his observations quite suddenly by slapping him so hard he rolled over the bed and fell off the other side.

Spirit, still laying down, took the opportunity while he wasn’t distracted and said in a rather crabby voice, “To be fair, your edict says that anything we kill I Rhamnusia is excluded, and besides, you were rather in a bit of a bind, so to speak. I suppose I don’t know what I was thinking, other than about how it would feel to know your goddess was about to sold as a sex slave.”

Trying to get up, he suddenly, he felt Ishiki’s feet on his back, slamming him back onto the ground, landing especially hard on one male part he had just recently been kicked in that more than doubled his pain, while her voice hissed at him, “You are an IDIOT! You would use such a lame excuse to excuse yourself for brutally killing people like that in front of ME? Are you huffing PAINT? Are you on METH? What type of scumbag FOOL does something like that?” She paused, and then, apparently, got down on all fours, her legs placed on either side of his, her arms placed next to his, and he could feel her endowment heavily on his back and she leaned in close and whispered, right in his ear, in a very angry tone, an exasperated tone, and one that was extremely relieved, “However, as mad as I may be, you did, of course, save me back there. I will give you credit for that. I will take up lodging in the other room; I am sure that was your plan this whole time. I do not feel it wise to try and leave the city at the moment. You will contact your superiors and let them know the situation, and then you are to be my bodyguard here, until I am ready to leave Rusalka.”

She leaned in closer and licked Spirit’s cheek, his eyes going wide, his mouth dropping open, and him blushing extremely deeply at what had just happened. “And I do mean bodyguard, Wraith Spirit. If even one tiny bit of harm comes to me, I will send you to burn in the hell-fires of purgatory. If you prove to be good at your job, I will forgive you for what you have done, and will grant you my favor. I have your taste now; I can find you wherever you may go. Don’t try to run, or you’ll burn for it.” She got up and exited the room through the door leading to the adjoining room. Spirit, partially unable to comprehend or believe what had just happened, finally whispered to himself, “Trust me- wouldn’t dream of it,” before he got to his feet and lay down on his bed to take a nap.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Almost immediately after his nap, Spirit opened the blinds and shades of his windows and cast a black light from his hands, which, upon touching the window, turned pure white and covered the entire window. Spirit stood back, watching the window, and soon enough there was a figure appearing on the screen, glaring at him in a rather annoyed way. “Seventh Position Executioner Spirit reporting in to Lord Shadow from deep within the bowels of Rusalka. Requesting a conference. Immediately.” There were only two things that would happen now: Lord Shadow, the figure on the screen, would either speak, or hang up on him. Spells like the communications one Executioners were using only worked when there was a connection on both ends; if Lord Shadow chose to hang up, the screen would just disappear.

Luckily for Spirit, Lord Shadow chose to accept his request. “Audience is granted, Spirit. Now. Explain to me just why you feel the need to pester me.”

Spirit paused. “Is this a bad time? Because I can call back, you know.”

“You were lucky. I am currently in a room above a bar for the night halfway across the world. This is as good a time as you’ll ever get. Now. Speak.”

Spirit paused and looked down. “Ho, boy.” He looked back up at the screen again. “Well, I don’t really think you’re going to like this, but my services have been… forcefully acquisitioned by a powerful warrior who told me in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed to refuse.”

“Kill her.”

Spirit nodded. “Yeah, um, I knew you were going to say that. See, that’s the thing: I really don’t think that’s an option.”

“Everything’s an option. We are Wraiths; we are above any law and answer to nobody.”

“Well, maybe that isn’t as true as we thought. What if, hypothetically, I met somebody who was stronger than a Wraith, and they were threatening me with purgatory?”

Lord Shadow stared at him for a moment before saying in a rather annoyed voice, “Not only does that make no sense, but Wraiths are the strongest race in the world. That means that there are only six things more powerful than you, all of them Wraiths, and you’re the only one in Rusalka at the moment. So, hypothetically speaking, either you’re really getting to be a wimpy little prick, or there’s something you’re not telling me.”

All of a sudden the door to Ishiki’s room opened behind Spirit, and both Lord Shadow’s image on the screen and Spirit looked at the figure emerging with surprise. Spirit, however, was more horrified than surprised; after all, he was in a hotel room with a goddess. That was not an easy situation to describe. Luckily, however, Ishiki had made clothes for herself; she was wearing silk pajamas and yawning. “Wraith Spirit, I’m heading to bed now. If anything wakes me up, I’ll run you through with a rusty boathook. When you’re done with your little talk, you should probably turn in too.” She went back into her room, shutting and locking the door.

Spirit closed his eyes and started mentally swearing to himself; there was no response from Lord Shadow for a few minutes. However, eventually he spoke, asking, in a shaky voice, “Spirit, I hope to Ishiki, for your sake and mine when I have to report this to the council, that was not who I think it was.”

Spirit slowly turned back around to face Lord Shadow’s image. “Would it help any if I told you this was an extremely complicated situation?”

“No. It wouldn’t. Not in the slightest. In fact, the only possible, conceivable reason I can think the most sacred Goddess might even be there is if you did something so stupid, so idiotic, so utterly, moronically retarded that not even the king of fools would even think of doing it within a thousand years, much less even think about carrying it out, that not even the Goddess herself could ignore because of how marginally, incredibly asininely large your error was, and seemed to think you were so foolish and immature you couldn’t be trusted, and actually had to descend from the world of the gods itself to essentially act as your mother to prevent you from doing whatever the hell you did- ever again.”

Spirit raised an eyebrow. “Um… wow. That was just harsh.”

“Spirit. This is not the time for jokes. In fact, this is the absolute worst time for jokes. I swear to Ishiki, if you have any pride as a Wraith at all, you will explain, leaving absolutely nothing out, just exactly what the hell happened, and how this, ah, unique situation came about.”

Spirit sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath, “I knew this was a bad idea.” Then, looking up, he immediately launched into the tale, starting at when he left the bar and up to the point where he had contacted Lord Shadow. During the part where he had mentioned recognizing Ishiki in the slave market, he could see Lord Shadow’s eyes immediately go narrow, and heard screams from beneath him. Spirit was heavy under the impression a great number of people just died, being exposed to Lord Shadow’s suddenly murderous aura over the insult of Ishiki being sold as a slave. When he finished his story, Lord Shadow was shaking head to toe, white with rage, obviously struggling to control himself.

“Spirit. I should slaughter you for how you treated the Goddess, and for doing almost nothing to those fools in the slave market. You even let some go free. However, the Goddess is correct; you did, of course, save her, and for that, you are entirely forgiven. I am very grateful you have brought me this news; I will contact all other Executioners and the Council of Elders immediately about what has occurred. I think it best you stay with her and cater to her every whim; if you will excuse me, I believe I need to go calm myself.” With that, the screen disappeared, meaning Lord Shadow had hung up on Spirit, who was sitting alone in his room, almost trembling with fear. He pitied any poor soul who got in the way of a Wraith over the next few days, and was, for the first time, absolutely euphoric that he was stuck in the den of evil with a short-tempered and deadly goddess who seemed to really dislike him rather than anywhere near where a Wraith might be.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Spirit, who always slept in a pair of jeans and black t-shirt, was awoken the next morning in a rather rude way. As far as he knew, he was just sleeping peacefully, and then it felt like his forehead was on fire. Opening his eyes in shock, he saw blood dripping down into his eyes; he felt up to his forehead and found a knife handle embedded there.

Needless to say, Spirit shot up almost like a rocket screaming in agony and pain, jumping up and standing on the bed, pulling the knife out and throwing it away. Then, purely enraged, he turned to his left where Ishiki was looking rather bored, in her silk pajamas, a bright coral pink seamless long-sleeved top that went down to her waist (almost like a very short dress) and a white seamless pair of pants that ended just above her ankles; she was barefooted and the clothes were obviously just slip-on things, looking purely beautiful and in an oriental style. His eyes wide and still bleeding, he shouted at her, “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR DEAL, ISHIKI?!? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?”

Ishiki yawned and looked at her fingernails, obviously uninterested. “Calm yourself. I know full well about the Wraith Regenerative abilities. Change forms and heal yourself, then wash your face. I’ve got a rather large task for you today.”

“YOU JUST STABBED A FUCKING KNIFE THROUGH MY HEAD! WHY? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?! WHY? IT MAKES NO SENSE! WHY?”

Ishiki looked up at him rather unemotionally. “It was time to get up, of course. Why else?”

“IT’S FUCKING NINE AT NIGHT! HOW THE HELL IS IT TIME TO GET UP NOW?!?! ARE YOU INSANE?!?!”

Ishiki’s tail started twitching back and forth behind her, in a rather annoyed way. “Cats are nocturnal. I’m a cat demon. Hence, I’m nocturnal. And, now, so are you.”

Spirit glared at her, speechless, still dripping blood all over creation, so Ishiki continued, “Today you are to extend the barrier to include all of the hotel, and then fix up the entire hotel to the same quality as these rooms. Let me know when you’re done. I’ll be taking a catnap.” She turned, hips swaying, going back into her room and locking the door.

Struggling heavily to control himself, Spirit managed to calm down after about three hours enough to start his task for the day. It took him twelve hours to fulfill her desires. Finally, exhausted, he got up from the meditation position from the floor in his room and knocked on her door.

Ishiki didn’t even bother to answer the door. “Excellent work. You can have tomorrow off to sleep and recover your energy. I’ll be going around and changing up all the rooms to meet me desires. I would have told you what I wanted for each room, but I didn’t think you’d be competent enough for it.”

Spirit stared at the door in silence with his mouth hanging open. Finally, really pissed off, he went ape on the door between their rooms. However, Ishiki must have put some shields on it; he couldn’t even chip the door. In the meantime, behind the door, she just laughed at his efforts. Finally, when he was exhausted, he just collapsed on the floor and fell asleep.

He slept through all of the next day, and woke up by seven at night the next day. He got up and lay in his own bed, waiting for her to come in. Sure enough, at nine, she opened the door between their rooms and snuck over to his bed, a cross look on her face, holding a knife. This time, however, she seemed to be focusing on a lower part of the anatomy to stick it in.

However, suddenly, Spirit wasn’t lying down, and Ishiki wasn’t leaning over him, about to plunge the knife in. The knife, in fact, was now sheathed hilt-deep in the wall next to Spirit’s bed. Spirit was standing up on his bed, holding Ishiki’s ankles, dangling her about a foot above the floor. And, Ishiki was, of course, upside down, with Spirit holding her bare ankles, and while her pants didn’t slip any farther to her head, the legs had fallen up around the waist, and her shirt had fallen around her head, leaving her chest fully exposed. Apparently, she didn’t wear certain female garments to bed; her chest was facing toward Spirit, and while he couldn’t see whether or not she was wearing anything under her pants, he could definitely tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. It took Ishiki only a couple seconds to realize what position she was in, and then she quickly grabbed her shirt and covered her chest, blushing quite heavily. Her tail was also being held by Spirit, in the same hand as her left ankle.

Spirit, meanwhile, had a rather cross look on his face. “You know, I really don’t think stabbing me there would be a wise choice for you. Ever. And if you try it, I’ll strip you down and deposit you, tied up and gagged, in the most crowded bar I can find. Are we clear on this?”

Ishiki just hissed at him.

Spirit shook his head. “Nuh-uh. You gotta be polite if you want out of this. I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but I used my chakra power to shut down your powers. I already know you cast a spell banning me from using my powers outside of this room unless you give permission directly; consider it the reverse in here. So, if you want out, you gotta say, ‘Oh please, most kind, humble, and gentle Master Spirit, please let me go; I am ever so deeply sorry for stabbing you in the head and will never do it again.’ Say it, and I let you go.”

“If I seriously have to say that, I’m reporting you to Lord Shadow, Wraith.”

Spirit thought for a moment. “Good point. Well, then, I only have one condition: my name is Spirit. Learn it, and use it.” He suddenly let her go, and she would have fallen on her head, but somehow she landed on all fours, in a crouch, just like a cat, glaring up at him, absolutely furious. “If I have to use your name, then you have to use mine.”

“I am using your name, Ishiki.” Spirit jumped down off his bed and turned to face her, crossing his arms and glaring at her. She was in the same position, her clothes sitting right again, only leaning to one side, more toward her left hip, while her tail twitched behind her.

“That’s only my last name. I meant my first name.”

Spirit stared at her puzzled. “That’s the only name I was told you have.”

She gave him a ‘are-you-kidding-me’ stare. “That’s the third thing they should have told you about being a Wraith. BS.”

“My job is to kill, not to learn. That’s what an Executioner does.”

“Fine. Until you know my first name, I won’t use yours. Until then, you’re just a Wraith, and I am your goddess Ishiki. Remember that, and I might just let you live longer than the end of the week. Never put your hands on me- especially my tail- like that again, or I will annihilate you.” She turned to go back into her room, and then paused. “Oh, right. I was going to tell you to get dressed, but it slipped my mind with what you did just now. It is quite impressive; I didn’t suspect you were a speed-type Wraith. That would make you the first. Anyway, I’m telling you now, get dressed. We’re going out today.”

Spirit paused. “And just what in hell does ‘speed-type Wraith’ mean?”

Ishiki threw her head back and laughed, then, swaying her hips, she went back into her room, shutting and locking the door, all the while with a smirk on her face.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Spirit sighed as he drank his odd purple drink and sat in silence across from Ishiki. She had quickly changed her clothes, and was now wearing a skintight sky blue top, without straps, as if it had been put into creation around her body; as if she had imagined herself wearing it, and instantly it had occurred. Of course, who’s to say that didn’t happen? She was a goddess, after all. Regardless, it was short, and a lot of her belly was exposed as well. She also wore a tight black miniskirt, leather, of course, and fishnet stockings with small black boots. Her tail was poking out through a small hole in her miniskirt; she was drinking much, much stronger stuff than he was.

The light was dim, and constantly switching colors; there were a lot of people- of witnesses- here, in this nightclub; Spirit’s connection with the city had gotten them there almost instantly. Ishiki also wore a small golden necklace around her neck, with an ember cat’s eye pendant at the end of it.

Spirit was rather annoyed at her; immediately upon entering, she had begun flirting with a large number of people. More than once, he was forced to beat somebody down because they touched Ishiki‘s arm or shoulder. That was her request before they left; nobody was to touch her. Several people had already been carted away to the hospital; Spirit liked this job. It was a good stress reliever. Especially when he imagined it was Ishiki he was pummeling.

They had been here for three hours now; he had been wary of three demons that had been watching them since they came in. They finally approached the table now, their apparent leader grinning like a jackal. “Hey, babes,” he said to Ishiki, “How you doin’?”

Spirit stared at them like they were stupid. He turned to Ishiki and commented, “Great. See what you’ve done? All the intelligent ones are gone now; we’re just getting the dumbasses now.”

The apparent leader, who Spirit decided to refer to as Jackal, turned his attention to Spirit, giving him a dark glare. “Yah, who asked you, blondie?”

Spirit shot Jackal a dark look. He had just an average-looking human form, same with his bodyguards. “Well, since you didn’t specify a name, then obviously you.”

Ishiki gave a chuckle. “So, Spirit what are you waiting for? Get rid of hi-” suddenly she froze; Jackal had taken the moment of distraction to start feeling her up.

“Hmm…. Not bad, beauty; why not come with us?”

Spirit’s eyes narrowed, and he rose from his seat, glaring at Jackal. “Nice, buddy. You now have a death sentence on your head.”

Jackal moved away from Ishiki, who was looking enraged with shock, and grinned at Spirit. “Oh, yeah? And I suppose you’re the one going to ki-” he didn’t finish that sentence. Suddenly, his body was burning, as was that of his associates. In seconds, he was no more than a pile of ashes, and Ishiki was glaring down at it with a smoking palm. “Nobody touches me in my feminine parts. Ever.” She looked up at Spirit, crossly. “That goes for you, too, Wraith.” She then smirked, in a seemingly good mood. “However… one thing that doesn’t mean is I can’t touch you.” She grinned and moved to sit up, and suddenly both she and Spirit vanished from the club. It took a second, but she realized she had been thrown roughly down on Spirit’s couch, and he stood over her, his arms crossed, his face a mask of annoyance.

“Your behavior tonight was deplorable, Ishiki. You even killed somebody. I’ve placed an additional barrier on the building. Now, you can’t leave. Not without my permission.”

Ishiki stood up shakily, looking curious. “Interesting. That was quite a speedy getaway. I didn’t know you could move so fast.”

“I am the fastest of all Wraiths. It’s my speed that earned me the title of Seventh Position Executioner. In all other areas, I am quite unqualified. Just your luck to get stuck with the one who can easily counter whatever you might try to pull, and the only one who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on.”

Ishiki gave him a coy smile. “Oh? Don’t you?”

“No. I don’t.” There was such a steely tone in his voice that it quite effectively ended that topic.

Ishiki looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hmmm… interesting, though… so, you’re really the fastest Wraith, then? I suppose it’s because you’re speed-based, but since you don’t know what that means, or so you claim, let’s just call it enhanced speed for now.”

“Whatever you call it, it is what it is.”

“Indeed it is.” Ishiki gave a sly smile, and suddenly she seemed to disappear, but then Spirit realized she was sitting cross-legged on his bed, her fishnet stockings and boots off. From where he was, he could easily see she was wearing only the blue top and skirt. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t; instead, his face just turned beet-red as he looked away. This made her laugh. “Aw… you’re a prude. Isn’t that interesting? Or is it just because you think it indecent for a goddess to do whatever she wants?”

“That’s-" Spirit paused, sighing. "Why don’t you wear the proper clothing you’re supposed to wear? As a girl, so you can quit making me uncomfortable to be around you?”

“That depends. Why do you wear a five-hundred-pound Penance Marking that is also spelled to cause you continuous and never-ending pain when you’ve neither ever killed anybody, and the only requirement is that it’s five pounds?”

Spirit could hear her stand up on the other side of the bed, so he could look again. He turned to her, a confused expression on his face. “Wait. I’ve killed somebody. And why do you think I’ve never killed anybody, anyways?”

Ishiki grinned. “I was wondering when you were going to ask that. You’re a Wraith, following my religion. I can see your entire existence as a Wraith, including the ritual in which you got your name. Trust me. You’ve never killed anybody.”

Spirit was silent for a moment. “Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one?” Ishiki looked confused for a moment.

“Which ritual? I went through two Awakening rituals in my path to become a Wraith.”

Ishiki shook her head. “No you haven’t. You’ve only had one. Trust me, Spirit- if you’d have more than one, unless something went horribly wrong and the ritual was interrupted, I can see your entire life as a Wraith.”

Spirit didn’t say anything for a moment. “I see.”

Ishiki grinned. “Yup, so, there’s no need to lie to me. I know.” Suddenly, she was over next to Spirit, his six fingers on his reverse pentagram on his cheek, pulling at it. There were sparks flying between the side that had been attached to his cheek and his actual cheek, and he was shouting in pain as Ishiki struggled to pull it off. Finally, after a minute, Ishiki managed to pull it past the connection circuits between the cheek and the icon, and both Ishiki and Spirit flew apart, both hitting one of the two couches and rolling over it to land on the other side.

Ishiki was the first one to stand up; she bounced up almost instantly, twirling the Penance Marking on a finger, grinning. “Wow. I’ve never seen anybody who’s actually had their Marking magnetized to their skin before. I bet that had to hurt.”

Spirit hoisted himself up, clinging to the back of the couch, his newly freed cheek bright red, glaring at Ishiki. “Give it back.”

She shook her head. “Nope; you’ve worn it for over five years, without even needing to. I’m hanging onto this, and you’re not getting it back until I actually say so.” Grinning, she suddenly disappeared, having run into her room, dropping it off, before coming back in. Spirit was still holding himself up on the back of the couch, glaring at her. She gave him an odd look. “Wow. I thought you’d at least try to stop me. You must be really, really tired. Come on; stand up; time for bed for you, then.”

Spirit shook his head. “No. I’m not moving until you bring it back.”

Ishiki stamped her foot. “I said move, young man!”

Spirit paused for a moment. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

Ishiki grinned. “So what if I am a little? I want you in your bed- now, young man! Now, get up and walk, or I’ll report you!”

Spirit sighed quite heavily; as much as he wanted to disobey her, he didn’t dare risk Lord Shadow finding out about the events of the night. Using the couch to push himself up, as soon as he let go, he fell over.

Ishiki looked at him quite surprised. “Wha-”

Spirit tried to get up off the ground again. Once again, upon standing up, he fell over, and then he just lay there. “Screw it. I’ll sleep here.”

Ishiki grinned. “I get it now.”

Spirit closed his eyes in frustration. “Crap.”

Ishiki went and stood next to him, crouching down, making sure he could see her as she wagged one finger back and forth. “Ha ha ha ha-ha. You can’t stand up-up. You’re completely help-less.” Her grin grew wider. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve been wearing that thing so long your balance is out of whack, and you can’t do anything until you get it back, can you?”

Spirit glared at her. “And so what if I can’t?”

Ishiki disappeared for a moment, then Spirit heard her door close and lock. He breathed a sigh, thinking she had gone back to her own room, when suddenly she appeared right in front of him again in her pajamas, her face really close to his, she still obviously a bit drunk. “I think I might just play with you a little tonight. I mean, without your balance, you’re just an overstuffed doll, right? This calls for a slumber party- a really, really fun slumber party!”

And that’s when Spirit realized he was in hell- trapped, unable to move, and in the hands of a female goddess who currently had all the maturity of a young girl.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Ishiki grinned as she looked him over; she seemed to be seeing something Spirit didn’t. Finally, she said, “I know what I want!” Her grin grew wider. “I want to see what you look like.” She reached for the hemline of his jeans….

Suddenly, Spirit’s hand shot up and slapped away her wrist, surprising her. Spirit was suddenly on his feet, looking down at her, arms crossed. “It only takes a few minutes for me to get used to a lessening of weight, Ishiki. I’m back to normal, now. I can’t allow you to do what you were about to do. In the first, you’re a goddess and I’m a Wraith. It would never work. In the second, my biological age is twenty-one, and yours is nineteen. I don’t know how old you actually are, but I’m only twenty-six. Since you were around before the Wraiths were, that makes you way, way too old for me. And third, I’m guessing whatever you were drinking makes you more immature. Go to bed in your own room, Ishiki.” This was the first time Spirit had both ever considered that there might be something amiss with her being the Goddess.

Ishiki, instead, suddenly crossed her arms and sat down cross-legged, looking really upset, shouting in a rather angry whine, “IT’S NOT ISHIKI! ROSE-LYNN! ROSE-LYNN! ROSE-LYNN! SAY IT RIGHT!”

Spirit raised an eyebrow. “Wait. So, your first name is Rose?”

Ishiki, or rather, Rose-Lynn, punched the floor. “NO! Rose-LYNN! Two words, one dash, one name!”

Spirit nodded. “Yeah, well, whatever. We’ll talk about it when you’re sober. Go to bed.”

In the next second, Spirit was knocked backward by a low punch to the gut, his door was open, and Rose-Lynn was out in the hallway thumbing her nose at him, saying, “Nyah, nyah, nyah! Can’t catch me!” Then, grinning, she raced off, with the words, “You have permission!”

Spirit could only interpret that one way: he was allowed to use his powers outside of his room. He was off like a rocket, out the door; the hallway around the center lobby floor, down below, was a spiraling staircase all along the walls; down below, the floor was covered by a thick layer of sand, enough to bury the first two floors. Rose-Lynn was laughing, racing down the stairs; Spirit raced off to catch up to her. She got to the sandy floor and raced across to the other side before turning and facing him as suddenly he stopped, ten feet away from her, his hands in fists and glaring daggers, immediately sensing what she was planning by the way she was looking at him. “It’s time to behave, Rose-Lynn. Go back to your room; you’re not technically drunk, so to speak, but your judgment is still impaired. Sleep it off, and we can have it out in the morning.”

Rose-Lynn shook her head. “Nuh-uh. Nope. No way.” She gave him a rather alluring look. “Besides, what are you scared of? I wanna see just how fast you can go; I wanna see you move.” Giggling, she suddenly darted off like a rocket toward him; Spirit sidestepped her, and then charged after her.

Their first fight had begun!