Topic: This, the now...

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-09-12 03:31 EST
"This, the before..." in this same folder.]

"Listen, ye rejects from a fabric remnants warehouse! Ye've got it all wrong!"

Gunshots whizzed through the night sky, the little flashes of light as they left the rifles" muzzles illuminating the cloth-shrouded heads of Bedouin riders. Arrows made near-silent shushing sounds before coming to rest in the sands around her with a final thunk and crunch.

Sun was fast, but she was running under her own power and had been doing so for the better part of the darkness. The sword hanging from her hip was not helping her progress, beating against her leg and ankle with a heaviness that would bring bruising to her sunburned flesh.

"I thought it was said ye could change size, e"en shape" If ye'd bloody well do so, this would prove a great deal easier!"

Her voice was nearing hysterics. Most of her talents were negated out in this sand-filled boondocks and she didn't know how much longer she could last like this. Where was that damnable Nether, anyway"

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-09-16 08:45 EST
Sword of the Dracolich

Unbeknownst to Sun, two years have passed in Rhy"Din since she traversed the Nether to a portal leading to this place and world in search of an artifact that could possibly aid her Family in its struggles against one of its more formidable enemies. During this time, the foes of the Bloods have gathered forces and formed alliances. Perhaps, the quest undertaken for the Sword of the Dracolich will have proven a worthy enterprise. If she can get it home.

Once, long ago, before discovering the City over the Veil, before coming to Rhy"Din, Crymsun Moranya Taliesin LeFey was doomed to centuries of existence on the mortal plane of Earth Prime. Many lives she led there, many guises assumed, continually seeking through mists and gathering relics that might one day return her to her people and lands in Avalon.

Since the human year of 1178, at the accident of her Dark Embrace that effectively barred her path to her Isle's shores, the Lady Crymsun has hunted for a means past the Mists that keep her out. In travels and fact-finding ventures it was discovered seven objects hold the key to what she needs.

Sun now possessed five of the seven keys, and, centuries earlier, she had heard talk an eighth object may well be related. This was never verified. However, she went about the acquisition of it "just in case."

The eighth object, known as the Sword of the Dracolich, is a vessel containing the essence of the ancient and benevolent black dragon Vazakexrus.

When Vazakexrus was nearing the end of his considerably long life span, he summoned to him a Dragon Cult. This group of mortals worshipped dragons as divine (rightly so!) and held many secrets to assure the continuation of their benign Gods lest the more malicious gain in number.

A ritual lasting seven days and nights prepared the cult's way for preserving Vazakexrus" essence within a suitable article. They used a magnificent sword (not an unusual choice, for dragons see swords as an abstract sculpture of their kind in flight) with a five-thousand gold piece aquamarine gem for the pommel. When all was ready, Vazakexrus" body expired, and the priests transferred his life force to the sword.

Within moments of the transference, a group of thieves invaded and attacked the dragon's lair destroying all the members of the cult. The sword, hidden during the raid, went undiscovered in the looting that followed.

In the years that passed, Vazakexrus found he could assert his considerable will to affect the sword and the outside world to a point. He could alter the length and appearance of the sword as well as use a few of his spells.

Vazakexrus was aware that he could possibly return to a physical existence provided he finds a suitable host. Taking over the form of an evil dragon or dragon-like being would be ideal, for in the course of the ages the wicked have grown more than the virtuous. By shortening and lengthening the blade, Vazakexrus crawled from his hiding place to seek out a new form.

Vazakexrus possesses a sizeable ego, and throughout the passage of time, in the many hands of knights, paladins and fighters of impiety, the sword, and its sentient personality, took on a taste for combating Dracolich. Perchance only the incompetence of the hands that wielded the sword kept Vazakexrus from his final goal of achieving physicality; thus allowing Crymsun to stumble upon the artifact sometime in the beginning of the sixteenth century, much to her great surprise.

Normally, Sun secured anything of value (and countless things of questionable worth) within the confines of her Nether. Yet, after attaining this item, she found the sword's consciousness unbearable and rather conceited. Snooty, in a word. For a while, she dealt with the over-inflated arrogance until it became insufferable. Though not completely convinced of the sword's necessity as a Key of Avalon, parting ways with it was unthinkable in case its importance proved of merit in the end. A secure location was needed in order to secret her find away.

During many lives on the mortal plane, Crymsun availed herself of the extensive knowledge she had gained on the sect of Christianity since the Dark Embrace and her exile from the shores of her home. Familiarity and comprehension of this subject she took on initially as a means for revenge; her understanding of it later bearing out as suitable use for earning coin.

Not long after the attainment of the pompous Vazakexrus, a dubious scholar hired Sun and she soon found a fitting site to stash the sword.

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-09-22 06:58 EST


Scetis

In a place once called the Holy Desert of Scetis, Wadi al-Natrun is a valley sixty miles south of Alexandria in the Western Desert of Egypt. The valley gets its name from the mineral Natron found in abundance throughout the region when red-colored natural salt-water springs evaporate during the hot summer, unveiling piles of this crystallized pinkish salt. A substance greatly prized and used before Sun's time in the Pharaonic period as a drying agent of mummification.

Deir al-Surian, the Monastery of the Syrians, to this day has one of the richest ancient libraries in Christendom. Set in the desert sands and virtually cut off from the outside world, its 40-foot-high walled complex with its buildings and towers appears like a grounded ship as one approaches across the valley. Besides the extensive library, Deir al-Surian also claims to hold the remains of twelve Saints and a lock of hair from Mary Magdalene.

Employed by the suspicious scholar to retrieve certain manuscripts and Magdalene's lock of hair by any method necessary, Sun soon found a convenient hiding spot for the Sword. A four-story tower connected to The Church of the Holy Virgin was Sun's destination.

Despite the liberty she had been given for obtaining her objective on this job and her own penchant for settling scores upon institutions such as Deir al-Surian, Sun determined this would be a bloodless encounter; all the better for squirreling away her artifact. Measures would even be engaged to assure the awareness of its safe could not be gleaned from her own mind.

Magics out amongst the mortals, especially so close to a base of human faith, were unreliable and grew more so every decade since the dropping of the Veil. The use of Magics also set a signature for others to follow, and this was something Crymsun wished to avoid.

The mammoth tower was easily the most protected part of the monastery; hence the library being housed upon its second floor. Sun relied on this fact to keep the sword secluded. She bypassed the floor above the collection of manuscripts and records - lodgings for the monks during times of danger - in favor of the chapel on the top level.

A brick cupola surmounted the sanctuary dedicated to the Angel Michael, and it was here she placed the sword much to its consciousness" dismay and regardless of Vazakexrus" headache inducing rants. Surmising the relic would be well hidden and secure from thieves or zealots.

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-10-02 21:19 EST
On her way

Five centuries is an extremely substantial duration of time, even if one's existence encompassed over eight and could stretch considerably longer.

Having awakened to the truth she kept hidden even from herself, Sun realized what had set the events into motion: Vazakexrus" haven was in danger of violation and the sword's sentience reached out to the mind of the one who had last linked with him.

Timing was perfect for the remembering of such information, and, as per usual, without a thought to the consequences all those years could have on the mortal plane, principally in that particular locale, Sun impulsively travelled the Nether and waited at the portal for night to fall.

The shadow of Deir al-Surian's 'desert ship" was plain from her vantage point, ankle-deep in the grey mists of the Nether. At sunset, she stepped from the swirling cacophony of colors that marked exits and entrances to fall flat on her face. A mouthful of sand and sputtering curses, her head rose to survey the distance. Eyes of ash blinked, and blinked again. Where was the monastery!"

Maybe it was just over that near dune. Gates, on occasion, erred by sometimes up to a mile. It was the way of things. Expletives falling to make a trucker blush, Sun trudged through the unforgiving sands towards her target. Reaching the peak of the dune, ashen eyes stared disbelieving across the vastness of barren landscape.

Lifting a pale, talon-nailed hand to the air, incredulousness seated on feral-tinged features as the hand just bobbed there ineffectually; no oval widening in mid-air, no colors denoting an entrance to the Nether. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. A big, fat goose egg!

"Frellin" crap!"

Trying other talents, and then all available with no change in her predicament, Sun flumped down onto the cooling sands, huffing in frustration. She was well and good stuck, and the sunrise, while not entirely fatal, would be powerfully uncomfortable and quite possibly debilitating to the point of torpor.

The Lady did not relish being trapped underneath tons of sand for the Gods knew how long. She thanked the Goddess she had at least had the foresight to notify Sid where she was off to before leaving. However, that might not prove to be much help.

Studying the stars above, allowing for the turn of years, Sun stood up and gave one last try. Magics seemingly negated, Nether unreachable, she opted for innate talents and took off out into the empty sandscape at blurring speeds on the bearing of where she thought Deir al-Surian to lie.

Though preternatural gifts enable Crymsun to cover great distances in a short amount of time, the apparent space between where she'd been dumped and the possible setting of the monastery was greater than she thought feasible.

Feeling the prickling of the sun's first rays upon delicate flesh, Sun slowed her progress enough to scan the surrounding desert and horizon. The first stirrings of morning life around a near-distant encampment of Bedouin nomads drew her attention.

Expenditure of so much energy and her stores were near to depletion. Sneaking into the nomadic camp, Sun sought out a still slumbering figure and took just enough sustenance to permit access to the earth's depths before the death-sleep overwhelmed. Prior to sinking beneath the sands, she grabbed a fistful of colored fabrics and let the darkness take her.

When the last rays of the sun bedded down beyond the horizon, Sun arose, and wrapped herself Bedouin-style in the swaths of cloth. Scarlet hair and pale face were well hidden and she kept to the shadows, hoping to make it from the encampment without arousing suspicion. Unfortunately, her early morning snack had raised the alert in the camp and as she snuck from one tent to the next on a bead for the perimeter and freedom, two hulking tribesmen barred her way.

One with a hand to her shoulder, the other staring sternly down upon her, she was stalled with no means of answering their rapid-fire questioning. Of the eight languages Crymsun spoke, Arabic was not one. Who knew she'd ever need it' It's not like the desert was tops on her list of vacation spots; lots of sand, not much shade to speak of, and high on the sun factor. Nope, when vampires made their holiday itineraries, you can bet desert was way down on the desirable places to visit column.

Not much else had worked up to this point and she didn't want to chance an enthrallment. It looked like this trip out would not prove as bloodless as the last. Oh, well. For the umpteenth time in too many long years, Sun hoped that intentions counted for something.

The one with his hand to her shoulder shoved her forward, and tall, dark and fashionably challenged number two grunted something unintelligible. Sun could almost guarantee, even if she spoke the tongue, it would have still been unintelligible. Another shove, another grunt and she gave one last try to get out of this without raising too much of a ruckus.

Strategically, hands smoothed the fabric to its best vantage on curvaceous form and she giggled, batting her eyes and bowing her head to the men as she attempted to move away from them, gesturing to the largest and most ornate tent. Surely, that was where the high muckity-muck of this enclave laid his head, hoping the two would buy into her hastily thrown together ruse. The men laughed, jostled each other, and if Sun was a betting female - which she was - she would go all in that the words they were bantering back and forth had something to do with Head Guy's virility and possibly getting in on the action after he was through.

Bowing again, giggling more, and stepping backwards, she thought she was in the clear. That is until less tall, less dark and even swarthier guy clamped his hand on her shoulder again and his counterpart grunted even louder than before.

"Oh, to hell with this!"

English words heavily accented with her naturally throaty Irish brogue had the desired effect; the men stiffened and paused. It lasted only a second or two but it was all the time she needed. Grabbing Shoulder-holder's wrist, she snapped his forearm while a foot lifted to spike Grunter in the family jewels. Whipping that same foot back, she took out the left knee cap of the one behind her and then swung her own knee upwards with heavy force and speed to ram into the other one's head as he bent double. Both arms raised and she spun, clenching them about the necks and twisting hard.

It was a waste, letting them thud lifeless to the sands, but what could one do. The altercation, while quiet, had sent alarm through the camp and Sun could hear footsteps pounding her way. A group of several, guns in hand, came around the nearest tent as she took off into the night at high speeds, two bullets finding purchase in arm and thigh.

"Great, just frellin' great! This was supposed to be a simple outin'! A simple outin', ye hear! Sand, bullets, anythin' else ye want to throw at me!?" She seemed to query the moon as she ran.

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-10-22 09:07 EST
Breeching the Walls

Having out run the camels and Arabians of the Bedouin tribe, Crymsun slowed her progress to staunch the flow of precious blood leaking from her wounds. Tearing strips of the brilliantly colored cloth, she tied them into pressure bandages about upper arm and thigh. It was then she knew she was close. Wiping pink-tinged sweat from her brow, blood red lips peeled back from one elongated and thickened incisor in a sneer as the uppity tone slid across her thoughts. "Vazakexrus."

Now she remembered why she'd ditched the sword in a place other than her Nether. Five centuries later and he was still going on about winding up in her unworthy, useless hands, stashed away while all his "good years" were wasted.

"Yer a sword, ye git! Nae like yer agin'. Now, dial it back a notch, Vazzie. I am comin' to get ye an' I promise ye'll like what I have in store for ye."

A roll of ashen eyes at the vile coming through the link. "Such language! Ye snog ye mate with that mouth' I thought ye were supposed to be a benevolent old Wyrm." She'd used the shortened form of his name knowing it would piss him off. Dragons demanded respect above most everything else, but theirs had never been a relationship based on fondness. Honing in on the link, Sun took off into the darkness once more. Before long the ghost ship of Deir al-Surian's shadow rose from the horizon.

By the stars overhead, she estimated it to be about three in the morning, the Midnight of the Soul. The Coptic monks were apt to be early risers and she still had to break into the tower, climb to the sanctuary on the top floor, and scale the inside of the cupola in order to release Vazakexrus from the bricks. No, this was not going to be a simple outing with a bloodless ending. Though, to be truthful, this didn't give her a bit of hesitation. Individually the monks may be innocent, but collectively, to her mind, their faith had steam-rolled over all she held near and dear. To her thinking, they were the reason for the Mists and to blame for her being shut out of the path home. Slinking along the walls to the north entrance, all the old bitterness, and rage began piling up.

It should have been fairly easy, the operative phrase being 'should have been.' Yet, as Sun moved along the outside edge of the high-walled fortress, a contingent of armed guards at the entrance brought her up short with a stifled gasp. "What in the nine planes now?" Eyes of ash took in the small group and several large vehicles parked near. While the men looked oddly military, most of the vehicles did not.

Backing up, around the far corner, she looked upwards forty-feet to the top of the enclosure walls. If she attempted the north entrance, getting to the tower where the chapel and Vazakexrus' hiding spot lie might prove more difficult than she was looking for this early in the game. Built in the mid ninth century, the walls proved their craftsmanship and showed not a single weak spot, only chinks here and there from the myriad raids that have taken place upon this compound through the years. The walls, Sun realizes now with a smirk, are actually older than she is.

No way in but up, and for a moment, she considers a shift to a form that would allow easy access along the vertical plane. Then, thinking better of it, decides no. Fearing if she can change she might not be able to reform with the iffy magics right now. In any of the four forms she can manifest, carrying out the sword would be impossible. Not only that, but she has lost and is still losing precious blood from the bullets lodged in arm and leg. No, only one way to do this.

Gathering the cloth that swaths her frame, she folds and tucks it to the band of her cutoff shorts. Palms placed to the stone, one foot lifted, Sun scales the compound wall to the top. What meets her gaze as she lays low along the uppermost ledge brings a sharp growl. Now she knows why memories buried had been called to the fore to bring her to this gods forsaken place and time.

Crymmsun

Date: 2006-12-21 11:17 EST


Out of the Frying Pan

Throughout the complex beyond the enclosure walls, life had already begun to stir. Smaller vehicles similar to those parked at the North Entrance were stationed about a compound that suddenly reminded Crymsun of scenes in one of the movies that Bel so loved to lose herself within at times. The interior layout appeared like something from a set of that epic with the light swords about the Jedi; all domes, staircases, wide doors and grand balconies put together in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. She stared for a while and took it all in, piecing things together.

The folds and drape of the Bedouin fabric still covering well her head and pale face, eyes of ash move methodically over the lay of the land beyond her perch atop the fortress walls. Several robed monks move among those dressed decidedly modern, and those vehicles....Sun has seen such activity before in her many lives and understands what is occurring. "Frellin' hells, scrounge monkeys!" Barely a hiss into the darkness, she watches the underlings moving hither and yon in their preparations.

Not even dawn and the archaeologists are already moving towards the Tower. Cups of steaming coffee in hand, they chat quietly about the finds of the day before. It is obvious they are hoping for more of the same results today. Two guards stand at their assigned posts by the North Entrance to the monastery. Where a great gate once stood, barbed wire and roadblocks have taken its place. The two guards idly watch the archaeologists as they share a cigarette, their dark eyes weary but alert. Dawn is still hours away, but it is clear to Sun that the Tower is the primary focus; the very Tower adjacent to the Church of the Holy Virgin she needs to access. From her present location, her ultimate destination lies clear across the compound, west of the North Entrance she was forced to detour about.

There is an air of excitement among the archaeologists; the rush of adrenaline that comes with fruitful digs. They are eager to get to work because they know they will unearth new treasures today, Sun can taste it on the air like a palpable force. Other workers, the menial labor, are beginning their chores; hauling dirt away in huge earthen buckets to be sifted, or raking through bits and pieces of the larger debris. Portable lighting makes the interior as bright as noon. Yes, not even dawn yet, but the activity is astounding. Being a desert means earlier days; one works the best when the sun is down or new on the barren fields of sand.

Vazakexrus' voice rings in her mind of uselessness and the unworthy plight of being at her hands. "Shut the frak up, Vazzie, I am concentratin' here." Focusing on one figure who seems above the lowly work of dirt hauling, coffee cup firmly in hand and a superior bearing, he pulls something from his field jacket and stops in front of the door to the small chapel on the north side of the church. If her memory serves, this is the Chapel of the Forty-Nine Martyrs, not much in usage even during her brief time at this locale. "Hmmm..."

Across the bustling compound, Sun listens intently, eyes sharp on the movements of all. The Tower is accessed by a drawbridge on the second floor, a precautionary measure for a lone outpost out in this harsh, unforgiving landscape. Much of the attention is focused on the lowest level where apparently a cache of old parchment tomes has already been found. Snippets of heated conversation tell that some among the scientists theorize this is where the real treasure is most likely to lurk, but it is a theory that is apparently seeing much debate. Still, it seems everyone is heading down rather than up.

The guards shift foot to foot, their eyes moving from the interior of the monastery to peer out into the dark depths of the desert. It is a trained movement, something they have been taught to do. Large intimidating rifles hang from their shoulders; they look anything but friendly. There is an air of comfortableness with their weapons; hands kept loose yet ready, familiar grips. Their country of origins may not be wealthy, but they train their military well. Monks, workers and men in modern garb seem to be everywhere, but all had a destination. Soon, a pattern forms and foot traffic begins to slow as they settle into various duties. There is a steady stream of men hauling stuff from the Tower to the building assigned as the work area. A few monks wander here and there, but otherwise the well-oiled machine seems to be purring along.

The guards were going to be a problem. Their duties and ability to carry out such with guaranteed success were abundantly evident from the looks and scent of them. Turning her head to get a better view at her rear flank, about sixty yards back was a water tower. A lot changes in five centuries, the monks obviously had running water. Quietly, careful not to disturb loose stone from the top of the wall, Sun slinks backwards towards the water tower. The lone figure she'd kept one eye on slipped something down the side near the door at the Chapel and walked inside.

Just what had these pit monkeys discovered, and had they come across Vazakexrus' hiding spot already? Asking the arrogant snipe proved fruitless and only brought about another barrage of mental abuse until she could tune him out again, opting for observation over information. Dropping to the sands out in the open was impossible with the hawk-eyes of the guards alert to anything out of the ordinary, and so she continued her slow trek for the water hold wondering whether she should attempt the fourth floor of the Tower or try to discern if the Sword has been discovered and squirreled away.

Luckily, for Sun, the guards don't bother looking at the top of the walls; they are too high for humans to scale without making a lot of noise. They continue to scan the exterior of the monastery, occasionally turning a glance or two inside. They don't seem to be expecting trouble. In fact, no one looks up. The walls have been there forever and no one has breeched them before. No one has a reason to look up. Monks, menial laborers and the occasional archaeologist wander through the courtyard, preoccupied with their own thoughts. As Crymsun inches her way towards the water tower, dawn inches closer to the horizon.

Low-lying buildings, probably housing cells for the monks, and their gardens, populate the southern and eastern ends of the compound. The water hold is directly across the interior from the Tower her attentions are focused upon. It is an easy 30-foot between the walls and the metal structure and Sun takes it from a crouch, landing lightly with a grip of both hands and one foot to cling against the web-like leg reaching from the sands to the tank above her. So intent is her focus, the coming dawn is barely a niggle at the back of her brain.

Down the tank's leg, vigilant to watchful eyes, bare feet raise a slight cloud of dust as she drops the last ten feet to the sands, hunching to the ground in the water tower's shadow. It is mostly males she has observed moving about the monastery, not surprising given the region, yet a few females concealed in raiment much as she is swathed in are noted now that she is inside the walls. Most are carting baskets and platters, moving in and out of some of the low-lying buildings, bringing what she surmises is sustenance to the workers and archaeologists about the Church's Tower. Unfurling the fabric from its tuck in her shorts, smoothing it and settling the covering about her head and face, Sun rises and moves cautiously nearer to a building one woman has just entered.

No one pays the swathed woman any notice, she is not important to them in anyway. One of the modern dressed men has stopped to chat with the guards, saying something about a supply truck that should be arriving before the guards' shifts are finished. They exchange a few pleasantries about the weather and the hopes for the day ahead before the man turns and brushes past the fabric-draped Sun. Totally oblivious to the fact she should not be here. He moves off towards the Tower, catching up with another man heading the same direction.

"You saw that last box we unearthed?"

"Yeah, looking forward to going through it."

"Me too."

Voices fading away as they disappear inside the Tower, leaving the courtyard eerily quiet. The guards lounge beside a military vehicle that's seen better days, speaking in low tones about a girlfriend one has. They laugh lewdly as details of naughty behaviors are exchanged. It appears a typical day in the life of the monastery, except for that swathed female who shouldn't be here about to walk into a building where others mill about within.

Blood still flows, precious life force seeping from the bullet wounds to arm and thigh, and its effects are quickly becoming more than just a nuisance. The male brushing past her is too quick, his small plastic rectangle dangling from an upper pocket of his khaki vest by a coil of neon orange. So much activity, points of observance pulled this way and that. And, yet, it is the way of the predator, ingrained, innate. All those seeking entrance to the Tower and the Chapel beside it use these cards, keycards. Sun is wise to the ways of the modern worlds; even her husband employs the use of such tweaked with a mix of tech and magics. She needs one of them no matter where Vazakexrus lies now. But, the male is too quick, and her reaction time is too slow.

Ashen eyes glance into the building she stands beside before she slips within to mingle with the other women preparing food and drink for the many workers about the monastery. Their language is foreign, though most of the women go about their chores in silence; all the better as Sun takes up a shallow basket and moves across towards a lone female who does not seem as far along in her tasks as the rest. A nod to her, she stations herself near and goes through the motions waiting for the others to begin filtering out; an eye to the corner where an open door awaits leading into a darkened store for the dry goods.

The women have placed copious quantities of coffee, flatbreads, and cheeses in large baskets and trays. As if with some silent cue, they gather the goods up and depart, leaving Sun and one other lady alone in the kitchen. The lady turns and bobs her head to Sun, muttering something in Arabic. Her dark eyes move from Sun to the table where the empty baskets and trays are neatly stacked just waiting to be filled and carried. Her eyes suggest a smile as she nods from Sun towards the baskets and trays encouragingly.

Nodding back silently, a flash of dark fire lights ashen depths behind the covering of cloth; reaching for a basket, it is now or never. As she does, Sun allows the basket to fall from her grip behind the woman. An unintelligible mumble given, hand lifted to still any movement the other might take to help. In that moment, the pale, talon-nailed hand peeks from the layers of fabric as Sun bends behind, whipping about with the speed afforded her nature and clamping that hand over the woman's mouth, pulling her swiftly to the doorway of the storage cellar.

As the lady had moved to help Sun with her basket, she found herself gagged and seized. She struggles valiantly, however her measly human constitution is no match for Sun's otherworldly strengths. The lady does put up a fierce fight though; kicking and trying to beat at Sun with her hands but to no avail, as she is helplessly dragged into the cellar where she is certain she will be meeting Allah very soon. Sun's captive ceases to struggle and resorts to tears as darkness enshrouds the pair.

Normally, in these latter centuries, Sun's tastes have taken a different road than the one she is plying now. In the dark of her mind, already in the grips of the Beast that rides her, she wishes it could have been one of the monks wandering throughout the complex. However, despite the robes, she knows not even they would conceal the fact of her gender, and without her magics glamour was out. This, therefore, was top of the menu.

In the shadows of the storeroom, Sun shakes the covering from her face and bores into the dark eyes of her captive, willing her to calm and hoping to instill a sense of peace. The lady never expected this!!! Having witnessed the unholy speed at which Sun had moved, and seen the bestial nature of Sun's hand, the lady knew she wasn't dealing with something strictly human. She assumes this a demon. A demon come to drink her soul! She is partially right...

Dark-fired eyes of ash catch hers and she quiets, becoming a trembling mass of pliant flesh. One arm about the woman's chest from behind, Sun's hand still blocking the sound from her mouth, blood red lips part and thickened, elongated incisors slice cleanly through olive flesh; a small part still lucid through the haze of hunger able to ask her Goddess' help in seeing the woman quickly on her way.

The kill is over nearly as soon as it began, the female's soul left to escape, though gems burned white-hot in Sun's pale palms at the travesty of such waste. The woman never has time to murmur the prayer to see her soul safe to its heaven, but at least Sun doesn't drink it down like her blood, too. Buried under sacks, her body won't be noticed for several days, by then the flies and worms will be making a stinking feast of it. Pulling the door almost closed, picking up the fallen basket, filling it with breads and cheeses, Sun is able to slip out of the kitchen carrying her basket of stuff unnoticed, or at the very least overlooked and ignored. She looks like any of the other serving wenches.

Stepping from the building, Sun feels the inevitable. Many things she has been able to do and undo over many lives and her long existence, stopping the rising of the sun has never been within her grasp, however. Though out on the sands the greying of the horizon is only just now brimming, flesh beneath colored layers of fabric already begins to prickle. Bare feet move faster across the compound to the bustling crew of the dig, nearer to those who hold what she needs.

"Nae now!" a sibilant whisper from beneath her veiled face as Vazakexrus starts in with a new tactic, whining martyrdom. "I swear, I be thinkin' ye dunna want me to rescu..." The nearly inaudible words cut off shortly as Sun nears a gathering, basket held before her, her head bowed low to the ground. Teeth grit hard behind her mask. The right bastard! He didn't want her to "rescue" him! This was all some twisted plot of revenge she just knew it! A way to get back at her for stashing him away where he could not achieve what it was he wanted. Skirting around a group, she mumbled unintelligibly in passing, but she could tell by the cackle in her mind the pompous ass of a Sword heard her just fine.

"Bloody frakkin' devil." Soon, if she did not get out of the coming dawn, the layers of cloth would not be able to hide what would happen to her once the sun's rays touched her flesh beneath it.

Dawn is unlike time in that it happens no matter what one's perception of it may be. It is part of the unending cycle of life; the sun rises and sets no matter what else may happen. It is the inevitable course of nature. And, so it is that our heroine finds herself facing just such an event. Warming tendrils of purple and orange light begin snaking across the darker blues of the horizon, chasing the greys away with weak, watery color. Still slightly insubstantial it won't be long before the sun crests and direct contact is made. Sun had better find somewhere to rest and soon!

A few take things from her basket but she's last in a long line of ladies handing out food; most just aren't interested and ignore her. No one takes the time to study Sun, she's just another of the serving wenches; no reason to pay her any more attention than the others. Well, except for the smoking of her skin, too subtle for humans to notice yet, but very soon that may change.

Overlooked and ignored. Many males from the region they are in are used to having their females ghost through their lives. The monks have no truck with the fairer sex. The scientists, while modern and of western culture, are too intent upon their treasures. Eyes of ash glance to the pinking sky and feet scrape along the sands, inching closer to the ones who hold the only treasure she seeks. She has one shot; if it fails, a new plan must be put into action. A youthful male steps up to take a bit of cheese from the basket she holds and, feigning a stumble, her hand strikes forth as if to catch her balance, talons just centimeters away from the small, white plastic card dangling off a springy coil of fluorescent green. So close....As is the dawn.

The man grabs hold of Sun, quick to steady her. They may tend to ignore their women in this culture, but they also wish to keep them safe; his gesture is meant to be noble and keep her from falling. "You alright, miss?" asked in Arabic as he sets her back on her feet. Sun has plenty of time to snatch the card, but now she has it in hand, what?s she going to do with it so he doesn't notice"

The razored edge of one taloned-nail had made quick work of the bit of rubberized plastic coil; the card was pressed to the cup of her palm that rested against his breast pocket. A dip of her head from him, a mumble of sound meant to be pleasing and acquiescent, she takes a half-step back, bowing, the basket tipping, its contents tumbling and that hand quickly pulled away in ruse to catch her clumsy mistake. If he noticed the card gone, she could drop it at his feet as if it caught accidentally. If not, she had her treasure and the Tower was the next obstacle to hurdle.

He doesn't try to hold on to her, letting her go easily, but when the basket falls he impulsively moves to help rescue it from upending. His hands cover hers as he chuckles good humouredly. "That was close!" blushing a bit as he pulls his hands away to step back, giving her proper space. "You be careful now." He attempts to flirt because when he'd caught her he'd felt the firm curves beneath the formless fabric and thought she had youthful, pretty eyes.

Holding to the basket with the hand that held the card, her other one lifts to touch at the veil over her mouth and she giggles. Fiery lashes flutter and coyness is there in gesture and in sound as she tucks her chin, glancing once more over a cloth covered shoulder to the youth before hurrying off to a near distant grouping around the north side of the Church of the Holy Virgin, next to the Chapel of the Forty-Nine Martyrs.

"Tough on ye, mate!" hard light in ashen eyes, she whispered to the superior air coming off Vazakexrus' mental dronings. "Ye keep ye trap shut an' let me do what be havin' to be done an' I promise ye, ye will be likin' what lies in store beyond that point." The group around the Chapel was heavy with activity, but she let one last whisper fall before clamming up and portraying the obedient little serving girl. "Do the name Daugolozan mean a thin' to ye?"

Once again, the serving wench is overlooked in lieu of excitement over the most recent find; old masonry jars litter the ground, their contents staining the linen they'd been lovingly wrapped in.

"Yes, very old, part of a burial maybe?"

"Could have been part of a winter stash?"

"Maybe we should send this stuff out to be tested, find out what was in those jars?" No one cares about the serving wench, or the food she's carrying. They have eyes only for their 'treasure'.

Just as Sun is about to duck behind the back of the Chapel, try and discover if this is a place she needs to check for the Sword before attempting the bustling hive that is the Tower, the sun's rays finally peak the enclosure walls, bathing the monastery courtyard in beautiful dawning light. The subtle smoking of flesh beneath colored cloth is now not so subtle. Eyes of ash dart hither and yon, looking for escape. The old fight or flight syndrome kicking to fore as she has just now become a caged animal.

One of the workers spies the suddenly smoking woman and springs to his feet pointing and shouting in Arabic. "Woman on fire!!" Heads begin turning Sun's way.

"Frak me!" The basket dropped, she darts from the gathered workers and scientists, flowing through a group of monks coming towards them, at speeds that raise dust devils in her wake, arms patting about her person as if she is trying to put out the flames. In her head she hears the cackling of a sentience that has clearly seen the better days of sanity.

Heading back to the low-lying buildings and gardens near the water tower, she can only hope the rest will think she is getting help and leave it at that, return to their treasure hunt and let her find some place to wait out the day until the sun is well past its zenith. She doesn't hold out much for that plan, but hope is a lifeline all reach for at one time or another. Hadn't she thought before now this wasn't going to be a bloodless outing" The snooty retorts of Vazakexrus slip around her rising panic as she seeks shadow from the sun. A growl loosing, held tight behind gritted teeth.

Now, most of these people have never seen anything like this before; a woman smoking like she was on fire but no sign of any flame. They stared as she rushed past, but she was too fast to follow, and the archaeologists weren't really all that interested, either. However, the monks' attentions have been caught. There is an exchange of looks, and none too soon four of them are following the trail of her footsteps left in the sandy ground. The monks assume something unholy is afoot, for they are, after all, monks.

The fact that sunlight no longer held the promise of death for Sun did not mean it had no effect. The blood she'd taken from the female earlier sustained the burst of speed that took her to the far southern corner of the complex. Sheltered in the shade of what looked to be a new library and possibly museum, she tries to figure out how to keep from going to ground, either on this side of the walls or the other. "Bloody hells!"

Of course, stomping about was not going to get her anywhere, and soon enough the sun's trek across the skies would tire her, bring the death sleep. If caught in it fully as she would be without finding shelter or going to ground, torpor would take her. The library appeared empty at the time, so she slipped inside its confines seeking a quiet, dark place to hide. The fact the monks were on her trail she did not even contemplate.

The monks do indeed follow, but it takes them a while to trace her to the new library. By the time they reach it, her trail seems to just go dead; they can't find her anywhere, and since they don't know who or what she is they don't have any idea where to start looking. They do look, however. They look and look, but find nothing. By the end of the day, they have decided the unholy presence had somehow miraculously been vanquished. Perhaps it was the purity of their devotion?

Holed up in a little used cupboard of the library, Sun's senses remain alert as does her mind. Out of the sun, she can keep from slumber and formulate a plan, which she does. The sound of the monks traipsing back and forth about the compound has her thinking. The brothers of this monastery know all the ins and outs, their souls could tell the easiest way to what she seeks. Fiery lashes drift to ivory cheeks, her head resting against the stone wall behind her, breath stilling. When the sun rounds its zenith and darkness begins to climb, she would get the answers she needs. In the cold corners of her mind, an old rage begins to steam.