Kelsea had often wondered, in the waning years of her life as a mortal, if she would ever find her place in the world.
Not that she had ever expected great things to come of herself. She was not some grand heroine in a fairy tale; no songs would be sung of her and her meagre exploits. She never expected to fall in love with a nobleman, nor to be swept away to a glamorous life of opulence and luxury.
For all her mother's admonishments, Kelsea was never so foolish as to dream beyond the scope of a whore's daughter. A full belly, a warm hearth, and a satisfying life, that was more than enough to sate the modest ambitions of a girl who had spent her childhood underfoot in a lice-ridden brothel in the slums.
She had once - for a brief, adolescent time - fancied herself a mage in the making. Such occurrences were not unheard of in a place like Arjal: the story of a gutter-born orphan, who rose to become Grandmaster of the great, secretive Tower of Mages had been a tale told more than once over the course of the city's tumultuous history.
But Kelsea possessed no true connection to the Helspires, the mystic realms of power that tied the godsplane to mortal existence. The fact that the Tower had never deigned to dispatch one of their faceless Seekers to induct her into their arcane ranks (despite Kelsea's most ardent prayers) spoke to
that
dream's particular potency.
It was thus a profound irony that she had only discovered her 'talent' in casting humanity's inner fire years later, through her involuntary transformation into her new, libidinous shape. For all of Gosvin's might, he had never blessed Kelsea with the ability to call upon the element that so defined his children. It was only through Huzra's hedonistic touch that a spark as dim as hers could kindle to blue balefire.
But truth be told, Kelsea had never borne the kind of passionate ember that burned in the chest of those seized by a particular calling in life. She was as content as anywhere when it came to finding a home, earning a living, and seeking contentment. It was not the goal she sought, so much as a road to walk.
And now, here she sat: staring at one of the uglier consequences of the winding path she had taken. Perhaps her mother's final parting words to her were true: perhaps she
had
made a grave mistake.
Carl Hale, the once cocky, blonde bowman, lay in a stupor in front of her, sheltered in the open-air church of Blessed Sphanor. They were alone in this particular area - the wounded and the dead had been cleared enough in recent days to allow those who remained their own patches to convalesce. Despite exposure to the elements, some strange magic of the wind god protected the church from the freezing cold outside. The gentle breeze that wafted through the overhanging sheets of fabric was soft and warm.
Covered in a thick, wool blanket, only Carl's head was visible... though Kelsea could well imagine the wiry shape of his body lying beneath. The ruined half of his face was mercifully covered by a wettened scrap of cloth, a paltry attempt to spare those who passed the sight of the grisly injury. Despite the priestess' best efforts to cover it, Kelsea could see the cracked and reddish skin peeking out past the edges. The balefire had burned him terribly, and even Almyra's healing magics had only just begun to mend it to stiff scar tissue.
She dabbed at his brow with a wetted cloth, worrying at her inability to feel for a fever. Her own infernal skin was so hot that determining normal body temperature was at best a vague guessing game. He'd lain in an unconscious stupor since he'd first arrived, borne on the backs of the very mercenaries Roland had gone to meet with.
Well... them, and that
witch
.
Kelsea's stomach twinged with pain and discomfort at the memory of the Elven priestess. She could recall with fear the terrible memory of the rider in the night, stalking her in the snow like an animal. The hex was still inside her. Whatever strange curse that fey creature had inflicted on her dwelled there still, muffled but growing.
"Mmh," Her patient groaned, shifting back and forth under the blanket.
"Carl!" Kelsea exclaimed, bending forward in a rush. His one good eye peeked open, looking up at her with a dim incousiance.
They stared at one another for a long moment, wordless dialogue passing between them as Carl took in his surroundings.
"Ah." He whispered, his dry lips cracking open. A ragged sigh issued forth from his tired lungs. "So we won, then."
Kelsea choked out a laugh. Despite their quarrels, despite his incessant hostility and tireless jabs at her expense, she had strangely missed him. To hear him speak again was a great relief to her conscience. The Demon took a nearby water skin in hand and lifted it to his lips. Carl eagerly accepted it, bending his head off the pillow as he sipped at the thing. A long minute passed in silence as he swallowed.
Spent, he leaned back, letting out a second, more contented sigh. His lone eye blinked, and Kelsea saw the light of intelligence spring into it once more. Carl looked around, his gaze trailing across the Inner Cloister and the remaining wounded lying a ways away beneath the rippling sheets of fabric.
"...How bad?" He asked, staring at something past Kelsea's shoulder.
"Most of the Outer Cloister was destroyed in the attack. The inner walls held, but only barely." Kelsea suppressed a shiver at the recollection. "This is basically all that's left."
"I meant my
face
, you scurrilous creature." Carl groaned, reaching up with a feeble hand to caress the top of the wetted cloth. "Feels like my entire right side's been scraped across a grindstone."
Kelsea felt a sinking pit in her stomach. "...It will mend. But it's going to take some time."
Carl croaked with laughter. "Yeah,
that's
the tone of a whore who's telling the truth."
"Almyra swore to me you would recover," Kelsea said, her hackles rising. How easy it was for him to goad her. "...There may be some scars, but-"
Carl chuckled again. "You just
can't
bring yourself to be the bearer of bad news, eh?" He shook his head back and forth. "No need to spin a sweeter tale, Succubus. I'm as helpless as a lamb and as frail as a kitten. You no longer have any cause to fear my fury."
"I never feared you, Carl." Kelsea retorted, trying but failing to keep the hint of hostility from her voice. Why was he so good at prickling at her frayed edges? "I just... you didn't deserve this."
"Which part, Succubus?" Carl's one eye matched hers in sharp focus. "The face-burning, or the friend-killing?"
"Either." Kelsea said, keeping her expression level. That seemed to only amuse Carl further. He smirked and shifted beneath the covers.
"Just as well." He said, settling into his blanket as if he intended to sleep once more. "Gods only know what strange fate keeps me bound to you and that ginger-haired cunt." His eye opened once more, peeking at her out of the corner. "...How does he fare?"
"Roland lives." She replied.
"So he's well, then." Carl said. "Else you'd have gotten that doleful look in your eyes and glanced away." He smiled without humor when she blushed in embarrassment. "I've been learning your little heartstrings tricks, Succubus. They aren't half as endearing as you think them to be."
"It's Kelsea." The Succubus said in a quiet tone. A chill wind rippled in the godly canvas above them.
Carl stared at her a moment. "Kelsea then. Fine. Cling to the pretension if you must."
"It's not a pretense, Carl." Kelsea said, feeling already weary of their conversation. She toyed with her hands.
"Delusion, pretension, call it what you like." The blonde bowman said. "I take it the villagers haven't figured out what you are, yet? That, or I'm merely the most pathetic of your servants you still need to tend to at this poi-"
"Gods, would you just
stop
?" Kelsea said, her frustration boiling over. "Why must you provoke me like this at every turn? Have you no wits to see that I'm not the beast you make me out to be? I would love nothing better than to be rid of you, and for you to be rid of us!"
Carl tilted his head to the left, turning to face her. She could see the shadow of his ruined features through the wetted cloth. Her eyes darted away to avoid the uncomfortable sight. Carl's mouth parted, the scabbed skin at the corner of his lips stretching and contorting beneath.
"Heal me, then." He said. For once, there was no mockery in his voice. "Turn me loose, and I'll trouble you no more."
