Fictober, Prompt 21 – “What did I say?”
Original fiction, dark fantasy/horror. A follow-up to this piece (Day 9).
Warnings: murder (off-screen), blood sacrifice, eldritch horrors, violent death.
I walked carefully through the ruins of the basilica, lifting my robes with one hem to keep them from the dirt and soot and rubble strewn across the floor. Fire raged elsewhere in the building, and the roof was long burnt away or caved in. Smoke obscured the overhead view, but I knew the night was overcast beyond the conflagration.
The flames had swept quickly through this part of the building, mostly stone as it was, so it was a bit more intact.
The Pact-Makers did not understand the concept of mercy.
I did not much understand it myself, anymore, time having show me too much of its results.
Sound ahead alerted me, and I quickened my step as much as possible. If I had found the one I sought at last, so much the better.
“The Voice” as his followers had worshipfully styled him for so long, was on his knees, scrabbling in the soot behind what was left of his throne, a crumbling wood and scorched metal seat. As I approached, quiet, he pulled out a large pack and nearly tore it open, desperate to look inside.
Whatever he saw relieved him, for he fastened it closed again, and then rose, pulling it on.
I thought he would bolt when he saw me, and a brief twitch of his middle-aged but charismatic features told me he wanted to. He fought the urge, however, and turned to face me, stepping out from behind the burnt throne.
“Have your demons had enough, sorceress?” he taunted. “Are you reduced to fighting your own battles now?”Continue reading