Heroid

((Wow. Really nice bunch of posts, peeps! ))

Rosie woke up with a knot on her head and a headache. The witch got lucky. There was no way she'd let her take her down again. As soon as she caught up with her...

The clock on the wall said four o'clock. She had been unconscious for about twenty minutes. A sweep of the base turned up no sign of the double. Rosie was sure the woman was gone, probably by way of the teleporters. She had no way to tell where in the Isles the double was.

So she sat down at her computer, looked up a nice picture of St. Thomas, photoshopped in some text, and printed it up on glossy paper, writing a message on the back of it. Then she flew down to the Golden Giza where one of the patrons was an expert on forging postmarks. Finally, she dropped it into the "Out of Town" mail box.

In a few days, Nick would be getting a nice postcard that said:

Having a great time getting to know each other. Wish you were here!

Love, Rose and Rose

That should buy her some time to hunt this fake down.

Rose was in pain from the blow and the kick had made it that much worse. She couldn't stand up right now if she tried. Her eyes were welling with tears, and though she kept her sobs quiet, she couldn't keep her shoulders from heaving. If only she hadn't tried to pull her punch, then she might have connected and their situations would be reversed.

Through her teary eyes she saw Rosie kneel down beside her. A gentle hand brushed her hair out of her face.

"Poor you, whoever you are. I'm sorry I hurt you."

The words made Rose cry all the more. She didn't know why she was crying. Neither did she know why she was in such pain.

"Please," Rose said between sobs and waves of pain, "Talk to me."

Rosie stood and looked down at her with her own familiar, caring eyes and said, "Okay. We'll talk..."

Rose sighed in relief. No more hitting.

Then, Rosie's fist came down hard on her cheek.

"Liar! I don't know what you are but you shouldn't even be!"

Rose heard the familiar sound of the Zapsuit powering up. She knew she was about to be fried if she didn't do something.

Despite her pain, she reached out and grabbed Rosie's ankle. The electricity grabbed her and shook her like an angry Hydra, but still, she did what she set out to do: she pulled Rosie's foot out from under her and down she went with a bang and her head -- the only thing not protected by the Zapsuit -- hit a table as she fell.

Rosie didn't move after that. Rose struggled to her feet and felt her double's neck for a pulse. She was alive, merely unconscious.

Rose didn't know where to go, but she couldn't stay here. If Dust or Blaze came in and found her...

A stab of pain from her abdomen made her knees buckle and she almost went down again. She had to leave, even if it meant being stranded on the streets of Cap Au Diable.

She made her way to the Lion Brigade's teleporters, hoping against hope that Dust had set them up to teleport to the mainland. No such luck, at least as far as she could tell. She had to choose a location in the Rogue Isles and hope she could survive until she found a way to contact Nick.

Her plan to talk to her "sister" had just taken a deadly turn.

Cracklin’ Rosie was a minor player in the Rogue Isles. It wasn’t a name that inspired terror, or fear, or awe. Usually when adversaries encountered her, they dismissed her as a blond bimbo in a power suit. Rosie didn’t care. She was a survivor. First impressions were less important than “last-one-standing”.

Her rather low-key career played in her favor in other ways also: Dustlight could send her on extremely important, sensitive missions, and no one would give her a second thought. In. Out. Mission accomplished. Next.

Brass, on the other hand, offered her only small potatoes lately. She suspected he had found out about her relationship with Dust. Not that Brass had tried to tie her down – what they had shared had been purely for “funsies” – but men, being the beasts they are, tended change their behavior depending on the odds they had of bedding you.

So when Brass gave her the message to meet her “sister” at Pocket D on a particular day, at a particular time, she thought it was some sort of setup. Her first thought when she saw Themari at the bar was that she had been set up on some sick idea of a “blind date”.

Then she noticed the "other". She had heard about this woman who was her double. She had been told some ridiculous things about some curse or spell or something that split her in half and that this other "Rose" was the result of that. She didn't buy that. It sounded ludicrous.

“R-Rosie?” Themari stuttered.

“Yeah. And me and… whoever this is... we need to talk.”

She didn't finish saying, "...but not here," but instead grabbed the other Rose by the arm and activated the emergency teleport that took them to the headquarters of the Lion Brigade.

Themari's jaw was still dropped as he faded out and the familiar surroundings of her own quarters suddenly surrounded them. Her mirror-image looked startled at first, then a look came over her face that Rosie recognized: the look a professional thief casing her surroundings.

"Look, whoever you are," Rosie said, wary of any movement her double made, "you're not me."

"I know that. You're you. I'm me."

Rosie looked the other woman up and down. Same build. Same eyes. Same everything.

Finally she said, "I know what you are. You're some sort of... animated... something or other... made out of magic clay or something like that."

"What?"

"You're something Nick had made up to keep him warm at night after that Irish witch ditched him."

"No. I'm not. And Maggie Love is dead, so speak of her respectfully."

Rosie smiled as she said, "Live witch. Dead witch. You tell me which one is better."

"Why you..."

The other woman took a swing at Rosie, which was exactly what she had hoped for. If there was one way to disprove that this woman was really her duplicate it was by testing their reflexes and fighting techniques. Rosie ducked the punch and drove her own fist into the woman's solar plexus. The woman went down to the floor.

So much for the test.

"You're me? I didn't even have to power up to take you down."

Rosie kicked the woman in the stomach which caused her to curl into a fetal position. Then she knelt beside her and, with surprising tenderness, brushed her hair out of her face.

"Poor you, whoever you are. I'm sorry I hurt you."

((Lovely. *sniffle*))

((Awww...))

[ QUOTE ]
<joins the line next to Angel and Peachie>

{I mentioned it before and I'll say it again. This is *not* my preferred style of reading, but I couldn't stop. This was excellantly written and changed my point of view on the Circle of Thorns. I used to feel slightly sorry for them, not anymore. Very, very nicely crafted!}

[/ QUOTE ]

[ QUOTE ]
He should take a shot at the Mu next. A compilation of Foes shorts, reflecting the background and abilities of different groups!

You should have some Just off the deep end Mu cultist next. They are always fans of stealin' anything with the slightest whiff of magic. A comb full of souls sounds like something they'd want to take, even if only to soothe their curiousity.

[/ QUOTE ]

((I really have to hand it to the devs for giving their villain organizations such solid backstories, but still leaving things open-ended enough so that I can make up indirect predecessors without worrying about contradicting canon.

But thanks for the compliments peeps! ))

Her gambit with Brass paid off. He responded to “Rose’s twin sister” as amenably as he always had before the split. (How in the hell were they going to work around the name-thing?) He set up a meeting between the “sisters” to take place a week later in the Tiki Room at Pocket D.

So for a second time she sat in Pocket D waiting for an even more familiar face – her own – to show up, this time sipping a glass of chardonnay. The meeting had to be in the D because she wasn’t sure how -- Rose? -- would respond to her. DJ Zero had ways to nullify the Zapsuit, but on the streets of Paragon City, or in the Rogue Isles, her own little bow and arrows wouldn’t stand a chance against it.

This time, she wasn’t wearing body armor. This time she was in a pink top and a pair of grey slacks. She wanted to present herself in as unthreatening way as possible. She really, really needed to speak with this person she was quickly coming to look at as her twin sister.

“So… Are you a real female?”

The question was inane, and when she turned and saw the source she wished that Zero didn’t have a “no fighting” policy. It was Peter Themari who had taken the stool beside her.

Themari had an eye for the ladies like Brass did, but he had none of Brass’ roguish charm. Themari, at least by reputation, was at best a misogynistic weasel, at worst, something far darker. Either way she had no desire to let him check her anatomy to prove her gender.

“You look different today, Rosie,” he said with leer and a smirk, “softer maybe?”

“And you look just as repulsive as ever you leech.”

“You know, you should watch what you say to me. I’m connected in ways you can only imagine.”

“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll disconnect you in ways you can only imagine.”

“Ouch. Good to see you really haven’t gone soft, Rosie. You’re just as much a bi—“

Rose hooked her foot around the leg of Themari’s stool, and gave it a good yank, flipping it – and him – to the floor.

He reached and grabbed the edge of the bar to pull himself up. A piece of the edge broke off in his hand, and back to the floor he went.

“You’ll pay for this,” he said. “You’ll never work in the Isles again.”

“I don’t work in the Isles now, you pug-ugly,” Rose replied as she took a sip of wine from her glass.

“Who the hell are you?” Themari asked after he climbed to his feet.

Before Rose could work up a snappy reply, another voice spoke up.

“That’s what I want to know.”

Rose saw Themari’s jaw drop and followed his gaze.

The newcomer was tall and blonde and could have been a fashion model instead of a career criminal.

“R-Rosie?” Themari stuttered.

“Yeah. And me and… Rose? We need to talk.”

The meeting of the two Roses started in Pocket D.

The registered hero, Rose McAden had staked out the bar, waiting for a familiar face to pop in. When Marshall Brass showed up for happy hour, she had her chance. In her body armor and mask that covered her face, he wouldn’t recognizer her right away, but he would notice her figure. And he liked blondes.

A consummate mercenary leader, Brass was always looking for new talent for Arachnos. If that talent happened to be female, so much the better. That was how she had met him, in the Rogue Isles, before the “split”. She was never sure if he courted her for her looks, or because of the powers the Zapsuit had granted her (and still granted her… what? Other? Double? She needed to figure that out, and soon). Whichever it was, his dynamic personality finally drew her into a brief – actually a weekend – relationship with him. And though the romance (if it could be called that since it consisted of squelching a Goldbrickers’ plot, then sex) was brief, they had remained on friendly terms since, and for some reason he always seemed willing to go out of his way if she needed him.

Except that wasn’t really her, was it?

So sitting there at the bar, it was like looking at a stranger.

As soon as Brass situated himself on a barstool, Rose said, “Bartender, pour the man a Seagrams.”

Brass smiled and turned to her. He paused long enough to check out her figure, and then said, “And who is the lovely lady to whom I owe the pleasure?”

“Lovely? But you can’t see my face?”

“And yet, I am sure that behind that mask is a face that makes men weak.”

“I find that most men are weak enough without a woman’s help.”

“Touché,” he said as the bartender set his drink in front of him. “Now, a lady doesn’t usually buy a strange man a drink unless there’s something he can do for her.”

“Well,” she replied as she slowly pulled her mask down, “I want you to help me find my… sister.”

He had returned to Oxford from his travels abroad to find his latest paramour had moved away with her family. Bethany was a rare woman in English society – feisty, and high spirited, with passions not usually found in a proper lady. He had taught her how to fight like a soldier, and how to ride a horse. She rode wearing only her pantalettes so that she could sit astride the saddle like a man. When she loved, she loved with carefree abandon. That her beauty was as rare as her spirit, also figured into his decision to seek out the family’s new home.

What began simply as a search quickly became a quest, because the address to which all of the family’s correspondence had been routed to proved to be an empty apartment in the north of Birmingham. Upon contacting the lessee of the apartment, he found out that it was sublet by a company in Newcastle. And so it went as after several weeks he came to the conclusion that someone had purposely set a trail that would lead any seeker further away from the family. Now it was not simply a matter of finding Bethany, it was a matter of thwarting someone who would seek to keep him from his objective.

Most of a year passed before he found the name Lambshead. It was a village near the southern coast, east of Portsmouth. Small in size and smaller in wealth, it was a village of uneducated fishermen. The presence of magic here – as was often the case with areas populated by simple folk – was strong.

The local man he encountered upon his arrival cursed him roundly when he asked about the scholar and his three beautiful daughters. After that no one in Lambshead would speak with him. When he walked through the village, old women would cross themselves and step into the nearest doorway. In the pub – where the barkeep served him most begrudgingly, but could not turn away the King’s gold – he gathered that some sinister event had very recently taken place and the resulting scandal had cast a black pall over the town.

It was only by his persistence that someone finally pointed him to the charred ruins of the manor house. He searched through the blackened rubble, finding very little that gave him a clue as to what had happened. He did find a comb with golden strands tangled in its teeth. There was no way to know to which sister they belonged.

He was prepared to take the comb and leave when he heard a sound of mad laughter. He spun around to seek its source only to see the branches of some nearby bushes whipping back into place. With grim determination, he followed into the wild scrub.

A path twisted out of the far side of the thicket and wound down a hill and into a cave entrance. Above the entrance was painted the flaming oak leaf symbol of the Fellowship of Ancient Lore and Arcane Luminary Arts. He had heard of them, but had never had any direct dealings with them. However, if they were involved in this, then deal with them he shall. Holding up his right hand, which began to glow like a lantern, he proceeded.

Just inside the entrance there was a tool bench with tools still set up on it. Here, on the walls, ceiling, and rocky floor were bloodstains. He closed his eyes and had a sense of a battle, and of Bethany’s presence. He hoped she gave as well as she got.

He followed the cave until it opened up into a large chamber. The laughter started again and this time he saw the person from whom it came – Bethany’s father.

“Sir, what has happened here?” he asked, approaching the man with caution as he looked around the chamber.

The room was ornately decorated with gold urns and figurines and the remains of finely woven tapestries which were scorched and burned. Carvings covered the walls and a statue representing an obscenity of a being dominated one end. Aside from the decorations, there were the bones. Full skeletons, charred and fleshless, lay strewn all around the room – full, that is, except for the skulls, which were missing. Of the skeletons, only three retained their heads. They lay together, one with its arms positioned as if embracing the other. The third headed skeleton lay at the feet of the other two, an arm outstretched as if trying to touch the others, but falling just short.

The wretched man’s laughter faded, and he said sadly, “They cannot pass… my poor flowers cannot pass over…”

Clearly their father was insane, but if he could calm the man enough, perhaps he could get the truth out of him. “Tell, me sir, please, what has happened, and I will do what I can for souls of your daughters.”

The haggard father looked at him with gratitude and recounted the grim tale of the translation of the ancient text. He explained what he suspected of his evil wife, and his feeling of powerlessness to cease his work on the book. He told of a blasphemous, abominable rite which was described in the book, and his suspicion that Cassilda planned to perform the ritual in order to bring forth the dark god of an ancient age and to raise a lost city. Within the book was a secret codex with which one could control the powers of this dark god. The power came with great risk, however. If one small bit of the ritual was performed wrongly, or if the codex was used improperly, then the guardian of the lost city would be called forth and his judgment would be swift and terrible.

“And so it did happen!” the father declared. “It did happen so! Someone… something… went wrong. Th-the Tattered King! H-he… he killed them with the rest! B-but h-he did not take their souls w-with the rest, thank God… curse God… I saw…. I saw! And I remained outside so that I might not face his wrath!”

When the tale was done, the poor man fell prostrate and pleaded, “Kill me for I allowed the wicked woman to use my own daughters in her evil doings!”

He ignored the father’s pleadings, turned away and said, “Bethany? Speak to me. If you dwell here, make yourself known!”

He felt a sensation like a cold finger caressing his cheek. She was indeed still here.

“Bethany, I found this comb. I suspect it has your hair tangled in it. If you hear me, focus upon the comb. I can free you from this place if you will attach yourself to this.”

He waited for a response, and when none came, said, “Elizabeth, if this is your comb, then please draw yourself to it, and then your sister may come with you and you may both be freed.”

Again, he waited, and then after moments of no reply continued, “Hermione? If…”

Before he could say another word he felt a jolt and the comb leapt from his hand as if alive.

“Ah. Hermione’s comb then.” He picked it back up then continued speaking. “Now, please, Bethany, Elizabeth, draw close to your sister.”

He waited.

“I do not know exactly what has happened, but surely, you do not wish to remain in this place. Come, so that one day you may live again.”

There was another jolt, but this time he held on to the comb. That jolt was followed seconds later by another.

While the wretch who had once been a beloved father and scholar wept in the darkened reaches of the back of the chamber, the man who had once been Bethany’s lover crawled on hands and knees, gathering the ashes that were beneath the headed skeletons, for he was sure these were the remains of his lady and her sisters. After he had collected as much as he could be sure was them, he stood and moved toward the door.

“Please! Do not leave me so!” the father begged.

The choice was harsh, but under the circumstances, it wasn’t difficult. He found a pickaxe lying on the floor. In the few spots where its handle wasn’t scorched, it was stained with blood. He stood over the weeping madman, lifted up the pickaxe, and swung it, embedding its point deep into the base of the father’s skull.

With a sigh, he left the cave carrying with him the comb and a sack full of ashes. He never looked back.

Now, standing here, outside this small print shop, it seemed almost unbelievable that he would not see her again for a lifetime, perhaps several. Her fate -- and the fates of her sisters -- was tied to the book, and the curses and bindings therein by which they died. But they would live again -- that much was certain -- though the process would be as slow as the planning to make it so had been complicated.

The question that remained was, would he see her again in that distant time? He turned his collar up against the London chill, pulled his hat down low over his brow, faded into the grey downpour, and flew away.

Finis… for now.

One year later…

“Where did you find this?”

The weasel of a man crouched over the stack of pages like a lion over a deer. He looked up at the stranger who had brought in the manuscript: the man had an air of aristocracy about him, yet he did not seem to be of that pampered ilk. Neither did the man have the sickly pallid look of one who spent his time pouring over ancient scrolls.

“Never mind where I found it,” the stranger replied. “Just tell me if you can do it.”

The weasel looked over the pages. “Well… it will not be easy to maintain the form of each page exactly, down to the letter – no, no you said down to every dot and dash. And these roses that are drawn on three corners of each page… Oh, very difficult to do on my old press. That will cost you…”

“I am not much for quibbling. Name your price, but if you tell me you can do this and you fail, mark my word that you shall regret the undertaking of it.”

“Y-yes. I c-can do it. A-and I can mix the a-ashes into the ink. Y-yes.”

The stranger smiled. “Good. Take your time, but notify me at this address with the total charges for your work when it is done.” He handed the print master a card with an apartment number. “I will send a man by to pick it up. You are to ask him no questions and there will be no mirrors in the shop when he comes. Is that understood?”

"There are no mirrors now, sir."

The stranger looked around to confirm that fact. "Good. See to it that it does not change before my associate comes."

The weasel nodded his head then watched the stranger curtly turn and walk out of the print shop. He said again, just as the door closed, “It wouldn’t kill you to tell me where you found this…”

The stranger heard the man’s words and he considered for a moment turning around, but he stepped on out onto the street. A cold rain was falling so he stepped beneath a nearby pawnbroker's awning and took out his pipe. He tamped the bowl to pour the ash out upon the ground. The swirling ash whispered to his memory...

Rose and Rose.

Longbow Agent Bannock looked from one to the other of the two women, and except for their costumes, he would not have been able to tell them apart. Twenty-nine? Thirty? Thirty-five? He couldn’t determine their ages from looking at them. And they both had “old eyes”. That was the only way he could think to put it.

Rose number one had brought Rose number two in after arresting her on a whole stack of outstanding warrants. Rose number one had come in with an unconscious Rose number two. Number one’s body armor was melted in places and her blond hair was scorched and burned into an uneven rat nest of a hairdo.

She had stridden right into Freedom Corps HQ, shown her hero I.D., and demanded a secure interrogation room. She wanted complete privacy, but with the recent rash of “excessive force” lawsuits against the Corps, that was not going to happen.

So Bannock stood here at the door, observing, but trying not to listen.

Rose and Rose.

Rose number two had awakened as soon as the heavy door clicked shut. Number One had laid her on the big folding table that dominated the room, and at the sound she had bolted upright and clicked the buttons that were on the gloves of her costume. When she showed surprise that the action produced no effect, Number One had held up a large yellow-green jewel that was the same size as the empty metal ring on Number Two’s chest.

When Number Two caught Bannock looking at the empty ring too intently, she shot him a look that made him look at the floor, the ceiling – anything – for several minutes. But he couldn’t help but turn his attention back to them.

Rose and Rose.

Except for their costumes, he would not have been able to tell them apart.

Bethany ran through the underground labyrinth desperate to find the temple room and her sisters. She did not understand all that had happened, but she was sure that whatever Cassilda was up to had to be stopped. In her left hand she carried a lantern, in her right, a pickaxe.

Hermione had betrayed them. She could be damned. But Elizabeth, always the kindest, gentlest of all of them – so much like their mother – if something happened to her…

There! A light shone upon the cave wall up ahead. She had found them!

Just as she rounded a twist in the tunnel and found the chamber’s entrance, a shriek sounded. It did not sound like either of her sisters. She pushed herself harder as she covered the last few feet to the entrance of the room. A naked man almost knocked her down as he ran past as if his life depended on getting out of that cursed temple.

Upon entering, Bethany saw a scene of utter frenzy. Naked, hysterical people were running to and fro, some of them trying to follow the first man out of the cave, and others trying to stop them from leaving. She looked around for her sisters and she found them: Hermione stood dull-eyed beside Cassilda, whose face was twisted into a mask of pure fear.

Elizabeth lay at their feet; a blade plunged into her breast, her own hand grasping its handle.

A rage came over Bethany. She stepped into the room and smashed the lantern upon the entrance, spilling oil and fire across the only exit. Then the pickaxe began to do its work on the panicked cultists. When its point lodged, she kicked the victim loose from it, and then she begin again.

Are they such soft, craven cowards that they cannot fight back? she thought.

Then, as if the thought had been spoken and heeded to, one of them did. The fat man hit her from behind. His big, meaty fist connected on her lower back, causing her to crumple in excruciating pain. He grabbed the pickaxe from her grasp and lifted it to strike.

She looked up at him and realized that this foul man and his rolls of fat would be the last thing she would see before she died. She hated him for it.

Then another shriek wailed out and from the same source as the first one she had heard. It was Cassilda and she was pointing to the flaming entrance of the temple room.

Bethany followed her terrified gaze to see a sight that struck her with fear and awe: A man stood in the flames. His frame blocked the chamber’s entrance entirely. He was clad from head to toe in yellow armor: it was not shining, regal gold; but rather a dull, sulfurous yellow – a yellow of death and decay -- which reflected no light, as if the color was on the verge of changing into black like the darkness of the void. His tunic and cape were of like color -- both threadbare -- and his cape hung from him like a tattered battle-flag. Upon his head, he wore a full-covering helmet with a jagged crown atop it. The only thing about him that wasn’t yellow was the huge sword he held in his gauntleted hand. It was black, and like his armor, it had no shine to it. He was a king, a king of ruin and devastation.

Behind him, in the great king's shadow, a smaller figure stood, tall and slender, with a face white as a corpse and an expression so grotesquely woeful that any who dared look upon it would feel a helplessness, an utter despair, a loss of all hope.

The pickaxe fell from the fat man’s grip, but Bethany was also stricken by the terrific figures and so made no move to retrieve her weapon.

The giant strode in among the throng of cultists, straight to their corpulent leader, and grabbed the man by the crown of his head, lifting him from the ground as he squeezed until the his skull popped like an engorged tick. The yellow king next moved with sure intent to Cassilda and Hermione. Both were killed with one swing of that heavy sword. Their heads hit the floor at the same time.

Then the tattered terror turned to their minion. He struck them down with his empty fist, and then crushed them beneath his heels. When no one else was left alive in the chamber, he returned to where Bethany lay beside the cult’s dead master. The Tattered King looked down at her and in his eyes burned dark fires without light or warmth, fires that would consume, but not destroy, for all eternity.

Then he swung his sword.

Cassilda finished her story and arose. Elizabeth was no closer to understanding what was happening than she had been before. Maps? Ancient plays? Was she to die for something so ridiculous sounding?

There was a sudden murmuring among the robed ones and Elizabeth felt her heart sink even more. Whispers of, “He's here!” found her ears and she knew her time had run out -- her fate was sealed.

The robed figures formed a circle around her with Cassilda and Hermione standing at her feet and an opening for one more person to stand at her head. A man stepped into the empty spot; a portly man for whom not enough space was left, so the circle had to widen a bit. He wore a robe and hood like the others, but Elizabeth could see his face.

Perhaps, if he had been someone known to her, maybe a rival of her father's at the university, this would all make sense. Then, mayhap it could be some sort of spite work. But, no, this man was a stranger. The only hint of his identity, or rather of his station in life, was the powdered wig on his head and the gold oak leaf pendant which hung on a chain from his neck.

This was the man who had ruined her family. She wished him dead.

"Relax, my dear," he said, smiling down at her, "You are about to usher in a new age of glory!" Then he addressed Cassilda: "Remove the restraining spell -- I would have her lively."

Cassilda complied, producing a small vial of amber liquid which she poured onto Elizabeth's stomach. Suddenly Elizabeth could move again. She thought to rise up and run, but even if she broke through the circle she wouldn't get far before she was captured again.

Then the fat man nodded to the others in the circle and they all disrobed. A sickening fear came over Elizabeth as she realized their intentions. She looked at her younger sister -- now every bit as much of a stranger to her as the wealthy lecher who was struggling to work his massive girth down to a kneeling position. (Two of the others in the circle were attempting to assist him.) Hermione's eyes were wild, and from her chin to her bare bosom she was stained with blood. Any semblance to the child Elizabeth had once held in her arms was gone.

The circle closed in. Hands began to grope her, not cruelly, but gently, as if they sought to seduce her into compliance with their plan. Elizabeth tried to squirm away from them, but there was no getting away.

"Take the blade, daughter," Cassilda said, "and you will know when it is time to use it."

Hermione smiled and reached out a hand to take the sacrificial dagger from her step-mother. Elizabeth saw this as her only chance to thwart their plans. With all the strength she could muster she broke free from the many hands that grabbed at her, and quickly rising to her knees, lunged for the knife.

The fat man grabbed her hair and pulled her down. Still, she didn't give up. Her legs were free, so she kicked at the blade as it was passed from Cassilda to Hermione. This time she succeeded. The two women fumbled it and it fell close enough to Elizabeth's hand so that she quickly snatched it up.

The groping hands suddenly pulled away. The members of the circle sat around her with their chests heaving in excitement, more like frightened rabbits than murderous acolytes. Cassilda and Hermione both looked down upon her with burning hate.

Elizabeth rose to her knees and scanned the faces around her, searching for an inkling of hope. She found none.

"My beauty, what shall you do?" the fat man asked. "You shan't kill one of us before the others wrest that weapon away from you. Surrender it now, and we shall continue to treat you gently."

Elizabeth fought back panic. A calm head was needed now, not hysterics. She looked around warily, realizing there was only one way out.

"Damnation to you and your cult," she said. Then she raised the blade.

Cassilda screamed.

A chill breeze blew through the cave as Bethany pressed her back against the rocky wall. Her head throbbed from Hermione’s blow, but she dared not let the pain affect her. The convicts were brutish men, foul-smelling, crude, a level below beasts. Bethany had never seen such savages before. As she watched them fight among themselves to see who among them would ravish her first, she counted. Eight. Eight of the vilest, cruelest humans she had ever laid eyes on.

Seven now. One of them, when knocked down, hit his head upon a jutting rock. He didn’t get back up.

The fighting continued for several minutes with two more of the cur meeting their fates: one punched in the throat, his windpipe closed; another, his head flattened by several blows from a rather large stone. Five. She could only hope they would continue to whittle their number down. A snapped neck. Now four.

It was becoming apparent to her that one brute in particular – hairy and toothless, with arms like oak limbs – was the dominant suitor. Bethany could not decide if she should hope that he killed the other two, or that they should kill him.

Then when only the three were left standing, the fighting suddenly stopped. The large, dominant one stood between the other two, fists clenched and ready to inflict punishment.

“Rod’rick,” one of the other two remaining said, “Ye kin ‘ave yer turn first. We’ll wait.”

The other nodded, adding, “Jus’ don’t kill ‘er, eh?”

Roderick relaxed his fists, and then turned from the combatants to claim his prize. He strode to her and wrapped a huge arm around her, pulling her close to him, and then with a hammy hand he grabbed her bodice.

Bethany could hardly breathe for the stench of his breath. She fought back an urge to gag and brought her knee up between his thighs, as hard as she could. Roderick stepped back and bent double and she brought her other knee up to meet his chin. He went down with a hard thud.

Her beloved had taught her well. The odds were still against her, but two to one was much better than eight to one. Now with their best fighter downed, she had a chance.

The two remaining convicts were so stunned that she had downed Roderick that they failed to stop her from dashing past them to the bench where their tools lay. She grabbed up a trowel in one hand and a hammer in the other. If she could defend the tool bench to keep them from gaining weapons of their own, she could beat them.

One, who apparently thought her defeat of Roderick a fluke, lunged at her, grabbing for her ripped bodice, only to receive a cracked skull from the hammer. He still breathed, but he would not do so for long with the hammer embedded in his skull.

The other foe was much more cautious after that. He moved in a semi-circle around her, clearly trying to get past to the tools. When he finally made a play for them, she shoved the trowel deep into his gut.

The scent of blood nearly overwhelmed her senses, but she knew the killing was not finished.

Not yet.

“In 1529, Girolamo da Verrazano drew a map based on his brother’s explorations. On it was a fabled city called Oranbega, where powerful kings did battle with strange gods, and two kingdoms did battle for the fate of the world. Little is known of the mapmaker, whether he was one given to wild imaginings or not, though his brother's writings may still be found if one knows where to look; and by all accounts, he seems most sound in his writings of his travels. Still, most historians believe the map to be a product of fancy. They believe Oranbega to be a myth.

"We, the Fellowship of Ancient Lore and Arcane Luminary Arts, have our own theory as to the final fate of Oranbega. We believe the history and fall of the Great City is detailed in a fictional work by an ancient, unknown author, in a drama called, “the King in Yellow”.

"Lost Carcosa – the land where the play takes place, you see – closely fits what few descriptions survive of Lost Oranbega. We surmise that the author embedded a codex into his work – a codex that has been lost in subsequent translations – a codex that will unlock the secrets of ancient forces.

"That is why your father was hired to reproduce the play from the original, and to do so in a form that would maintain the exact grammatical and alpha-numeric structure of the original, that the lost codex may be revealed.

"We have a copy of Verrazano’s map. We need only the powers of the text to be released and the secrets of the ancients shall be ours.

"After months of study and discussion, we have surmised that the ritual sacrifice depicted in the play must be performed – and performed properly. You see, in the play the queen-priestess should have placed the sacred blade in the hands of her daughter, but did not do so. She wielded the knife herself, which brought death and ruin to her city. The edict in the play is clear: Innocent hands spilling innocent blood. Twenty and two innocents must be slain.

"Hermione has slain twenty-one.

"Prepare yourself, beautiful Lizzy. When the master arrives, you shall find death’s sweet ecstasy."

The sound of sobbing brought Elizabeth back to wakefulness. That it was her own sobbing didn’t occur to her for several seconds after she woke up. The throbbing in her head kept time with her racing heartbeat. She lay on her back, unable to move, on a hard surface that was cold to her bare skin. Slowly, with effort, she opened her eyes.

“I see Miss Lizzy has rejoined us.”

It was Cassilda. She stood a few feet away, towering over Elizabeth like a giantess. She wore a silken robe that clung to the curves of her body and shimmered in a rainbow of colors in the firelight. In her hand she held a silvery dagger.

Beside Cassilda, Hermione stood wearing a similar robe. Hermione’s robe, however, was stained crimson down the front from where red gore ran down her chin from her mouth. The stains were also on her hands.

“Oh… my… Hermione! What have you done?” She was not sure she really wanted to know.

Hermione knelt beside her and whispered in her ear, “I found out what happened to the missing children.”

“Hush, dear one,” Cassilda said, placing a hand beneath Hermione’s arm and pulling her erect, “No need to frighten her. Yet.”

Elizabeth again tried to move, but couldn’t. “What have you done to me?” she cried.

“A simple spell to make sure you are cooperative,” Cassilda said. “After all, when your father finishes putting the pages of the manuscript back in order, his employer will be here to compensate him.”

“We don’t need your money! Let us go!”

Cassilda put an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and pulled her close. “But a bargain was struck, my dear Lizzy. Your father will see it through and so will the rest of you.”

“My father never bargained for this!”

“Admittedly so, but then, I am sure early into the work he had some conception that his involvement with the book would have a toll to pay. Time to pay the Piper, my sweet.”

Elizabeth looked around as best she could. There were others in the room, robed, their faces hidden by hoods. Some were clearly female, while others were assumedly male. They stood silently, unmoving, like birds just before a tempest.

“Who are these people? Why are they in my father’s house?”

“Your father’s house? No, my child, your father merely leased this house from his employer. And these people are enlightened ones like myself. We seek the powers of ancient gods.”

“You are insane! Where is my sister?”

Hermione suddenly became livid. “Your sister? You always mean her and never me! I hate you! I hate you both!”

“Calm, my darling,” Camilla said, “You will plunge the knife into her breast soon enough.”

Hermione’s bloody mouth formed into a grin.

“Please, tell me where Beth is…”

“She is of no use to me. I need a maiden and a daughter. She, to me, is neither. As to where she is… In order to build this makeshift temple beneath the house, I bought the use of some convicts from the warden of the prison in Yarmouth. Bethany, have I given over to them for entertainment.”

“No…”

“Yes. I imagine they had quite a time with her.” Cassilda stroked Hermione’s hair as she spoke. “I don’t expect we shall see her again.”

“No…”

“Poor innocent child,” Cassilda said as she knelt beside Elizabeth. “Of the three sisters, you are indeed the most pure.” Then she kissed her.

Elizabeth shuddered as she tried to shrink away.

“Soon, my sweet. When the master comes, you shall know ecstasy.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes.

Cassilda reclined on the cold stone floor beside Elizabeth and with a long-nailed finger traced a line from her navel to her throat. Elizabeth was helpless to stop her. Neither could she stop the witch from getting so close that when Cassilda whispered, her lips tickled Elizabeth’s ear.

“Let me tell you of a play, and a map, and a place called… Oranbega.”

[ QUOTE ]
Hm. The passages are reminiscent of an extract from The King In Yellow, and only helps to really reinforce the otherworldly, Lovecraftian feel I was getting from this to begin with.

Goooood stuff! I look forward to more.

[/ QUOTE ]

((Indeed, some of that is from Robert W. Chambers, the King in Yellow (the U.S. copyright to which has long expired and now it can be found myriad places online), and some of it, I made up myself. The actual fictional book as envisioned by Chambers was a bit too vague to try to nail down, so, yes, I have tinkered with the concept a bit, making the work ancient a la the Necronomicon. I hope no one minds.

And thanks for the Lovecraft remark. That made my day! ))

Elizabeth tapped at the door lightly, and when no answer came, she slowly turned the doorknob. The latch made a small click so she pushed at it carefully, opening it in tiny increments dreading the sound of a tell-tale squeak. Finally the opening was enough for her to stick her head through.

Her father's study was small, unlike the study in the house in Oxford. What must have been reams of paper was strewn about the room as if a whirlwind had blown through. Father was sitting on his stool, his forehead resting on a piece of yellowed parchment. The lamp by which he worked was smoking, its wick desperately in need of trimming.

Elizabeth entered the room, tiptoeing on her bare feet, then turned and motioned for Bethany to follow. Silently they crept up on their father and when he didn't stir, they began looking over his work. On the desk was one ream of paper still neatly stacked. It was covered in their father's neat calligraphy.

This they took and left the room. They snuck past Cassilda's closed boudoir door from behind which Hermione's silly, hysterical laughter erupted. As quiet as mice they went back to their room and locked themselves inside. Bethany stood with her ear to the door for a moment, and when she was certain no one had followed them she joined Elizabeth on the bed where the papers were now spread out.

"Hurry, the catnip in his tea will wear off!"

"I am hurrying!"

"What are we looking at?"

"Beth, I will be able to tell you quicker if you will quit buzzing in my ear like a bee."

The girls worked in silence: Bethany moving back and forth between the bed and the door, and Elizabeth trying to glean as much information as she could from the manuscript. Now and then she would gasp, causing Bethany to ask why, to which Elizabeth’s only reply would be to look up with tearful eyes as she shook her head and covered her mouth. Whether this was a work of fiction, or a historical account, it was full haunting beauty, terrors, and perversions. She skimmed the pages scarcely believing her father's hand had put these words to the page:

Cassilda’s Song (from Act I, Scene 2)

Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
Lost Carcosa.

That one wasn’t so bad – beautiful in its way -- but as the chapters progressed the content became much more disturbing.

The Pallid Mask (Act 2, Scene 2)

Camilla: You, sir, should unmask.

Stranger: Indeed?

Cassilda: Indeed, ‘tis time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.

Stranger: I wear no mask.

Camilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!

The meaning of the Pallid Mask was unknown, but the passage still sent a shiver up her spine.

The Imprisonment of Camilla (Act 3, Scene 1)

Cassilda:
Oh, daughter, what have you espied,
That your countenance is cast so low?
Is there some secret you would share;
A secret you try, but cannot hide?
Speak of what is on your heart, my darling child.

Camilla:
Oh mother, pray where have you been,
With your handmaids and your ministers?
In the room beyond the altar hall,
In the chamber of the priestess-queen,
With a fair young maid with skin so white and hair of gold?

Cassilda:
My child, why would you ask?
In the soft cloud of sleep I left you;
Your head upon your pillow, softly breathing;
The door was locked upon my leaving;
Speak no more – ‘twas only dreaming.

Camilla:
Nay mother, for the door ajar,
In your haste did you fail to see,
The bolt short of its place did fall,
And from my bed I rose,
To follow you to the temple hall and the maiden fair.

Cassilda:
So, child, ‘twas your footfalls,
Small and light that I did hear,
But turning ‘round I never saw
You descend the tower stairs behind me;
Oh, child, what have you espied!

Camilla:
Oh, mother, would I did not see,
For the seeing vexes me still;
You loved them all and her the most,
Then killed her like the harvest pig,
And cut her heart from her maiden’s breast.

Cassilda:
Child you have yourself condemned;
‘Til the age when you may comprehend;
And take my duties for your own;
Your quarters you may never leave;
A caged bird without a song you are;
Speak only when you are spoken to, my little bird, my budgie.

Elizabeth felt like weeping as she made the connection between that passage and her step-mother’s relationship with Hermione.

The Queen’s Curse (Act 3, Scene 3)

Flesh of my flesh, take up my vengeance,
With this death I bind you.

In your innocent hand shall be my vengeance;
With these entrails I bind you.

In your immortal spirit, my vengeance;
With this heart I bind you.

With you, my song, my vengeance;
I drink of this blood to bind you.

Elizabeth cared to read no more. She gathered the manuscript up in her arms with no care for the order of the pages.

“Lizzy! What are you doing?”

“I am going to destroy this abomination.”

“What? But all of father’s work… the money…”

“If you had read what I read and seen in these pages what I have seen, you would not question me.”

Elizabeth moved toward the door.

“No, sister!” Bethany shouted as she moved to block Elizabeth from leaving. “I can’t let you do that. All his work…”

“All his madness, you mean! We shall be lucky if he ever regains his sanity after months of looking at this. I have only tasted portions of it. Our poor father has feasted on this poison fully. I fear he will be lost to us if I do not destroy it.” Elizabeth leaned forward and nudged her sister with her shoulder. “Now, move out of my way.”

Stunned, Bethany turned and opened the door for her sister. There was the sound of a mallet hitting maple and suddenly Bethany fell backward, knocking Elizabeth to the floor, the manuscript going everywhere, dispersing around the room like leaves in the wind.

“Beth, you silly…” Elizabeth began, but then she looked at the open doorway.

Hermione giggled at her then raised the bloody club again.

In the following days, Hermione seemed to spend more and more time with Cassilda. She never came to their room at bedtime, but rather went with Cassilda to "keep the chill off of their mother". The twins rankled every time they heard their younger sister call the woman, "mother". For Elizabeth, it was especially repugnant.

She thought about discussing the matter with her father, but he was locked away in his study, cracking the door only to receive a meal or to set out the chamber pot. He never came out, and allowed no one to enter.

When mealtime came, the older girls would prepare the meal, and usually only the two of them would dine together in the dining room. Cassilda and Hermione would take their food back to the room they now shared, and later set their dishes on a tray in the hallway to be picked up by either Elizabeth or Bethany.

"We are little more than servants, now," Bethany said as she wiped a dish and set it in the cabinet.

This evening's meal had been as humorless and dreary as the one before, and the one before that. So many things were unspoken now that even the twins had trouble finding safe topics to converse about. This topic, at least, was one that united the two of them in a common cause.

Elizabeth looked at Bethany. The flame from the lamp danced in her eyes, and it's glow reflected from her golden hair. Elizabeth wondered if she, herself, was as beautiful.

"Father will be done with the work soon," Elizabeth replied, "then he will be paid, and perhaps we can move out of this dreadful place."

"She will still be with us."

"I know."

"I despise her."

"There is much about her to despise."

"Hermione loves her."

Elizabeth stopped her cleaning and looked at Bethany, fighting back the tears that were welling in her eyes. "Do not speak of that. I would not speak of their... relationship. Better to feign ignorance of..."

"Their...?" A puzzled look crossed Bethany's face, soon replaced by one of amusement. "Lizzy! Herm is our sister! I didn't mean that they... I swear, when we get back to Oxford, I'm going to find some fine young student to bed you before the wickedness of your imagination causes you to swear to a lifetime of chastity!"

Elizabeth had no chance to either argue or blush, for suddenly their conversation was interrupted by laughter as Cassilda and Hermione entered the kitchen. The walked in unison, for they were wrapped together in the fine woven bedspread that had once belonged to their mother. Their bare shoulders and tousled hair told tales that neither twin was prepared for.

Cassilda smiled as she walked past them to retrieve the remainder of a bottle of wine that Elizabeth had opened for her father's evening meal. She smiled still when she strode past them, wrapped in the linen with Hermione who blushed and giggled and avoided looking in her sisters' direction.

They finished the remainder of their chores in grim silence.

Elizabeth was awakened by a giggle. She raised up on her elbows and looked around. Bethany was sound asleep in the bed she shared with Hermione. Hermione, however was not; nor was she even in the bed.

Another giggle -- from the hallway -- and Elizabeth swung her feet to the floor, gathering a blanket around her like a cloak. She padded out of the bedroom and followed the sound of quiet laughter around the corner toward the room Cassilda ostensibly shared with their father. There were more giggles coming from inside, but the door was shut, and when she tried to stealthily open it, she found it locked.

From inside there came an excited, “Oh!” followed by more laughter – this time loud, open, haughty, bawdy, laughter – which soon gave way to excited conversation, the details of which were muffled by the thickness of the door. When the sound of conversation turned to other things she dare not think of, Elizabeth padded back to her room, to her bed.

She lay in the darkness for a long while with thoughts, dark and dire, racing through her head. Her family had descended into madness. Was it only a matter of time before she and Bethany fell also?

The wind outside began to hum through the shuttered window. Elizabeth was sure the chill in the room worsened. She sighed, got up from her bed and slid into Hermione’s place beside Bethany.

Their little sister wouldn’t be coming back to claim her spot tonight.

"Have you heard about the children?"

Elizabeth and Bethany both looked up from the bowls of soup that comprised their evening meal to listen to their younger sibling. The long oaken table at which they sat was bare save for three plain silver candlesticks, and a white lace runner which the girls' mother had made the year before she died.

The walls of the dining room, like the rest of the house were painted a dull grey which, to the twins at least, seemed to darken the mood of all who entered. The girls had asked their father if they could redecorate, but he, being too busy, had left the matter squarely with Cassilda who in turn reasoned that the house did not belong to them, so therefore they could not redecorate a single square inch of it.

"What about the children?" Elizabeth asked.

Hermione sat up straight, proud that she had a bit of news the others had not yet heard, and said, "Some of the children from the village have disappeared without a trace."

Cassilda, at the head of the long oaken table, continued eating her meal.

Hermione smiled as she went on. "There is talk of a secret cult stealing them for ritual sacrifices."

"That is not suitable conversation for the dining table," Elizabeth reprimanded.

"Perhaps later, in the parlor," Bethany added.

"Perhaps not."

All three sisters looked to Cassilda who in speaking had not paused in her eating, but continued moving her spoon from her bowl to her mouth without breaking rhythm.

"Still," continued Hermione, oblivious to the look of puzzlement that had crossed her older sisters' faces, "I would like to know what has happened to them."

Cassilda paused, set her spoon in her bowl -- now empty -- and said, "Would you, now?"

"Miss Eovyn?" Ben said.

The lady of the fae turned to see her student stepping out of the portal from America.

"Ye're here early, darlin'," she said. "Er... are ye a'right? Ye look troubled."

"I um... I have a question."

"Ye always do, luv. What is it ye're needin'?"

"Well... I um... I found Jack, but... it's like he's... he's not strong like he should be. It's like... I dunno... he's not himself."

"An' where is th' big fella at th' moment?"

"I dunno. He... it's like he comes and goes. Like maybe something's blocking him from coming all the way back."

Eovyn sighed as she saw the tears welling in Ben's eyes. He had been through so much, so many changes. The one thing that had kept him going -- that had given him a purpose was finding Jack. Now that he had found him, there appeared to be another problem. She would look into it, but for now the boy was her main concern.

"I'll do what I kin fer ye, lad."

Ben nodded. She had to find something to put some life back into him.

"I'll tell ye what, Bennie, since ye're here anyway, we might 's well put in some lesson time."

"Okay." His voice was flat and his burdens still weighed too heavily for him to smile.

Eovyn thought for a moment. He was learning well, but much of it was repetitive, and she suspected he was ready to move on to a new challenge.

"Tell me, lad, when ye're fightin' th' Skulls 'r th' Circ o' Thorns, how d'ye think they see ya?"

His expresssion changed and inflection returned to his voice. "Like a little kid! It's not like when I would charge up at 'em with those big robot hands and they knew they were in for it. Now they see me and sometimes they ignore me 'til I start casting illusions on 'em!"

"Aye, an' usu'ly that works in yer faver. Howsomever, it seems t' me tha' other times it'd work in yer faver if ye could maybe intimidate 'em a wee bit... say if ye looked a li'l bigger an' a li'l older..."

"You mean like Ascendant or something?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"That'd be neat!"

"Then, Bennie, me lad, that's what we're goin' t' werk on -- a illusion fer yerself!"

Elizabeth Rose was awakened by a noise beside her bed. She opened her eyes to see the face of her new “mother” mere inches from her own.

“Cassilda!” she said, more loudly than she meant to.

The older woman knelt beside the bed putting a finger to her mouth and indicating the two other girls asleep in the bed next to Elizabeth’s.

“Shh,” she said softly, “We do not want to disturb them.”

Elizabeth looked at her sisters sleeping peacefully, and then sighed as she turned back to Cassilda. “Yes, you are right,” she whispered. “Now, what brought you to our bedchamber at this time of night?”

“It is your father. He will not come to bed with me, and the nights are so chilly now.” She crossed her arms across her chest and shivered for effect.

“I am sorry, but I fail to see what that has to do with me?"

Cassilda smiled sweetly at her step-daughter and said, "I wish that you should come to my bed and warm me."

Elizabeth Rose felt a flush rise from her breast, up her neck and over her face. She didn't know if it was from anger that this woman would ask of her such a thing, or from embarrassment at her suspicion that Cassilda was seeking more from her than warmth, and the unnatural images those suspicions brought to her mind.

"I shall get you an extra blanket, if you like..."

"Do not bother, dear. I will make do."

With that Cassilda stood and tiptoed out of the room.

Elizabeth Rose did not go back to sleep, but lay thinking for some time before she heard another whisper.

"Lizzy?"

It was her twin.

"Beth?"

"You stirred me from a sound sleep, sister," Bethany Rose said as she slipped out of her bed and climbed in beside Elizabeth. "What troubles you?"

"It is nothing. Go back to sleep."

"And have you wake me again with your worried thoughts?"

"Better than when you wake me with your dreams of..." Elizabeth trailed off before she said something that would shame them both.

Bethany, however didn't let it lie. "My what? My dreams of my dashing beloved?"

"I didn't find him that dashing," Elizabeth said with a smirk.

"I just wish I could find him," Bethany sighed. "Oxford is so far away."

"I miss home too, though for a different reason. Still, why can't your young man come visit you here?"

"Oh, Lizzy, that would never do. Besides, he was away when he left home. I do not even know if he has returned, nor if he would know where to find me.” Bethany let out a long sigh and said, “In Oxford, I could slip out of the window and we could away to his apartments to..."

"Beth!" Elizabeth said, again much louder than she meant to.

"Shh!"

Elizabeth hushed and looked to their sister, still asleep in the next bed. Then she continued in a whisper, "Beth! You shall get caught, surely."

"And what if I do? At the very worst, I would be labeled a harlot. I could make a living at that at least. It would be better than dying of boredom here."

"Beth!"

This time Hermione awoke and looked at them.

"Go back to sleep, Herm," Bethany told her, "I am going to sleep with Lizzy tonight. She had a nightmare and needs comfort."

Hermione nodded drowsily and laid her head back on her pillow.

The conversation continued with words more breathed than spoken.

"But what if a child should come of your tryst?”

“That shall never happen. My love has methods to prevent us from conceiving…”

“Oh, please stop, Beth. I do not want to hear of such things. I would be innocent for a while longer.”

Bethany laughed quietly. “Lizzy, you are so funny. I am not revealing some secret carnal knowledge to you. He simply has some understanding of the arcane arts. There is an herb which I take before we are together.”

“I do not think I like that any better. I swear, you will find no happiness from one such as him.”

“And I don’t think you will find any happiness holding on to your virginity until some old codger comes along who is willing to take you off of Father’s hands.”

The room was as silent as a tomb for a moment as the two sisters looked at each other.

Then Elizabeth spoke up. “When I look at you, it is like looking in a mirror, yet seeing a stranger.”

“We are twins, sister, not one person split in two. You live your life, and I shall live mine.”

Elizabeth nodded and laid her head back on her pillow.

[ QUOTE ]
((Sorry, I don't mean to take away from your story (which I found very interesting, anyways. It sparks my Paladin urge to destory evil

Anyways, the beginning of it... I couldn't help but think of the monty pyton skit about the ultimate joke that would cause anyone who heard it to laugh until they died and how it was translated into german to be used in the World War... haha))

[/ QUOTE ]

((Awww geez... you ruined it. Oh well. I guess I'll never finish it now.

Just kidding. You know comments of all kinds are always welcome. Especially if they make references to Monty Python. ))