"Pray the wolf finds you before I do."

• character basics

• solos / independent writing

Name: Olwen Iphaen Aphistrea
Age: Late 20s
Gender identity: Cisgender woman (She/Her)
Lineage:Aphistrea
Affiliation: Chaldea Security Organization
Occupation: Field Operations Department Agent, Second in Command
Height: 5'3 (160cm)
Weight: 145~lbs (Variable)
Date of Birth: March 4, 19XX
Place of origin/birth: Rural Maine, United States
Alignment: Chaotic GoodPersonality:
Blunt and prone to emotional distance, Olwen is more formal than she is polite. For most people, her true thoughts and feelings are difficult to read, and she cultivates an aloof, intimidating aura.She shows flashes of a sharp temper, an underlying anger, but also practices strict self control. Given her self-consciousness about her constant intimidation of others, she takes careful measure of her more aggressive impulses.Despite outward appearances, Olwen’s nature is rather gentle. When given the chance, she does her best to express this, but this may manifest in a rather stiff or off-putting way. She also feels a strong inclination to protect those around her, even to the point of taking rash or nonsensical actions.Appearance:
Olwen is a small woman, with a stocky and muscular build. Most of her weight is focused on her hips and thighs, and her body bears defined muscle tone. She has thick, silver hair with a slight wave to it- which she keeps cut short around her ears, framing her face.Her eyes are large but usually half lidded, framed by long lashes, and are a startling crimson red. Due to a body modification giving her near-flawless night vision, her eyes reflect light and glow slightly in dark spaces. Akin to a predator’s eyeshine. She has full lips, starkly thick, dark brows, and a slightly crooked nose that looks like it has been broken before.She bears jagged red tattoos tracing up her arms, which glow when she activates her magecraft. They evoke the Ansuz rune, beginning at the round of her shoulders and wrapping down to the back of her hands.Elemental Affinity: Her elemental affinity has been replaced by a Sorcery Trait, due to her specialized training. This trait is “Body/Anatomy”, as most magic users in her clan have adapted to.Origin: Life/Death
Circuit Quality: A || Circuit Quantity: 40
Magecraft: Anatomical Craft
Abilities and Traits:Anatomical Regeneration
Olwen is capable of healing anything from small scratches to nearly fatal wounds, and even regenerating lost limbs and organs. This process is rapid, consuming mana to speed the healing process to an unnatural rate.
So long as she has mana, the healing spells engraved into her body are set to automatically activate upon any injury. She may also perform this upon others, but must have direct physical contact with them. Servants contracted to her, and thus given a direct mana path with her, are the only exceptions to this rule.
This ability has limitations, such as the complication of healing burns and driving out chronic disease. The complete destruction of the brain would also stop this process.Anatomical Manipulation
Olwen’s craft can also be used to reshape her body at will, growing extra limbs or even increasing in height or bulk. Though different in principle from true shapeshifting, it is often mistaken for it. Her strength and speed are greatly advanced, she is immune to any naturally-occuring disease, and can overcome most natural and manmade poisons.Anatomical Destruction
Through the same process that allows for healing, the body can also be damaged through her craft. With a touch, wounds will flay open, and organs can be ordered to malfunction. Her craft allows for the domination of any flesh in direct contact with her, with few limitations. Inorganic matter, of course, is exempt.Divine Ancestry
Though not of great divine power, Olwen does reap some benefit from being a distant descendant of the Morrigan, alongside being directly favored by her. This divine blood has improved the natural ability and vitality of her clan for several generations.Minor Divinity (Death)
This has allowed Olwen to ‘sense’ ties to death upon others. This is somewhat nebulous, but defines itself as more of a sense of the influence of death over ones life rather than the destiny of someone’s end.Minor Divinity (War)
Generally useless, but actually seems to passively cause conflict in those around her.Character Background: Overview
In the past, the Aphistrea were a nomadic group of magical healers, offering their skills to assist communities in need. They studied the body and the ways that mana could be used to affect it, their legacy stretching back into the Age of Gods. In the last hundred years, their power and abilities advanced exponentially. Despite this, they remained a nomadic and rather ascetic group.In the late 1930s, Olwen’s grandfather, Gautr, rose as the clan’s head and began leading the Aphistrea into a new era. Seeking wealth, he brought his clan members into the realm of headhunting and assassinations. Given their amassed medical knowledge and deliberate control over human anatomy, the Aphistrea transitioned into this role rather smoothly. They rapidly amassed a massive and bloody fortune.Gautr’s two younger sisters abandoned the clan at this point, leaving Gautr and his direct descendants to be the last of the true Aphistrea. Gautr had seven children, all trained under his guidance in the skills of assassins. Odin Aphistrea, Olwen’s Father, was his eldest child and his successor. Olwen’s upbringing also reflected the methods established by Gautr.
It was found that despite her reluctance to kill, Olwen held immense magical potential. She was trained thoroughly in the now established traditions of Aphistrea assassins, and her current state reflects this.She took her first life at thirteen, after having her binding runes applied. These runes tied her and all her other relatives back to their clan head-her father. They gave Odin the power to kill anyone who disobeys him, the rune striking down the body of the victim. This ensured loyalty among his clan members, and absolute control over his daughter for most of her adult life.
Olwen went on to complete 55 assassinations by the time she reached age 20. Odin named her as his successor at this time, and passed the Aphistrea magic crest on to her. Shortly after, she turned herself over to the Policies Department of Clocktower through her assigned Enforcer: Cedor Emurish. Her clan had gained notoriety by taking work from non-magi, risking the Secret of Mystics.Cedor assisted in having her binding runes nullified, and monitored her actions as she terminated the other members of her clan. Soon after she was tried by Policies for the crimes of her family, and the possibility of execution was considered for her until her childhood friend, Avani Mallick, stepped in for her.The Mallick clan had long been allies of the Aphistrea, and still hold much power throughout many communities of magi. Avani was more than willing to make arrangements for her clan’s old allies, and for her dear personal friend. The “reins” of her binding runes were modified, and are said to lie in the careful hands of Avani for the time being.Due to Avani’s influence, Olwen soon found herself in the custody of Chaldea. There, she was allowed to work under the watchful eyes of the Chaldea leadership and staff. Olwen is valuable to Chaldea as both a general combat asset and master candidate.Following the disaster striking Chaldea, and the following incineration of Humanity, she was among the surviving staff. Being that she is an excellent master candidate, she has taken an active role in assisting in Singularities and the following Lostbelts.Note: Olwen is generally used/written in scenarios where several Masters are left alive in Chaldea, and are working together.

• return

Pre-Chaldea

• a collection of birthdays (cw: abuse, gore, implied suicide)

• cycle of recollection (cw: gore, abuse, death)

• hospital rooms (cw: implied abuse, gore, death)

• valuable (cw: none)

• beast's maw ( cw:gore, death)

• scavenger's inheritence (cw: gore, death, implied abuse)

chaldea era

• a visitor [EVENT] - solo compilation (cw: minor implied suicide)

• UNTITLED [PART 1] (cw: gore, unreality)

Allistor Torque was 35 years old when he was handed a baby.She was quiet, sleeping. And he took her carefully into his arms. He hadn’t held a baby in a long time, but he found he had a good instinct for it. He’d grown up with plenty of younger siblings, and thus had spent many of his formative years with a smaller child in his arms.Looking between her and the father, he wasn’t sure he saw the resemblance. He was a towering, thin man. White hair combed back from his face in a precise manner, a trim, but thin beard tracing the edges of his jawline. His face was harsh, sharp, downward pointing. Body spindly and long. Allistor was a tall man. This man was taller.“You will be paid well for your services.” Odin Aphistrea told him flatly. His voice was low and deep, but slid through the air like a boat through dark water.“Your contact assured me of that. Kid got a name?” Allistor replied, adjusting his hold on her. His weathered blue eyes didn’t leave the other man.Red eyes blinked at him, and a head cocked slowly.“I suppose not. Name her as you wish. You do understand though, that she is valuable property and that mistakes will not be tolerated, yes?” Odin followed. “No one is capable of paying you more, or killing you faster than me. Should you be considering other….options so early.”“I understand.” Allistor raised his brows slightly, the expression seeming performative. “I’ll take good care of her.”“You should hope so.” Odin’s expression didn’t change, but he cocked his head back into the proper position before he left.

Allistor Torque was 40, and it was the baby’s fifth birthday.He always recalled the date strongly, the father had made sure he was aware of it for reasons Allistor still didn’t know. The little parties they had were a bit lonely, he supposed, but it was better than nothing.Allistor had gotten up early, and was gently nudging his way into Olwen’s room. She was a sharp girl though, even at an age this young, and she always caught him. As soon as the white-painted door creaked open, red eyes locked on him in the pale morning light. She sat up in bed, black hair slightly tangled from sleep around her shoulders. Her hands were folded neatly on the covers, and her expression was impassive but expectant. Serious little thing.“Ah, caught me.” Allistor sighed, pushing the door open fully and stepping in. The cool stained concrete of the floors leaked a chill even through his socks. It was a rainy spring morning, and the house was a little chillier than expected. “Good morning, Olwen.”“What do you have?” She asked, watching him as he rested his heavy frame down on the edge of her bed.“Hot chocolate.” He replied with equal bluntness, holding a large mug of steaming liquid between his calloused hands. “I don’t suppose you want any?”Her mouth puckered into a slight frown. Olwen didn’t like teasing, she’d figured that out about a year ago. Allistor laughed lowly, and pressed the mug into her hands.“I’m kidding. Birthday hot chocolate, and it's not my birthday, so I can’t drink it. Guess it's your job.” He said, standing and peering out the window behind her headboard. The outside world was bleak, rainy, a opaque white sky broken up by spires of pines stretching off into the distance around the secluded house.“...thank you.” Olwen wrapped both of her small hands around the mug, and took a diligent sip.His attention would have returned to her, had he not seen rare sight down below. A sleek black car slid out from the forested drive leading up to the house. As it parked among the white gravel, he saw the gate at the front of the yard yawn open automatically.“Olwen, your father is here. Finish that up and get dressed soon, got it?” Allistor said softly, reaching down to pat her head. He didn’t look at her, still staring at the car, but his fingers carded over the raven black strands carefully.“For my birthday?” She asked, lowering the cup into her lap.“I couldn’t tell you. Maybe.” Allistor frowned, but the expression eased as he finally looked back down at her. “I’ll fix your hair for you, just come find me downstairs, okay?”Things were different after that birthday. Before, he rarely saw the father. Perhaps once a month. Sometimes every three months, with a few phone conversations thrown in as sloppy covers for absence. Allistor didn’t mind, really. It only took a few meetings with Odin Aphistrea to dislike him. That was merely the sort of person he was. He also seemed to be the person too busy, and too self-important, to raise his own child. So Allistor hadn’t minded the benign neglect of himself and his charge.But after the fifth birthday, Odin appeared weekly on the doorstep. He would sweep in, take the girl upstairs, and Allistor would not see them for a long period. Sometimes it would be well past midnight before he saw them again. Olwen would be tired, and Odin’s mood would vary widely. Primarily, he would be pleased but pensive, Olwen following a few steps behind as they descended the steps.Olwen stated that they were lessons that her father gave her, and that they were very important. Allistor wasn’t a stupid man, so he had his assumptions.The Aphistrea were human, yes certainly, but they were not natural. Magecraft wasn’t something he was greatly educated about, but someone of his previous occupation knew a mage when they saw one. He wouldn’t be alive if he didn’t know a mage when he saw one. It was a silent assumption when he was hired by the Aphistrea that he knew what they were and what they did. So thus, he was aware that these lessons were likely in the magecraft of her family. Such was to be expected.It was two years of lessons before the first night Odin came down the stairs alone. Allistor Torque was 42, it was the seventh birthday. A rainy day in early spring, early March.Allistor had been waiting, a cold cup of coffee in his hands, in the downstairs sitting room. One of the highbacked chairs in the stuffy room actually held his large frame with surprising comfort, and he had claimed it as his usual roost. It was a late night this time, but Allistor was used to those by now. He looked up from the book he was reading, the movement in the dim lamplight catching his eye.Odin stood in the doorway, a passing figure in the darkness, but had stopped to look in at Allistor. He started to stand in response, eyes automatically looking for the smaller figure that usually followed. She wasn’t there.Allistor’s eyes looked back up at Odin.“You send her off to bed yourself? That’s a new one.” He said, closing his book and tucking it into the pocket of his robe, he took a step closer, eyes scanning, and he stopped.“She is upstairs. Retrieve her and make sure she rests properly. I will be back in a week, as usual.” Odin said flatly. He had blood on his shoes. He turned, and Allistor listened to his sharp footsteps until he heard the door open and slam shut.Allistor took the stairs at a full sprint.The Aphistrea house was split into three floors. The first was rambling ring of rooms, kitchen, sitting room, foyer, dining room, stairs down to the cellar. The second a ring of bedrooms and guest rooms. The third was occupied by a single large, dominating room. He had visited it rarely, and hadn’t at all since the fifth birthday.That taboo broke when he opened the door and stepped inside. It was a vast room, hollow and cold. The floor was all white marble tile, the walls on two sides were primarily mirrors, with the back wall being broken up by several large windows.Olwen sat up in the middle of the floor, her back to the door. The room was dark, and she was a muted shadow. The white floor was darkened around her. Stained was a more accurate word. She didn’t turn at the sound of the door opening, continuing to face the wide windows at the far end of the room. Outside, the sky was bright with stars, but Allistor paid them no mind.“Olwen, there you are.” He said, in a voice that was artificially calm. He stepped over slowly, and stopped when he was about three feet away. The stains were red. The stains were blood. Olwen moved, turning to look at him. She looked tired, like she always did. But her eyes were looking somewhere past him, over his shoulder blankly.He knelt slowly, studying her and slowly reaching out a hand. Allistor wasn’t sure why he wasn’t moving faster, rushing to her. But...he could tell she wasn’t hurt. The way she moved, she breathed, she wasn’t injured at all. She was, however, caked in blood. Her clothes were ruined, practically dyed with it. Her hair was dark and matted with it, and it stained her face equally. It was wrong. It felt so very wrong, nonsensical even.Calmly, Olwen reached out and took his hand, and Allistor responded by reaching down and picking her up fully. She reeked of blood, and sweat, but she buried her face in his neck and clung tight to his robe.“Let’s get you to bed.” He said lowly, rubbing her back, and staring down at the stain on the floor. Allistor held her a bit tighter, and stepped slowly from the room.As he descended the stairs, his mind started tracing possibilities. How far Odin was from the house now. How long it would take for him to find out if they left. How far the magecraft of this family reached.What the magecraft of this family actually did.Olwen stirred in his arms, and his train of thought slid off the rails and back to her.“Mr. Torque? Can I have a bath?” She asked, her voice almost a whisper.He responded by patting her hair softly, ignoring how sticky and matted it was.“Of course you can.” He responded in a firm tone, now turning down one of the halls. His voice felt muffled in his own ears. He wished he knew why.Allistor Torque spent that night thinking . About smatterings of roads leading away from the house. Scrubbing blood from her skin, rinsing it from her hair. About who knew he was here, and who even knew him at all. Attempting to salvage clothes before deciding they were best discarded. Who he could call about this, what someone could do.What he could do.What he could do.What could he do?Allistor Torque got her dressed for bed, and held her hand as he took her back to her room. He combed her hair for her. It was getting long. He braided it carefully so it wouldn't tangle as she slept.And as she slept, he found he couldn’t.

Avani and Sandhya Mallick came on the ninth birthday. Allistor Torque was 44.“New car in the driveway.” Olwen said lowly, mouth curled around the straw of a juice pouch.Allistor stirred, sitting up straight. The television was still cycling through an old vhs tape. Some Japanese children’s show Olwen had taken a liking to. It was late afternoon, and he guessed he had fallen asleep. Lunch had been meticulously made and eaten, and the two of them had been celebrating their earlier gluttony with a round of whatever Olwen wanted to watch.“S’news to me.” He muttered, rubbing his face and standing up. Grogginess still held him. “What’s it look like?”“White. Newer model. A Jaguar maybe.” The nine year old replied, staring out the window diligently. “Father’s car is there too.”When Allistor peered out the window, he confirmed her description. Two cars were parked out in the pale gravel, the gates swinging open.
Four figures were approaching the house.Shyam Mallick was not taller than Odin Aphistrea, and he was not taller than Allistor either. But this did not mean he was particularly short. He was a trim, neatly arranged man, with an aura that seemed cold but not clerical. It was cold in the serpentine sort of way. Sleek, smooth, not to be trusted.If Odin Aphistrea was a vulture, than Shyam Mallick was a viper. His eyes were red, but a different duskier shade than Allistor had grown accustomed to from the Aphistrea.He had two daughters that he brought with him. Avani Mallick was ten, and Sandhya Mallick was eleven. Avani had the dusky red eyes of her father, but Sandhya’s were a dark green.“He can be trusted, don’t be too concerned. He has handled Olwen her entire life with no issues.” Odin had stated in reference to him, and at the same time freely acting as if Allistor were not present. But those words were convincing enough that Shyam seemed more than happy to leave two of his children with Allistor for the time being.The two mages vanished to the top floor of the house, leaving Allistor with the girls.“So, man, answer me.” Avani said, situated on one of the kitchen chairs. Her legs swung over the side in rhythm. “Who are you? Odin is Olwen’s father. So who are you?”Allistor paused in measuring flour, one pale blue eye peering at the girl from over his shoulder. Before he could answer though, Olwen intercepted on his behalf.“He is Mr. Torque. He helps father by taking care of me. We are good friends.” She stated simply, matter of factly. Olwen was sorting carefully through a package of raspberries, picking out only those in best condition and setting them aside.“You’re friends with him? He’s really old though.” Avani responded, with the same sort of simplicity. “Mr. Torque, where are you from?”“Hm. My mother originally.” He replied gruffly, pouring the now measured flower into a mixing bowl. A large hand slipped into a cabinet, and pulled out a can of cocoa powder. “But my mother was in Wales when I popped up, so I guess I’m from Wales.”“You don’t sound like you’re from Wales.” Sandyha chimed in, hopping up off her chair and coming over to investigate the bowl at Allistor’s elbow.“Do I sound like I’m from anywhere at all?” He replied, cocking an eyebrow at the girl.She replied by creasing her brows in thought.“No, I guess not.” Sandyha replied. “Is that on purpose?”“Maybe.” Allistor smiled wryly, looking away. His fingers deftly sorted through a ring of measuring spoons before selecting the one he wanted. “You’re standing there like you want to help. You wanna get the milk from the fridge for me?”The girl nodded, padding over to the fridge and pulling it open.“What are you making?” Avani asked from the table, eyes following her sister as she stepped up to the large man and offered the jug. He took it, thanking her quietly.“Cake.” He replied, pouring out some milk into the still flour-dusted measuring cup.“It is my birthday. We always make cake on my birthday.” Olwen added. “It is nice that you two are here, actually. We usually have too much for just Mr. Torque and I to eat.”Avani absorbed this information, nodding pensively, as if this were very important information indeed. Olwen offered her a raspberry, and she took it with caution before popping it into her mouth.Sandyha, after returning the milk jug to its proper place in the fridge, came to stand at his elbow again. Not uncomfortably close, but really to observe him more than anything.“Is Olwen’s mother here too? I was wondering if, perhaps, you and-““No. I’m not married to her father, if that’s what you’re asking.” Allistor cut her off with all the gentleness he could muster, and tried not to make a face at the implication. “And no, her mother isn’t here. Never has been.”“I see.” Sandhya replied. She didn’t seem crestfallen by the answer. “Did your mother teach you to bake?”Allistor laughed lowly.“No. Julia Childe did.” He replied. “Get two eggs for me? Please?”Sandhya nodded, and padded back across the kitchen.“Who’s Julia?” Avani questioned, rolling a half-squished raspberry against the dark wood of the table. Olwen quietly asked her to stop, and Avani complied. Olwen gave her another raspberry.“Ah, guess she’s before your time by a long shot. She’s a cook. Was on the tv…if you like, when the cake is done we can watch her a little bit. Olwen thinks her voice is nice.”“It is quite nice.” Olwen added softly.

Avani Mallick was there on the eleventh birthday. Allistor Torque was 46. Sandhya Mallick did not come with her.Avani did not talk about it.They had chocolate cake.She slept in Olwen’s bed that night.

The thirteenth birthday started early, with a sleek black car pulling into the driveway a few hours before daybreak. He didn’t have to wake Olwen up, he found she was already dressed and ready when he entered the kitchen.A lukewarm cup of coffee was grasped between her hands, and her eyes glanced up at him as she came in. She sat at the kitchen table, an oversized hoodie fending off the early spring chill.“Ohh, beat me to it today.” Allistor said lowly, shuffling past her. His hand reached out and ruffled her hair, and he caught her grin slightly before she swatted his hands away. “Busy day?”Olwen’s expression flickered a bit, but she swallowed and nodded.“Yes.” She replied. And there was a beat of silence. “The thirteenth birthday is important to my family. So I will be with them for most of it. I am sorry.”“Don’t apologize.” Allistor creased his brow, but waved his hand a little.The coffee pot grumbled and steamed. “I’ll just make it a late night. So, what will it be this year? Your cake? Big birthday means special cake.”Olwen looked down at her coffee, pensive.“Strawberry cake?” She offered, voice sounding unsure.“The kind with the fruit or the kind that’s pink?”“The kind that is pink.”Allistor hummed, sipping his coffee once before wrinkling his nose and adding several spoonfuls of sugar.“I can do that. It’ll be ready when you get home.”It was a long day, as Olwen promised it would be. It was past ten, and the sun had long gone down behind the tall pines. Allistor sat in the kitchen, and from there he heard the door open. He expected to hear Odin’s sharp footsteps, but heard nothing but the door clicking shut.Olwen appeared in the dark doorway of the kitchen a few moments later, her face lit by the sterile lights of the kitchen.She looked tired, like she always did. She was wearing the same clothes from that morning, her hands shoved into the pocket of her loose hoodie. Her hair was white.Her hair was white.She didn’t look at him, stepping silently to the kitchen table and sitting down across from him. Allistor blinked, starting to stand. He had been expecting it to be bad. It was always bad. Blood and more ruined clothing. Blank stares, hollow voice.But her hair was white, and she wasn’t bloodied at all.“Olwen…” Allistor started, but then trailed off. His mouth felt dry.She didn’t say anything to him, she didn’t look at him. Allistor finished standing, and came around closer to her. Olwen sat rigid in the chair, staring down at her boots. He wanted to ask. He never asked. It was a silent, unspoken rule.She didn’t want to talk about it, and he did not need to hear what he couldn’t stop.“Olwen.” He said again, reaching out to her.She flinched back, suddenly, harshly. Her hands clutched against her chest, making herself smaller. But she looked at him. Red eyes locked on him. They were glassy, tired.“Mr. Torque.” She said softly. “I am going to kill you.”He stopped, lowering his hand slightly. Allistor nearly laughed, in some distant, hysterical way. But he didn’t. His mouth closed, and he inhaled slowly.“Your cake is in the fridge, let me get it.” He said plainly, stepping away from her. It was silent between them as opened the fridge, and carefully pulled the cake out. Strawberry cake. The pink kind. He brought it over to the table, and set it down. Then he retrieved a single dish from the cabinet, and fished a fork from a drawer. These he set down in front of her.She didn’t move.He brought a knife back with him, and sat back down next to her, chair creaking under his weight. The knife was set down on the table, next to the cake.“Olwen.” Allistor said softly. “Do you want to kill me?”Olwen stared at him, eyes wide, blank.“No.” She said flatly. “But they will make me.”“Did they hurt you today?” He pressed.She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to the knife on the table, and back to him. His mind settled back into an old, almost lost habit. Tracing the roads leading away from the house. Who knew he was here, who knew him at all. How much time it would take for anyone to notice. He could do it, perhaps. She was old enough now, strong enough. She could-And then she raised her arm slowly. Her fingers trembled as they hooked into the end of her sleeve it back. There, wrapping up her arm in a long, raw looking spiral was a tattoo. It still flickered with power, a vague glow of red. He stared at it, lips parted.“They will make me.” She repeated, voice quieter.Her hair was white.Allistor understood.Frowning softly, he leaned an elbow against the table. He looked away from her, and down at the cake. And then he stood.“Olwen, I want you to know something.” Allistor said softly. He picked up the knife, and carefully cut a slice of the cake. He maneuvered it onto the small dish, and slid it back so it sat in front of her. He set the knife down, and stepped closer. “And it is that I’ve let you be hurt so many times now. And it is that I’m sorry.”He placed a hand on her head, let his fingers card through her hair. And then it slid lower, he leaned in, and pulled her close. He felt her stiffen up, but her face buried itself into his neck. Allistor patted her head softly, and held her for a moment.“I love you, Olwen.”Allistor pulled away slowly, eyes scanning over her face as he did so. Tears leaked from her eyes now, staining her cheeks. She said nothing, but she stared at him. He cracked a wry, bitter smile, and leaned back up to full height.“Now eat your cake, and don’t stay up too late.” He cupped her cheek, patted it one last time, and then turned away.His large frame retreated from the kitchen, and up the stairs with a soft series of creaks.Allistor Torque was 48, and it was the baby’s thirteenth birthday.Olwen did not hear the bathroom door lock, she did hear the gunshot. It was precise, muffled, an instant of finality in a silent house.The cake was good, but her mouth was too dry to enjoy it.

“The food here is not bad. Though I still do most of my own cooking.” Olwen said lowly, to the small cat statue that sat on her desk. It was an elegant bronze statue, carved intricately. Two small garnets played the part of its eyes. She lay on her side, staring at the statue from her place on her bed.“I see. At least it isn’t disgusting. Often institutional food is.” The cat statue replied, with a woman’s voice and a gruff tone. The mouth did not move, but the eyes of it glowed when the voice came through. “And you are socializing? Dread the thought…I can only imagine the sort of people you have there with you.”Olwen paused, her lips twitching into a smile for a brief second.“Avani, they are not all bad.”“Most people are bad, Olwen. You have always been too good to know that well. My poor thing.” Avani Mallick replied, from halfway across the earth, voice projected through the cat.“Ah, you would enjoy Fergus, I think. He is honest.”“Hah. I will believe it when I see it. An honest man. What are they doing to my Olwen there…” Avani mused, her voice perhaps sounding more serious than she realized.“Hm, you will have to see for yourself then. You are still coming?”“Of course. Father’s place has to be taken, after all. The Mallick clan is still deeply intertwined with those affairs.” Avani’s voice paused, the garnets flickered silently.“...that is good. I have not seen you in some time.” Olwen replied softly, starting to get up and running her hands over her hair. “There is a woman here. Scherazade. Sandhya would have liked to meet her.”Avani was quiet for a long time, and so was the cat. And when it spoke again for her, it broke a stiff silence.“I miss you, Olwen.” Avani said, her voice gentler than before. “I’ll see you soon.”“....I miss you too, Avani.”It was Olwen Aphistrea’s twenty-third birthday, and the first she would spend at Chaldea.The eyes of the cat went dark, the garnets now dull. Olwen had few plans for the day. She would work, she would report, and she would most likely spend her few hours of free time cooking. She had her hair mostly smoothed down by the time she slid her door open, and she would have headed out into the hall-If not for the wall of a man standing in the way. Fergus grinned widely the minute he saw her, chest seeming to swell with an excitement he barely seemed able to contain.“Ah-and there you are, lass! You know- Miss Olwen- I almost thought you were hiding from me! Certainly took your time today, of all days.”Olwen cocked her head at him, stepping out into the hall as he stepped back to clear her way. His grin didn’t budge at all as she cocked a brow at him.“Fergus...were you just...standing there? For how long?” She questioned.He responded with a loud laugh, now starting to herd her down the hallway. His footsteps were heavy against the tile, despite his lack of shoes, contrasting her own silent ones.“Not important! Not important at all! But- I will tell you what is-“ Fergus responded.Olwen hummed lowly, glancing up at him and raising her brows a bit.“And what is that?“Ah, well, what sort of cake you’d like. Birthdays are important days! And I understand that cake is required for such a feast. Drink too. Ya still like mead yeah? Or are you turnin’ to other tastes today?” His voice was rapid, excited.And admittedly, his grin was contagious. Olwen sighed, but it sounded more in good nature than from troubled thoughts. Her lips twitched up at the edges, forming a gentle smile.“Have you ever made caramel cake? The ten layer kind. And hm...it would pair well with bourbon. We should have some. But seeing as it is...about ten in the morning, I think breakfast should be taken first, my friend.”“Hah! Right you are, Miss Olwen.” He reached over, and ruffled her hair fondly. “Breakfast first then! I’ve mastered the skill of rather monstrous omelettes as of late, and I think I owe you one as tribute!”Olwen faltered a bit, her expression flickering as he carded his hands briefly over her hair. But slowly, she smiled. Fully, and genuinely.“Ah. Stubborn as ever...I suppose I will accept your fine tribute.”

• return

This is a memory, sharp like broken glass.When Aphistrea clash, there is always blood. Trained only in killing blows. To crush, to rip, to puncture.And of course, they are trained to enjoy the torture of it.A wrathful howl rips out of Odin’s throat, and he feels his hip pop out of socket violently as he slams into a wall. A startled cough follows, and he struggles to regain his bearings when he hits the floor.His daughter does not give him the chance to.Olwen is fast, faster than he was at her age. He gives that factor over to her petite size. Less weight to move, and all the strength to move it. What disturbs him is that she’s stronger, too—and he is reminded of that when she lunges after him, and her fist slams upward into his diaphragm.All the breath in his body leaves him, and he slams into the wall again. Odin swears he can hear the tile under his body crack under the pressure. But he isn’t concerned about that at the moment.He is far more concerned with the fact that he has been pierced.Olwen’s arm is up to her mid-forearm in his chest, and he can feel the pressure she applies directly to an organ he did not have time to put a name to.But, in that moment, he is thankful that it is not the lungs.His lips twitch, and he desperately breathes out a single word. A name. A command.“Ansuz.”Olwen is slammed back, as if a great force was suddenly slammed into her throat. Her arm slips out of his chest, and with it his death slips away as well.Odin leans against the wall, clutching the gaping hole in his chest and struggling his breaths around the pain of it. He breathes, and knits himself closed in a sparking of mana.And he watches her thrash.Her hands, one streaked with his blood, the other somehow still clean, claw at her neck. As if they had any capacity to help her situation. The silent crimson runes that normally coiled about her shoulders had sprung to life at his call, and constricted themselves sharply about her throat. She gasps desperately for breath now, and he feels that this is the proper state of things.“I will admit, I am proud of your development.” Odin says finally, once his chest has closed, and he can speak comfortably. He studies the now ruined shirt, and then looks back to her. Her eyes are locked on him, but there is more rage in them than the desperation he wants to see.His lips twitch. The hold tightens.Her breath has stopped, but she still struggles for it, tears budding at the corner of her eyes.He can only have a few seconds of this, and he will enjoy it.“But I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to kill me. You know it only to be a death sentence for yourself.”An exhale, and Odin releases her. There is a gasping, tearful inhale, and the beginnings of a sob. He watches her swallow the sound, and close her eyes.Olwen is 19, and she is already stronger than him.Odin is terrified of her.And yet she lays at his feet, swallowing her tears, his blood on her hands,A shameful thing.

This is a memory. It is not so old that it is yellowed, but it has certainly earned some dust on the mantle. Six years worth of it, at the least. Olwen stares at the underside of a boxspring, her face serene and distant. The blue light of a television flickers elsewhere in the room, but does not touch her as she lies under the bed. She is silent, and she listens, and when she hears the proper tempo of breath she knows— the person in the bed above her has fallen asleep.And that is when her eyes close. For only a second, as if in prayer or meditation. When she opens them again, she has already started to slide out from under the bed. The slick hardwood floor assists this task, and she rose to her feet without a sound. Standing, she looks down at the sleeping figure in the bed. It was a man, middle aged and relatively out of shape. Most of them were men. When she was younger, she would wonder why. Olwen would trace the paths of society that she was aware of, wondering what exactly defined the demographics of her work.Olwen was 18 now, and she understood enough about the world, her world, to stop wondering.She steps closer, and watches him for a bit longer. He lays on his side, most of them do, but it is not preferable to her task. Laying on his back would be best.He breathes softly, and Olwen is silent. Olwen listens.She reaches down, slowly, and her fingers curl about his temple, palm over his eyes. His breathing hitches, stirs.There’s the sharp smell of iron, and the man jerks wildly against the tangle of his sheets.The man isn’t breathing anymore. Olwen stares blankly at the spatter of blood on her hand, before she wipes it on her pants.She takes the pack of cigarettes the man had on his bedside table, and leaves the way she came. Down the stairs, through the basement, out the small access window.

This is a memory. It is older, the edges tattered and the center creased from being tucked away into an unseen corner. Yesterday, Olwen turned thirteen. Now, she sits in her father’s office.They are not in the house she grew up in. Not the house in Syracuse. This is the house buried deep in the pines. The house in Maine, placed on some part of the map that doesn’t even have a name. All dark wood, wrought iron, and cold.The painting she is staring at displays a wretched form, bent over in agonizing posture. A wilting figure clutched in its hands, with its hungry mouth bloodied. Olwen stares at it, and it stares back with an empty malice she cannot understand. Her view is blocked when her father stands, forcing her red eyes to meet his own.Truly, that is the only trait they shared. Odin was a tall man, thin and overhanging like iron scaffolding. A neatly trimmed beard, and close cropped white hair that would never touch his neck should he have his way. A black suit, and red eyes.And a deep, cold voice.“I found him in the bathroom. Did you know he was there?” Odin asks, and pauses more for brevity than an answer.Olwen does not answer, staring at him blankly. The area around her eyes is still swollen.“Of course you did.” He answers for her. “You knew he was there because you let him kill himself. You disobeyed me. You were supposed to kill him, you understand that, yes?”She is silent still, her eyes focused at some distant point over her shoulder. Odin’s lips twitch, and he steps out from behind his desk. The sound of it is sudden, the sharp tap of his leather shoes against the hard stained concrete. It is enough for Olwen’s glassy eyes to rapidly lock on to him, but it is not enough to satisfy his temper.He stands, towering over her, and grips her chin with wiry, strong fingers. Jerking her face up, Odin Aphistrea forces his daughter to look him in the eye, no matter the uncomfortable posture it leaves her in. She is limp is his hands, weak.It fills him with a rage hot enough he wished it could sear through his skin, and out to tarnish her cheek as he held it.“That man-““Mr. Torque.” Olwen corrects, in a voice that was soft and rustling. It sprang from a tight, dry throat. It is the first time she has spoken during this encounter.“Fine then. Mr. Torque ruined you. Spoiled you.” Odin’s hand tightens about her face. He sees tears start to well up in her eyes again, and he feels disgust rise like bile in his throat. “You cannot even follow your first order properly. After all the work I put into you, all your training...it seems I miscalculated. I thought I had bred a hunting hawk for myself. But Torque raised a rabbit for me instead. And then he did her first job for her, spoiling her right to the end.”Olwen is silent again, but her lips tremble, eyes wide and glassy and empty. They lock on to the painting hanging behind him again. Distantly, she recalls what the painting is named. She can’t remember where she learned it, but she knows.Saturn Devouring His Son.Odin’s hand leaves her chin, and he sighs loudly.“Olwen, I see I have no other choice. We will start your training over again. From your very first true lesson in our craft, and I will rip every last bit of rabbit right out of you.”One of his hands settles on her shoulder.“And as I do this, I want you to remind yourself of something.”His other hand settled in the center of her chest, poised like a knife right above the middle of her sternum. Her breath quickened, but her eyes still would not land on him.“This is what happens when you are weak.”There is a wet snap, as his hand tears inwards and downwards. She screams, nearly-it quickly becomes a gargling noise, and then a slick wheeze.

This is a memory. It is old. Not old in the grand scheme of things, but in a life of only 24 years, it spans back to a halfway point. It is worn, but in the gentle way. Edges rubbed soft and rounded like a smooth stone. Olwen is twelve years old, and she stands in the shadow of a large man.Mr. Allistor Torque is tall, broad, with large, warm hands. Her guides her carefully as she whisks the ingredients for pastry cream together in a bowl. Though he does not have to do so for long, ruffling her long black hair when he seems satisfied with her progress and turning back to his own task.Despite the rest of the house being cold, hard, the kitchen is warm. It smells of fresh flour and baking pastry, and is lit primarily by the soft yellow overhead light. Both figures work quietly, diligently, in their united task. Outside the snow is piling higher and higher, and both know no intruder or visitor will disturb them today. This brings an unspoken comfort, as it is Wednesday, and often Wednesdays are not good.“You can stop when peaks form, Olwen. And then we can spoon the cream in.” Mr. Torque says lowly to her. He is her guardian, her caretaker, her friend. A gravelly but gentle voice, and washed out blue eyes that still spark fondly despite how tired they can be.“Understood.” She replies. Her long hair is pulled into a loose braid, thrown over her shoulder. Olwen wears a firm, focused expression on her young features. Mr. Torque takes a moment, and allows a quiet sort of happiness settle in his bones. A fondness. Pride. Love.He has raised this girl, taught her and loved her. Braided her hair, cooked her meals, and protected her when he could. He rarely could, at least not when she truly needed it.Mr. Torque pushes that thought away, bringing over a tray of cooled pastry shells.He does not have to think of that now. He does not want to think of that now.So for now, they will make eclairs.

• return

Hospitals are surprisingly easy to just walk into. All one needs to do is look like they know where they’re going. A straight back and a forward gaze is often enough. Someone can walk in, say they are visiting family, and then go right up to any patient room they like under most circumstances.It saved Olwen the trouble of scaling the building.It’s an old but respected institution. A new, modern structure that some would turn their nose up at for the odd choices in architecture. Olwen, in the back of her mind, registers it as somehow resembling a butterfly. She has no other opinions on it.It’s early in the day when she enters. A perfectly normal time, perfectly acceptable to be visiting an ailing relative during. But then she loiters. Passing through waiting room to waiting room like a polite, but oddly quiet spectre in black. She thumbs through magazines. She orders cheap, syrupy-sweet coffee from a cantankerous machine.Olwen is sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair 7:45pm arrives. A tired looking woman in scrubs approaches her, and gently delivers a reminder.“Visiting hours end at 8:00pm…”Olwen raises her eyes from ancient, yellowing pages of a copy of Cosmopolitan.“I understand. Thank you.”And with that she stands, folds the magazine into her jacket unscrupulously, and proceeds down the hall. The moment she turns out of sight, she simply walks into a janitorial closet, and closes the door behind her.And then she waits.

The little girl doesn’t move much, or talk much, or really do much at all.She sits at the table, and quietly eats the food she’s been given. Pancakes, and a bit of mixed, somewhat out-of-season fruit. She doesn’t swing her legs, and fidget at all, like many children around that age might. She couldn’t be more than 13.But she’s morose, and quiet. And her hair…...her hair is so, so very white. And her eyes…
...she must be albino. Something like that. That’s what Magnolia Tremblay tells herself. Quiet, and strange, and very...very albino.Her two children sit at the table with this girl, and they talk quietly amongst themselves. Every once in a while, she can hear the girl answer softly. Ennis had brought her over earlier, and coaxed her into introducing herself as “Madeline”.Despite them being on rather unsteady terms, Magnolia and Ennis had tried to smooth things over for the sake of their children. They had divorced only a year ago, give or take a few months, and were still very much in an adjustment period. Still, he visited often, and asked favors of her often. And even now, Magnolia found it hard to say no to him. Perhaps the generous gifts of money assisted in that.“Madeline” was one of those favors. Magnolia suspected that she was the child of some mistress, or even the child of a “client”. Ennis had always been aligned with the dangerous sort of business that only people with too much money involved themselves in. He’d called, and asked her if she could watch the girl for a few days.Magnolia had hesitated. The request was strange, but a mumbled promise of some wired funds brought her around quickly.

The time is 2:35am. Olwen exits the janitorial closet.She pads silently through the dim halls, narrowly avoiding members of the night shift.And eventually, she arrives at room 132.She enters, and quietly shuts the door behind her. Like a quiet fog, she advances until she’s standing at the foot of the only bed in the room.And she’s surprised to see the occupant sitting up, looking right at her as if he expected her.He’s an old, wiry man. Perhaps in his late 70s. His eyes are sharp, but sunken deep into a face that is catastrophically withered even for his age. He sits with both hands folded over each other, fingers crooked with the ravages of arthritis. Nothing more than a sick old man, awaiting her like she was an invited guest.“Hello, Miss Aphistrea. Perhaps you should sit down a while.”She merely stares at him, two points of crimson in the shadows of the room. She hasn’t had one be awake in quite some time.Olwen takes a step forward, and he raises a hand.“Aht-aht. No. Not yet. Disobey me, and you aren’t getting paid. Do you understand?”She stops stiffly, blinking, and draws back. Confusion registers in her eyes.“You are the client.” Olwen states. It could have been a question, but like all things from her mouth it rang more as a statement.The man grins, and he speaks again. His voice is low, smooth, and calm.“Yes. And I want you to give me a dignified death, Miss Aphistrea….ah, or rather...should I call you Madeline?”

The air hangs heavy with a gentle, perfumed sweetness. The backyard is green and lush, adorned with a well cared for garden. It is high summer, but the weather is strangely mild.Olwen-- No, “Madeline” can feel the lazy scent settle on her tongue, and she wonders what it is. She assumes the flowers, but she can’t quite figure out which one. Her mind is so consumed with this question that she doesn’t notice as the woman-- Ms. Tremblay-- approaches. She comes to stand in front of “Madeline” where the younger girl is sitting on a garden bench.“It’s nice out here, isn’t it? I have a very talented gardener.” Ms. Tremblay asks. Her voice is soft and coaxing. Exactly the sort of voice one would put on for an unfamiliar child.“Madeline” looks up at the woman, and nods in agreement.“Yes...it is a very nice garden.You have camelias.”Ms. Tremblay smiles, as if relieved to hear her voice. “Do you have a garden at your house? You seem to know a lot about flowers.”The girl pauses for a very long time, staring up at the woman, and then slowly shakes her head. Ms. Tremblay resists frowning. She feels as if she’s made a misstep, for some reason. She takes a moment to raise her gaze, finding her other two children playing elsewhere in the yard.“Ah, I see...well, that’s okay. This is a good opportunity for you then, you can see more than you do at home.” A little pause. “Do you want to play with the others? Do you have siblings at home-“...what flowers are those? The ones that smell so good.”The older woman blinked, but then quickly took to the inquiry with a smile.“Oh, those are honeysuckle, Madeline. Have you never seen them before?’“Madeline” shakes her head, and stands to wander over to the winding vines that line the fence. They’re a massive green tangle, overtaking the iron posts and hanging heavy with cream-colored blossoms. As she approaches, the smell becomes thicker.“Here, try this…” Ms. Tremblay approaches the honeysuckle, and carefully plucks two blooms. Bringing them back over on her palm, she pierced the pale flesh of the flower with her thumbnail, cutting cleanly through the bottom of the flower, and carefully pulled the stem away. The style came with it, carrying a golden drip of nectar. “You see...that’s the ‘honey’ in the honeysuckle.” She grinned down at the girl, before popping it in her mouth and motioning for “Madeline” to give it a try herself.It took a few tries, but she finally succeeded. Another perfect, golden drop of nectar. Gentle sweetness played over her tongue, and ever so slightly, “Madeline” smiled.

“Now, I believe I asked you to sit.” Ennis Gagnon said. There’s a low hint of force in his voice, and Olwen wonders briefly why he feels the right to that until she sees his fingers now hovering over the ‘call nurse’ button at his bedside. He could make this far more difficult for her, if he really wished to.So she sits, stiffly placing herself on one of the uncomfortable guest chairs next to the bed. The man’s eyes follow her the entire time, holding that same sharpness all the way.“I’ve always wondered how you turned out. I’ve done my best to follow your work, you know. You look to be a real hellcat but.” Ennis let out a soft, creaking laugh. “Well, I know better. Any old hunter like me would know better. A doll is more like it...doing anything she’s told, right?”Olwen does not answer him, merely staring back. She knows this man. She knows him, and she hates him. She hates him, she hates him, she hates---“...ah, if only you had a string on your back to make you talk.” He continues, with little regard for her place in this conversation.“But I’ve always liked it when the women around me are quiet. The children too. So I shouldn’t complain…” His thumb stays on the button, hovering but not pressing. “Quiet...and obedient. You’re perfect for this. Just who I want here....this is what’s going to happen, Miss Aphistrea. I will say my piece. You will assist me in passing away with dignity. The quickest, most painless way you can perform. Now, tell me you understand…”Her lips purse, her mouth feels dry, her arms feel so heavy...Her eyes are empty.“I understand.”

“Madeline”--- no, Olwen. Olwen. Olwen cannot remember what color Ms. Tremblay’s bedroom was. She thinks it could have been tan, or pink...or even honeysuckle yellow. It was dark, anyway. It is not like it mattered, anyway.She steps into the room silently, her bare feet padding over the plush carpet.Magnolia Tremblay was a woman in her mid-forties. When she was likely far too young to do so, she had married a man about twenty years her senior named Ennis Gagnon.The marriage had been unhappy, though it produced two healthy children. And it eventually produced a divorce, as well.Ennis Gagnon was not a good man. Olwen knew that. None of the men that spoke to her father were good men. None of the men that looked at her like that were good.Olwen did not know much about Magnolia Tremblay, but in her short time with her she knew several things:Firstly, that Ms. Tremblay loved her children very much. Olwen did not have a mother, but she was left to assume that she was certainly not a bad example of one.Secondly, that Ms. Tremblay was very kind to her as well. Even if she did not know Olwen, even if she would not benefit from it. She fed her, and spoke gently to her, and taught her about honeysuckle.And lastly, Olwen knew that she had to kill Ms. Magnolia Tremblay.As she stood over the sleeping woman, Olwen felt something deep inside of her twist, wishing to scream, before going absolutely silent. Distantly, obediently, she raises a hand.She doesn’t quite remember when her hand sank deep into Ms. Tremblay, but she recalls vaguely what she intended to do. Grab the heart, and bring it to a stop. It’s clumsy, so clumsy so clumsy so clumsy--And so hot, and red, and struggling.The woman’s eyes snap open, rolling already in her skull, and meet the calm crimson of the girl who was buried up to her forearm in her chest cavity. Her heart beats faster against Olwen’s palm, spasming and writhing.Olwen twists her hand, and the woman stops convulsing. Ms. Tremblay’s mouth moves in some silent, vague whisper as she stares at Olwen. And then she’s gone. Her eyes are empty.

“I trust you will be more gentle with me than you were with Magnolia. I am a loyal customer, after all.” Ennis says, grinning lecherously at Olwen in the darkness of the hospital room. “You are able to put me to sleep first, yes?”“Yes.” Olwen answered distantly.“Good...good.” For the first time, the man seemed nervous, laying back into the pillows. “It’s much better than whatever’s taking me now. Trust me, sweetheart. You don’t want to get old like this. Pray you die young and pretty. Now, come here, and do what you were told to do.”Olwen slowly stands, and approaches the bedside. Settling down to sit next to him on the bed, her hand came up to cup his chin. He smelled of hospital food and iodine, and his skin was leathery and dry.And in that moment, she looks into his eyes. They’re a murky green, focused on her, placed above that grinning, wide mouth. But slowly, his grin fades. His eyes close.Olwen thinks about honeysuckle. The sweetness of it on the tip of her tongue.His fingers retreat absently from the button he had once threatened her with.Her fingers tighten suddenly around his jaw, sinking right into his flesh, and she jerks her arm to the side violently. His lower jaw comes off in her hand with a wet, meaty snap. There’s a sudden spurt of blood, painting her face and hair. Murky green eyes snap open, seeking her out. Panicked and pained. A garbled wail rises from a ruined throat, high and keening like some new, dying animal.But she isn’t even looking at him at that point. She’s already stood up, dropping the part she took away from him on his blankets. His fingers scrabble for the bloodsoaked call button, weakly tapping it over and over and over.“It takes a long time to die from the removal of the jaw.” Olwen says softly, holding the door handle. There’s someone on the other side, rattling the knob and struggling to push it open. For her, denying them entry is child’s play. “You will die slowly. It will be from either blood loss or suffocation. But do not worry...”She turns her head slowly. Whoever is on the other side of the door is outright ramming into it now, but it doesn’t budge. Her eyes reflect the dim glow of machinery.“I will stay here, and ensure that you die. Doing just as I am told, yes?”

• return

The steel of the chair was cold against her skin, and the air around her was no more welcoming. She sits on the chair backwards, leaning on the back of it with her elbows. Her shirt has been shed, leaving her in a plain, dark sports bra.On the top floor of the house she grew up in, the house in Syracuse, Olwen sits surrounded by her family. There are seven of them, eight if Olwen was counted, arrayed in chairs about the wide, cold room. Seven sons and daughters of her grandfather. Seven pairs of red eyes locked onto her. Clean white tile, and a yawning window at the far end of the room.Olwen chose to stare out the window, eyes distant and jaw set. Her attention shifted only when two of the figures rose and approached her, one from each side.Odin Aphistrea sat down in the empty chair behind her, mirroring her posture.And Clytemnestra Aphistrea stepped around to Olwen’s front, looking down at her. Clytemnestra was not a terribly tall woman, but she was still taller than Olwen. Long, straight white hair fell over her shoulders in a graceful curtain. A long, straight nose dominated her face. And long, curving claws masquerading as fingernails complimented each of her fingers.She leaned close, and tapped one of those claws carefully against Olwen’s cheek. It was hard, cold. Pure, sharpened bone sprouting from the tip of her finger. Olwen attempted not to flinch, and ultimately failed.Clytemnestra smiled, and leaned back up to her full height.“Odin will not say it, but he is just so proud of you, little Olwen. So strong, so talented...so obedient. You still have only one failure under your belt, don’t you?” She said, her voice smooth but sharp. Like the sound of a razorblade tracing slowly over glass. The older woman moved, stepping so she could stand between the backs of both Olwen and Odin. “Everything else...always done to perfection. Quick, accurate, and thorough. I can only hope that my Iphigenia grows to be like you.”She sighed delicately, and Olwen felt the claw again at her spine, running down each slight ridge, and she tried harder to focus her gaze back out the window.“And I suppose what I mean by all of this, is that you truly have earned this crest. A full fledged Aphistrea, prepared to carry on this legacy with your own heirs, and to lead all of us into our next generation. An embodiment of our strength, our power, and our will,” Clytemnestra said, pausing when her hand came to rest fully on the middle of Olwen’s practically bare back. The tips of her claws dug in slightly, and Olwen stayed staring dilligently ahead. “With that said, let us begin.”Olwen’s eyes closed, and she felt the tips of the claws break skin, before searing heat flooded the area around her ribcage. It was a jabbering, hot, chaotic pain. And somehow, despite every sort of pain her body had been through, she had never felt anything like it. Her whole body stiffened, as smooth, searing pain seared under her skin. Perhaps she would have cried out, if not for the absolute static that filled her mind at the time. A chorus of pain, of growth, of death and rebirth, repeating over and over in the darkness of her tightly closed eyes.She knew herself to be breathing, and that her heart was beating wildly, but at the same time she felt nothing.And this circled and cycled for what felt like a cacophonous eternity.The sharp, sudden croak of a crow outside the window was what stirred her. Her skin was slick with cold sweat, and her head pounded. The yawning window revealed only darkness, dotted with weakly winking stars.She realized now that she had fallen unconscious during the transfer of the crest.The room was empty, all of the chairs arranged neatly against the walls, save for the one she sat in. She was alone, the room somehow feeling much lighter now that this was true. Slowly, she sat up, and looked down at herself. A simple pulse of mana, and it came alight.A jagged, interlocking pattern carved along her ribcage, nearly reaching her navel. It glowed a deep, thrumming red, and flickered out once the feed of Mana stopped.The Aphistrea crest was practically ancient. Too valuable to even think about damaging.And now it was her’s. At all of twenty years old.A shaky sigh of relief left her as she stood.It was her’s.Too valuable to damage.

• return

Cedor Emurish was a tall, beautiful man.A slight tan, and emerald green eyes. Features charmed by sandy blond hair. Mouth like a viper pit, full of venom but always smiling easily. He sat across the table from Olwen in a small cafe, well manicured hands wrapped around his paper cup of coffee.He had insisted they meet in public, Olwen had obliged. She hadn’t ordered anything, keeping her arms crossed and her eyes on his hands. The shimmer of mana surrounded them, almost like a wave of heat rising up from hot pavement. A bounded field, subtle in shielding their conversation from mundane ears.“You know, we could always have a little chat. I’ve been hunting you so long, I am actually pretty curious about you.” He said, leaning in to study her. “You know they only have quite blurry photographs of you, Miss Aphistrea? They do not do you justice. I can see why they call you...oh, what was it? ‘Angel of Rupture’-”“That is enough. We are here for business Emurish. I do not deal in ploys and curses like you do.” Olwen’s voice is sharp and flat, like a well aimed scalpel. The statement is not completely calm though, accentuated with an instinctive flex of arm muscle.For a moment, she resembled a caged predator, and Cedor took note. He looked disappointed, like a child robbed of his favorite plaything, and leaned back to take a sip of his coffee.“How could I forget, you are that sort of woman. Shall we get down to business then? By all means, I should actually be doing my best to kill you right now.” Cedor noted.“You should. That is why I did not order anything to drink.” Olwen responded bluntly.And in return, she received a wide, sharp grin.“Smart girl. Did your homework on me?”“A specialization in cursing your victims in broad daylight. Often through applying sigils to containers for food and drink. Slipping them on through a handshake, or pulling out a chair. You wrap your targets up in social convention, and your hands excel in applying the same killing webs.” Her eyes met his evenly, and her voice held the smallest drag of disdain. “It is a polite manner of hunting, but deeply deceitful. I find I do not like you, Emurish.”“And I don’t like you much either, Miss Aphistrea. But at least I know how to be civil about it. You know, it’s really too bad that your family isn’t aligned with Clocktower. We could have been coworkers, lovely ones at that. You may have even tried to like me.” Cedor sighed out slowly, setting his cup of coffee down. “So. You did contact me about this meeting, and I have arranged a deal for you.”“I will assume the terms of it will not be flexible?”“Not at all. Can’t be caught making free-wheeling deals with criminals, now can I?” He said, a shadow of that sharp grin returning briefly. “The central bargaining chip you have is access to your family itself. And you have already used it up in exchange for one thing: the changing of your runes. I have an expert to work on them for you, and in exchange--”“I will silence my clan permanently, and hand myself over to a trial.”

It happens in the house in Maine, the vast iron and wood tumor that excused itself as a building.Cedor sat in the driver’s seat, the gentle sway of talk radio filling the silence that sat between himself and Olwen. The radio spoke of weather, traffic, a gentle lacing of local politics. How heavy or light the snowfall may be in a few months. But that afternoon the road was clear, the sky a humble grey overcast.The house appears almost out of nowhere, the thick evergreen forest they had been driving through suddenly parting to reveal something that was more of a compound than an estate. A tall, looming house lurched upward against the pines.He parks the car just outside of a vast iron gate, and Olwen gets out first and slams the door loudly behind her.The yard is enclosed by a tall white brick fence, a twisting iron gate sealing off the yard from the two would-be visitors. Pale gravel crunched beneath Cedor’s shoes as they approached, coating the expensive leather in a fine layer of dust.Olwen reaches the gate first, but he is not far behind, and with a simple flick of her hand, the gates open with a loud shriek of metal. The sound is grating, loud. Olwen seemed to ignore it, but Cedor’s shoulders tensed slightly.The Aphistrea heiress waits for the gates to finish their wailing song and come to a stop before she enters. The yard is well groomed, likely professionally so. Obsessively trimmed grass, and a dark brick path leading up to the house. Thick juniper bushes laced both the circumference of the porch and the inner side of the fence.And there, standing on the porch, was a too-tall figure. Backed up by the crimson red of the front door behind him, Odin Aphistrea’s dark clothed figure was stark. He had high, rigid cheekbones that held up the rest of his face like a battered tent.“And so you’ve come. And brought a guest, too.” Odin’s voice is low and crisp, and he raises his chin to ensure the pair of young mages is well aware he is looking down on them. His scarlet eyes glanced over Cedor and made a grand effort of dismissing him before settling back on Olwen.His gaze focused less on her face, and more on her arms, her tattoos. Something in his expression falters.“Not a guest. More of a supervisor.” Cedor corrected, rather quickly. Both Aphistrea cocked their heads sharply, giving him an odd, curious look. Cedor did his best not to find the family resemblance. Pale hair, crimson eyes, head cocked far too far for it to be natural. Like two scavenger birds investigating prey.“I see. Well, either way. I know you’re here to kill me. So, allow me a few words with my only daughter.” Odin replied, turning his attention back to his offspring. “...You have always disappointed me, Olwen. At many points, I considered letting you die. That man ruined you a long, long time ago.”He heaved a long sigh, as if the words he said brought him some sort of pain. Olwen remained impassive, arms at her sides as she looked up at him from the bottom of the steps, a few paces away. There was a tension that locked briefly into her jaw, but that was all.Odin continued, and Olwen allowed it.“I always wanted a hunting hawk. Obedient, dangerous. What you are...is a rabbit. Do you know why?”Olwen did not answer, and Odin did so for her.“Because you kill, but you are not a killer. Even a rabbit will bite when cornered. When frightened. And that is all you have ever given me. The only time you rip and tear like you are supposed to...is when I corner you. When I grab you by the neck and shake you. It’s pitiful, really.” A long fingered hand came to tap his own temple. “Tell me, Olwen, do you really believe that killing me will fix you? Make you into something...better?”“No.” Olwen responded bluntly. “Is this your way of begging?”Odin raised his brows, and lowered his hand.“No. I would just, perhaps, wish to understand my death before it comes for me.”“Very well. Killing you will not fix me. It will, however, fix you.” She slid into a fighting stance easily, naturally, one arm raised in a prepared strike. “I have never enjoyed speaking with you. Shall you start?”Odin’s lips, pale and thin, released a soft sigh, before lurching into a snarl.An explosion of movement. A burst of iron-tinged air burst from around them. Odin surged forward, down the steps, his palm positioned to strike and cocked back hard. A strike meant for the chest--the heart.Olwen was faster, disarming the blow with a hard sweep against his wrist. Her body twisted, at high speed, a ripple seemed to shake her body and the air around it-And then came the crack.Her foot slammed into the side of his head at full speed, smacking into his skull with a crippling, painful sound. Odin was sent flying, skidding right through a manicured juniper bush and vanishing for a moment in the thrashing evergreens. When he emerged again, he shook with fury, blood cresting from a rapidly closing tear on the side of his face. It twisted his visage unpleasantly as his skin sewed itself back into place.And then he lunged again, moving a snappish, horrifying fast gait. Joints overextending to lengthen stride and reach. Impossible body. Impossible speed. Like a jumble of vicious iron scaffold, bearing down on the smaller mage.Olwen caught his next few strikes, but not without a cost.He was upon her again in an instant, and a sharp array of forearm guards was enough to stave off the true impact of his punches. She absorbed the force, gritting her teeth and tightening her jaw, but each blow tore the flesh of her arms wide open. The skin would split, and begin restiching itself immediately under her command. Her arms became caked in her own blood. The smell of iron grew all the stronger.A jab, a block. An explosion of pain, of flesh flayed. A jab, a block.The cycle breaks, and he aims high, rather than at her arms or torso. His palm came rocketing towards her face.She sidestepped briskly, catching his wrist. Her other hand latched to his shoulder, pressing back.She gritted her teeth, and the tang of iron grew even thicker.Olwen pulled. Hard.An overextended joint was thus a weakened one, the arm hanging quite loosely from it. Thus, all she really had to split apart was muscle. And even then, she didn’t have to command the muscles of his arm much. Her strength was enough to rip the arm clean from his body. It was separated from it’s master with a wet tear, and a jarring crack.Odin screamed, before Olwen’s foot slammed into his chest and knocked the air from him.His tall, fractured frame skidded back, flopping up onto the porch, and Olwen followed it at a walking pace. She discarded the twitching arm, tossing it back into the yard.Long forgotten among the carnage, Cedor nervously jolted, and found relief when the severed limb did not land within five feet of him.When she stood over him, Odin was panting, groaning in pain and caked in blood. The stump of his shoulder gushed, but was closing itself quickly. Soon the violent burst slowed to a gentle ooze. Within about ten seconds really. By then, he spat back up at her, but no words slithered from his tongue.Olwen, instead, was the one to speak. Her voice was an odd, hollow echo.“You have been frightened of me, Odin.”Olwen stepped over him until her feet were firmly planted on each side of him. The blood from his wound made the dark wood of the porch slick and hot. Odin’s remaining hand wrapped around her ankle, his eyes wide with a wild panic. Her free foot came up, and slammed into his ribcage. The loose crunch of half-healed bone echoed, and he let out a strangled wail before releasing her.“You have been frightened of me because you are weak, and I am strong. You hurt me, and I am going to hurt you.”She removed her foot from the shallow, fleshy dent in his chest, and then heavily dropped to her knees. Her full weight rested on his chest, and he cried out again at the jabbering pain she ensured.“As I do this, I want you to remind yourself of something. Something you taught me.”The human trachea does not need much force to be crushed, in the grand scheme of things. It can be knocked or pressed in by blunt force by a normal human. It was easier than breaking bones. It was easier than tearing an arm off, for sure.Olwen reached down, and gripped Odin’s throat.“This is what happens when you are weak.”And then Olwen squeezed. Hard. Fingers digging into flesh, tearing through it with an easy ferocity.And then it is quiet.It takes nearly twenty minutes for Cedor to work up the courage to approach the scene. He does so cautiously, trying not to make any noise as he crunches up the gravel path.The other mage rests atop the corpse, caked in blood, and staring blankly at the newly independent head that now rested near the front door. She doesn’t move until Cedor reaches the first step, and her head whips around so quickly he almost takes a step back. His face warps in horror, and there’s a countercurse flickering on his fingertips before he even realizes it.Her eyes are wild and empty, scanning over him rapidly, before the light in them dulls again. Olwen stands, slowly, and turns away from him. She steps over the remains of Odin Aphistrea, and walks to the door with an exhausted gait.“The others are inside. They will be dead soon, if not already.” Olwen explains, shoving her father’s head out of her way with a rude shove of her foot. “We still have work to do, Cedor.”Cedor swallows, nods, and tries to not get blood on his shoes.

Clytemnestra Aphistrea still has some life in her by the time they find her. She’s splayed on the floor of an upstairs guest room, long white hair splayed around her as she weakly claws at her own throat.Her daughter watches the display distantly from her seat on the bed. She’s perhaps nine or ten years old, long black hair pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail. Horn-rimmed glasses are perched upon her straight nose, and she looks up at Olwen and Cedor as they enter the room.“Hey, Olwen.” The young girl says, her words are casual, but her eyes have an odd distance to them. Cedor looks unsettled, and stays in the doorway. A tension leaves Olwen’s shoulders when she sees the girl.“Hello, Iphigenia.” Olwen intones lowly, stepping over to offer the girl a hand.“Don’t call me that. I’m Bucky.” The girl wrinkles her nose, in that odd blunt way many children do, and takes Olwen’s hand. They both ignore the blood on Olwen’s entire form, the slowly suffocating woman on the floor.“Fine then. Bucky. Where are Gortach and Hypatia?” Olwen asks back.“Gordy. I call him Gordy. He and Hypatia…other guest rooms, probably.”Cedor listens to the two talk, but is too busy staring at the woman on the floor with a morbid curiosity. She stops moving a few moments after the other two leave the room, and he finally makes the decision to follow them. He silently trails Aphistrea cousins as they collect their two other brethren. Repeating the cycle that had started with Bucky. Entering a room, witnessing the corpse or almost-corpse of the parent, and collecting the child from their weak grasp.Gordy and Hypatia. A mousy, round faced boy who was perhaps eight, and a waif-like six year old girl with blonde hair.The only two that talk are Bucky and Olwen, and their words are muted and low. Each clutches the hand of one of the younger Aphistrea offspring as they lead them out of the house. He notices they leave out the back door. He notes that this is, more likely than not, to avoid the gruesome display that was once Olwen’s father.They cross the yard, and Olwen asks Cedor distantly to load the children into the car. It occurs as odd to him she would trust him with such a thing, but she doesn’t give him the time to question it before she wanders silently back to the house.He gets in the car and waits. Bucky asks him if she can have some gum.Cedor starts to wonder if Olwen made a run for it, before he sees smoke rising from the house. It’s thick and black, curling up into the sky, and Olwen exits the front gate.She slumps into the passenger side, body seeming to finally go limp in exhaustion. She stank of gore. Blood and hell knows what else. She doesn’t speak.Cedor stays quiet, and does not complain about the blood soaking into his car interior on the way home.

• return

He finds it. Through nosy questions, and glancing shows of trust, he finds it.Allistor Torque has entered Olwen’s room plenty of times. It's a habit, and not even an old one. As far as his memory still wants to tell him, he had been doing such not even a few days ago. Stirring her from sleep, ruffling her hair, and telling her breakfast would be ready soon. Helping her clean, or braiding her hair. Olwen’s room was a part of his daily life.Then again, his daily life had been rather roughly de-railed. So maybe that is why he is okay with feeling a bit strange, walking into Olwen’s room this time.The door opens with a quiet, sliding hiss, and he steps inside. It’s dark, and he has to fumble with a light switch before getting it to come on. And what he sees...makes an odd weight settle on to his shoulders. It isn’t tragic, or cold. It’s simple really, just an institutional room with personal touches gathered over time.There’s a heavy desk settled into the corner, most definitely provided by Chaldea according to the style and color. A very limited amount of nick-nacks and such sat atop it, ranging from a single framed photo of herself and who he recognized now to be Fergus to a lithe little statue of a cat. A bed is placed into a corner, up against a wall and directly under the thrumming air conditioner. It’s piled high with stuffed animals, several of which he feels an odd relief in recognizing.Stepping over, he sits on the edge of the bed, and lets his fingers brush over the soft ears of a plush elephant. If the lost years are to be accounted for this one was...at the least 17 years old.Lost years. Those really are lost years.He’s tried not to think about them. As it opens a hot, blooming anxiety in his chest whenever he does. Where has he been for the last eleven years? Why is he here?...well, he actually knows why he’s here. He’s here because Olwen is here. That fact, at least, is simple. Allistor has had the urge to seek her out since her first arrived. Olwen. His charge.Olwen, his daughter--...that wasn’t right. He didn’t call her his daughter. Olwen wasn’t Allistor Torque’s daughter.But Olwen was the Giant’s daughter....his head hurts again, and he raises his palms to press against his eyes softly as he closes them. It was a splitting ache, like a dam about to break just behind his eyes. But at the same time it was a tickle. A waiting, loose string in the fabric of his mind. Waiting to be pulled, to unravel everything.’...his head hurts. His body aches. Something doesn’t feel right. Like something inside him is in the process of changing, twisting round and rejecting the rest of him.Allistor Torque is getting too old for this. He’s tired.Maybe he can just sleep here for a while.

Olwen hasn’t been sent out on a rayshift for quite some time. Primarily, she spent her time as a secondary security and support measure within Chaldea. Despite this, she still was available to fill a supporting role on any outing, should the need be there. Her lack of a servant contract did not prevent her from doing her part, despite any assumption.Either way, her muscles were now sore, and her shoulders heavy. Overall, her body ached for her bed, and she was making a beeline for it. Olwen passively avoids others as she traverses the facility. Her mood isn’t foul, but she’s tired, and would prefer to be greeted after she’s had at least a few hours of good sleep. There is a pang of guilt as she finds herself stalking out of the path of even Fergus’s friendly voice and heavy footsteps before he can spot her.But she knows he will forgive her.Her room is pleasantly cool and dim when she enters, and she feels a tension leave her shoulders immediately-Before her body goes rigid, eyes ratcheting to a tall figure sitting up on the edge of her bed. For anyone else, the darkness in the room would have hindered the sight, but her glassy, reflective eyes take in the scene with absolute clarity.That, however, does not mean she believes what she sees.The man stares back at her with wide, shocked eyes. They’re a calm, weathered blue, crowned by thick brows- a thin scar ripping through one on the left side. His shoulders and body overall are broad and strong, and he towers over her easily as he staggers to his feet.He smiles at her, wide and relieved.Olwen feels panic rise in her throat, and takes a step back.“Olw-” The man begins.“No. No, no no no -” Olwen interrupts.That voice, low and gentle when cast in her direction, makes her mouth feel dry. Tears spring to her eyes, and her hands shake. He falters at her outcry, face falling, but he attempts again, taking a step forward. His voice is lower, gentler.“Olwen, it’s okay. It’s just me, I-”“I know who you are.” She interrupts again, but her voice doesn’t sound angry, it sounds terrified. Olwen trips back, pressing her back to the door until her knees give out. Slowly, she slides down to sit on the floor, but her eyes don’t leave him.He stops, and doesn’t try to approach again. Swallowing thickly, the man- Allistor Torque, gently lowers himself to the floor to sit. He crosses his legs, leaning his elbows against them, and looks at her with a concerned expression. His head hurts. It hurts so much. But it doesn’t seem to break his focus on her at all.There is a beat of silence, filled only by Olwen’s ragged, panic-laden breath.Allistor’s voice is outright delicate when he speaks next.“Olwen, what happened? Did I hurt you? Are you alright?” Guilt wracked his chest. Eleven blank years. Eleven years that could be filled with anything. Eleven years in which he could have turned into anyone. Maybe the priest had a point. Maybe-“Mr. Torque, you died.”His thoughts slam to a halt the moment he hears her whisper. It’s shaky, hardly making it out of her mouth.And he remembers the thirteenth birthday. The practical sledgehammer of a memory rushes through him, and he’s suddenly glad he sat down.The pink cake. The too-bright kitchen.Olwen’s hair is white. Her hair is white. Her hair is white.And she’s so scared. Her tattoos, still fresh and new, are an angry red. She’s so scared, so scared, so scared- They’re going to force her to do something that she’ll never recover from, and he knows there is a way to protect her. Just this once. He can protect her.But he has to leave. And it will be the last thing he ever does for her.Mr. Torque chose to do so, the decision settled like a stone in his gut. But he smiled for her, and ruffled her hair before he went upstairs.And when he leaves her, when he’s alone, the pistol in his hand is frigid. The ceramic of the bathtub is ice.In the present, the realization takes the wind out of him...but he realizes his head finally stopped hurting.Allistor Torque sits on the floor of Olwen’s room, and takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he is a dead man walking. He understands now, why she looks so terrified. He should be terrified, honestly. But all that reaches him is a hollow, calm brand of understanding. It makes sense now.“I died.” He agees distantly, looking down at his hands. Slowly, his eyes raise to the girl- no, the young woman sitting across from him. She’s staring at him with wide, scarlet eyes, her mouth caged behind her hands. He can see her shoulders shake with muffled sobs every few seconds.“...Olwen...Olwen, I’m so sorry.”His words bring forth another sob, this one loud and vulnerable. It carries grief, and panic, and he feels it rip through his own chest as well. Gingerly, as if not to startle her, he stands, and shuffles closer, leaning back against the wall next to her now.“You’re safe, Olwen. I promise, I really do. I’m just as confused as you are. But I’m…” He hesitates over his next words. “I’m here.”The ‘for now’ is unspoken, because deep down he knows it. Allistor Torque is a dead man, and he can’t stay here forever. But, he was never one to mourn over things he can’t control. No, he was always the sort to control what he could. Make the best of things.So he sits there, listening to the young woman he raised- the one he left behind- sob, and cautiously scoots closer. She’s starting to calm down, sobs going softer and softer until she’s merely breathing, staring up at him with tired eyes.She’s bigger now. She’s grown, so of course she is. Olwen looks strong, but she looks so...small still. Small, and tired, but thankfully no longer scared. He extends an arm, and she’s shoved herself up under it before he can blink. She wraps her arms around him in a tight hug, face burying into his neck.In that moment, she knows it’s him. He’s big and sturdy, steady as he holds her tightly. He’s the same. Olwen would know him anywhere, just as he knows her. A large hand cards carefully over her hair, and she crumples again.Olwen sobs softly into his neck, and he holds her. Despite everything, he feels relief settle over him.He has his explanation now, at least.Now, he best make his time worthwhile.

Allistor Torque has not been sleeping well.He finds he doesn’t really need to. Not anymore at least. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t find it comforting. To sleep, to eat, to rest. They are human habits.There is something inside Allistor Torque that is not human.But he sleeps tonight, and he dreams.He dreams he is sitting in a hollow, cold room. Mirrors line the walls, and a yawning window takes up an entire wall. The sky outside is dark, but no moon or stars puncture the inky black. He knows this room.It isn’t a pleasant place. He glances down at the floorboards, and feels relief upon finding them to be clean.When Allistor raises his eyes again, there is a giant sitting before him. He’s tall and strong looking, leaning his elbows against lightly crossed legs. Red eyes gleam at him from beneath heavy brows, and light, coppery hair falls over his shoulders in waves.And he knows the giant’s name without even asking.“Ysbaddaden.”“The very same.” The giant’s voice rumbled in response. He heaved a sigh, and shifted his large frame. “I thought it was about time we talked. It seems though, that you have made your own deductions.”“I have.” Allistor replied. “You used me to anchor you here. While you…”“Looked for Olwen.” Ysbaddaden finished for him.“Yes. And...well, we found her, huh?” Allistor offered with a soft chuckle. He looked up at the giant in question, who replied with a low grumble.“You found your Olwen. Mine is not here.” He seemed, at the least, not angered by the statement. Instead he heaved another sigh. Ysbaddaden seemed old, and tired. His oversized frame hardly held up by his own strength, “And I must move along. I have no reason to be here.”There was a tense silence after that. Allistor’s weak smile vanished again, face falling. He knew that was coming. His existence fit into the world of the living about as well as an ill goldfish swam.“...you feel like you failed her, don’t you?” The human asked suddenly, jerking his gaze back up.“...Yes. I was more of a jailer than I ever was a father to her.” The giant responded. “And of course I can’t fix that now. But to see her again, to tell her than I’m sorry...that would satisfy me. And what of yours? For my spirit origin to attach to you, you surely must have had similar feelings toward your Olwen.”Allistor smiled wryly once again.“I...I wanted to speak to her one more time too, that’s all. I think I died with that wish in me: wanting to protect her. But, ah, the thing about dying is that you...you never know if you succeeded or not.”The giant hummed low in his throat, acknowledging the statement and stroking his scruffy beard.“And now you’ve spoken to her, then? Made your peace with the girl?”Allistor didn’t respond verbally, but nodded. A gentle but grim silence fell between the two of them. Two inhabitants of the same body. Two visiting giants, both knowing they were just that. Visitors. And soon enough they would slip back to where they came from.It was Ysbaddaden that broke the silence between the two of them. He leaned forward, as if to make better eye contact with the much smaller man.“She’s strong. And beautiful. You raised a fine girl, Allistor Torque. And I think you learned a long time ago, how to let her go. Even so, I know it will be hard, doing it again. It is never easy.” The giant said, in a voice that sounded like the crushing of gravel. “But you can’t become me. You cannot hold her back, as some lingering ghost of her past.”“I know that.” Allistor responded, leaning back in the rickety folding chair beneath him. “She’ll be alright. I know she will.”“You love her like a father would.”“I can’t do anything but.”“Does she know you have to go?”“She’s known since the moment she saw me. She’s always been precocious about that sort of thing,”“...good luck then. Allistor. I understand your plight, and will help you maintain this body for a few days more. Use it well.”

Allistor stirs awake with a stiff neck. He’d dozed off in one of the chairs in Olwen’s dorm, leaning against the wooden tea table she kept there. Slowly, he sits up, rubbing his hands over his face, and registers the room.It’s dark, and quiet save for the thrum of Chaldea’s distant machinery. Or what he could assume to be machinery. Olwen herself was present, but seemed to be asleep. She had been so when he had dozed off, he assumed.In the dim light, he could make out her vague shape. A small frame curled up into a lump of blanket and stuffed animal, with a shock of white hair glaringly obvious even in the dark....a few days more. Use it well.

• return

The air in a battle always felt hot, these days. But the thick humidity of the current environment hardly helped. It’s the same dance of reflex and rage it always is.Olwen skids across the dirt on her side, rolling once to regain her footing after narrowly dodging the downward swig of a blade. A looming mass of armor and force pursues her, almost triple her bulk. She recalls vaguely that Chaldea’s systems log these creatures as “Dark Warriors”. She always found that a bit dramatic, but that was hardly her realm to judge anyway. “Undead Samurai” would have still been a bit more direct.With an easy somersault backwards, the smaller member of the battle once again dodges a slash-- one from the side this time. She can feel the disturbed air around the blade flicker against her back, but there is no bite. This move draws them out of the small clearing they had occupied previously, leaving the warrior to pursue her further into a bamboo grove.As she moves easily between the maze of stalks, something that her opponent does not imitate easily. It hacks and slashes after her, back heaving with demonic strength. But even still, it lacks the speed and precision to match her pace.Despite this newfound advantage for Olwen, a concerned tone briefly flickers through her thoughts.‘Master, I ask you to be cautious.’Arjuna’s familiar voice does not surprise her. And her movements are not disturbed as she continues deeper into the grove. She can hear the frantic snapping and rustling behind her. She knew her servant to be a fair distance away now, handling a greater swarm of similar enemies. The one that pursued her now had simply attempted to attack their position from the rear, and Olwen had gladly taken up the task of dispatching it so as to not disturb her Archer’s vantage point.‘Can your arrows not come to my defense here?’ She responds, finally whipping around and circling back to her attacker. She moves in a wide arc, as it struggles to turn in the tightly packed grove.‘Of course they can, should you need them. But the more distance you put between my position and your own, the more risk you put yourself in.’‘I am aware. However, I am fine.’ The warrior hacks swiftly at the stalks around it, desperate to free up it’s movements, but it’s now too late. She lunges forward-- one step, two steps--- before leaping upwards. One swift flip in the air for momentum, and then a rather audacious axe-kick was brought down upon the Warrior’s helmet. There was the loud crunch of wood and lacquer as the armor caved in easily under her foot.Then the skull followed- Or whatever this thing had in place of one. Either way, it snapped under her decisive strike, and the mass of figure collapsed with a weighty rustle.Olwen landed gracefully on the aftermath, taking a few steps back to survey her work. Upon observing no further signs of life, she nodded to herself, and picked up into a swift jog back to her previous position.‘I have finished. I will be back in a few minutes at the most. Your position is holding?’ Olwen’s thoughts seek those of her servant first this time. A more gentle tone, as if making up for her previously briskness.‘Yes. Of course. Please, move safely.’‘I will.’With that, the mental link fades back into background noise, and the sounds of the bamboo grove around her become her central focus.It takes a minute more of her travel before she realizes that, against all odds, she is being followed. By something aggressive, at that.In the distance, she can hear the rustle and snap of stalks and leaves. Projecting a clear path to her, and gaining fast. Whatever this thing was, it matched her already unnatural speed.Olwen briefly calculated her options. Should she increase her pace, she could regroup with her servant more expediently and allow him to assist her with this threat. Though, if she failed to reach him in time, she could be taken off guard.‘Arjuna. I have been interrupted, it seems. Forgive me. I will be a bit longer.’Olwen slows her pace as she relays the message, finding herself in a more open clearing as she turned to face her new opponent’s approach.It takes a longer moment than usual for his response to come. It isn’t terse, but she can sense he isn’t entirely pleased with the news.‘Very well, my Master. I should be finished here soon. I trust you to take care until I am free of my current task.’The line goes quiet again. Olwen’s eyes focus on the treeline. She hears the pace stalking her slow to a walk. And sure enough, a figure reveals itself as it steps closer.A flickering miasma, strictly forced into a human shape. The silhouette rings vaguely familiar, but only in the way that a pigeon-faced stranger might be familiar in a crowded street. It approaches with controlled, graceful steps, and levels a wavering shadow of a lance at her. She knows well enough by now that such a blade still has bite.A shadow servant.“Ah. How sad. I was almost hoping for something I could have dialogue with.” Olwen commented dryly, now slowly circling the figure. Her posture was aggressive now, that of an impatient hunter. She wanted this done with.The shadow seemed to have no qualms about that, though. Swinging its long polearm around in a wide sweep, it lunges at her. The tip of the lance is aimed towards her abdomen. A sidestep is enough to dissaude it from piercing her. Though when she lunges forward herself, shooting a knife-hand strike out towards the throat, she also finds herself unsuccesful.It draws back with startling speed, quickly placing itself out of her range and re-establishing it’s stance. It doesn’t give her the chance to do the same as it lunges forward again. This time a jab right at her heart.Her evasion is narrower this time, the rough blade of the weapon biting into her shoulder in a glancing blow. It does not fully pierce, but leaves a wide gash. Olwen’s face flickers in irritation. But any pain seems negligent, and the wound is already closing within the next second.She takes this opportunity of proximity to suddenly swing her leg up into a kick. Using the momentum of her botched evasion, she turns into a tight roundhouse kick, slamming a strike into the shaft of the polearm.The force of it shudders through the weapon, and throws the user slightly to the side. Such an unconventional blow was unexpected, it seems. Taking full advantage of this startled moment, she rockets forward—arm cocked back for a palm strike.A good, clean strike to destroy the head should finish this. She feels the surging power of her magecraft come alight under her flesh, sees her target rapidly come into range—-And then the world slips away from her.It’s all gone as if it were never there in the first place. Olwen finds she doesn’t understand. A great, empty nothingness, yawning out before her. She doesn’t have a body.And then she suddenly does again. It is the only body to exist.It is just her, and nothing.And then nothing at all is suddenly everything.It comes just as the nothingness did. As if it were always there and she simply couldn’t experience it. But she experiences it now. Hundreds of limbs, millions of arms, and billions jabbering, singing, screaming, laughing, crying mouths.It is somehow an explosion and a silence all at once.It is just her and everything and nothing.She has a body.Her real body.That body is in pain.She can’t breathe.Olwen returns to reality with a blade lodged directly through her own throat. It would seem karmic if it were not so painful. She realizes that her lapse has cost her more than she has quite calculated yet, and before she can react the lance is twisted, shoving itself in deeper.An explosion of pain rips up and down her spine, and on instinct her hands scramble for purchase against the now slick shaft of the spear. Trying to snap it. Her hands are shaking, her body feels oddly weak. She can’t scream. She can’t concentrate. She can’t breathe—-Crimson eyes swim about in her head, before finally locking on to the face of her assailant. Or rather, where the face should be. This blank visage comes into focus just in time for Olwen to see it obliterated. The first arrow surely breaks the neck, flinging the head to the side unnaturally, the following three rip the head completely off.The figure dissipates in a hail of gloomy dust, as does its weapon. Olwen collapses almost immediately, grasping at her ragged throat. She can vaguely hear a voice calling her name. There is desperation in the voice. She can’t concentrate.It takes a few moments of laying there, half-curled in on herself, for her throat to close itself. Her breath comes in startled, coughing gasps. Each cough brings up scraps of gore. Blood she ends up spitting desperately into the dirt.A gentle hand comes to rest on her back, and she nearly lashes out. Though upon casting a glance back, she finds only the familiar gaze of her servant. His face looks drawn, concerned, dark eyes alight with a dying breed of panic. Arjuna’s eyes flicker over where her wound was previously, hand now sliding to rest on her shoulder.“What did…” He breathes out, before stopping abruptly.There’s a long, tense silence between them. Something dark swims beneath it. But neither of them comments on it. Not for now, anyway.Moving forward carefully, he takes her up into his arms, and rises back to full height with her in tow.
His grip is tight, every muscle tensed, but not harsh.“...I will get us back to camp. Please, take this time to rest.”

• return

Its a spare tunnel in the tangled subway system, far out of the sight and mind of any upright person.Olwen’s shoes instinctively trace around puddles and rubble, effectively rendering her steps silent as always.She’s twenty, and freshly shorn. Newly cropped, silvery hair hidden under the hood of a sleeveless sweatshirt. She always fit in better in cities. People stared at strange hair, strange eyes, strange tattoos, far less. Not that it mattered much right now.The distant din and shudder of a train passing a tunnel over gives her pause, and she turns her head to catch a distant flash of light screaming by. It stopped surprising her a long time ago, the things people fly by without even noticing. A train car full of commuters, all seemingly unaware of what they flew right past in the dark.Perhaps it was better that they did not know.When the silence returned, she continued her path into the dark tunnel. The concrete here was older, but tagged with layer after layer of graffiti. She was sure if she had been using a flashlight, the vibrancy of communal human art may have been a surprisingly uplifting addition to her surroundings.But she wasn’t using a flashlight, and she was looking for something else.She walks until she finds it, a great howling maw of teeth. Carved into the wall in bright white paint, it stands out. Taller than she is, painted mouth of a great beast. Standing before it, she blinks once, twice.And then she knocks, reaching out and rapping the knuckles of one pale hand between the looming jaws. The first time, she hits concrete, the second time, her hand phases right through.Just as the client said,The rest of her body passes through the wall just as easily, and she pulls her hood back as she enters the newly revealed hall. It’s a long, wide hallway. Bright white fluorescents dazzle her eyes, and she has to blink the stars away. Smooth stained concrete all the way through. A few heavy iron doors lined it, painted various colors. The one at the far end is painted a dull yellow.A yellow door.Just as the client said.Olwen advances down the hall, straight for the yellow door, before slowing to a halt. The two doors flanking her target, both painted a bright red, slid open.Out stepped two figures, one for each door. Hulking, musclebound, clad in leather. Harsh faces, blank expressions. Usual meat shield material. One blond, one a redhead.Both were immediately classified as a non-issue.She stays waiting, watching, and allows them their move first. The blond pulls a long knife from a shoulder harness and lunges forward. He approached from the left flank, while the red head pulled a rifle from his back, leveling his aim in her direction. One to distract her, one to aim and dispatch. It, admittedly, was efficient.However, her own ability was left unaccounted for.The rifleman should go first, as the most troublesome.The blond is easily evaded. Olwen surges past him in a low, loping stride, fingers briefly brushing the floor. A swipe of the knife whizzes right over her head, and in half a breath she’s slammed into the rifleman.Her palm slams directly into the middle of his ribcage, and she feels the familiar, crushing snap of bone under her strike. Her mana surges through his body, ripping organs apart without even breaking skin. He was thrown back against the door he came through, and slumped over.Assured of the quick kill, she rises and makes a quick heel-turn. The blond is already behind her, aiming a thrust to her stomach. A half step is enough to avoid it, feeling the knife rip through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt-- but not through flesh.Her hand comes up, cupping over his face.One more pulse of mana, ripping through brain tissue. Destroying all capability of function.Two moves, and that should be-She hears the click of the rifle behind her, and then a resounding shot. A bullet bites into her shoulder, bringing a hot, crushing pain along with it.Olwen staggers, gritting her teeth-- and then she realizes the blond is looking at her. The man she had destroyed the brain of was looking at her.She sees him grin, and she feels a cocktail of confusion and rage. The knife bites into her stomach in a harsh thrust-She snarls, tightening her grip, and snaps her arm to the side.His head came along with it, and she kicks his body in the opposite direction.The rifleman got one more shot in on her-to the stomach-before his head was removed, too. He hadn’t been able to stand, his body was too broken, but somehow he had aimed and fired. Somehow...somehow...And then Olwen allows herself a moment to slump, too. Panting, still straddling his body on her knees. Clutching her stomach, she breathes in short gasps as it closes itself. Flesh knits, squirms back together. Muscles convulse until intruding bullets are spit out.Somehow...somehow…As she stands, slowly regaining herself, she surveys the two corpses.“What are…” She murmurs under her breath, absently wiping a spatter of blood away from her face. Her target could be on the move now, alerted to her presence. But she wants to understand. How..how did-No time. Her body is whole again.The yellow door caves in with one kick. The sticky-sweet smell of spilled alcohol assaults her senses, mixed an acrid sharpness she couldn’t immediately identify. This room is dimmer, painted a burnished gold. The carpet is plush beneath her somewhat dirty boots as she steps inside.There’s a mannequin sitting on the couch. Permanent marker dots and traces out different mockeries of anatomy on it. Olwen blinks.The needle that plunges into her neck at that exact moment. And shaking numbness takes hold of one half of her body, and then the next. Haze crawls into her brain as if through her ear, and she collapses forward onto the carpet. It smells even worse, when her face is half-buried in it.The needle is withdrawn, empty, and her eyes dart around fast enough to identify a large, now empty syringe.A pointed, white leather shoe comes into view.“Ah! Sorry about that. You realize you don’t have an appointment with me, though, right?”A voice rings out, falsely friendly, lilting with a half-dead accent that may have been fake. Olwen isn’t really sure, she doesn’t really care.Really what she cares about is that she can’t move. When she tries to speak, all that escapes is a shaky rattle.“But it’s really great that I had something strong enough to suit your tastes, right..?”An unseen hand wraps around her shoulder, and flips her harshly onto her back. Her body quite uselessly and limply complies, leaving her staring up at a pale, grinning man. His body was tall, wiry, but strong. Clad in a crisp midnight blue suit. Vaguely, in her haze, she recognizes him.Target. Orson Miller.He continues speaking as he kneels down and straddles her, much like she did to his man in the next room.“You’re a cheap date too. Did you know a bottle of horse tranquilizer is maybe….hm..30 dollars? Cheaper than dinner and a drink for two. Ah, little miss...what do they call you…” Orson dug around in his suit jacket, before pulling out an object that resembled a pistol. “Angel of Rupture? That’s cute. I think I’ll keep that.”He levels the barrel of the object at her forehead.“Now, my visiting angel, I think you deserve an explanation as to what is going to happen to you.” He cocks it with his thumb, a familiar and relaxed action. “This is a bolt gun. Modified to my tastes, of course. When I pull this trigger, a very carefully crafted little piece of metal is going to lodge itself directly into your brain, and your consciousness will end.”Her eyes flicker over his face. His grin is all teeth, and doesn’t reach his eyes.“It’s my magecraft, you see. Puppetry. You already met two of my previous guests outside. Fun, right? Sad to see them go...but you’ll make a much prettier replacement.” His finger curls around the trigger, and he leans close, closer. Whispering in her ear, the barrel pressed firmly to her head.“Your corpse is going to dance beautifully. Now...Hold st-”Olwen’s hand coils around his wrist, and crushes the delicate bone there in one motion.The bolt gun uselessly clatters aside.Orson Miller is too surprised to scream when her head snaps to face him, and her suddenly very sharp teeth tear into the flesh of his nose.It’s torn off in one meaty snap of her head, and then he screams.She allows it, staggering groggily to her feet. Her body is quaking with rage, his blood streaming out of her mouth. He’s knocked into his back with one swift kick, and she spits what was left of his nose down onto his face in a mass of blood and flesh and mangled yellow cartilage.Before her boot is brought down on his face. Again, and again, and again. It’s easy. Like stepping on a bug. It gives way in a crack, with a soft crunching splatter. But she keeps doing it, she keeps going until the last twitch is gone from his body.And then she steps back, wavering slightly, and falls back onto the couch. It’s dirty, but so is she. She doesn’t care, absently shoving the mannequin down onto the floor.Olwen stares at what is left of him for a while.“Talkative. That was good for me. Bad for you.”And when she speaks, it's hollow. Delivered to no one but herself. Her voice shakes with something she doesn’t wish to address.“...should have tried an elephant dosage. Stupid motherfucker.”

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