Out of the Frying Pan
Throughout the complex beyond the enclosure walls, life had already begun to stir. Smaller vehicles similar to those parked at the North Entrance were stationed about a compound that suddenly reminded Crymsun of scenes in one of the movies that Bel so loved to lose herself within at times. The interior layout appeared like something from a set of that epic with the light swords about the Jedi; all domes, staircases, wide doors and grand balconies put together in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. She stared for a while and took it all in, piecing things together.
The folds and drape of the Bedouin fabric still covering well her head and pale face, eyes of ash move methodically over the lay of the land beyond her perch atop the fortress walls. Several robed monks move among those dressed decidedly modern, and those vehicles....Sun has seen such activity before in her many lives and understands what is occurring. "Frellin' hells, scrounge monkeys!" Barely a hiss into the darkness, she watches the underlings moving hither and yon in their preparations.
Not even dawn and the archaeologists are already moving towards the Tower. Cups of steaming coffee in hand, they chat quietly about the finds of the day before. It is obvious they are hoping for more of the same results today. Two guards stand at their assigned posts by the North Entrance to the monastery. Where a great gate once stood, barbed wire and roadblocks have taken its place. The two guards idly watch the archaeologists as they share a cigarette, their dark eyes weary but alert. Dawn is still hours away, but it is clear to Sun that the Tower is the primary focus; the very Tower adjacent to the Church of the Holy Virgin she needs to access. From her present location, her ultimate destination lies clear across the compound, west of the North Entrance she was forced to detour about.
There is an air of excitement among the archaeologists; the rush of adrenaline that comes with fruitful digs. They are eager to get to work because they know they will unearth new treasures today, Sun can taste it on the air like a palpable force. Other workers, the menial labor, are beginning their chores; hauling dirt away in huge earthen buckets to be sifted, or raking through bits and pieces of the larger debris. Portable lighting makes the interior as bright as noon. Yes, not even dawn yet, but the activity is astounding. Being a desert means earlier days; one works the best when the sun is down or new on the barren fields of sand.
Vazakexrus' voice rings in her mind of uselessness and the unworthy plight of being at her hands. "Shut the frak up, Vazzie, I am concentratin' here." Focusing on one figure who seems above the lowly work of dirt hauling, coffee cup firmly in hand and a superior bearing, he pulls something from his field jacket and stops in front of the door to the small chapel on the north side of the church. If her memory serves, this is the Chapel of the Forty-Nine Martyrs, not much in usage even during her brief time at this locale. "Hmmm..."
Across the bustling compound, Sun listens intently, eyes sharp on the movements of all. The Tower is accessed by a drawbridge on the second floor, a precautionary measure for a lone outpost out in this harsh, unforgiving landscape. Much of the attention is focused on the lowest level where apparently a cache of old parchment tomes has already been found. Snippets of heated conversation tell that some among the scientists theorize this is where the real treasure is most likely to lurk, but it is a theory that is apparently seeing much debate. Still, it seems everyone is heading down rather than up.
The guards shift foot to foot, their eyes moving from the interior of the monastery to peer out into the dark depths of the desert. It is a trained movement, something they have been taught to do. Large intimidating rifles hang from their shoulders; they look anything but friendly. There is an air of comfortableness with their weapons; hands kept loose yet ready, familiar grips. Their country of origins may not be wealthy, but they train their military well. Monks, workers and men in modern garb seem to be everywhere, but all had a destination. Soon, a pattern forms and foot traffic begins to slow as they settle into various duties. There is a steady stream of men hauling stuff from the Tower to the building assigned as the work area. A few monks wander here and there, but otherwise the well-oiled machine seems to be purring along.
The guards were going to be a problem. Their duties and ability to carry out such with guaranteed success were abundantly evident from the looks and scent of them. Turning her head to get a better view at her rear flank, about sixty yards back was a water tower. A lot changes in five centuries, the monks obviously had running water. Quietly, careful not to disturb loose stone from the top of the wall, Sun slinks backwards towards the water tower. The lone figure she'd kept one eye on slipped something down the side near the door at the Chapel and walked inside.
Just what had these pit monkeys discovered, and had they come across Vazakexrus' hiding spot already? Asking the arrogant snipe proved fruitless and only brought about another barrage of mental abuse until she could tune him out again, opting for observation over information. Dropping to the sands out in the open was impossible with the hawk-eyes of the guards alert to anything out of the ordinary, and so she continued her slow trek for the water hold wondering whether she should attempt the fourth floor of the Tower or try to discern if the Sword has been discovered and squirreled away.
Luckily, for Sun, the guards don't bother looking at the top of the walls; they are too high for humans to scale without making a lot of noise. They continue to scan the exterior of the monastery, occasionally turning a glance or two inside. They don't seem to be expecting trouble. In fact, no one looks up. The walls have been there forever and no one has breeched them before. No one has a reason to look up. Monks, menial laborers and the occasional archaeologist wander through the courtyard, preoccupied with their own thoughts. As Crymsun inches her way towards the water tower, dawn inches closer to the horizon.
Low-lying buildings, probably housing cells for the monks, and their gardens, populate the southern and eastern ends of the compound. The water hold is directly across the interior from the Tower her attentions are focused upon. It is an easy 30-foot between the walls and the metal structure and Sun takes it from a crouch, landing lightly with a grip of both hands and one foot to cling against the web-like leg reaching from the sands to the tank above her. So intent is her focus, the coming dawn is barely a niggle at the back of her brain.
Down the tank's leg, vigilant to watchful eyes, bare feet raise a slight cloud of dust as she drops the last ten feet to the sands, hunching to the ground in the water tower's shadow. It is mostly males she has observed moving about the monastery, not surprising given the region, yet a few females concealed in raiment much as she is swathed in are noted now that she is inside the walls. Most are carting baskets and platters, moving in and out of some of the low-lying buildings, bringing what she surmises is sustenance to the workers and archaeologists about the Church's Tower. Unfurling the fabric from its tuck in her shorts, smoothing it and settling the covering about her head and face, Sun rises and moves cautiously nearer to a building one woman has just entered.
No one pays the swathed woman any notice, she is not important to them in anyway. One of the modern dressed men has stopped to chat with the guards, saying something about a supply truck that should be arriving before the guards' shifts are finished. They exchange a few pleasantries about the weather and the hopes for the day ahead before the man turns and brushes past the fabric-draped Sun. Totally oblivious to the fact she should not be here. He moves off towards the Tower, catching up with another man heading the same direction.
"You saw that last box we unearthed?"
"Yeah, looking forward to going through it."
"Me too."
Voices fading away as they disappear inside the Tower, leaving the courtyard eerily quiet. The guards lounge beside a military vehicle that's seen better days, speaking in low tones about a girlfriend one has. They laugh lewdly as details of naughty behaviors are exchanged. It appears a typical day in the life of the monastery, except for that swathed female who shouldn't be here about to walk into a building where others mill about within.
Blood still flows, precious life force seeping from the bullet wounds to arm and thigh, and its effects are quickly becoming more than just a nuisance. The male brushing past her is too quick, his small plastic rectangle dangling from an upper pocket of his khaki vest by a coil of neon orange. So much activity, points of observance pulled this way and that. And, yet, it is the way of the predator, ingrained, innate. All those seeking entrance to the Tower and the Chapel beside it use these cards, keycards. Sun is wise to the ways of the modern worlds; even her husband employs the use of such tweaked with a mix of tech and magics. She needs one of them no matter where Vazakexrus lies now. But, the male is too quick, and her reaction time is too slow.
Ashen eyes glance into the building she stands beside before she slips within to mingle with the other women preparing food and drink for the many workers about the monastery. Their language is foreign, though most of the women go about their chores in silence; all the better as Sun takes up a shallow basket and moves across towards a lone female who does not seem as far along in her tasks as the rest. A nod to her, she stations herself near and goes through the motions waiting for the others to begin filtering out; an eye to the corner where an open door awaits leading into a darkened store for the dry goods.
The women have placed copious quantities of coffee, flatbreads, and cheeses in large baskets and trays. As if with some silent cue, they gather the goods up and depart, leaving Sun and one other lady alone in the kitchen. The lady turns and bobs her head to Sun, muttering something in Arabic. Her dark eyes move from Sun to the table where the empty baskets and trays are neatly stacked just waiting to be filled and carried. Her eyes suggest a smile as she nods from Sun towards the baskets and trays encouragingly.
Nodding back silently, a flash of dark fire lights ashen depths behind the covering of cloth; reaching for a basket, it is now or never. As she does, Sun allows the basket to fall from her grip behind the woman. An unintelligible mumble given, hand lifted to still any movement the other might take to help. In that moment, the pale, talon-nailed hand peeks from the layers of fabric as Sun bends behind, whipping about with the speed afforded her nature and clamping that hand over the woman's mouth, pulling her swiftly to the doorway of the storage cellar.
As the lady had moved to help Sun with her basket, she found herself gagged and seized. She struggles valiantly, however her measly human constitution is no match for Sun's otherworldly strengths. The lady does put up a fierce fight though; kicking and trying to beat at Sun with her hands but to no avail, as she is helplessly dragged into the cellar where she is certain she will be meeting Allah very soon. Sun's captive ceases to struggle and resorts to tears as darkness enshrouds the pair.
Normally, in these latter centuries, Sun's tastes have taken a different road than the one she is plying now. In the dark of her mind, already in the grips of the Beast that rides her, she wishes it could have been one of the monks wandering throughout the complex. However, despite the robes, she knows not even they would conceal the fact of her gender, and without her magics glamour was out. This, therefore, was top of the menu.
In the shadows of the storeroom, Sun shakes the covering from her face and bores into the dark eyes of her captive, willing her to calm and hoping to instill a sense of peace. The lady never expected this!!! Having witnessed the unholy speed at which Sun had moved, and seen the bestial nature of Sun's hand, the lady knew she wasn't dealing with something strictly human. She assumes this a demon. A demon come to drink her soul! She is partially right...
Dark-fired eyes of ash catch hers and she quiets, becoming a trembling mass of pliant flesh. One arm about the woman's chest from behind, Sun's hand still blocking the sound from her mouth, blood red lips part and thickened, elongated incisors slice cleanly through olive flesh; a small part still lucid through the haze of hunger able to ask her Goddess' help in seeing the woman quickly on her way.
The kill is over nearly as soon as it began, the female's soul left to escape, though gems burned white-hot in Sun's pale palms at the travesty of such waste. The woman never has time to murmur the prayer to see her soul safe to its heaven, but at least Sun doesn't drink it down like her blood, too. Buried under sacks, her body won't be noticed for several days, by then the flies and worms will be making a stinking feast of it. Pulling the door almost closed, picking up the fallen basket, filling it with breads and cheeses, Sun is able to slip out of the kitchen carrying her basket of stuff unnoticed, or at the very least overlooked and ignored. She looks like any of the other serving wenches.
Stepping from the building, Sun feels the inevitable. Many things she has been able to do and undo over many lives and her long existence, stopping the rising of the sun has never been within her grasp, however. Though out on the sands the greying of the horizon is only just now brimming, flesh beneath colored layers of fabric already begins to prickle. Bare feet move faster across the compound to the bustling crew of the dig, nearer to those who hold what she needs.
"Nae now!" a sibilant whisper from beneath her veiled face as Vazakexrus starts in with a new tactic, whining martyrdom. "I swear, I be thinkin' ye dunna want me to rescu..." The nearly inaudible words cut off shortly as Sun nears a gathering, basket held before her, her head bowed low to the ground. Teeth grit hard behind her mask. The right bastard! He didn't want her to "rescue" him! This was all some twisted plot of revenge she just knew it! A way to get back at her for stashing him away where he could not achieve what it was he wanted. Skirting around a group, she mumbled unintelligibly in passing, but she could tell by the cackle in her mind the pompous ass of a Sword heard her just fine.
"Bloody frakkin' devil." Soon, if she did not get out of the coming dawn, the layers of cloth would not be able to hide what would happen to her once the sun's rays touched her flesh beneath it.
Dawn is unlike time in that it happens no matter what one's perception of it may be. It is part of the unending cycle of life; the sun rises and sets no matter what else may happen. It is the inevitable course of nature. And, so it is that our heroine finds herself facing just such an event. Warming tendrils of purple and orange light begin snaking across the darker blues of the horizon, chasing the greys away with weak, watery color. Still slightly insubstantial it won't be long before the sun crests and direct contact is made. Sun had better find somewhere to rest and soon!
A few take things from her basket but she's last in a long line of ladies handing out food; most just aren't interested and ignore her. No one takes the time to study Sun, she's just another of the serving wenches; no reason to pay her any more attention than the others. Well, except for the smoking of her skin, too subtle for humans to notice yet, but very soon that may change.
Overlooked and ignored. Many males from the region they are in are used to having their females ghost through their lives. The monks have no truck with the fairer sex. The scientists, while modern and of western culture, are too intent upon their treasures. Eyes of ash glance to the pinking sky and feet scrape along the sands, inching closer to the ones who hold the only treasure she seeks. She has one shot; if it fails, a new plan must be put into action. A youthful male steps up to take a bit of cheese from the basket she holds and, feigning a stumble, her hand strikes forth as if to catch her balance, talons just centimeters away from the small, white plastic card dangling off a springy coil of fluorescent green. So close....As is the dawn.
The man grabs hold of Sun, quick to steady her. They may tend to ignore their women in this culture, but they also wish to keep them safe; his gesture is meant to be noble and keep her from falling. "You alright, miss?" asked in Arabic as he sets her back on her feet. Sun has plenty of time to snatch the card, but now she has it in hand, what?s she going to do with it so he doesn't notice"
The razored edge of one taloned-nail had made quick work of the bit of rubberized plastic coil; the card was pressed to the cup of her palm that rested against his breast pocket. A dip of her head from him, a mumble of sound meant to be pleasing and acquiescent, she takes a half-step back, bowing, the basket tipping, its contents tumbling and that hand quickly pulled away in ruse to catch her clumsy mistake. If he noticed the card gone, she could drop it at his feet as if it caught accidentally. If not, she had her treasure and the Tower was the next obstacle to hurdle.
He doesn't try to hold on to her, letting her go easily, but when the basket falls he impulsively moves to help rescue it from upending. His hands cover hers as he chuckles good humouredly. "That was close!" blushing a bit as he pulls his hands away to step back, giving her proper space. "You be careful now." He attempts to flirt because when he'd caught her he'd felt the firm curves beneath the formless fabric and thought she had youthful, pretty eyes.
Holding to the basket with the hand that held the card, her other one lifts to touch at the veil over her mouth and she giggles. Fiery lashes flutter and coyness is there in gesture and in sound as she tucks her chin, glancing once more over a cloth covered shoulder to the youth before hurrying off to a near distant grouping around the north side of the Church of the Holy Virgin, next to the Chapel of the Forty-Nine Martyrs.
"Tough on ye, mate!" hard light in ashen eyes, she whispered to the superior air coming off Vazakexrus' mental dronings. "Ye keep ye trap shut an' let me do what be havin' to be done an' I promise ye, ye will be likin' what lies in store beyond that point." The group around the Chapel was heavy with activity, but she let one last whisper fall before clamming up and portraying the obedient little serving girl. "Do the name Daugolozan mean a thin' to ye?"
Once again, the serving wench is overlooked in lieu of excitement over the most recent find; old masonry jars litter the ground, their contents staining the linen they'd been lovingly wrapped in.
"Yes, very old, part of a burial maybe?"
"Could have been part of a winter stash?"
"Maybe we should send this stuff out to be tested, find out what was in those jars?" No one cares about the serving wench, or the food she's carrying. They have eyes only for their 'treasure'.
Just as Sun is about to duck behind the back of the Chapel, try and discover if this is a place she needs to check for the Sword before attempting the bustling hive that is the Tower, the sun's rays finally peak the enclosure walls, bathing the monastery courtyard in beautiful dawning light. The subtle smoking of flesh beneath colored cloth is now not so subtle. Eyes of ash dart hither and yon, looking for escape. The old fight or flight syndrome kicking to fore as she has just now become a caged animal.
One of the workers spies the suddenly smoking woman and springs to his feet pointing and shouting in Arabic. "Woman on fire!!" Heads begin turning Sun's way.
"Frak me!" The basket dropped, she darts from the gathered workers and scientists, flowing through a group of monks coming towards them, at speeds that raise dust devils in her wake, arms patting about her person as if she is trying to put out the flames. In her head she hears the cackling of a sentience that has clearly seen the better days of sanity.
Heading back to the low-lying buildings and gardens near the water tower, she can only hope the rest will think she is getting help and leave it at that, return to their treasure hunt and let her find some place to wait out the day until the sun is well past its zenith. She doesn't hold out much for that plan, but hope is a lifeline all reach for at one time or another. Hadn't she thought before now this wasn't going to be a bloodless outing" The snooty retorts of Vazakexrus slip around her rising panic as she seeks shadow from the sun. A growl loosing, held tight behind gritted teeth.
Now, most of these people have never seen anything like this before; a woman smoking like she was on fire but no sign of any flame. They stared as she rushed past, but she was too fast to follow, and the archaeologists weren't really all that interested, either. However, the monks' attentions have been caught. There is an exchange of looks, and none too soon four of them are following the trail of her footsteps left in the sandy ground. The monks assume something unholy is afoot, for they are, after all, monks.
The fact that sunlight no longer held the promise of death for Sun did not mean it had no effect. The blood she'd taken from the female earlier sustained the burst of speed that took her to the far southern corner of the complex. Sheltered in the shade of what looked to be a new library and possibly museum, she tries to figure out how to keep from going to ground, either on this side of the walls or the other. "Bloody hells!"
Of course, stomping about was not going to get her anywhere, and soon enough the sun's trek across the skies would tire her, bring the death sleep. If caught in it fully as she would be without finding shelter or going to ground, torpor would take her. The library appeared empty at the time, so she slipped inside its confines seeking a quiet, dark place to hide. The fact the monks were on her trail she did not even contemplate.
The monks do indeed follow, but it takes them a while to trace her to the new library. By the time they reach it, her trail seems to just go dead; they can't find her anywhere, and since they don't know who or what she is they don't have any idea where to start looking. They do look, however. They look and look, but find nothing. By the end of the day, they have decided the unholy presence had somehow miraculously been vanquished. Perhaps it was the purity of their devotion?
Holed up in a little used cupboard of the library, Sun's senses remain alert as does her mind. Out of the sun, she can keep from slumber and formulate a plan, which she does. The sound of the monks traipsing back and forth about the compound has her thinking. The brothers of this monastery know all the ins and outs, their souls could tell the easiest way to what she seeks. Fiery lashes drift to ivory cheeks, her head resting against the stone wall behind her, breath stilling. When the sun rounds its zenith and darkness begins to climb, she would get the answers she needs. In the cold corners of her mind, an old rage begins to steam.
