Phae, Part 1

Moonlight spills like rancid milk across the city, catching in smoke and gurgling in gutters. In an alley, touched only by the dimmest of the celestial illumination, dark dealings are underway. “

These rates are acceptable… and the deed shall be done within the season, yes?” Rot-warm wind carries the voice, like so many spores of a toxic fungus, to the pointed ears of the smaller half of the conversation. In response, a sickened purr of affirmation and nothing more. The figure nods and turns away, slinking into the shadows, leaving only the slim silhouette of the silent seller. The bricks rasp against her cloak, pressing into chainlike scars across her back and drawing a long-stifled wince. She yawns, standing up, her grime-gold hair shining in a sliver of tarnished silver light. The shadow-thin figure is short, by the standard of a human with undistorted standards " rare in Crimton, and rarer still under the gorey light of the gibbous moon. Human standards are rendered obsolete by the proximity of the Imbrium Sea.

The aromas of saltwater and Sulphur intermingle as another strangled zephyr keens through the alley, carrying the whispered agony of a sober memory. A sharp, pale grimace responds, delicate hands grinding dust from mortar as the tortured figure steadies itself against the wave of lucidity. With agonizing grace, they stalk from the shadows and into the streets proper. Under the light of burning silver, features become clear. A youthful, delicate face, marred by a caustic scowl. Her childlike beauty is twisted by the cruelty in her viridian eyes. An armored cloak of heavy leather studded with stone rings hangs heavy upon her, swaying in the ceaseless sea wind. Step by silent step, she marches against the tide of sanity, until she reaches sanctuary. Her shoulder knocks the door aside and she stumbles in, reaching for the first bottle she sees, and the second and third, in quick, desperate succession. Fire pours down her throat, a roaring inferno that blots out the creeping recollections until only a comforting warmth remains. Gold drips into the register, and she wanders to her room, collapsing onto dusty straw. After all, she thinks, why pay for a bed each night when spirits are the only thing that brings her comfort in the dark anyway? She laughs, a dry, terrible giggle, and falls into tender blackness.