Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  Oolos's legendary anger had been slowly simmering ever since he heard the rumor of his brother's involvement in the elder council's decision to have him removed as clan chief. But his accusations toward Vismorda and her involvement with Jesolin, even if they were untrue, turned up the heat causing it to boil. Oolos reached out and grabbed Mordin by the shirt collar, pushing him into his chair. The chair toppled over backward again landing Mordin in the defenseless position of being on his back, and out of breath.

  "You did this!" Oolos yelled as he struck his brother across the face with a fist closed by the stress of losing position and title. Blood erupted from Mordin's nose as tears of pain streaked from his eyes. "This is all your fault!" he said as he landed another blow to the defenseless gypsy's face, cracking his eye socket. One more closed fisted blast, crunching as it struck, allowed Oolos's anger to relent enough to stand up.

  As Mordin spat out blood from his mouth, he turned to his side. Oolos backed up two steps and allowed his brother to weakly stand. Before looking to Oolos, he spit a last glob of blood from his broken lip and smiled. "Well, brother, I did not act alone. But I am sure you know that. Yet, it may surprise you to know that it was not my original suggestion," he said as he paused to wipe blood from his broken eye socket.

  "Tell me who! Or do I need to give you another beating?"

  "Relax, brother, I am getting to the good part, although, I was told Vismorda has already gotten there herself," he said as he spat again. Oolos gripped his brother's throat and growled as he drew his fist back to prepare for another punch. However, his anger had been sufficiently deflected away from its familial roots and aimed directly toward Jesolin. Oolos pushed his brother down again, but this time he turned and strode out of the tent, bent upon issuing another beating. He walked with the countenance of a vengeance fueled by betrayal. He burst through Vismorda's tent flap and when he saw she was not there, his rage grew. He knew where she was, and he knew where he was going next.

  It was less than a minute before he found himself standing in front of Jesolin's tent. Instead of bursting through, as he had done with Vismorda’s tent, he listened intently for any proof of their combined treachery. When he heard nothing, he screamed the young gypsy's name, "Jesolin!"

  "What are you doing?" he heard from behind him. So focused was he on his rage that he did not recognize it was Vismorda’s voice.

  "Jesolin!” he screamed again. "Come out and face me like a man!"

  Vismorda walked the two steps separating them and placed her hand on his shoulder. So entrenched into this maddened rage was he that he spun around and backhanded her without thought. Seeing her tumble to the ground and lay there unconsciously, broke his rage the way a tidal wave's energy disperses on the shores of an unsuspecting coastal village. But Oolos's anger was not all that broke that evening. Jesolin saw the whole scene from between his tent flaps, and it tore away any veil he was maintaining between what he allowed the gypsies to see and the horror of what he really was.

  "Before I end you," said Jesolin, his aspect swelling to engulf the entirety of the opening to his tent, "I will take comfort in the knowledge that I will take all that you thought was yours."

  Oolos spun around, his attention pulled from Vismorda's unconscious body. "You! You were behind all of this!" he spat the accusation.

  "That is not the only thing I will be behind," he taunted as he glanced toward Vismorda.

  "Bastard!" screamed Oolos as he lunged at Jesolin.

  You must let him strike you, Jesolin heard the voice say in his mind.

  Why? I can take him easily, he said in return.

  Because, my young and eager pupil, they must believe in you. Let him strike you, answered the voice.

  For you, I will do this, but I will not enjoy it.

  When he lunges, do not move and do not use the fountain.

  As his master bid, Jesolin was tackled full force by the large man, both of them tumbling into the tent pulling several of the ropes and ties loose from their securing knots. As the two of them landed, the tent came down upon them.

  Now, while you are covered, let him see me, and then take his soul, instructed the voice again.

  Just when Oolos thought he had gained the advantage, the young gypsy gripped Oolos’ throat stronger than any mortal man was capable of gripping. Jesolin held Oolos fast and locked his eyes to his own. In the depth of them, Oolos met an ageless evil he had never before considered existed. Evil, as it was for Oolos and all the gypsies, was defined by that which stood in the path of their attempt at life and their concerns within. For the most part, it was focused on their wars with the competing clans or barbarian tribes. But when faced with something so utterly complete, any hope of anything subjective was consumed leaving the understanding that evil, as he once understood it, was nothing more than a drop of water inside this ocean. When he was so consciously afraid that he soiled himself, Jesolin drank from the soul of another mortal life.

  "My Lord," said an apprehensive voice, "I do not mean to intrude, but Mordin would like your permission to begin the process on your two new prisoners."

  Jesolin looked up from the young woman who's blood he had drained as a consequence of his memory and wiped his lips with his tongue. Such a delicious blood-letting she had been providing him with a rapture induced interlude into his past. Draining someone's blood is a very different experience that draining one’s soul. The blood, once it seeped onto his tongue and into his throat, provided the same sensation as a well cooked, gourmet meal. It sustained him and provided a tremendous energy boost. It did not add to or enable his power, for that comes from a place much different than any mortal influence ever could. To drink the soul, however, is an education in immortality and ecstasy.

  "My Lord?" continued the apprehensive voice.

  "No. Tell Mordin that he may begin at dusk today. I would like the opportunity to talk to our two young captives," he answered as he lightly tossed the dead young woman to the floor. His servant hesitated for a brief moment, glancing to her lifeless body, and then nodded, bowed, and hurriedly turned to scurry away.

  How squeamish mortals were, he thought as he stood and wiped the rest of the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. And yet, how surprising they were with their devotions and connections. He remembered being in the orphanage, the other children specifically. However, void from that memory was any connection. The only three times he had the chance to form any sort of lasting connection, it had been taken from him by the beast before the mortar had the chance to set. Not only that, but he lacked a connection to anyone apart from how they could server he and his goals. Even Vismorda and Mordin. Even they posed no greater connection than what they could give him and how he could use them. Yet, when that young boy discovered his two young sisters were the ones battling, there was no hesitation for action regardless of the circumstances and resulting peril. There was no hesitation, regardless of how useless they would be to him. He acted with one and only one focus of attention, his sisters and their well-being.

  He knew singular devotion. His was to his master, The Master, Satan; but to extend that beyond and apply it to another human was something he did not understand. Not even Vismorda or Mordin would draw his sacrifice for their benefit. But he could not deny he felt something different for his two young ravens. And to see something he felt, or might feel, echoed in the heart of a young man whom he shared no similarities with sparked his curiosity. In short, he found something similar within another mortal, and he wanted to know why.

  He finished dressing himself. He favored buttonless, loose fitting tunics, sleeveless at the shoulders. White of course. And black trousers made from soft leather. He wore a few necklaces, each gold and each with subtle talismans attached to them. He silver-white hair was tied back with a single black leather ribbon in a loose ponytail.

  There will be no benefit from your inquisition, my Young Son, said the familiar voice of Satan.

  Audibly Jesolin answered, "Father, My Most Glor
ious Lord, I would ask of you this one thing. Yet should you feel it as an act against your desires, I will relent my current endeavor."

  My Son, there is nothing you can feel that I cannot give to you, but because of your recent victory, I will grant you this one clemency from my directions. Yet, should it arise as an intrusion into your objectives as an interruption to hate and its propagation, I will intercede

  "As always, My Father, I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently enough. Yours is the only will I seek to reflect," he answered as he continued through his newly acquired bedchamber door, his intent focused on the dungeons.

  As he was about to exit his chambers, he looked back to his bed to admire the blood-stained sheets resulting from his moment of sexual revelry turned feast. He looked to the body of the young woman, lifeless and pale. He closed his eyes and reached for the liquid darkness, heartless in its reflection and soul-chilling to its core. As it filled him, he felt the familiar ecstasy followed by the equally familiar foul taint surge through his soul, if he still possessed one. He then redirected it through him and into the lifeless body. Sensing it was sufficiently filled, he spoke one word, "Rise,". As if being pulled by a string tied to its heart, the body rose up to lifelessly stand. There was nothing except the dark liquid sustaining its obedience. "Clean this up," he commanded. Without hesitation, the lifeless body of the young woman obeyed.

  Walking through the halls of his new castle provided him with a sense of accomplishment. He knew this was not the end of his Master's dark endeavors, but he nevertheless felt something close to completion. He had ordered all of the decor reflecting the Silver Empire and Stone Keep be removed and destroyed. This meant a huge bonfire for the paintings, tapestries, and furnitures; and destruction by war-hammer for the statues and other nonflammable decorations.

  Turning the corner, he was met by two robed men leading another man in shackles. "Oh, My Lord Jesolin, we were looking for you." Jesolin paused and indicated they continue. "This man here, we were going to torture for information, but he said that he can help in other ways."

  Looking to the man in shackles, Jesolin said, "What other ways can this man be capable of assisting us? Does it look like we are in need of assistance?"

  "He said he is an artist and can paint your likeness as a testament to your victory and dominance," said one of the robed men.

  "Is that so?" asked Jesolin.

  Weekly responding, the man in shackles answered, "Yes. Yes, it is. I am considered the best artist in the land. And I would gladly paint anything you desire to make this castle a splendid reflection of your greatness," he paused and added, "my Lord."

  Looking to the guards, Jesolin replied to his inquisition, "See that he has everything he needs. But before he begins his work, break all of his fingers. It is easy to serve when whole, but altogether another experience to sever with excellence when broken. And should he so much as whimper while painting, kill him in whatever long and torturous manner pleases you."

  "But, my lord, how can I paint," before the artist could complete his sentence, Jesolin reached out and struck him hard across the face, splitting the skin of his cheek against the back of his hand.

  As Jesolin walked way, he heard one of the guards say, "Now, let us have some fun," against the background noise of the artist's continued pleadings.

  When he reached the dungeons, he found both the young boy and his younger monk friend sitting inside their cell. He did not want them to be shackled just yet, that would be a necessity for their breaking. The young monk was sitting with his legs crossed and his hands upon his knees with his eyes closed. He did not move when Jesolin entered. The young boy, Drin, did raise his head at the sound of the door creaking open.

  "I apologize for the conditions of your surroundings, but I am quite sure you understand why other more comfortable accommodations were not yet an option," he said as he walked to stand in front of their cell.

  "Vennesulte recognizes no accommodations beyond his own mind and body. Such as that is, there is no apology necessary," said the young monk still with his eyes closed.

  Without looking in his direction, Jesolin responded, "Interesting. Vismorda tells me your name is Drin?"

  Drin did not respond. Instead his only action was to return his head to rest upon his knees that were drawn up to his chest.

  "Oh, come now. That is certainly no way to treat a friend. For that is what I am, Drin, at least what I could be if you would indulge me in this conversation with more than the sounds of your shallow breaths," said Jesolin with as much feigned empathy as he could display.

  "Friendship is an attachment Vennesulte does not recognize beyond the completion of the task set before him. Such as it is, Vennesulte cannot be your friend, for our tasks are set against each other," said the young monk again.

  Ignoring the boy monk, Jesolin continued addressing Drin, "If your silence has found its genesis in the battle with your sisters, again, I apologize for your unfortunate witnessing of their demonstration. But if it is seated in the assumption they have been mistreated, I would ask you to answer one question; did they not look well?" When he was met with continued silence, he continued to press, "I see that you are well trained in fighting, at least, in the rudimentary skills. Did you not find your sisters’ training adequate as well?”

  "What have you done to them?" Drin asked, finally looking up.

  "He speaks finally," said Jesolin with a broad grin. "Nothing they are not thankful for. I can assure you; they have been well provided for with not just food and shelter, but training and empowerment. Does that not suit you, as their brother, to know they are being well cared for?"

  "What are you going to do with them now?" ask Drin, ignoring Jesolin's question.

  "Nothing they will not learn to be thankful for. You must understand something, Drin, the world is changing. Things are in motion and the true Master has revealed himself."

  "You mean you are that master who has revealed himself," Drin said.

  "Oh, I have claimed to be many things, my young fighter, but The Master has never been one of them," Jesolin said.

  "What have you done with my mother?" asked Drin.

  "Your mother, I do not think I have met her. But if the reports are true from when we took your farm, the only survivors were your sisters. Oh, I do think I remember hearing something of a farm woman. My soldiers told me there was some resistance from a particularly spirited woman who was protecting her girls. Yes, yes! I remember now. I was told that her spirit was so great it took ten of them to ram it out of her as they took her over and over again. Before they slit her throat that is," said Jesolin as he looked hard into Drin's eyes.

  Drin jumped up and lunged his hand through the bars of his cell coming just a mere fraction of an inch from grasping Jesolin's throat. Standing as steadfastly as an oak, Jesolin did not move. Instead he grinned and spoke so softly that only Drin could have heard him, "There it is. That is what I want. I see your hate. I see your rage. I feel it deep inside you, simmering, under the dwindling flames of the memory of your mother. Does it trouble you that your last memory of her will be that she was made a whore?"

  As Jesolin finished his taunt, Drin slowly sank to his knees supported only by a week grasping of the cell door bars. "What is this? Why have you allowed your hate and rage to be replaced by sadness? You do not need to cry, my young fighter. You do not need to feel sorrow." Jesolin squatted down and placed his hand on Drin's head now resting against the cell bars. "It is a curious thing to me. You asked about your mother, but not about your father. Is he not a concern to you?" Seeing that Drin was still sobbing, he slowly moved his hand from the top of Drin's head to the side of his face, cradling his cheek. "Come now, my little fighter. You need not cry forever. Yes, let your tears streak down your face for now, but always remember how you felt in the brief moment you allowed your hate and rage to own your mind," he continued as he lightly drew Drin to his knees and then feet by the slightest of directions from his hand.

&nbs
p; Drin steadied himself, inhaled deeply twice, exhaling just as deeply, and steeled himself to the stoic patience of his assassin training. He looked up to meet the empathetic eyes of his capturer and spoke in a voice void of all emotions attached to any connection he maintained with them, "My father is dead. He died during our journey to Twin Oaks."

  Jesolin removed his hand from Drin's cheek and returned it to rest as his side, "If I may inquire, how was it he passed? I know it must have been tragic for you to bear, for you to still bear. Perhaps in speaking of it, it will lessen the pain."

  "We were attacked by two mountain wolves, and in my haste to live, I did not see that he distracted them, thereby allowing me to flee," said Drin, maintaining a strong eye contact.

  Jesolin had often felt that there were connections existing in the world, as if the paths individuals walked were somehow converged with other specific paths. For reasons he did not know, nor had asked Satan about, these connections, while not directly responsible for any specific outcome, did influenced the pieces available to produce an outcome. That this boy is connected to Jesolin and his actions could have been explained away had the incident with the death hounds been singular in their entwining; but the intrusion of Drin and his sisters into his further machinations provided Jesolin no opportunity to explain away the unexplainable truth; Jesolin and this boy were connected.

  "Do you have a Drahin?" asked Drin, pulling Jesolin from his moment of consideration.

  "That is an interesting question. One with an answer whose complexity is greater than the allotted time we have today," answered Jesolin.

  "Vennesulte sees no complexity in the existence of his inquiry. Either you do or do not," interjected the young monk, still sitting in his meditative posture.

  In the infiltration of one's will, there is always a complex dance of give and take. And although the power will always remain firmly seated within himself, Jesolin knew there would be times where he would need to acquiesce. Vulnerability is the quickest way to build trust within another, and by answering Drin's question, he would show a small amount, just enough to lay the foundations of trust; a trust that would be necessary to develop if he was to successfully take his soul the way he had with Vismorda and Mordin.