Chapter One: The Carollers


As though an unusually localized breeze had wafted through the nearest trees, a small flurry of snowflakes fell from the shaken branches to the ground behind the blissful carolers. In the winter moonlight, only the keenest-eyed observer could have seen that the flakes were not separate crystals, but specks of ice, each and every one connected in an intricate and nearly invisible web of hair-thin threads.

Once upon the ground the unnatural snowfall melted and collected into a clear pool that slowly, silently, advanced on the flock of singers like mercury flowing down a shallow incline.

The carolers sang on, inviting the not-so-merry nor gentle men and women dourly observing from the mansion's entrance to let nothing them dismay. But as they sang of drummer boys and herald angels, they failed to harken to the minor Christmas miracle taking place behind one of the singers: a holly bush springing up from the ground, fully mature and laden with brilliant red berries.

As the choir moved on to the next number, a restiveness traveled through the group, and they shifted uncertainly, like cattle about to stampede for no apparent reason.

~Deck the halls wi-

One voice was suddenly cut off as boughs of holly reached out and swiftly grabbed its owner from the back row. The mouth opened to sing, now to scream, was stuffed with berries and needle-tipped leaves that sank into the tender flesh within the operatic throat, as the holly bush shuffled backward, quietly dragging its prey into the cover of the forest::

Some of the singers faltered, missed notes, forgot words. Heads turned in confusion, eyes sought the source of the sudden sense of doom. They resolutely began again, not yet realizing that at least one voice would not finish the song with them.

((Note: The above was contributed by the mun of DrkChimera.))

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And suddenly, an unnaturally cold blast of air knocked Rose aside as the Demon Hound of Hell, known formerly as Kallystine, screamed out of the Consortium, emerald eyes gleaming maliciously in the icy night. Tattered lips stretched, and her unearthly howl launched foul tendrils of blackest magic squirming and writhing toward the merry group.

" STOP THAT INFERNAL HOWLING!!!!"

She landed, fifteen feet beyond Rose and launched herself again in the same breath, strips of torn skin and muscle streaming behind her in the form of a cloak and wings. A trail of fresh blood followed her graceful arc through the night air, each droplet freezing to fall with a cold clink as perfect rubies to the frozen ground. With a great rush of wind, the torn wings backflapped, knocking many of the carolers to the ground, and she landed, crouched on the shoulders of some poor, strong farmboy like Hell's own vulture Fury. The cloak strips of supple, bloody skin wrapped around him, sealing his mouth first, to stifle the terror-filled half scream he had uttered. The rest lashed around him, binding his limbs, and she took off, shrieking her glee and hatred in the same horrid discord. The ground before Rose rippled and turned to a whirlpool of black, leading directly to the Catacombs.

The graceful angel of Evil dived into the darkness, slashed strips of her shadowy soul flowing behind her, reveling in the in the swath of terror emblazoned in the air by the captive man.

She screamed something as she dove, mostly a request, partly an announcement of what she would be doing, the harsh words echoing from the stone of the Estate. "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!!!!!" The whirlpool closed, the air warmed back to its usual below freezing chill, and Kallystine marched through the tunnels toward the Cathedral, intent on sleeping well after a hearty feast on human souls.

((Note: The above was contributed by the mun of Kallystine.))

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How nice of someone to affix those tiny jingle bells to his jacket... with little red and green ribbons as well. Now instead of simply the chiming of silver to herald his stride into the foyer, he truly walked with smooth music. Slim, strong fingers tenderly peeled back a few shiny raven tendrils from the sapphire gaze, a hint of a grin riding upon his lips.

The soft tinkles soared out and caressed over one of the members of the choir, his soft nod and broadening grin bringing a smile to her moving lips. His music blended into hers as he wandered behind, her playfully demure gaze cast down to the music sheet grasped within her hands as he passed from her peripheral to wander behind her. The carols were indeed lovely.. but there were better things this woman could be doing. Curiously, she didn't seem to resist as he stepped up behind her, dangerously close, and brushed a rough cheek across the smoother ivory one beside it. The bells quieted as his strong body pressed into the back of hers, leather whispering as his hands passed over her shoulders, down her arms, to wrap about her wrists.

Breath rasped warm across a silken ear. "Don't be afraid.. "

Her song didn't even falter as he pulled her wrists behind her, only drifted softer. The softest click of silver bracelets was lost within a quick backstep, bells resuming their chime. Both caroler and man passed out of the group and into the halls, his deep bass encouraging her song that still seems to be falling into silence.

((Note: The above was contributed by the mun of AigeurD.))

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::Booted heels ring in the vaulted grand hall, echoing and reverberating in signature announcement of a certain slaver's arrival. Also not unusual are the twin, low growls which accompany her, signifying the presence of her prizes, the barely-tamed Larls she calls pets.::

::It is here, however, that all which is commonplace to the Consortium's Head Slaver ends. The boots which ring are not, as is usually the case, black, nor are they met with leather pants of equally dark shade. Instead, in a shocking departure from the constancy of her garb, the boots are a brightly gleaming cherry red, buffed to a high shine. In place of the black leather pants is a long, severely straight skirt, satin in that same cherry red sporting a hem trimmed in white fur, and a rather lengthy slit up the back.::

::Rising from the waist of this skirt, rather than the usually bare and tanned midriff, are the smooth lines of an equally red bustier, the top of which is trimmed in matching white fur, a lovely contrast to the tanned swell of flesh peeking out. And the finishing touch -- literally "capping" this ensemble is a fuzzy Santa hat.::

::As Baghiira rounds the corner and beelines toward the open door, the undulating growls of the Larls increase in both volume and tempo. The reason, however, is not the chill wind which has its way with the open main doors; no, these naturally aggressive beasts are thoroughly disgruntled, and it is quite easy to see why: each bears, in place of the heavy silver- and brass-worked collars, a wide ribbon around its neck, tied into a stiff, monstrous bow that rests on the back of its neck. The female -- the smaller of the pair -- sports a red ribbon, and the male, green. At the throat of each, dangling from a loop of wire pierced through the ribbon, is a small golden bell which chimes with every step, no matter how smooth the gait of these massive felines.::

::Only missing Kallystine's dynamic exit by mere seconds, Baghiira steps up beside Rose, curling a bare arm companionably around her friend's waist and dropping a kiss on one alabaster cheek.::

Well, well... :: her purr is carried upon decidedly merry tones as she looks to the now-silent singers:: Are we to have some Christmas carols, or no? I have a definite desire to hear "Santa Claus is coming to Town."

::At the continued silence from the traumatized carolers, Baghiira harumphs quietly and disengages herself from Rose, one red satin-gloved hand snatching a random cloak from the nearby coatrack before swaying languidly down the steps and into the crowd of cheer-givers there.::

::She wanders slowly through the crowd, hands parting the folds of the cloak to freely touch and examine those who capture her interest. Finally, she pauses, sliding down the zipper of a young man's parka and tossing it aside. With one finger hooked into the waistband of his pants, she tugs him along behind her, shushing his feeble protests (and smiling as his deep voice promises a lovely bass)as she disappears again into the crowd of carolers.::

::When she re-emerges, both hands are occupied -- left hand leading the previously mentioned, shivering young man, the other around the waist of a curvaceous girl -- her protestations voiced in tones of such ringing clarity that, even through her hysteria, her promise as a soprano is undeniable.::

::Pausing before Rose, Baghiira grins, leaning her face to nuzzle against the young girl's neck while her left hand slides with satin slickness between layers of fabric, bringing a blush to the young man's cheeks that rivals the brilliant reds of her own garb::

We're.. ah... ::she lifts a grin of wicked proportions to Rose:: goin' t' go roast some.. chesnuts.. by.. an open fire...

((Note: The above was contributed by the mun of Baghiira.))

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Muerta stepped out a side entrance of the Estate, well-bundled in an ankle-length raccoon-fur coat lined with vicuna with an ermine collar, her feet protected from the cold by boots made of humanskin leather and lined with plush moleskin. In her gloved hands she held a long pole bearing a noose made of strong braided steel cable.

The carolers poured forth their lusty song in perfect harmony, but they may as well have been screaming for all she knew; although she had an Elf's keen hearing, she was tone deaf.

Calling upon all her assassin's training she cloaked herself in shadows and silence, stealing up on the group from behind. There was her target, a pretty young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair; she wore a parka, gloves and matching earmuffs and, from what Muerta could tell, she sang in a high pure soprano. Perfect, she thought.

With a quick motion the capture noose dropped around the girl's neck; her voice was choked off in mid-note and she was hauled away struggling. Muerta slowly drew her closer, trusting to the shadows to conceal her prey from the others.

Finally the struggling girl was within easy reaching distance; Muerta slipped her gloved hands over the frantic young woman's body, her power easily reaching through her nerves and sending her into unconsciousness (and incidentally allowing her fingers to violate her body). She removed the capture noose and the girl's gloves and coat; she left the earmuffs on, thinking the effect rather aesthetically pleasing. A thin steel training collar snapped and locked into place around the girl's neck and Muerta carried her off.

While she walked down the halls, her prize's inert form bouncing on her shoulder, Muerta chuckled at how surprised this one would be when she awakened in her playroom, strapped to her bench and with the wolves ready to teach her the true meaning of "giving."

((Note: The above was contributed by the mun of DthDivine.))

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As Carson walked from the estate he frowned at the small throng of people gathered before the gates of the consortium. He had no idea who those idiots were and he didn't care. Their wailing was irritating to say the least. The meeting had gone well all things considered. Locke was doing and both seemed pleased with the arrangement. Better he was done with the toad anyway.

His steel colored eyes swept over the faces in front of him. A smile crept over his lips as he studied one face in particular. A blonde near the middle of the pack, her mouth wide as melodious tones filtered out penetrating the crisp air. Her lips were a lush rose color, a few shades deeper then the spots of color on her cheeks and decorating the tip of a thin nose.

Carson quickly turned from the front walk and moved to slip out a side gate. A last glance passed over the woman, memorizing her as he disappeared from sight. Her face had been burned into his memory. Her attire as well. This was one woman that he would have in chains before the end of the day.

The carolers passed beneath him as he crouched in the window sill, the gargoyle next to him reflecting his mood as both sneered down at the group. Their song, their carol, drifting up to him as he watched. And just what the heck was figgy pudding?

The blonde had come into sight as the tail end of group rounded the corner. She had been walking a few feet away from the nearest of the group. And if he knew anything about the human character, the reactions would be more gut reaction then anything else. It was time to take what was rightfully his.

Rising to full height he stepped from the ledge, only the falling clumps of snow announcing his presence as he decended to the street below without a sound. His cloak had spread wide, filling with uprushing air and floating out like black wings, blanketing the light from the sun. He hit the ground with a soft thump, snow billowing up around him in a shower of white. The woman was more then shocked at his sudden appearance beside her and could only blink as the collar closed about her neck.

The woman groaned as she realized what happened, sliding to the wet snow covering the paving stones of the street. Those of her flock stayed only long enough to give sympathizing looks before darting off down darkened alleys and side streets, into stores and homes, ducking behind old crates and boxes and heading to anyplace they could get to. Their song broken now. Their carols ended. There would be a pause to their holiday if not a complete end, and Carson Rage just smiled at what he had wrought.

Looking at the woman he clipped a thin leather leash to her collar and started off through the slush, entirely not caring wether she walked or was drug. As he rounded another corner heading back to his little section of Rhydin he saw a pair of children who looked at the woman with wide eyes. They knew her. That much was obvious. Maybe they were related...her own children even. Either way it didn't matter. She was his now, she had no more will of her own. No life but that which he would give her. And his words to the children were less then merry as the woman squirmed a bit.

"Merry Christmas!"

Certainly his would be that much better with his prize bound and gagged beneath his hemlock tree.

((Note: The above section was contributed by the mun of Carson Rage.))

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Come All Ye Faithful


The faint ringing of cheerful voices, roused the Devil from his thoughts. Turn to window, looking out, in his eyes he saw his choices. With rap of cane and whip of jacket tight, his puff and pomper twist of smoke, drift him into night.

~And it came to pass on a Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
Outside standing, a lonely slave
Cold and shivering in the night

On the street, every window
Save but one, was gleaming bright
And to this window walked the slave
Peeking in saw, candle light~

His steps soft-spoken as cane rapped idly by, aside his left a Priest, let forth a wanton sigh.

His head did bow, dark specs upon his nose, a crimson swirl beneath them, lain."A good eve to you," his voice did speak, a serene expression he did feign.

The Priest did nod as bible clutched to his breast he held. "And to you the same, I do implore, care to join us in this chore?"

~Through other windows he had looked at chains
Whips, clamps, and cherry oils
But through this window, saw a dark-haired lady
Bare thigh and a smile you couldn't soil

Into his coat reached the slave
Knowing well there was little there
He took from his pocket,
his own Christmas dinner
A lovely silver collar for him and her to share~

Dark brow did rise and tainted glance lift to the gathered souls. Songs did spill from their pleasent faces. Faith they did profess, good will, they did offer. His lips drew twisted, a smile did drift upon. His eyes did spark, a Deal within his thoughts did dawn. "Tell me Sir, what is the purpose of this song? For the rakish crowd therein," as his claw did tip from Mansion unto chin, "would have little care for Christmas folly, They're morals found long lost from here, hid deep beyond the holly."

His face drew upon its heathly cheer, a smile as grand as any here, "I have Faith, good Sir, and that will be enough. Those in there, his finger did point in poignant dare, will feel the goodness and come into the light. On this, my good Sir, I swear upon this night."

~His outstretched hands
held the collar even as they trembled
The door, it opened wide
Said he, Would you care share some Christmas dinner
Gently said she, Come inside

The dark-haired lady brought forth to the table
A click of silver collar, one glass, and some wine
Said she, Here's a toast to our joyous Christmas
and especially, cause now your mine~

The lip did twist and tinted eyes did spark aflame. Therein was the challenge, to start this evenings Game. "Care to make a wager, Sir. To pass away our time?" Even as the cries of love rang on about them, like a holy wail. "Sir, I am set to think your flock will surely fail."

Upon his bible, his hand did thump. A look of dullard innocence, akin to Forrest Gump. "I aim to meet that bet," his hand did shake. "I'll bet my soul if that be stake."

~And it came to pass on that Christmas evening
While all the doors were shuttered tight
That in that dungeon, the happiest Christmas
Was shared by candle light.~

A disappointed sigh he did let fly, too easy a task to tempt this guy. They stood together, side by side, as each member seemed to fall aside. At last, they two, stood alone. Sweat glistened, fingers crossed to atone. Dark sooty wings opened and in the breeze did flutter, "Opps," was the last thing, the Priest did ever utter.
~Merry Christmas from your neighborhood Devil.~

~¤~ nata§ha ~¤~
The Fallen Angel
((Note: The above text was contributed by the mun of FalnAngel.))

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The Visitation


Ev'ry time I hear the crack of the whip
My blood runs cold
I remember on the slave ship
How they brutalised our very souls
~ Bob Marley, "Slave Driver"

Delivered of the red and green menace by her colleagues, Rose brushed herself off and sauntered back inside. The hour was still early, for her, but she was unaccountably exhausted, perhaps by the profusion of sickly Christmas cheer in the air. Besides, if all the world were allowed a holiday this night, shouldn't she be, as well?

Passing by only long enough to grab a few folders and extinguish the flames of the fireplace, she locked her office up tight, sealing the occasion with a meaningless gesture, a brisk rap of her gloved fist on the center of the door.

Her own rooms were not a great distance away - just at the end of the corridor, in fact - but tonight, for some reason, the gloom that typically swam at the end of that long stretch of stone and serpentine tile made the passage seem an interminable trek into nothingness, a void where only mythical tempests of pitch and brimstone could await. A perfect ending to a perfect evening, for her, in fact. But despite the dark welcome that the shadows offered, Rose, who knew every inch of this maze of offices and dungeons like she knew her own hands, was forced to grope along the wall to find her way.

As she felt, through the leather encasing her palms, the transition from cold stone to wood, she reached up to offer an impatient smack to the base of the torch that had chosen this time to run out of oil.

It was well known that, of all the doors in the estate, Rose's was, if not the most unusual, at least the most exotic, an import from a dealer in Byzantine antiques, with ornamental ropes and knotwork carved in black walnut. Her eyes fell on that labrynth of carvings every night and morning, as she she let herself out for each evening's hunt, and then came back in again to sink into her daylight sleep, and at several points in between. But in all the passing glances she had given to the contours of this door, she had somehow failed to notice the impression of a *face* chiseled into its surface.

A puzzled expression, more of curious musing than true shock, flickered over her features, and she reached casually in to the collar of her suit, drawing up the long ebony cigarette holder that she was so rarely seen without. It was already fitted with a slender clove cigarette, and all that remained was to pluck the silver Zippo from beneath the cuff of one of her gloves, and the matter was resolved. As she drew in the first breath of that sweet-tasting herb, the end swelled to an unearthly red, like a beacon in the darkness of that dreary hallway, and its glow spilled over to define the features of that carven visage. Rose blinked... then blinked again... it was no ordinary face, but that of her beloved Azrael Rai.

Azrael's face. It was completely expressionless, but the eyes were unmistakable, piercing through the gloom at the end of the corridor, even after the glow of the cigarette had faded to a dull orange, but as she stared at it, narrowing her own eyes to mere slivers of emerald, and raised a gloved hand to offer an adoring caress to its molded cheek, the image began to fade, and it became a simple, intricately carved door once more.

She was startled, certainly, but it took a great deal more than a face on a door to crumble the fortress of unflappable cool that she had built around her over the centuries. Besides, strange occurrences were often the order of the day in a place like the Morkai Consortium, and she had, after all, been thinking about Azrael a great deal in recent weeks... had never stopped thinking about him, truth be known. And certainly, that amount of concentration could account for her suddenly seeing his face where it had not been before, couldn't it?

Turning the key in the lock, she opened the door and stepped inside, beginning her clicking journey down the winding stone staircase - but not without a brief backward glance, to reassure herself that the back of Azrael's head would not be protruding from the other side of the wood panel. But it didn't - only the relief of more carvings appeared there - and with a determined squaring of her shoulders, Rose descended into the crypt, her porcelain features lighting in time with the flickering of candles to life from recesses all about the chamber.

Truth be told, the appearance of that face had injected an element of unease into her demeanor, and while she tossed the folders to her dressing table with a certain nonchalance, she did make a quick inspection of the rest of the room, to assure that all was as it should be.

Everything in place on the altar... nothing hiding in the wardrobe... no mysterious lumps beneath the jewelled coverlet... Her velvet and sable robe hung, lifeless, from a hook on the wall...

Satisfied that everything was in order, she caught the cigarette holder in her teeth and made quick work of her attire, stepping out of her heels and kicking them carelessly aside, leaving it for Imoinda to find and return them the next evening. She unclipped her belt, sliding it down over her hips and looping it over the foot of the bed. With a lazy ziiiiiip and a shrug of her shoulders, she peeled herself out of the catsuit, and that, too, went the way of the shoes, leaving her standing bare in the center of the room for only as long as it took to step towards the wall, and wrap her ivory curvature in that dark dressing gown.

There was, affixed to the wall just behind her spiderweb headboard, a tethering ring, not an uncommon item in most slavers' dungeons. Relatively common, too, was the tangle of silver chains looped through the ring, a collection of collars just waiting to be handed out to the unsuspecting, those too weak or foolish to avoid wandering into her path.

But what was uncommon was that they should make any noise, other than the delicate jingle excited by the sway of her hips, when they adorned her belt.

Perhaps it was a draft... perhaps the wind from the Catacombs had breached the wall at the back of Traevyn's old room again...

Whatever the cause, the chains began to sway, seemingly of their own accord, ringing a lyrical alarm, of sorts, and it wasn't long before the tinkling was joined by the clatter of trembling glass jars on her vanity, and the peals of slave bells hanging just inside the wardrobe door.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the discordant concert stopped, leaving in its wake a thunderous silence, and leaving Rose to realize that she had frozen in place, her hands still buried in the ermine tails at the collar of her robe.

"Hmmph... I don't recall this area being prone to earthquakes..."

Hairline fractures in the earthen floor made an excellent route for the vaporous myst to arrive. It swirled and frothed, settling up through Rose's bare toes, then wound like a spectral vine around her slender ankles, holding her cemented in place. The vapor alone wasn't enough to hold her - but the warmth it radiated went beyond mere affection... it was a blanketing of bittersweet passion that crawled up along her calves and encircled
her thighs...

Her eyes drifted closed, and her lips parted with a hiss of sultry rapture... and the cigarette holder slipped over the edge of her palm, rolling end over end in a slow motion spiral to the floor. It landed in silence, the mouthpiece bouncing into a see-saw that forced the still-lit clove butt against the floor, and created a blossoming shower of sparks, as phantom fingertips pierced her nether regions, and an ethereal tongue plied her with succulent, intrusive kisses.

She could have remained in statuesque ecstasy for all eternity, had the spectre willed it so, but the touch was withdrawn with a teasing languor, slithering up over her belly and cupping beneath swells of milky flesh, before finally threading away.

Like a miniature funnel cloud, the vapor surged up from the collar of her robe, arcing and then pouring itself down into a mold... the silhouette of her recently-dead husband. The mist collected into a figure thin and transparent, and the only thing lucid of any of his features - the only thing that *needed* to be solid for her to recognize him - was a pair of dark, smiling eyes.

The flames of every candle bent towards the presence filling the room, tracing the name "Azrael Rai" in the shadows along the wall.

Roused from a pleasant reverie, a waking dream of heated nights and flesh on flesh, her eyes ignited with the spark of carnal hunger. But they lied to her, oh, how they lied, for though she noted the clever reproduction of every curve of his beloved face, and though she had felt the feverishness of his love in the most intimate recesses of her being, she was incredulous, and struggled to convince herself that the being that stood before her was counterfeit, lest she rejoice too soon only to have him ripped away again.

"Whoooo are yoooou?" came her velveteen drawl, less aristocratic than it was a silken imitation of a famous hookah-smoking caterpillar.

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you then?" she murmured, as she began to shed some of her apprehension and glided towards him, turning a lazy, predatory circle around the ghost.

"You know who I am, Rose...''

"Are you able to sit?'' The patrician sable of her brow rose in a skeptical arch, and she favored him with a smirk.

"Of course I can.''

"Then I think you should do so.'

In life, Rose had never known Azrael to be a man of elaborate words, but that was nothing compared to the stoicism he displayed now. Eyes that had once danced with dark mirth now studied her with a sort of sweet melancholy, something between pity and unrequited desire. All the more reason that she should not believe this an incarnation of her darling husband.

"You don't believe in me," observed the ghost.

"I don't," Rose scoffed, turning her pert nose into the air, and averting her gaze, to hide the sliver of doubt on display there.

"Why do you doubt your own eyes?" The ghost hovered just a few inches closer, one milky, translucent arm outstretched.

"Because the eyes cannot always be believed. I would be very foolish indeed were I to put such stock in something that can be affected by so many variants - the lateness of the hour, a speck of dust on my cornea. For all I know, you may actually exist, but be the product of some enchanter's cruel plan to worm his way into my presence by playing on one of my few sensitivities."

As soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could swallow them back, for to look at those fixed, glazed eyes was to see heartbreak in its purest form. She was certain that, had the spirit the capacity for tears, it would have become a solemn fountain, a stolid, quiet pillar of lover's lament.

Throwing one hand across her forehead, she turned away, all sweeping melodrama as she planted her palms against the wall, and braced herself there. With one toe poised,and one knee bent, she hung her head, sending the silken caress of her curls tumbling down over her cheeks.

"What is this all about...?" came her desperate whisper, from behind a veil of lazy, swinging flame-red curls.

A chill cross-draft was the hand the loosed her robe, drawing the collar down past her trembling shoulders, but if she quivered, it was not from the cold, but from the torrent of electrical sparks showering her senses.

"Do you believe me now...?" came the hollow whisper, reverberating like a ragged breath issued inside a drain pipe.

Farther down her arms crept the ermine trim, leaving her back bare, a milky pale canvas for ghostly fingertips to trace their seductive patterns.

"Do you believe me...?"

Invisible hands crept over her hips, peeling away the velvet mantle and dragging incorporeal nails along the small of her back, curling around to cup the insides of her thighs, invading and exploring.

"Do you believe me?"

The sound was at her ear, but the sensations were everywhere, causing her unearthly pallor to flush hard with the flames of desire igniting her skin from the inside. She believed him, there was no doubt now, but as her lips hung, slightly parted, and pouting from the effort of finding some coherent thought in the melange of raw, unadulterated yearnings, it was all she could do to nod, and the only sound that came out was her broken panting.

"Do you know, " continued the spectral lover, "how bleak a future may unfold for you, if you stay here? If you do not turn away from the son of Vaenom Morkai, he will destroy everything that you hold dear..."

"Oooh... nooo..." Her breathless groans of ecstasy funneled into whimpers of desperation at his words, as he began to withdraw his touch, and she felt the all-too-familiar rending of her heart each time Traevyn and Azrael were pictured side by side in her mind's eye.

"Oh, Azrael...," she implored, pushing away from the wall and whirling around, to lean back against it, and luxuriating in the soothing cushion of the velvet robe that now lay puddled at her feet. "Azrael... please... please don't leave me now..."

"I cannot linger long... My spirit is destined to travel in the nether regions where your son has sent me..."

"But he thought he was saving me..."

"Saving you???" repeated the ghost, and at that moment, he was no longer the enticing sweetheart, but a diaphanous ghoul, spread-eagled and rising towards the ceiling, his tortured features frozen in a death's mask. Azrael rose the cry that he could not issue in life, when his throat was severed, and that mournful wailing infused the chamber with the agony of his death at Traevyn's hands.

"Had I only taken you away from here in time... But no amount of regret or hindsight can change things now..."

"But you could not have known... neither of us could have known...." Lifting her forearm, she reached towards the spectre, at the same time sinking along the wall, and dropping to a seat in the coil of her discarded robe.

"Oh, but I should have," came the plaintive response, and his hovering, mist-shrouded figure turned away from the outstretched hand. "I should have guessed that the son of Vaenom Morkai would only bring us heartbreak. You have to leave him, Rose... even if it means turning away from the Consortium. Else, you may suffer the same fate, walk the path I walk."

Rose was stricken with a look of utter dismay, and instead of tending an answer, she afforded her husband's spirit little more than a nibble on her own lower lip, and silence.

"Hear me, Rose," sighed the ghost, settling back down to floor level and gazing down upon her, the look of bittersweet longing returned to his filmy features. "I cannot stay for much longer."

"Of course, Azrael, of course!" she whispered breathlessly.

"How it is that you can see me now, I do not know, but I've been at your side, unseen and unheard, since the night that Traevyn destroyed my physical existence forever..."

Glancing up from her somber reverie, her eyes flashed wide with surprise, as it occurred to her to remember all the perverse things he might have seen in that time.

"...but nothing is more powerful than my love for you, Rose. It's brought me back, even from death. But I cannot save you. All I can do is warn you, and hope that you'll take the chance and escape the fate that has already befallen me."

A few scarlet crystals, teardrops threatening to shed themselves over her lost love, sparkled at the corners of her eyes.

"You will be visited by three spirits." As Azrael settled into peaceful contemplation, his words inspired Rose's features to sink, crestfallen.

"Is that the chance you spoke of, my darling?"

"It is."

"Then I think I'd rather take my chances without them, if it's all the same."

"It isn't," he intoned, grave as a church bell. "Expect the first when the bell tolls one."

"I couldn't have them all at once?" she chirped, hoping to sway him with the tease of a saucy little wink. "You can join us, of course..."

"Expect the second at two, and the third at, well, three." A boyish smile glimmered through the haze surrounding the specter, then was gone. "You might not see me again, Rose... but please, remember what I've said."

And those were the last words that he said to her. Trailing a vaporous fingertip along the curve of her cheek, he slowly backed away, hovering on the air and watching her still as the space between them swelled. By every inch that he widened that distance, his own form seemed to evaporate, so that by the time he reached the far wall, he was sheer as a bubble, and the only things she recognized as his were the angle of his gloomy smile, and his scent.

In no great hurry to have him depart, and anxious to savor every last moment they were to be allowed together, Rose tottered forward on her hands and knees, and began crawling across the earthen floor, towards the fading image of her beloved, but when she was within just a foot of him, he lifted his hand, palm out, warning her away.

She did stop, not out of compliance, but surprise at seeing the wall open up behind him. It unwound like a camera's lens, exposing a tunnel, a cylinder barbed with tendrils of living flesh, spiked arms reaching out to worm through Azrael's disembodied figure. These grotesque limbs formed a chorus of whining and mewling, of sorrow and regret.

Well, it was no wonder that Azrael wasn't happy with his afterlife - he'd clearly gotten a raw deal, if *this* annoyance was to what he had been condemned.

Whether her love became one with the meaty vines, or was smothered in their embrace, she could not have said, but just as she shuffled forward, to satisfy her curiosity further, the wound in the wall corkscrewed back into place, shutting her out and leaving her cold, empty, alone in the chamber once more.

Rose spent a long moment examining the wall, studying every crevice, for some indication that her beloved might return, that his leaving had been but a jest, or a dream, which she could control, and thereby summon him back to her side.

But Azrael did not come back, and whether it was from the emotional upheaval, the nervous flutter caused by Azrael's warning, her vision of the horrible existence into which he had disappeared, or perhaps merely that daybreak was approaching, she sighed and went straight to bed, without even bothering to put her robe back on, and fell into an immediate and intoxicating slumber.

((Note: The above is the product of a collaborative effort between myself and the mun of Azrael Rai.))

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