Hours later, Eustraehee stood motionless on a pier of polished white stone, watching the red moon reach its apex overhead. Its swollen light bathed the harbor in a dull red glow, turning sea and blood-wet sail alike into dark mirrors.
In the far distance overhead, a small shape crossed the moon's face. She did not look up, but she recognized it anyway.
It was Ire, flying far above, making himself known to her, right on time. His four-winged shadow circled over the moon, once, then again, and then slid into a cloud.
So impatient.
Soon, she promised him silently.
Up ahead of her, the ship loomed at the pier, foreign in its lines and colors. Voices carried across the planks—rough laughter, and thick accents in that strange language that her people had been forced to learn.
She heard words spoken freely by men far from home. It was only when she stepped unopposed onto the ship's gangway that several heads turned in her direction.
Pink-skinned. Some yellow-haired, others brown-haired or black-haired. So foreign, as all the sea-crossers were. Nothing like her people, the Kinlidalhans. There was so much color to them.
Quite familiar, however, was the way their eyes lingered on the curves of her form. They were men, after all, and she had tied her lelem very loosely in some places, and very tight in others.
"Well now," one of the sailors called, grinning as he took her in: her height, the pale gray of her skin, the ashen braid trailing down her back, chaotically adorned with feathers, and finally, her breasts, very nearly revealed to the chill of the night air.
"Didn't expect something like you waiting this late," the sailor said.
Another laughed, roughly, yet not unkindly, then lifted a cup in her direction. "Cold night for it. Come aboard, then, milady. We've got warmth here, at least."
Eustraehee smiled. She'd needed time to learn the sea-crossers' language, but now, her grip on it was strong.
"Aye," a third sailor said. "And better drink than whatever watered-down piss they're pouring ashore."
They made room for her without delay, their hands gesturing her forward, already certain of who and what she was. One shrugged off his coat and held it out to her, gallant, perhaps, in a rough, sailorly way.
"Not much clothing on you, my lady," he said with a wink after eyeing her up and down. "You'll freeze like that."
Eustraehee accepted the coat as she boarded the ship and let her fingers brush the strange fabric. It was crafted of materials completely unknown to her. She walked into the midst of the group of men.
"Lienar's already had his turn, hasn't he?" the first man said, leaning against the ship's rail behind the two others. "Saw him earlier with you, didn't I?"
"Told you he'd pick the prettiest one," a second man said, nodding in agreement. A ripple of amusement passed through the trio.
"How was he?" the first man asked with a raucous smile. "Any good? Finished pretty quick, by the look of it!"
Eustraehee grinned. "Your friend … He was delightful. But he wasn't enough."
That earned another laugh. One of the sailors clapped his hands together. "Hear that? Lienar's not enough! Must be our lucky night! You're not in a hurry to leave, then, are you?"
She tilted her head, studying the man. "No. I'm already exactly where I need to be," she replied.
That was taken as thorough encouragement.
***
From the quarterdeck, Faloran observed the scene with practiced disinterest.
Sailors laughing. A woman among them, tall and pale gray like a rock from a river—just as he'd read about, the appearance of a native of the New Isles. She wore a set of disconnected robes and sleeves that held on to her with straps, and there were black-and-white feathers woven into her long braid of bloodied hair. They caught the moonlight in a way that made them look strangely sharp.
A common sight. He noted the ease with which the woman held the men's attention. The way their bodies angled toward her, the way their laughter bent to match her pauses. Prostitution was legal in the New Isles, and common enough in every port besides. Faloran had no interest in policing a crew freshly paid and well fed.
Beside him, though, the ship's cleric shifted uncomfortably. "Captain…"
Faloran gave a small, dismissive nod. "Let them be. They'll keep to themselves."
The priest hesitated, his fingers tightening around the holy symbol at his chest, then fell silent.
Good man.
Faloran turned away from the trio of sailors, setting off to make his circuit of the deck. For nearly an hour now, he had meant to ask something of his first mate. It was nothing urgent, nothing that could not wait, but still, it was annoying that Lienar was nowhere to be found.
The sailors' laughter rose again, snappier this time. Faloran walked by, and he passed them close enough to hear the woman speak, her accented voice soft and calm, startlingly pretty against the roughness of the men around her.
"So where is Lienar now?" one of the men asked her.
Oh? Good. Perhaps she knew the answer. Though it was a strange stroke of luck to find out from a prostitute. Somewhere far off, a strange sound drifted across the harbor—a sharp, grinding screech, birdlike at first, but too deep and too guttural to belong to anything Faloran could name.
He dismissed it. The species of birds in the New Lands were unfamiliar to him, even more so than were the natives. It followed that the wildlife might be stranger still.
Oops, however. He'd missed the woman's response. One of the sailors in the little group clapped another on the back, laughing. Then, something struck the wood right in the middle of them. Not loud, nor dramatic, just a quiet, dull, and wet sound—but then the laughter suddenly cut off mid-breath.
"What is that?" one of the sailors asked.
Silence followed. Complete. Absolute.
Faloran stopped. At the center of the group, something dark lay on the planks, bleeding slightly. The sailors stared down at it, clearly unnerved.
"Is that a dick?" Faloran asked.
No one answered him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, the world seemed to hesitate. Just like Faloran, the sailors only stared, their laughter hanging in the air. Someone opened his mouth to speak, then didn't. The native woman took a step away from them. There was a soft click—metal on metal—and then suddenly a knife gleamed in her hand.
And she struck.
The nearest sailor fell to the floorboards without a sound. Another screamed as she turned on him, swift and precise, giving him not a moment to flee before she sliced open his throat.
From the sky above them, the distant screech again. Closer this time.
The air shuddered. A large shadow slid over the ship, blotting out the moonlight. Then the sails tore open.
Four enormous, feathered wings slammed down onto the deck in a thunderous crash, splintering wood and throwing Faloran off his feet.
The creature, something between a dragon of legend and a giant, four-winged bird, reared onto its hind wings, red eyes burning as it spread them, a nightmare of beak and talons.
Faloran crashed down onto the floorboards, then struggled back to his feet, his hand whizzing to his sword.
Up ahead, a whirl of steel, and the native woman sliced the throat of another sailor. She reached inside the man's neck with her bare hand and pulled out his tongue.
She laughed maniacally. Then, with her other hand, she wrenched the many robes away from her body and let them drop to the deck. She lifted her chin as the blood pouring out of the sailor's tongue spurted across her face.
Then, standing completely naked and soaked with blood, she began to glow.
***
The third life tore free in a rush of heat and light, and Eustraehee drank it in, laughing gleefully as it flooded her limbs. Strength followed.
For her, the first kill always sharpened the senses. The life around her burst suddenly into absolute clarity. Heartbeats, blood, fear—they all crowded her awareness at once, glowing gold as sunlight in her Watcher's Sight.
But her favorite Blessing was her second, which was unlocked by a day's third kill. This second Blessing marked her body.
Blood darkened and hardened at her fingertips, stretching into black claws where her nails had been. She hurled her knife into the heart of a wounded sailor, then turned and strolled toward another. He stared at her in open panic, a sword shaking in his grip.
The sailor lunged.
Eustraehee met him gleefully. The new strength in her answered with joyful speed, and she could have used it to dodge his strike—but she decided not to.
Instead, she let the steel graze her forearm.
Her skin parted, her blood spilled freely, exposing raw flesh underneath.
She laughed at the sight and the searing pain she felt, then drove her claws into the man's chest. His life burst from right up close—overwhelmingly hot and bright, like a lover's climax shooting all around her. The man's blood trickled out of his chest, shining gold to her Sight, and ran up her arm, knitting flesh back together where his blade had cut her.
In the heat of slaughter, euphoria began to flood Eustraehee's mind.
It had always been that way for her. Her first Blessing, the Watcher's Sight, let her sense all life around her, but her second was that which best helped her end it.
Wide-eyed and in a manic state, Eustraehee flung her arms up toward the night sky, still impaling the man with them, laughter spilling from her chest. The man sagged high up in her grasp, the last of his light guttering out.
"It spills, it spills!" she shouted the chant. "ALL THINGS, TO THE BLEEDING END!"
Another offering accepted. She felt hot, radiantly happy with all the lives extinguishing around her.
Still, she didn't have much time left. The unworthy ones, the 'luminants', would soon be on their way. She couldn't face them yet.
So she turned around, facing her next victim.
The cleric stood a short distance away from her, crouching down with his back pressed against the rail of the ship, a holy symbol clutched so tightly it cut into his palm. His life flickered unevenly to her Sight, in sync with his heartbeat.
"You're a monster!" he shouted at her, his shrill voice breaking like a child's. "The curses don't have to do … this! They should be used to protect. To do good!"
Eustraehee tilted her head, studying the idiot. "You speak of Na'karat's Blessings?" she asked. "What do you know of them? Are you with the luminants?"
Behind the cleric, Ire crashed down onto the quarterdeck, screeching so loudly that the whole world began to vibrate. The ship lurched violently, tipping to one side, then the other. Men were thrown screaming into the rigging. One fell towards Ire's sharper feathers and was sliced apart.
"What monsters," the cleric breathed. "We must seek protection from the High Lord… may he preserve us…"
Eustraehee smiled.
"You really think that's going to work?" she asked, stepping closer. "Your High Lord is nowhere near here. He just sits in his tower most of the time, as far as I can tell. But you're just like the rest of your falsely Blessed, aren't you?"
The cleric closed his eyes and kept on praying.
"You know," she continued, "I must confess—I've always found it curious … how your people could convince themselves and preach that the Powers are meant to soften life, when they are given by the god of Death."
The cleric lifted his chin and opened his eyes as she came closer. He was still shaking madly, but his grip on his holy symbol was tight.
"Our teachings preach kindness," he said hoarsely. "The powers don't decide what they're used for, even if they come from the most vile of sources. Even death can be turned aside in the hands of the truly good."
"Good is subjective, and your teachings are nonsense," Eustraehee said. "You know nothing of the true God. But I imagine it must be comforting to believe such things."
"You are wrong," he whispered. "The Order of Gold and Red, and the High Lord, are proof of it!"
Eustraehee paused. "The Order of Gold and Red?" she asked.
She hadn't heard that name yet, but he was clearly speaking of the falsely Blessed soldiers the sea-crossers had brought with them when they first landed on the shores of Kinlidalh. The ones that were now charged with guarding the city from the traditions of its own inhabitants.
"Here, we call them luminants," she said. "You know, my mentor once asked me a question I could not answer. I'll ask you the same. Do you know how the luminants came to exist, when they know nothing of the Death god?"
A rare moment of quiet as the cleric refused to answer. Then, there was a desperate cry, and a rush of bootsteps on the wooden deck, coming closer. Someone barreled toward Eustraehee from the side, sword raised high.
The man looked well-dressed. The ship's captain, perhaps. But Eustraehee did not turn to greet him.
The cleric's voice broke into a shout—"Faloran, no!"—as Eustraehee flicked her wrist. Her claws opened the man's throat as he passed, and he collapsed a few paces away, his life tearing free of him and streaking towards her in another sudden, brilliant rush.
Five.
Five offerings. The God of gods answered with the gift—Eustraehee's third Blessing.
She felt it bloom inside her suddenly, and she smiled at the cowering cleric. Without a word, she lifted her hand. The dead sailor's blood obeyed, rising from its corpse in a slow, spiraling column, floating obediently in the air.
She laughed softly, delighted at the feel of power, staring at the cleric with the levitating crimson hovering over her head.
"You don't know?" she asked gently of the cleric. "That's okay. You need not answer, I'll find out myself."
She clenched her fist.
The blood drew inward, stiffening, sharpening—forming into long, glistening spikes. They trembled slightly as Eustraehee held them back. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent them hurtling toward the cleric.
They struck him hard.
The spikes punched into his stomach and shoulder, driving him back against the rail and pinning him there. He screamed, the sound torn from his chest as blood spilled down the planks beneath his feet.
Eustraehee stepped closer, studying the way his life guttered with her Sight.
The air shifted behind the cleric, a vast shadow enveloping the deck. Eustraehee stepped aside.
The cleric looked up once, mouthing a prayer.
Ire's head descended, and the sound that followed was brief and crunchy.
Once the feathered dragon lifted its beak, there was nothing left of the cleric, save for two skinny legs.