Augustine Parkhurst

I chеck the doors, check the windows, and pull the blinds I check the clock, wondering what he'll pull this time I have a feeling that necromancer's outside And I'm just tryna stay quiet ...

"If Max was the scalpel-sharp reason... ...Then, Augustine was the spark of inspiration."

DRUSTVAR - THE CRIMSON FOREST Some Months Prior

The booming was furious and incessant.

His heart swelled into a mallet and swung against his ribcage, each percussive strike ringing hot and fast in anticipation. He thought she would hear it for sure.

The girl appeared to have been born from the thorn-laced thicket. She was small, pale, but a whipcord of muscle. Her face was hidden beneath a mask crafted from a bear’s skull, a single rune etched onto its brow. Only her eyes, a blue as piercing as the sunburnt sky, could he see. She crept low and on light feet, notching a raven-tipped arrow into her bow, as she wove through a land mine of gathered kindling and stones. His mouth dried when she passed, holding his breath. When her gaze grazed over the pool of shadows he hid inside, he palmed for the dagger at his belt. He lingered in the penumbra for what felt like near an eternity. Watching. Waiting. Hoping…

“There are no foxes here.” Her voice was strange beneath her mask, yet he heard the piping note in it. She was young. He reckoned no more than thirteen. She peered over her shoulder with a huff, the sound refracted by keratin. “Can we please go home, now?”

“Have care, Niamh.” A voice lifted from the trees, wine-dark and thick as blood. From the forest emerged a woman wearing a wool-lined cape and an antlered crown. Her skin glistened in the wane light, carrying neither age nor blemish. If the girl was born from thorns, then she was born of a much deeper and far older spirit. Perhaps from the rain. Or the trees. Though by the depths of her near blacks eyes, he suspected she was the daughter of something as ancient and dark as Gol Koval.

The woman appeared to float with her fluttering hem as she brushed past the girl named Niamh. Her lips, painted a deep maroon, curled in a knowing smile. She knelt down, the drape of her cloak like the framework of wings, and raked her fingers through the grass. “Foxes are cunning and sly,” she mused, lifting splayed fingers that were stained in a rich crimson. “They hide at the scent of danger.”

A chill raced down his spine as the woman licked the blood from her fingers. She paused. Quiet and contemplative. Then, her gaze snapped to a cropping of misshapen aspen and birch. The trees stood tall at one point, but now huddled together in a conspiratorial hunch. His heart sank as she rose, beckoning Niamh hither. Together, they drifted towards the shaded alcove.

“No!”

His voice escaped him, scorching his throat. He cringed as it echoed through the brush. Such a wild sound, like an animal caught in a trap. A twang of regret sat heavy in his stomach. It lasted only a moment before fear seized his heart. Beneath his feet, the dirt churned and rippled. He sucked in a breath, light-headed by the sudden desire to run. But before he could even find his feet, thorns erupted from the earth and snaked around his legs. They coiled up his thighs, across his torso, and around his neck with a whip-like quickness. They crushed the air from his lungs and the will from his limbs. Bright spots danced across his vision as he felt needle-sharp barbs dig into his skin, coloring his flesh with brilliant pain.

“There you are,” came a gentle muse.

The thorns ceased their strangulation, though their grip did not slacken. His vision cleared to the sight of the woman and her companion. The latter had the string of her bow drawn, its arrow’s tip aimed straight for his skull. Only when the woman upheld a hand did the girl lower her weapon by a small degree. The woman laughed, though he saw nothing amusing. She drifted towards him and his thorn-cage, nails trailing along the root’s spiraling path. Up close he could smell the hemlocks and belladonnas woven in her dark hair. She smiled at him, feline in nature.

“Why are you here?” she hissed, “What have you come for?”

She held his gaze when she caught it, forcing him to peer into those pitch black eyes. In their fathomless depths, his own soul was reflected back and laid bare before him. It was gangly like a puppet without its strings, and its wide-eyes were dull as a candle snuffed of its flame.

“Please,” Augustine choked out, “Please…”

Layer by layer, he peeled the words from his heart. The woman was fed only the most bitter-sweet of truths.