Characters:OctaviaCDLog

A winter morning chill and cloying mist covers the Valley of Garnath. Looming out of the mist are large and twisted trees of the once great wood, now blackened by fire, and perhaps also by something else. There is the smell of ash, of damp, and of dead things. The tree branches twist around each other, forming an unwelcoming barrier against intrusion. Occasionally there is a flicker of blackness between the trees, accompanied by strange rustling and howling sounds, as if a wind were blowing in the valley. However, the leafless branches fail to stir in this stagnant air.

Octavia stares into the dark, dead place, her green eyes searching warily for enemies. One gloved hand holds the reins of the big chestnut horse she rides; the other is tucked into the pocket of her dark blue coat for warmth. She is entirely in dark blue, in fact, except for a thin band of piping along the seam of her trousers and a band of feminine blue-and-white ribbon at throat and cuffs on her shirt. Her brown hair is pulled back tightly, as she's done too many times to count in years past; the effect is surprisingly boyish on such a pretty woman, and the cavalry saber hanging at her side doesn't help the illusion, even with the roses and vines worked into hilt and scabbard.

She nudges the stallion to the left, following the narrow trail that parallels the edge of the barrier. "Doucement, doucement, vous grande bête idiote," she murmurs to his twitching ears. "C'est le vent, Voltaire. Just the wind."

The chestnut snorts as though in answer, echoing her gut feeling. You do not believe that any more than he does. There is no wind, just the sounds of it, and the calls of wolves waiting for the moment to strike.

Her hand leaves its pocket and comes to rest near her blade instead as the rest of the patrol filters on the track around her. Now is not the time to have a hand bound, I think.

Octavia senses the disturbance a moment before it happens. Ahead, on the narrow trail leading between darkened forest and rocky hills leading to mountains, there is sudden movement. Several ungainly black shapes lurch from out of the gnarled trees, and attack the patrol. The beings are gorilla like, with long arms flailing about, the glint of sharp claws and teeth flashing in the mist.

Under her breath, Octavia swears softly. Neither wind nor wolf. Are those apes? She shakes her head sharply in annoyance and digs her heels into Voltaire's side. L'Aiguillion, the blade of the roses and vines, comes into her hand as though it was meant to be there; she corrects their course with a touch of the reins, edging aside to put the group between her and the dark barrier, and then the chestnut stallion and his mistress are upon the creatures.

L'Aiguillion licks out once, twice, three times, rending flesh as they pass, and then bites in deeply, sliding though flesh and bone in a fatal stroke - and then they are out and through the other side. A touch of hand on rein, and Voltaire gathers himself, sliding into a spin that reverses their direction, leaping forward again before Octavia thinks to urge him on. His ears are pricked; this is a horse that knows his job and rather enjoys it.

The apes are paying more attention this time, and the progress is not so smooth. They are forced to move more slowly, and to vault the fallen beast; a touch of a gentle cue, and the stallion lashes out as he leaps, his hooves catching an ape as it moves behind them. It stumbles back as they land, and Octavia twists in the saddle to lash out with her blade, catching an attacking beast full in the throat. The head comes sliding off at a crazy angle as L'Aiguillion passes through; the body staggers closer until she kicks out sideways at it and it falls off-balance beside Voltaire's feet. Another stride or two, the blade still licking out sharply at the heavy beasts, and they leap free and hurtle back along the path.

Further along the path stands a man, dressed in a black, shimmering cloak. His hair and eyes are likewise black. He casts his right hand high, and black tendrils extend from his arm, encircling Octavia and her steed, threatening to encircle and ensnare them both.

Octavia hauls on the reins, and her stallion skids under her, ears pinned as he tries to obey the cue. They are slowing - slowing - and then she boots him into a sharp left turn; a stride and a bounce of a jump take them free of the circling black. "Bon," she murmurs to Voltaire as she reins him into another sharp turn, this one to the right. His ears prick again as she loosens the reins and kicks him towards the black-clad man, her blade at the ready. Monkeys and mages. I do not dare ask what next.

The tentacles dive and snap around the erractially moving woman and horse, but fail to ensnare them.

As Octavia charges towards the man dressed in black, he dives into the forest, his black tendrils trailing behind him. He regains his combat stance quickly, and waits just inside the trees for his opponent. From somewhere, he has produced a sword that looks like it is cut from black glass.

There are shouts and sounds of combat from further down the trail, as the rest of Octavia's troop continue to engage the ape creatures.

Octavia reins in again, and this time she lets her stallion dance sideways beneath her as she reaches into her jacket and fishes around for a moment. The reins lie on the saddle before her; her blade is still in-hand and at the ready. "Is your entire purpose here to draw me into the woods?" she asks the black man conversationally. "Are you some sort of Big Bad Wolf who intends to eat ma grand-mère?"

Her fingers close on the hilt she is searching for, and she pulls it free and throws it, aiming for the dark man's head. Her hand falls to the reins again once the blade has left it, and she stills Voltaire with a touch.

He grins, flashing big, bad wolf teeth. He realises that the dagger is coming for him a little late. Although he manages to dodge to his left, the dagger nicks the right side of his head. The dagger continues on its trajectory into the forest. New black tendrils extend from the man and chase off after it.

The man lets out a snarl, as his wound from the dagger starts bubbling and seeping a blackish blood.

"What’s the matter, woman? Does your femininity make you scared of coming in after me, mounted and armed as you are?"

"Tsk," Octavia answers, one eyebrow arching slightly. "I had thought that insulting someone's gender had gone out of fashion, monsieur. Perhaps I should ask you a similar question... Is it your masculinity that has made you cower among the trees like a frightened rabbit?" She glances at the wound she'd inflicted and adds, "A poorly-dodging rabbit, at that."

The man spits. "You dare make fun of me, the man who will be your doom? I am a high priest of the Cult of Darkness, and I will not be bested by a mere woman."

"Oui, I do dare mock you," Octavia taunts. "It is not so very hard, little rabbit." Voltaire paws restlessly at the ground, one ear flicking back to listen to his mistress's voice. "If I am but a mere woman, surely my advantages are not so great that you must sit and shiver in the woods..."

"Oh, I am quite comfortable here," he says with a dark smile. "Especially when you have handed me the weapon of your own destruction. You obviously have no idea of how dark magic works, so let me condescend to explain it to you. If I affect any item belonging to you, you will likewise suffer." His smile broadens. "Any item that you may have, say, carelessly tossed away. Such as your dagger!"

In his empty left hand there is a flicker of shadow. And then, within his hand, he is holding Octavia’s dagger. The man’s smile is now huge, showing off his sharp, pointy teeth.

Octavia sighs and digs her heels into her stallion's sides; he leaps forward under her and bounds into a charge with pricked ears. I think I rather preferred the apes...

A chill crosses Octavia’s spine as she crosses the boundary into the forest. Within, she can hear the faint echoes of beautiful music, sounding eerily similar to Beethoven.

The man brings the dagger up to his mouth and bites on it.

Octavia feels sudden pain, like sharp knives are stabbing and shredding her in several different places at once. Her vision blurs, and Octavia realises that somehow, she has just been poisoned.

More of the black ape creatures pounce from out of the trees, piling on top of her, grabbing at her, and attempting to pull her off her horse.

Octavia grits her teeth and tries to concentrate, to focus... She feels faint, and almost slips from her horse… She grabs for the saddle, her hand tangling reins and mane and saddle blanket and saddle into a stable anchor. Non, non, et non... Mages - spells - there was something something about the Pattern...

All the while the apes, are grabbing onto her, trying to pull her from her horse... a blur of black against the dark...

A heartbeat passes, as she forces herself to sit deep in her saddle, making her position more secure, and to try to shrink the target she presents, and then the memory sparks. Bring it to mind. Oui, that was it.

The drug courses through her system, slowing down her thinking and her reflexes... She collapses forwards onto her horse...

She reaches for the Pattern, searches for it, but it's like trying to capture a flame from the shadows on the wall - it flickers and dances, but it all slides away sideways before she can catch hold, and that's all she can find. Her jaw clenches after another heartbeat.

There is a sharp pain in the side of her head, and everything mercifully fades to black...

Octavia wakes to the sound of a lute. She is tied to a tree, upright. Strong vines bind and bite into her wrists and ankles. She still has her clothes, but her other possessions, including her sword and her Trump deck, have been taken from her.

The tree she is tied to is on the edge of a roughly circular clearing, rimmed with twisted and deformed trees. In the centre of the clearing is a large black hole, perhaps a deep well. From it comes the sound of the lute, an eerie, though also sweet melody. It is as if a musician were down the well, playing. Small blue fires spring from various smaller holes in the ground, the flames perhaps being similar to swamp gas in nature. There is a tinge of orange light in the white mists above the trees, indicating it is likely approaching sunset.

There are three men, all dressed in black, on the far side of the well. They are having a debate in hushed voices amongst themselves. Their voices are too indistinct to be made out over the music coming from the well. One of these men is the one that Octavia has so recently fall foul of. Ambling nearby, are more of the ape-like creatures. There is no sign of Octavia’s horse. A falcon, seemingly composed out completely out of black, sits in the branch of a nearby tree. It is watching Octavia with a great deal of interest.

Octavia's first thought is a curse that a four-fingered cavalryman had taught her on the way to Moscow, when his mount decided that Prussian cows were the most terrifying creatures in the known world.

Her second, Still alive.

And then, after surveying the scene, she sighs internally. What is it about priests with magical powers, that they are so set upon sacrificing women? I can only assume that that is the purpose of the pit... though what terror might lurk at the bottom and play flute, I do not know.

She turns her head slightly to regard the bird in turn. "I do not suppose," she murmurs softly at it, "that you are both intelligent and friendly?"

The falcon stares at Octavia for several moments, and then she can hear its mental voice, short and sharp, within her head. "Intelligent, definitely. Friendly? Unlikely." It shakes its head slowly, almost sadly. "They mean to sacrifice you to the Darkness. It seems a waste, but then, I am only a falcon, and do not always understand the ways of men."

"I am reasonably certain," Octavia offers, "that sacrificing me will do little but anger my family further." She hesitates, debating the question, and then mentally shrugs. "What is it you would do with me?"

The falcon laughs, an odd, screechy sound. Then in Octavia’s mind, it snaps, "We don’t give one fig about what your family thinks!"

"As to what I would do with you, well..." It flaps its wings and hops onto a close branch. "You have the most beautiful and enchanting eyes… I bet they would be quite delicious." It lets out another screech of laughter, hopping about in the branch, enjoying itself at Octavia’s expense.

I had to ask...

Sighing, Octavia answers, "You would be improved by the addition of a nice wine sauce. Though I do not imagine that would make you less gamy, oui?" She shakes her head. "What is that music, petit oiseau?"

It clicks its beak, offended. "I’m entwined with the black. There wouldn’t be much meat on me left."

"As to the music, mademoiselle, that is the sound of the heart and soul of the Darkness. Sounds wonderful right now, but sometimes it becomes twisted and melancholy. You will be likely to find that out, once they throw you into the well." It chortles to itself again.

The laughter of the raven brings the attention of the three men in black clothing. They turn and approach Octavia in a jaunty fashion.

The one in the front has green eyes and jet black hair, and looks young, possibly in his teens. The way the others defer to him though, he is obviously the leader.

The second is the man of black eyes and hair that Octavia has already run into.

The third is a blonde man and blue eyes with a rather haunted look about him.

As they approach Octavia, the leader grins…

"Allow me to introduce myself," he says. "My name is Drew, and my compatriots are Veniathan, who you have already met, and Nathaniel. Shortly, we will be sacrificing you to the well, and allowing the blackness to consume you. The process will be painful. Because you are my full sister, however, you will survive. And once you have been entwined with the black, you will become enlightened."

One of Octavia's eyebrows arches. "While that is an interesting claim, monsieur, I'm afraid that you'll find that is quite impossible," she answered. "Ma mère has been dead near to two hundred years, and I had no siblings. As for the other..." She shrugged slightly. "Pain is nothing new - nor are misguided attempts to 'enlighten' me. I am not so easy to change. Perhaps you could explain to me, however, why it is your type are so obsessed with sacrificing women? Ce oiseau and I were just discussing it."

Drew glances at the raven, who is looking innocently away, apparently fascinated by a tree across the clearing.

Drew returns his gaze to Octavia, with a creepy smile. "It’s simple, really. It’s all about the power. The more people we sacrifice, the stronger the darkness becomes, and the stronger we become."

"You, however, dear sister, are something particularly special. We may not share a mortal mother, but we have two more important parents in common. Prince Corwin is our father, while the Darkness entwined in his soul is our mother. Thus, we are full brother and sister. Your sacrifice will be worth at least a hundred lesser tributes, and likely far more!"

A hint of black glistens in Drew’s eyes as he speaks.

"Your geneology is flawed," Octavia replies, shaking her head. "Corwin, he is not my father. As for the other, there is no Darkness in me, and I have no intention that there should be any." She snorts softly. "The very idea is absurd."

The unpleasantness is bound to start soon. I wonder if the Pattern would do any good... With that, she has made the decision; she reaches for it...

"You fool!" Drew says. "The Darkness recognizes its own! Do you think..."

Whatever else Drew is saying is lost on Octavia, as the beauty of the Pattern slowly enters her mind. Blue-white sparks flare across the design within her mind, and the intricate tracery burns with a cold and intense fire...

The raven lets out a screech of disgust. Nathaniel shields his eyes from Octavia, as if he were being blinded. Drew flinches a little as well, as if sensing something is up. Veniathan looks bored and unimpressed.

"Stop that now!" Drew shouts. "Or we will hurt you!"

"Stop what, monsieur?" Octavia inquires, all sweetness and innocence. "I am merely considering the situation. Please do continue with your rant; c'est très amusant."

"Don’t taint us with the abomination in your blood!" Drew shrieks.

He makes an impatient gesture towards Veniathan, who withdraws Ocatavia’s dagger from his robes. He places the dagger into his mouth and bites into it. Ocatavia feels a momentary chill cross her spine, but the image of the Pattern in her mind burns it away. Veniathan recoils from the dagger, drops it onto the ground, and howls in pain.

Drew glares at him in exasperation, while Nathaniel looks on in bewilderment.

Oddly, Octavia feels the bonds around her wrists loosen, so much so that she is sure she could slip free of her restraints.

"I had not thought, monsieur, that light was an abomination," Octavia answers as she starts working to free herself, as surreptitiously as she can. "And if we are related as you claim, which I doubt, is the light not also a part of you?" She arches an eyebrow.

Drew draws a knife and thrusts it under Octavia’s chin. "You take that back! I've purged the light from my system! I am pure. Say it!" The expression in his eyes is vehement, with an added edge of desperation.

Ah, so that would be one nerve struck... Octavia notes to herself. She can't help the tiniest hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. "Ah, but if there is no Light in you, how then can you know Darkness? You cannot have the one without the other, monsieur, or you would not know the difference."

And perhaps it is time to take that dagger from you, while you are distracted. She ceases her efforts to be sneaky and just works at getting loose - even one hand will do for now, so she can try to snatch the blade at her throat.

"Blasphemy! The Darkness has no need of the Light!" Drew says, pushing the sharp knife up to Octavia’s throat and drawing blood.

"I think," Octavia answers, "you will find that you are mistaken." She jerks her wrist free of the bindings, the bright fire of the Pattern fading from her mind. She slides her fingers between her neck and his hand, and grabs hold. Memory sparks and plays in her mind..

The bar was in Delhi, and it was hot and dry like all of India in the summer. There was a fight in that bar, between a skinny dark man in a turban and a British soldier... there was a knife to the skinny man's throat, and he exploded into motion, in a move that ended with the knife in the soldier's throat instead...

I followed the Hindu man out into the street as he fled, and into dark narrow alleys where I shouldn't have gone, where flashes of movement and color suggested I was entering an area where the so-civilized British did not dare go...

When I caught up to him and begged him to teach me the move, the room he brought me to had a statue of a many-armed goddess adorned in skulls and a thin red cord coiled in front of it - and I knew that the British were not so correct as they thought when they said the Thuggee were gone...

...And she shoves Drew's hand towards him and twists and continues the motion onwards, yanking the blade free of his fingers.

Octavia continues the motion, fluidly twisting her wrist to set the blade against its owner's throat. She smiles. "I think, perhaps, that it would be best for you to consider your next action most carefully," she suggests. "I am unlikely to miss my mark."

Drew’s eyes widen in astonishment. "I agree," he says, fear in his voice. He calls out to his men. "Hold!"

Behind him, Nathaniel is paused in shock, uncertain what to do. Veniathan is looking at Octavia’s knife on the ground, reaching his hand out towards it, but hesitating, perhaps nervous about picking it up again.

Octavia's eyes flick briefly towards Veniathan. "I have seen creatures from this place bleed red, black, and green," she says blandly. "I shall be quite curious to see what color you bleed if your man picks up my dagger for any reason other than to free me."

"Damn it, Veniathan, you heard her. Let her go!" Drew barks.

Veniathan smiles evilly. "It seems to me that the Darkness would appreciate two sacrifices even more than one..."

"You idiot!" Drew snaps back. "I already have been sacrificed! If any further harm comes to me, I will haunt you for the rest of your short, miserable life!"

"I’ll release her," Nathaniel says. "I don’t think the Well would react favourably to feeding on the light in her soul anyway." He closes his eyes, as if in meditation.

Octavia watches the interactions between the three with interest. I am tempted to bring one of these fools back with me. Not the poisoner, I think; he is not worth the annoyance. Perhaps this one; I'm sure Papa would be quite amused to hear his claim about my parentage. Or the other; he seems timid enough to be an adequate turncoat. "Perhaps you should consider," Octavia suggests when they finish, "that I intend to leave here with mon cheval et mon épée. It might be wise if you have them brought to me; I should hate to have to drag you around these woods until I find them." She pauses. "And the dagger as well."

Nathaniel lets out a gasp of shock. "Someone has already freed her wrists using the Logrus!"

"What?" Drew shouts. "Veniathan, you scum, what are you playing at?"

Venithan’s face turns white, and he snarls. "I swear to you, Drew, I have no idea what he is talking about! The boy is lying."

So, a mysterious benefactor. If I find who it is, I shall have to thank them. But first, these three need to stop arguing. Octavia clears her throat pointedly. "Gentlemen, I am quite certain you will have enough time to argue about whose fault this is after my departure, oui?"

Nathaniel closes his eyes again, and the bonds around Octavia’s ankles fall loose.

Drew barks. "Veniathan, get her possessions. Don’t make her ask again. Nathaniel, release her."

From seemingly out of thin air, Veniathan produces the possessions Octavia was carrying on her, and places them in a small pile on the forest floor. Her dagger and sword and scabbard are on top.

Nathaniel screws up his face in concentration, eyes still closed, and the bonds around Octavia’s ankles fall loose.

Drew’s eyes flick back to Octavia. "We don’t have your horse. We already fed him to the well."

I doubt that. "Oui?" Octavia inquires, still sweetly. "And what will happen if I call him, I wonder? Shall we find out?" She steps neatly out of the vines, right foot and then left, the dagger at Drew's throat very steady; then she frees her other wrist and brings her fingers to her lips for the shrill whistle she uses to call her stallion.

There is a snorting sound and a whinny, and a black horse bursts out of the cover from the trees. It is Voltaire, and yet he has been transformed. His once chestnut coat is now a shiny black. He is larger and more heavily muscled, and his eyes glow a deep and beautiful red. His saddle and other riding equipment have also transformed, having become a combination of blue, black, and silver.

One of Octavia's eyebrows arches, and for a moment, she's not quite sure what to say. So. I imagine they actually sacrificed him. It is good to know that doesn't mean death, I suppose... I had best find a sorcerer when I reach the castle to check him out. So much for trying to pass this little adventure off to Papa as nothing serious...

"Voltaire," she orders, "ici." The stallion snorts again and trots to her side, neatly pivoting to face the same direction when he reaches her. She pats his shoulder in reward, a bit gingerly, before turning her full attention back to her former captors.

"Now," she continues, "I think we'll be backing up until we reach my gear, oui? And then I think I shall depart."

Veniathan frowns, and crosses his arms across his chest, a look of disgust on his face. But he makes no further move. Nathaniel raises his hands in a placatory gesture. His eyes are bright and wide, and he speaks with some reverence. "You have us good to rights. We were obviously too ambitious, thinking we could sacrifice the daughter of the Prince of Darkness."

That again. Do they think if they repeat it enough, I will believe? Bah. I hate zealots.

"Ambition, it is a dangerous thing," Octavia agrees aloud. "Now, you will back up." Carefully, she leans a little weight against the dagger, increasing the pressure just a bit. "S'il-vous plaît."

Veniathan and Nathaniel do as they are told and back off further, though Veniathan's eyes narrow even further.

Veniathan says "We can't allow you to take Drew out of the clearing, woman. You try it, and we will kill you, no matter the consequences."

Sweat breaks out on Drew's forehead, though he says nothing in response.

"I suppose that holds true for you two as well?" Octavia answers with a chuckle. "Zut. I guess I won't be taking back a prisoner, then. Papa will be so disappointed."

She makes a quick hand gesture to Voltaire, silently instructing him to lay down so she doesn't have to do more than step across to mount. As soon as he obeys, she smoothly scoops up her belongings and throws her leg across the saddle. "Voltaire, allons-y." Let's get out of here...

As soon as Octavia releases her hold on Drew, black tendrils form above and around Veniathan. Drew glares at him and snaps, "Let her go. She’s won. For now."

The tendrils around Veniathan recede, and the three men watch Octavia ride free from the clearing.

Octavia quickly stows her belongings in the proper places, settling her sword back into its accustomed place last. Then she settles in the saddle and urges her stallion ahead as quickly as they can in the dark and twisted wood.

It seems likely that the clearing was the middle. With luck, straight ahead will take us to the edge, and soon. Without luck, well... "We will cross that bridge when we reach it, oui?" she murmurs to Voltaire, who flicks one ear back to listen. "We are not without our means."

She rides alertly, green eyes scanning the forest as one hand rests on the reins and the other on L'Aiguillion's hilt. That was too easy, and we cannot go fast enough in this place...

Octavia hears screeches and the heavy beat of wings from above her, and she swears to herself. "Predictable, predictable," she mutters under her breath, urging her stallion to speed up a little.

In another moment, she and Voltaire are set upon by large black bat-like creatures. Red eyes glow menacing in the darkness, their sharp claws and teeth flashing towards her face. Octavia drops the reins and throws one arm up to protect her eyes; with the other, she draws her blade and begins slicing at the creatures.

Octavia’s blade, L'Aiguillion, cuts deep into the creatures. They squeal in agony, and then burst into plumes of black smoke and dust, completely evaporating a second afterwards.

Unhindered by further attacks, Octavia rides on Voltaire fiercely through the forest; she leans into his neck, blade held low and at the ready, waiting for the next event. Voltaire moves faster than he ever has before, trees speeding past on either side. Black hyena-like creatures come into the chase, shrieking and cavorting after them, but failing to catch up. Black squirrels and birds with piercing red eyes glare at Octavia as she passes by and below them, but for whatever reason, don’t try to interfere with her passage.

Finally, Octavia and Voltaire break through the forest line, returning to open air and freedom. She lets the stallion run, practically throwing the reins away and not caring whether they're actually running towards Amber or not. A few strides into the clear, she stands in her stirrups and turns back to shout a curse or two in French for the Darkness and the men she'd encountered inside.

Once the dark wood is out of sight - behind a turn in the road, or a hill, or a stand of tree, anything - she slows Voltaire to a walk and takes a look around.