The ironclad demon sits by the campfire, clutching his side. The silent huntress across from him, lining the blade of a dagger with a foul-smelling poison. The two had been resting for a while. The cities perils were many, and they neared its peak. They both knew they would need their strength for its top.
“…You are harmed.” Whispers the wraith, seeming to glance up beneath the strange skull she wore. Her voice was a hiss as always, though something past her usual caution lay in it.
The ironclad looks up and stares for a moment. “…My injuries are constant.” He grumbles, his voice deep as if artificially pitched down. “And not your problem.”
The silent sets down her dagger. “No. This is different.” She hisses.
The ironclad grimaces under his mask. She was right. Those slavers were strong, their weapons brutal. The taskmaster had hooked him horribly with that sharpened, bent steel. Them they had pulled, tearing flesh away in a rend. Blood still poured from his side, concealed slightly by the leather he wore. If uncovered, one may have seen the beginning of a rib. He should have been dead.
“…I don’t need your help, witch.” He growls.
She stares for a moment. Her hand begins to move towards her mask, then stops.
“…We shall not reach this peak without…” She begins.
“I. Don’t. Want. Your help.” He growls, leaning forward.
She tilts her head slightly. A masked emotion lays beneath the skull.
She lays down, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. She pulls the skull tight over her face and stills.
The demon waits for her breathing to steady. Eventually it does.
He falls to the side with a groan of agony. He uncovers his side and props himself on his elbow, his breathing ragged and quick. The wound is fierce. He stumbles through his pack for bandages, his hands shaking as the masked pain pours from him. Fire falls in droplets from the eyes of his metal mask.
A giggle to his side.
A sinister voice.
“I thought you were the strongest?” Says the maddened voice, cloaked in shadow off to the side. He rolls to face that terrible demon.
He sees himself, yet not. Purple, clawed hands, a muscular human form. Hunched over, yet those terrible wings spread bravely out behind it. More hands grabbed at it from the dark, pulling at limbs and face. Shadowed, a fiery grin illuminated on its… mouth. If one could call it that.
“S-stay back!” He yells, grabbing his sword weakly. “I made-! I fulfilled it! I-I, I did the deal!” He pleas, pointing the curved blade to the terrible figure.
“Oh, hohohee...” Giggles the terror. “But yet I haunt you? Oh, how could that be…”
Purple fire bursts from the terrible wound. The ironclad shouts in fear and pain. Identical fire spouts from the demons side as well, and it leans back in a cackle. Then it steps towards him.
He crawls back, towards the fire. The smoke and ash curl around him, strangling him. The pain burns further. He hacks and coughs, the fire encroaching around his windpipe. More fire pours from his eyes. The shadows leave the demonic form as it steps towards him.
“Please…! I didn’t want this… I was so…” He begs and cries, almost to himself. The horror cackles and grows in size. More hands reach from the dark, wrapping both his and the demon's ankles. The grip burns furiously.
Something behind him is unsheathed.
The silent is dashing forward, to the demonic form. She stabs a dagger directly into its stomach. Its cries out, voice a mixture of agony and laughter. She sweeps its legs and kneels next to it. She pulls the knife in the shape of a pentagram across its chest.
A final howl of laughter.
The demon is gone.
The ironclad lays by the fire, crying in pain. The huntress dashes to him and rolls him from away from the kindling. She places herself between the warrior and the blaze and begins rifling through her cloak.
The wound still bursts with dark purple flames, black blood drenching the ironclads side. Every inch of him is wracked with fiery pain and fear. He trembles as the silent pulls something from her cloak.
She leans over his face and pulls up the skull.
A beautiful dark skinned face, it’s features scarred slightly with burns and cuts. White, silvery hair falls across her. Sharp, emerald green eyes gaze down at him. Her face jars him from his fits of fire and corruption.
“Breath.” She whispers.
He trembles for a moment, then inhales raggedly.
A stabbing pain in his wound. Something courses through him, painfully extinguishing the flames, as if he was flooded with holy water. His side screams in horror before all goes dark for a moment.
The ironclad steadies. She is still kneeling next to him, rifling through a pack, muttering to herself. “Where is it, where is it…”
She pulls a journal from the pack and flits through it. “Holy water, sand, divine metal… ascetics and their oddities…” She mumbles. She turns back to him, cupping something in her palm. She pours a gravel-like substance from her hand onto the wound. The pain decreases further.
“Hold.” She mutters as he writhes in discomfort and anguish. “Must soak the bandages. Dry material fuels the fire.” His vision flits in and out of focus as she rifles through the pack. A pressure in his destroyed side, then a cleansing sense of safety.
The fire leaves him.
He catches his breath.
The silent kneels next to him, staying true to her namesake. His hand touches his side to find bandages, though with some give to them. Little flesh lies beneath them.
“…How…?” He murmurs, mostly to himself.
The silent does not explain.
He sits up next to her. The animal skull is in her hands, her face partially concealed by the dark.
“Why…?” He mutters again.
The silent looks away, shaking her head at the ground. He stares at her for a moment. She idly turns a dagger in her hands. Black blood stains it, along with rust and burn marks.
“…You know the cures?” He asks.
She nods at the floor.
“Ascetics, you said? The watchers?” He asks again. Another subtle nod. Evidently, she had traveled far and wide finding methods of healing. Methods for any ailment, even the hellish corruption that wracked him.
“…What is wrong?” He asks.
The silent stares at the bricks in the ground.
“…We are told not to help.” She says to the ground, seeming ashamed. “Healing is... forbidden to us.” She says.
The warrior thinks for a moment.
“…You have broken your code for me.” He says.
She stays still.
It all pieces together. A story untold, yet so clear to him. A huntress, harboring a desire to help, to heal. Forced to poison, to betray, to face the world with hissing caution and the curved tip of a dagger. And when faced with a his plight, she could not bear to leave him for dead.
“…Thank you.” He says.
She nods. The wraith gathers her things, resting the skull back atop her head and walking back to her side of the fire. Right before she sits back down, she stops.
“…The flame will do you harm.” She whispers, facing the shadows.
“…Yes…” He says, eyeing the cinders.
The huntress thinks for a moment.
She pulls a curved dagger from her cloak and examines it. It looks to have an inscription along its blade.
She tosses it into the flames.
The silent walks back and sits, between the warrior and the campfire. She takes her skull back off and places it, facing the fire. She stares at him, a mixture of compassion, shame and hope in her eyes.
Hesitantly, the ironclad moves near to her. The heat of the fire makes his skin crawl as he nears it.
The silent draws breath, as if the words she wished to say hurt leaving her mouth.
“I…I will shield you from the fire.” She murmurs.
He stares for a moment.
The ironclad creeps forward and sits in front of her. She gestures to the ground. He lies down by her side. The wraith wraps her cloak around the two of them and lays, pressing her back to his. She faces the fire as he faces the shadows.
Her skin emits a ghostly chill, soothing the creeping flames.
The two close their eyes.
