Nya Background/Biography for Alhambra Site
SUMMARY: Nya is a young woman
who was raised from birth by the ARM faction and her own family
to be a fighter and assassin in the service of their causes. In
one of her trips to the survivalist camps, she was bitten by an
ocelot, and so she has become a were, but her ARM chapter felt
that could make her a further asset to their organization, to
infiltrate were and vampire circles. However, as the posts will
make clear, there is the potential within her to switch sides,
and she is strongly drawn to Namir and his lover Maeve, due to
several factors, not the least of which is she is the
reincarnation of Bedivere.
ORIGINAL NYA BIO
Character Name: Nya
Writer: Joey Hill
Email:
storywitch@ec.rr.com
Age (writer): 33
Character Age: 21
Nature: Lycanthrope (ocelot)
Description: Dark sable sleek hair and
wide dark eyes, pale skin that tends to freckle. Slim, boyish
body, mostly angles and muscle. If she would ease up on her
training regimen and eat food occasionally for pleasure as well
as sustenance, she would fill into a soft, womanly figure, not
overly endowed but pleasing nonetheless. She does not wear
clothes for embellishment, only disguise, so when she is at
"home", she wears only a black body suit for training purposes.
If she goes out for general intelligence work, she generally
wears the clothing of a teenage boy - baseball cap, loose shirt,
baggy pants, clothes that can hide weaponry easily, and a sloppy
teenage boy attracts little attention, more easily blends.
History: Nya was the only child to
parents who are lifetime members of a fanatical, purist cell of
ARM, so devoted they dedicated their daughter at birth to the
desires of the Inner Circle. Nya showed an amazing aptitude for
combat and so she was been given extensive training, even beyond
the boys 1) because of that aptitude and 2) because of her
parents' blank check to the Inner Circle for her to be honed
into the tool they deem appropriate for their purposes. That
amazing aptitude is a carryover from her former incarnation as
Bedyvere, an identity she of course does not as yet recognize in
herself.
Since she could walk she has been trained to
fight the weres, vamps and other supernaturals. She's the type
of person who can survive in the wilderness with a piece of
string and a pocket knife, or can break down and put together a
semi-automatic in record time. She recently was attacked by an
ocelot when she was on a survivalist training mission in the
woods. She did not realize she was infected with lycanthropy
until she connected her increasingly strange behavior with the
onset of the full moon and the attack.
She still lives at home under the watchful
eyes of her parents, and so she approaches her mother, tells her
what she thinks has happened, and asks what to do. Her mother
decides she must be exterminated.
With the full moon upon her, and all the
emotional changes that she does not understand and cannot
control, Nya kills her mother in self defense and then flees the
house. That night is when she briefly sees Namir and Maeve for
the first time (see Nya Intro Post). When she recovers from her
Shift, she wakes up deep in the rural wooded area outside of
Port Hope, at the doorstep of a derelict stone chapel, almost as
if in her subconscious she was seeking an ARM sanctuary. She has
found one. The chapel is a secret rendezvous point for a cell of
ARM close to the Inner Circle (which executes some of the acts
of violence they vigorously deny supporting). This cell is run
by a were named Cassius, one of those voluntarily infected to
serve the greater cause of ARM (obviously a cell whose existence
is unknown to the purist group to which Nya's parents belonged).
Cassius takes her in, convinces Nya she can
still serve ARM and the Inner Circle effectively. He teaches her
some about being a were, but underscores all his lessons with
the perspective that lycanthropy is an abomination that has
damned her, unless by some luck she can offer enough service to
ARM to win her a spot in purgatory.
Abilities: She has almost inhuman
discipline over her body and her emotions. She is double-jointed
in her back, hands, and elbows. She has the ability to
self-hypnotize, "program" her mind so its intent can only be
found by a Master on a deep probe. She can snap herself back to
her motive with a trigger she anticipates encountering on her
mission. The danger is if something goes wrong with that
trigger, she could be stuck in the persona of her self-hypnosis
indefinitely.
As indicated under Description, she is slim
and boyish, much like the ocelot - small and fierce, with
delicate features that could pass for a beautiful young boy as
much as a young woman (makes it easy for her to disguise herself
as male when needed). The capability to do the former was
cultivated by her family, who pushed her to dress as a boy and
act in the aggressive manner of one, but ARM also trained her to
have the mannerisms of a woman when that disguise was needed.
She is a chameleon, able to assume the personalities and
expressions of the people in her environment. She can be almost
invisible in a room of people, merely a shadow of a person
someone vaguely remembers being there later.
Weaknesses: Her lack of identity is as
much a weakness to her as a strength, for it is when someone
taps into an area that requires her to have her own unique
identity that she gets off stride, because that part of her is
walled off. Since her Change she has periods of confusion, where
she loses herself in visions and memories, flashes of intense
emotional anguish. This weakness is also what can save her from
turning into a complete sociopath. When she lost
Arthur/Guinevere, she was so close to them it shattered some
part of her mind, such that in each lifetime she is
unconsciously looking for them, but up until now, she ends up
serving those who want just the opposite - for Arthur and
Guinevere never to return. The confusion manifests itself in
dreams, or moments of disorientation, and of course the
lycanthropy, becoming one of the things she was taught was an
abhorrence, will both make it harder to control the
disorientation and more likely that she'll finally understand
who she/he is? At heart she is a frightened child, fighting in a
woman's body with a woman's identity and is struggling to find
out which way to go. Something is close to breaking.
Personality: She has devastatingly
tempting erotic potential in her absolute innocence; she has
seen and experienced so many types of violence, but has spent no
time enjoying leisure activities, exploring pleasures with
others, etc, even the pleasure of choosing clothes for herself,
or earrings. She is not pierced, has never worn makeup for the
sheer fun of it, etc. She's been trained to withstand torture,
the training administered by her own father until he convinced
himself she could bear almost any pain without capitulating.
It is her bond to Maeve and Namir and the
other Knights of the Round Table that can bring her to herself
again. At the start, she really has no personality. When she is
alone, she is focused on the next mission. Her discipline and
training do not allow her any interests beyond that which needs
to be learned to accomplish the goal. If she has any hobby, it
is to continually train, teach her body to use its strengths
with perfect precision to do what she is told to do. She is
Loyalty in human form. Once she rediscovers her King and his
Queen, her focus will be on demonstrating her love and service
to them in whatever way is required.
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Nya
Post 1 – Fugitive
Characters: Nya, Namir and Maeve
Writer(s): Joey
Time: June, late evening
Location: Alleyway along the streets of Port Hope, close
to Scheherezade's.
Shadows speared the alleyway, thrown by the
couple who paused at its mouth, drawn to a halt by the urgent
cacophony of sirens closing in on the block. Nya sat motionless,
wanting to hunch back against the wall, wanting to tremble and
sob, but noise and movement betrayed presence.
From a lifetime of weekends spent in the ARM
survivalist camps, she knew it was better to stay motionless if
you were caught without adequate cover, rather than to bolt and
draw a predator's attention.
Fingers of cold dread dug cruelly into her
vitals at the thought. While training had planted that knowledge
in her head, her instinct to obey it at this moment came from
the new animal part of her, the stillness of the ocelot as it
waited to see if it could run or would be forced to fight. She
could almost feel the claws starting to extend from her fingers.
As the two people shifted into sharper focus, she knew a mirror
at this moment would reveal herself with the iridescent gold
eyes of the cat and a moon of pupil.
The man turned to speak to the woman, his
fingers brushing the small of her back, lying easily on the
curve of hip. Nya stiffened as the movement brought their scent
to her.
He was dead, a vamp, but it was more than
that which made her muscles tighten in resistance. He called to
her kind…no! Not her kind, this thing that had taken her over.
The cats belonged to him, served him.
She had an overwhelming, tearing need to
scramble out of the alley and go to him, lay herself across his
feet and wait for his bidding, ask for his protection. She, who
had been trained relentlessly to kill his kind.
That infinitesimal stiffening brought her to
their attention. They both spun. It was a strange moment, as
they both tried to step forward to protect one another and only
ended up advancing together and bumping shoulders. They resolved
it the same way they had told her to do it in camp, shifting
side by side, giving the predator two targets to face instead of
one. Only now she was seen as the predator. Nya snarled in a
sound half-feral, half-human and stood, lifting the small
crossbow from under her coat. Her finger twitched on the
release. It could fire a succession of ten silver-tipped, wooden
shafts. And within 500 feet, she never missed. He was a vamp,
and if the woman was with him, letting him touch her, she had no
rights. Nya could kill them.
Now that they were facing her, they were
familiar...from the news? Her swirling mind, caught between
forest haunts and the memory of her sparse bedroom, now soaked
in her mother's blood and body parts, tried to place them. Maybe
they were people from TV, they were both beautiful.
Or maybe it was something else…
Or maybe, feeling the strong tug again as she
looked at the man, she had served them, knelt before them, felt
a sword touch her…his? shoulder, and pledged all heart, body and
soul to the man who held it and the woman who stood at his side.
She had been a warrior of innate, exceptional skill whose
loyalty to them was unswerving, so unswerving that the loss of
them and of their dream, had destroyed her.
Nya staggered under the instantaneous,
powerful flash of memory as she tried to hold the crossbow
steady on the vamp and his date. The roaring, unfamiliar call of
the cat must be bringing these strange well of images inside
her. She had spells of confusion, this was not the first, but
these images felt more like revelation than creation, the
opening of a door in her heart that had been sealed for an
eternity. Confusion had ruled her for so long, kept the lock in
place through many lives before this one, because her heart had
broken when she had lost them.
A fierce screech erupted from her throat as
the unfamiliar thoughts and overwhelming emotions that attended
them broke her tenuous thread of control. The weapon fell
useless from her hands and she landed upon it, twisting,
writhing and Changing.
A sleek, small golden cat with intricately
fitted black markings running along her sides and back sprang to
her feet, tripping on the crossbow's release and sending several
arrows hammering into the alley's brick wall. She backed up,
spitting and hissing at it and at the two poised in the
alleyway. Her wide and frightened eyes measured her avenues of
escape.
The man drew the woman to the side, gesturing
forward in a compassionate movement. Even more unexpected was
the sudden flash in her brain, the image of the nearest cover, a
copse of woods in a nearby park. A small cat could hide and feed
safely there, and the compass to it imprinted itself on her
senses with a tranquilizing touch that reassured and commanded
her to follow its bidding at the same time.
The ocelot yowled unhappily, sprang forward,
dodged past them, and plunged into the night.
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Nya Post 2 – How to
Kill Namir
Characters: Nya
Writer(s): Joey
Time: Late July
Location: Nya's Home in the Marsh
Mentions: Namir, Maeve
Nya slowly lowered her body until the crown
of her head touched the floor. She pushed herself back up
gradually, holding the tension in her muscles necessary to
maintain the handstand. She walked ten handsteps to the
scratched card table that constituted her kitchen and folded her
legs back, adjusting the angle of her hips so that she created a
C-shaped bend of her upside-down body to pick up the
semi-automatic with her bare feet. She straightened her legs,
shifted the gun onto the shallow basin of her left sole, then
shuddered to slide it down her legs, roll it over her hips and
bring it to rest in the valley of her spine. She steadied her
breathing, which registered the strain, then lifted one hand
from the ground. Holding her body up with one locked arm, she
reached back with her free hand and retrieved the gun, taking it
to the floor and balancing both palms on it.
Drawing out the burn, she curled her knees
downward, into her chest, then slid into a squat, her knees
lined up against the weapon.
Tell me how to kill Namir.
Cassius's orders had come from higher up, of
course. Based on the importance of the mission, she suspected
the directive came from the highest level, but those shadowy
figures were hardly important to her. The mission was all that
mattered.
He had known she was the one who could do it,
who could provide the answer. Namir and the Fey red-headed witch
who was now his lover had seen her at her worst. Something moved
in her, flustered at the thought, and she let that go, not
examining it, simply letting it move through her and then back
into her unconscious where it would not distract her from her
charge.
Nya hadn't known the secret of doing that
back when she was in the alley. She had not known she could use
the mental discipline ingrained in her from the moment she could
walk to help her to channel a were's powerful emotions into
tools. She had fought the passions she did not understand that
night, the sweat slicked on her body, her limbs trembling, and
she had lost control to the beast. But it was not the cat that
had killed her mother. She had. She had been taught never to
make excuses. She was always to blame for failure.
She had learned from intelligence masters,
but had surpassed them, because she had come to them as an empty
vessel, no distractions. Her parents had dedicated her to the
Inner Circle of ARM at birth, and while she had lived with her
parents during that time, it had been the relationship of drill
sergeants to soldiers, nothing more important than the training
or the cause it served. She had never played with a doll, never
watched a television show except as a device to gather
information. Her slim form and expressive face had given her the
powers of a chameleon. She could be twelve or twenty-five,
teenage boy or young woman. She wore clothes as an expression of
her disguises, and had never chosen clothes for embellishment or
decoration. She was a tool, and a tool had no thought of
decorating itself. When she was between orders, she simply wore
the black bodysuit best for training and weapons practice. Since
she served as an undercover agent for ARM the organization did
not know where she lived. It was the way of life she practiced,
and they understood its necessity. A person with a base of
operations could be identified, become familiar. She had never
even attended a church, for it would compromise her cover to be
seen with ARM members.
Not even her father knew where she was most
of the time, not that he cared any longer. She had failed him.
To him, she was dead. She had locked that pain away a long time
ago and did not think about it anymore. Anything that would
disturb her dispassionate calm could attract the attention of a
supernatural, so that pain had been simply carved off her
consciousness and deposited into the void inside her. It was the
cavern where most people kept the normal clutter of emotions and
thoughts caused by busy, varied lives. She had plenty of storage
space there.
Her dedication gave her no sense of pride.
She had forfeited the right to pride, to anything, when she had
allowed herself to be attacked by an ocelot with lycanthropy.
How could her father see her with anything but hate? She had
killed her mother on her first Change, that night two months
ago, when she had fled her home and crouched in an alleyway, the
smell of her mother's blood upon her. She was useful to ARM
still; a trained weapon now with a were's senses and strength,
though unfortunately an ocelot's strength was not much greater
than her own. Another failure. ("If you were going to let
yourself be attacked," Cassius said impatiently, "Why not by a
cougar?") Nya was well aware that she was expendable, worth less
than nothing to ARM if she failed, and she deserved nothing if
she succeeded but another chance to redeem her unredeemable sin.
The ocelot had not had the strength to kill a human, but a
trained assassin who had relinquished control to an animal's
primitive reactions had more than adequate strength to beat an
adult woman to death. She was one of the demon children now, and
she would be used, but not included.
The event in the alley gave her an edge, on
several levels, and because it did, she replayed the memory in
her head, studying each detail of it and evaluating it for a fit
with the puzzle she was putting together in her mind. Namir and
the woman would remember her, remember a frightened young woman
new to her lycanthropy. She could use that, and her knowledge of
the Lord of the Alhambra. Since that night, when she was not
focused on missions, she had studied him, his interests, his
developing relationship with Maeve Desmond, his movements, the
aerial layout of the forest preserve and all its holdings, the
reports of other operatives. If she had been anyone else, it
would have been called a hobby, the first she had ever indulged
in her life. But inside, it was as if she had known Cassius's
question and the mission it represented was coming.
Something was coming.
That flicker again, harder to let go this
time without snagging it with a reaction, but she managed it.
The point was not trying to get into the Alhambra undetected.
That was fairly impossible. She knew it and the forest preserve
were heavily warded. No one got past the guards at the bridge
gates without an invitation. There would be no undetected
entries. Namir was a 1200-year-old vampire, entirely capable of
turning a human mind inside out to learn about hidden motives.
But he was rumored to be soft about taking advantage of that, if
he had no reason to suspect a person's intent. He had some
guards also capable on a lesser scale of mind probes.
The point was only to appear as if she was
trying to get in undetected. And she had the way to do it, as
well as the motivation that would stand up under fairly close
scrutiny, thanks to that night in the alley.
Her gaze flickered to the news clipping from
the social column, littering the floor with all her other
research. A roach rested on it, and they stared at one another a
moment. Nya knew what the print said, and so let him be. While
Lord Namir had no interest in advertising his private parties,
the social columnists sold their souls to print the slightest
tidbit of information. On Lammas night, personal guests and
invitees of Lord Namir would gather for a celebration of the
First Harvest pagan holiday on his forest preserve, a tremendous
outdoor feast. It would be a little over two weeks to the full
moon, so she should be fairly safe from unexpected Change,
unless something went terribly wrong, or she allowed the air
full of pheremones from the lycanthropes to push her over. The
latter could be a blessing, in that senses might not be as sharp
to detect threats. Even so, she would have to self-hypnotize,
assume a persona to blend with them. That meant she would have
to embrace the teetering edge of control that could knock her
over into a Change, but the risk was acceptable. She would not
be the only were in danger of changing that night, inspired by
the rampant energies of the erotic celebration. If she did
change, it would only underscore her inexperience and win her
more trust, where she could position herself to use her far more
deadly human skills.
She did not know how her ability to
self-hypnotize would react with a Change. That was a problem.
However, again, she judged it an acceptable risk. She might be
an inexperienced were, but she had a brutal level of discipline
as a trained assassin and covert agent that could compensate.
"An excuse for an unholy orgy," Cassius had
muttered, when she had reported her idea to him. The revelry
would most likely offer bonfires, dancing, feasting, and
personal creations of the Great Rite all over the island. She
had pointed out it would be a perfect time to accomplish her
goal.
"It will be absolutely symbolic," he agreed.
"Slain during the observation of one of their pagan rituals."
His lip curled. "It can only help our cause, to rid the world of
this Satan's spawn masquerading as civilized creatures. Namir is
a magnet to humans, making them believe that their presence in
our midst is acceptable. And I find it somewhat ironic," he
chuckled, "that the symbolism of this particular pagan holiday
includes a king-killing."
Nya had nodded blankly. She didn't think much
about the cause. She was sworn to serve it, that was all, a
meager hope for her damned soul.
Tell me how to kill Namir.
She had told him how. He had agreed after
consulting with the Inner Circle, and they had charged her with
the task. She did not question their motives, for she had no
right to do anything but follow orders. She would simply serve
until she was killed, and then she suspected she would sleep or
burn. Her mother and father had believed the latter. Neither
option held a great deal of interest for her.
Nya slept sitting up, her palms still resting
on the gun.
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Nya Post 3 – Avoiding
Security
Characters: Nya, Carlos, Raquel, Amy
Writer(s): Joey
Time: August 1 - Lammas, mid-evening
Location: Waters around Alhambra Forest Preserve
Mentions: Namir, Sasha
The sun was setting, turning the Maine waters
to mellow blue silk touched with fire as Nya propelled the skiff
through them toward the Alhambra islands in the Casco Bay. Day
tripper traffic, rented skiffs coming in from their attempts to
fish the cool Maine waters, were mostly going in the opposite
direction, though she saw a couple fancy yachts headed toward
the harbor on one side of Namir's island, where legitimate
guests might drop an anchor.
She paused just before the invisible line
where she suspected the wards were cast and idled the boat
against the current. A sense of unease had dogged her ever since
she had started planning the final details of this task, as if
there was a fundamental flaw in the plan. She had gone over
every step of it, a thousand times easily, and then back over it
a thousand more. She had looked at every potential for error and
worked through how she would compensate for it. The unease
remained, so she had eventually just boxed it into a neutral
part of her mind. Now that the task was just ahead, she was
having some minor and surprising difficulty keeping it there.
Perhaps it was the beast in her. It often brought her strange
feelings. Like this sudden yearning, as she sat just outside the
wards, that she belonged inside them. The yearning was the magic
being generated on the island, she reasoned. But it was more
than the magic. It was a sense of destiny and change…of home.
Nya took several deep breaths, centered
herself, and focused on what was necessary. It started the
countdown that would fold every aspect of her personality into
her persona through self-hypnosis. The character she would be
was close to the truth, an inexperienced were, a kitten, a lost
girl with no training, no family, no direction. The other self,
the warrior, the tool of ARM, was gently pushed back into her
unconscious as the meditation took her into the trance.
Years of training under the best in ARM had
helped her learn the art of programming her mind so it would
reveal little or confuse a non-Master vampire of moderate age. A
master could get into her mind, but he'd have to go to her sub
or unconscious to find the layers of danger, because she easily
could fill the forefront of her consciousness to screen her real
intent, her focus unwavering. She filled that forefront now with
the memories of being home from college, a new were, uncertain
of her powers, taking a sabbatical.
She likewise filled it with memories of that
night in the alleyway and locked those thoughts into place. It
was best to stick close to the truth. The key to preparing her
mind to be around supernaturals was not in blocking out all the
extraneous activities that surrounded her mission, but accepting
the environment into her, the mannerisms and emotions of those
around her so it camouflaged her as well as her intent. With her
exceptional ability to program her mind, she buried deep in her
unconscious a trigger, a laundry list of certain elements that,
when assembled, would snap her back to duty at the right moment.
She had taught her mind to do what military
minds had sought to do with drugs and implant chips for fifty
years, because she had nothing but time with which to develop
it. The quivering apprehension of a young girl swept through her
even as the last vestiges of herself throttled the motor back
up. What was she doing here? Was she out of her mind? Her beast
felt the wards the minute she crossed through them. She shot
toward a cove on the beach that was screened by rocks and
vegetation that she had marked out as the perfect hiding place.
The way was difficult, the surf more inclined to pummel than to
glide her in, and she killed the motor, lifted it free of the
water and used her oars to maneuver the boat into the shelter
and keep it off the rocks.
It jerked onto the bottom, one side scraping
against a jagged protrusion of rock. Nya leaped out, fought the
tide and pulled the boat far enough up that the waters could not
reclaim it. She had come in at high tide, so it should be safe
where she'd placed it, barring any sudden freak storms.
She heard laughter and screams. She had
intentionally been late, knowing it would be easier to fall in
with the movement of the others once the celebrations were well
under way, but her hope that the magic would have waned was
unrealized. If anything, the power raised by the rite was being
carried by the increased revelry of the participants. It drifted
through the air and surrounded her like a warm, comforting
cloak, whispering promises and hopes of new beginnings, stirring
strange feelings in her breast.
She caught the first scent of the island
security, a smell of authority and danger, and took off out of
the cove, her wet canvas sneakers finding a path through the
thick underbrush only because they were aided by the cat grace
that had come with her lycanthropy, her body twisting, turning,
ducking, keeping the bag close to her body.
She could smell the pride closing in, felt
their anger, their offense, and knew the fine dagger's edge she
would dance between achieving her goal and being torn apart. She
stumbled and heard a snarl, not more than three lengths behind
her.
She spun, landing on her knees, enough of an
animal to know she mustn't appear a threat, and threw up her
hands in defense, the bag still in them, a pitiful shield.
"Don't hurt me! Please! Don't!"
She felt them close in on all sides, warm
furry bodies, muscle, sex, power and magic. When she opened her
eyes, however, peering up at them from her cowering position on
the ground, she saw a group of men and women, some in the dark
embroidered shirts that marked them as security. She had no
doubt the one standing directly before her, who had cut her off
first, was the leader of the detail.
She was a small woman, and used to women as
well as men being taller than she was. The man towering over her
studied every aspect and nuance of her posture and expression
and held her in place with the warning that lay in that
alertness. His dark, close cropped hair gleamed ebony in the
crescent moonlight. The dark security clothing fit his lean body
well, the short sleeves of the combed cotton shirt stretched
over sexy, toned biceps that promised he hadn't been a pushover
before his change. Becoming a were always put something of the
animal in one's human features, if you knew how to look for it,
and his face, with its sculpted Latin good looks and a tinge of
arrogance, called forth a comparison to the mind almost
instantly of the jaguar that lurked behind the rich, coffee
brown eyes.
Her body reacted to him instantly, tightening
in a way that was not really remarkable, given the level of
pheremones rushing through the air and the beast hovering so
close to her frightened conscious, but her eyes lingered on him
all the same. Definitely were. And a powerful one.
"You're trespassing, kitten," he said, in a
voice that, despite its sternness, stroked her nerve endings
like velvet with a Latin rhythm. The currents stirring in the
night were definitely doing their work.
She pushed that aside to note that, though he
was firm and admonishing, he was responding to her fear, not
exceeding what was necessary to cow an already frightened
captive.
"I know, I'm sorry…I'm so sorry." She started
to stand on visibly quivering legs, then collapsed back down at
a warning hiss behind her. The whites of her eyes showed as they
darted about her.
She was fully in the persona now, had no
thought except that she had made a mistake, that they looked
fully capable of tearing her apart if she made the wrong move.
However, they also looked like a trained security detail, in
control of the situation and themselves in a way laughable next
to her tenuous grasp on the signs of her own transformation.
"I.I just wanted to come here," she quavered,
trying to still the pathetic trembling in her voice. She didn't
want to seem like a sniveling fool in front of him, before all
of them. "I'm twenty-one, and I just don't know anyone…I came
home from college, and I don't fit in here. My parents are with
ARM, and they just didn't understand.when it happened. My
family, my friends… They don't… They don't act like I'm real, or
normal, and I thought I could come here, just for tonight, and
maybe feel.different. Just for one lousy night."
She remembered the feeling all too well, it
was so easy to draw on it, but the truth was far more horrible
than she could discuss, and that was in her voice, too. They
were around her, a threat, but she also felt their kinship with
her, the sense of belonging, the warm affection between cats of
the same pride, a belonging beyond her reach and yet right here,
underscoring her isolation. She didn't belong here. Only tragedy
could attend her presence, and spoiling this for them would be
another sin, one she couldn't bear.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "If you'll just
let me get back to my boat, I'll go." Where had that thought
come from? A disturbance flitted through her conscious. She
wasn't supposed to tell them about the boat. Someone was
supposed to have dropped her off.
"Stay put." The unsmiling man unclipped a
radio from his belt, lifted it. "Sasha, we have an uninvited and
untrained…guest."
His emphasis on the word was enough to keep
her watching him warily.
"My Lord Namir is being informed of your
presence," he said. "Do not move." A moment later, she felt why.
It swept through her, that dangerous
simultaneous sense of possession and service that she had felt
in the alleyway toward Namir. It was his call to her kind, but
even deeper than that, it was the memory of a bond that tugged
open the door to a deep longing in her. It was almost enough to
break her focus, create that opening that would attract the
notice of a vampire's probe like a beacon on a dark moor.
He did not disappoint, the probe swiveling
immediately toward the ripple. She opened herself further to the
feeling, wanting his touch to remain within her, though it
filled her with a conflicting response of quivering terror and
bittersweet yearning. She was back in the alley, where she had
been in control of nothing, only seeking sanctuary where there
was none to be found.
She had attributed that overwhelming sense of
home and family, the most terrifying quicksand of all, to the
other horrible events of that night. She was unprepared for the
touch of his mind to bring them all back again, more powerfully
because this time the touch of his mind was intentionally
delving, enhancing the sense of being wrapped in a warm blanket
and pulled closer, wanted, welcomed.
A small part of her was disturbed. She was
slipping toward Truth, her subconscious floundering, the anchor
points of the self-hypnosis starting to weaken, confusing her
mind further. Then, a moment before she knew something was going
to go very wrong, the probe slowly withdrew from the womb of her
consciousness, leaving her bereft. She stood there, trembling,
unsure of anything, as the man spoke into the radio again. He
slid it back to his belt and then extended a hand that could
enclose both of hers.
"My lord remembers you, little one. He finds
you…intriguing, and bids you welcome, but before we will permit
you to join the others, you must be searched. If you do not
agree to do that, you must go."
She extended the duffel in her arms for
answer. "I'm Nya," she said uncertainly.
"Nya, welcome to Alhambra. I am Carlos. You
will tell me where your boat is."
"In the cove, back there," she said.
He jerked his head at another of the guards,
a Brazilian woman. "Raquel, find it, search it." He lifted out
the small bundle of clothes, shifting through the drawstring
trousers, loose shirt and a worn leather scabbard for a carved
wooden eating knife. "No ribbons or corsets?" he observed.
"Such a wealth of lovely medieval garb
available to a girl to wear to a festival, and you choose the
garb of a peasant boy. Do you have an identity crisis, Nya?"
Her stomach dropped, but he didn't seem to
expect an answer. "No weapons here," he stated. "Stand up."
She rose, her hands nervously twisting
together. His gaze passed over the other members of the security
detail and paused on one not much older than Nya. Her blonde
hair and toned body practically announced California transplant,
but her attractive features did not detract from the stern set
to her mouth and eyes.
"Please search her, Amy."
The were cougar instructed Nya in a quiet
voice to spread her legs out and lift her arms to her sides. The
man stood before her, not more than a foot away, his eyes
following Amy's hands as they slid down and under Nya's arms,
her shoulders, back, and armpits. Amy's fingers molded over
Nya's small breasts, followed them down to her rib cage, to her
hips. Nya was still quivering with nerves, but there was a
strangely growing heat that joined the apprehension, as she
watched the way his eyes followed the woman's motions, noting
every detail of her body the woman's hands touched. Nya
swallowed, knowing he would be quite aware of how his scrutiny
and the woman's touch was affecting her, but nothing changed on
his face, except a slight glimmer of interest in those dark
eyes. Nya flushed as the woman's hands slid over her damp
crotch.
"No shame, little one," the woman murmured.
"It's the night. Lammas. None of us could help but be excited.
It's normal for a were to have a heightened sexual awareness.
Also, looking at Carlos," she smiled in the corner of Nya's
vision, "Adds spice to that effect."
Her tone was gentle. Nya managed a jerky nod,
thrown off stride by the woman's unexpected kindness. She was
used to being castigated about her beast, not reassured that
what she felt was normal. A morass of emotions was threatening
to swamp her. She seemed to be unlocking an abyss in herself she
had not intended to open.
When the woman was done, Carlos nodded to
her. "You can change over there with Amy," he nodded toward the
rocks, with a brief glint of mischief in his expression, "unless
you're not overly shy."
She wasn't sure if she was or not. There was
something in the air, that strong scent of heat off the weres
moving on the island, and something about his close, impersonal
and yet not so impersonal regard, as the woman's hands had moved
over her that made her uncertain.
Nevertheless, she moved to the cover of the
rock, the woman at her side, to change into the peasant boy's
tunic and trews. Her body and mind were unsettled by Namir, the
moon, Carlos, why she was here.
When she emerged, he studied her curiously,
then stepped forward, lightly touched her face with a fingertip,
a firm, unrelenting touch, but not rough. Nya raised her eyes to
him, slid away. She was lost; if he could probe her, she was
entirely vulnerable and exposed by Namir's previous search.
He didn't probe her. "Amy will take you to
the party. Be careful and wise, kitten, and you will enjoy this
night."
Back to Top
Nya Post 4 – Lammas
Continued
Characters: Nya, Namir and Maeve
Writer(s): Joey
Time: August 1
Location: Alhambra Forest Preserve
She could hear life stirring everywhere. It
was not long before she and her guard merged into the back end
of a group of excited young women, wolves by their scent. They
noticed her as soon as a curve of the trail shifted her wind to
them, but they easily drew her into the ranks as she adopted the
same type of youthful exuberance. It was a night to embrace all
living beings, enjoy the Web and all its strands.
The sneering comment from a vague source, "An
excuse for an orgy," flitted through her mind, but she found it
inappropriate to the feeling of this place. She caught a brief
glimpse of one couple in a secluded glade, the man's face
reverent over the woman's, her expression passionate and joyous
as she clung to him. The movements of his body seemed to be
driving the energy around them higher and higher.
Nya understood about sex, of course. The
immersion of the body in an unclean act to create new servants
for God, much as one had to go through Purgatory to reach
Heaven. The act had been described to her…by her parents? They
had told her its power could turn the mind away from God. Seeing
the two lovers through the trees, she perversely felt she was
witnessing something spiritual.
She felt no real passion for the God of her
parents. That was all right, because no one had ever asked for
her enthusiasm, just her total commitment to the cause. Duty was
her God, and that had always felt appropriate to her. Her
sub-conscious reminded her that the gates of Heaven were closed
to her now, anyway; she could only hope to do enough good deeds
for the Army of Righteous Men to warrant an eternal stay in
Purgatory.
"Here's another kitten!"
Nya was pulled away from the strange thoughts
by a litter of young felines, dressed in an array of festive
garb, full skirts, peasant blouses and tightly laced corsets,
their ears, throats and arms adorned with Celtic design jewelry.
They were already being affected by the atmosphere, such that
their eyes were changing to cat's eyes in their human faces.
"Come," two of the girls seized her by the
arms while a third led the way, "Lord Namir has called for all
his kittens!"
Amy left them then, and Nya let herself be
borne along. Something rose in her throat at the thought of
being in Namir's presence, choking off speech. Fortunately, her
companions were too vigorously giggling and chattering to
notice. Nya managed to adopt enough of their wide-eyed sparkling
enthusiasm to avoid notice, but she could not loosen or explain
the knot in her stomach.
They came to a clearing. A bonfire roared
high under a sky jeweled with stars, and many were-cats were
already gathered around. Lord Namir was there with the
red-headed witch, watching the young felines pair off with
whoever caught their fancy, circling back to dance around him,
rubbing deferentially against him while he laughed and enjoyed
their play.
Being in his presence caused an immediate and
overwhelming flood of need, and loss. She swayed unsteadily.
Lord Namir's eyes fell upon her, and the lightest brush of his
mind was overwhelming, increasing the sense of loyalty to him,
until she didn't know whether to scream or weep, and was baffled
by both reactions.
He did not invade as he could have, taking
advantage of her abrupt vulnerability; apparently he had already
probed her as much as he intended to. He merely raised his brow
in an intrigued expression.
Nya tore her gaze from Namir and managed to
stifle the whimper from the emotional rip it caused. She focused
on the nearest thing to him, in more ways than one. His
red-headed Fey witch.
Maeve looked at her with amused, curious blue
eyes, and when their gazes met, Nya was rocked again by the
connection, strong and threatening. She shook her head, feeling
like she had flies buzzing in it. She stumbled forward and ended
up on one knee at Maeve's feet.
When she raised her head, it was as if she
were a different person entirely. She offered her hand to the
lady as if she were a lad in truth.
"Honor me with a dance, dear lady," Nya said
hoarsely. She bowed slightly in Namir's direction, not meeting
his eyes, caught between two selves in a dangerously exposed
state, but she could not tell where the danger lay. Her identity
was on a merry-go-round that was sliding up and down and
spinning all at once so she couldn't get an anchor. She didn't
know who was operating the ride or when she would be allowed to
get off, or if she wanted to get off. "I shall safeguard her
around the flames, my lord."
"She is a flame," the vampire said, bowing
back, "And contains a burning passion that far exceeds what lies
behind you. But I give her unto your keeping for a moment only,
and will hold you to your oath."
Nya's knee buckled, such that she gripped
Maeve's hand harder than expected. The witch reached out to
steady her, a concerned look crossing her brow. His words
inflicted wounds on Nya's insides, battered her mind with
confusing images and warring emotions.
She rose unsteadily and took the hand of the
beautiful Maeve. The witch projected a sensuality so strong that
Nya's blood stirred. When Maeve smiled at her, tears came to
Nya's eyes, shocking them both.
She saw Maeve's face but different, an
ancient time, and her eyes were sad, filled with the knowledge
of her own failure…as Nya had failed them both. She remembered
his sword…The Sword…lifting and throwing it into a pool of clear
glass, along with her heart, for the man who had wielded it was
taken away from her…because she wasn't worthy.
Nya seized onto the memory of that warrior,
of his discipline and strength, because she needed it now. Her
lord had given his lady unto her keeping and she must serve him
well. Nya seized the woman's hands, kissed her impetuously on
the mouth as one of the other young cats might, and pointed to
the fire. "Ready, m'lady?"
They danced, and the confusion continued.
Over and over, through feasting and revelry, through the odd
mixture of mundane and magic, past and present suggested by
their surroundings, she saw them all. A long time ago, she had
again clasped the cool fingers of the small woman with flame
hair and they had danced. The man had watched, the flame
reflected in his eyes, all of them caught up in a night meant to
celebrate the passion of the Lord and Lady that confirmed the
harvest for them all. Fires had dotted the hillsides, and the
moon had rode low, as if loathe to draw away from the magic, or
as if they had drawn Her down to join them.
There had been others there, too, other
faces, like tonight. Nya remembered the touch of hands of those
who accepted her, loved her, had loved her, vaguely felt them
through the casual touches of the strangers around her tonight.
They did not know her now, .so how could they really love her?
How could they accept her? What was real?
Back to Top
Nya Post 5 – Lammas Part 2
Characters: Nya, Namir and Maeve
Writer(s): Ben and Joey
Time: August 1
Location: Alhambra Forest Preserve
The kittens took her away from Namir and
Maeve then, and she stayed with the felines for several hours,
immersing herself in their play. However, she could not distract
herself from the confusing desires of her own heart. She was
compelled by them to leave the kittens, just after midnight, and
seek out the Lord and his Lady again.
She came to a cave among the hills of the
preserve. Inside the cavern, crystals in the rock caught the
fire of torches mounted in the stone. They turned the walls into
a glittering tapestry. It was like being inside of a diamond.
The heart of the gem, the true source of its fire to her, stood
in the center of the floor.
The two of them were waiting for her. For a
moment, her eyes adjusted to the differences between light,
dark, and dazzling. Then she saw that Namir stood with the woman
before him. She leaned back against him, her body pressed to
his, with his arms and the folds of his cloak crossed before
her. When Nya moved out of the entrance shadows and into the
light of the torches, his unearthly gaze riveted upon her, and a
light smile touched his firm mouth. He slowly opened his arms.
He had held the flame-haired woman's crossed wrists in his grasp
with the edges of the cloak, so when he slowly opened his arms,
it was like watching two birds extend their wings.
The velvet parted, sliding off his lady. She
was naked, white as cream, her fiery hair draped over her
shoulders and arms and matching the flame curls between her
legs. Her head lay back, relaxed, fitting perfectly into the
point between his jaw and shoulder.
Namir's smile was at its most potent. He'd
dropped all control of his true character, allowing himself his
rightful power for this evening. His every move, every word, was
an invitation to pleasure. He permitted it to flow from him as
he tempted Nya. "Ahhh.. and so she does return, my sweet witch.
You were right." He held out a hand to Nya. "Join us. My Gift
wishes to be shared with you this sacred night, my young pet.
Will you honor her offering?"
Gone was the thought of what she must do. For
a moment it was as if Nya had in fact been given a gift,
absolution for all her mistakes, imagined or otherwise. The
incoherent rage and episodes of confusion that kept her head
pounding so much of the time slunk away before the desire she
had kept banked. Nya had felt it from the first moment of
meeting them, two months before. It was a yearning that was not
only physical, but oddly spiritual, and it overrode all feeble
objections and propelled her forward eagerly.
Nya dropped to her knees before the woman and
lay one slim hand on her calf, spreading out her fingers and
watching her hand in wonder as she slid it onto that expanse of
pale thigh, feeling and tracing the muscles and skin. Inch by
inch, savoring the sensation, she slid her hand back and up,
tracing the indentation between thigh and buttock, then trailed
her fingertips down, back to the tender skin behind the knee.
She was not skilled or experienced, her
fingers more boyish than womanly, but she wanted, needed, and
she let that hungry yearning guide her. She rose to her knees
and cupped full breasts with their fragile network of blue
veins. She slid one arm around the woman's waist, her knuckles
brushing the man's hard stomach behind her. The flame-haired
woman was tiny, but all curves, like the earth herself. Nya did
not tighten her grip to pull the woman closer to her; the
flame-haired woman belonged to him, and so Nya brought her body
closer instead and then devoured, sucking the left breast first,
drawing the nipple deeply into her mouth, covering the aureole
with moist lips and suckling greedily, getting the full tart
flavor of it, warm and alive, coated with the light dampness
caused by the warm torchlight and the closeness of her lover's
body. She reveled in the feel of his hand touching her cap of
hair, stroking gently.
She knew when they had danced around the fire
together in joyous, childlike abandon that she had wanted Maeve
as much as she wanted Namir. She had wanted to collapse on the
warm earth, roll childlike with the two of them, and yet feel
them beneath her as well as over her, as if Nya were both man
and woman, intending to ravish and plunder as well as be
consumed.
She wanted to put her mouth inside Maeve;
that must be wrong, mustn't it? But she was doing it, working
her way down Maeve's soft belly, inhaling the musky aroused
scent beneath the flame curls as Maeve responded with a moan,
her arms now curled around Namir's neck. He had thrown off the
cloak, so now his hands were free to fondle his lady's breasts
as Nya delicately traced Maeve's swollen lips, feeling with
amazement their quivering, glistening response. Maeve sighed as
Namir's clever fingers cupped and pinched her tight, hard
nipples, and his pressure drove her hips forward, making it easy
for Nya to dare. She gently eased her tongue between those lips,
and closed her eyes at the pleasurable fountain of response she
found there. Maeve cried out, but kept her arms around Namir as
if locked there, the two of them like gentle jailers having
their way with their voluptuous prisoner while she begged for
release.
Nya dug her fingers into Maeve's soft
buttocks to hold her tighter against her mouth, getting more
demanding in her strokes, yearning to drive her to something, to
some point of irrationality she sensed getting closer in the
more frenetic movement of her hips, some point she was sure
would be an explosion of magic reflecting the spirit of this
night, when healing and redemption might be possible. She was
mewling against the slick skin, and her beast was rising, but
like a cool, caressing touch, she felt Namir reach inside her,
steady her so the human hunger balanced the animal. Her fingers
increased their pressure, opening Maeve up further, and a moment
later Maeve let out a guttural noise of pleasure as Namir thrust
into her backside, sending a quake of reaction through her
tissues all the way to Nya's tongue. Maeve exploded as Nya had
sensed, her fingernails digging into Namir's neck, her body
fairly lifting off the ground with the violent rhythm of her
hips against the ministrations of Nya's mouth, and the strength
of Namir's strokes.
Nya hung on, her own arousal trickling over
her bare calves from where the rhythm was rubbing her against
the backs of her calves. Maeve's voice was music and Nya
shuddered with her, sucking her vibrating clit until the red
haired woman collapsed limply against Namir and they sank to the
ground with Nya. He had found his own pleasure while Maeve found
hers, and now he reached out and pushed Nya's damp hair from her
forehead. She nestled her chin in his hand, hoping his touch
would linger, and it did, for a moment.
"You have served us well, little one. I am
glad you came to us tonight. Perhaps we need to serve you."
Namir trailed his hand along Nya's face,
across her shoulder and down to cup her small, tight breast. Her
nipple tightened and rose as his fingers stroked her, sending a
shudder through her. Unfamiliar feelings shot through her,
causing her to arch under his attentions, her mind relinquishing
control of her body to him without so much as a murmur of
protest. Maeve rolled over to face her and took Nya's face
between her soft hands. Her lips found Nya's and gently drew her
into a lingering kiss. The young girl found herself grasping
Maeve's shoulders with needy, desperate fingers, seeking to
prolong the feeling that mere touch of lips and tongue sent
spiraling through her body.
Maeve smiled and pressed against Nya, laying
her on her back. The witch pressed the length of her full curves
against younger flesh. Her thigh straddled Nya's, pushing her
legs apart as her hand slipped down to trace delicate patterns
through curls. Then her touch became even more intimate, her
fingertips parting Nya's labia.
What followed was something that Nya could
not grasp with any words, an overwhelming sensation of being
swept into a delicious oblivion. Hands explored every inch of
her, mouths seemed to consume her entire body. She could not
tell where she began and ended. The feel of sweet soft lips
drinking from her mouth and from between her parted legs, until
lightning ripped through her body. It frightened her with its
power and yet she never wanted the sensation to end, or her
connection to the two who caused it to fade.
When the powerful ripplings eased, none of
them spoke. There were just soft caresses, incoherent murmurs,
the dream-like passing of time. Nya dozed, wrapped in arms and
held closely between two other bodies. Maeve and Namir loved
each other so much, and she felt.immersed in that love. Safe for
the first time in her life.
Time passed, and the dawn light began to seep
into the sky, pushing back the magic of the night. The elements
fell into place - the lack of protection, guards down, the
relative isolation of the three of them. The trigger activated,
and Nya's eyes snapped open. She remembered what she was here to
do.
During the night, they had shifted, and now
Nya lay on the outside, her bare spine pressed against a point
of Maeve's, her hip against her rounded backside as the lovely
lady lay facing Namir, ensconced in his arms.
Nya sorted through her thoughts. She had
immersed herself in the character; that was normal. What she had
experienced had not been so mundane Though the self-hypnosis
worked well, she had never so completely lost herself as she had
done this past night. Or maybe she hadn't lost herself at all.
Maybe she had not been playing a part at all.
Her legs drew up against herself so she
formed a fetal ball, the age old posture of self-comfort, and
she recognized it as such, an alarming display of weakness. ARM
had warned her of this, that getting close to them, their magic
and beauty, would make her believe that those who lived off the
blood of others did not need to die, but she hadn't expected
this.
The mists came, obscuring the ARM mantra,.and
she remembered. She had gotten lost, destroyed by their deaths,
wandering with no direction. She wanted to fight side by side
again with those who swore to fight evil and corruption and
demons.
No! She shook her head. It was more of the
confusion, returning as the magic of the night was receding. It
was as Cassius had implied, they were doing it to her,
influencing her mind with sex and magic. She was powerful. She
was Loyalty and Duty. That was her religion, her way of life,
and she would honor it.
The symbol of Cassius's cell, the Pendragon,
all its motifs those of the Knights of the Round Table, had
called to her from the beginning. ARM said it was her destiny to
kill this most powerful vampire. The Knights of the Round Table
had the purest motives, the bravest hearts. They were bound to
each other by their love for one another and to the Land.a
brotherhood/sisterhood that would serve through the ages.
So why, when she lay here now, did she feel
as if she were mocking everything they were,.that Cassius had
simply stolen the images and did not know, as she knew, what
they really meant.
By ARM standards, what she had just done with
this woman and man was as far from purity and morals as could be
imagined, so why had it felt like a more religious experience
than anything she had ever felt in a church?
Namir had slid into that daylight sleep of
the vampire, but he was old and powerful enough not to do so. He
was comfortable, at ease, trusting the two women, and the
thought was like a branding iron plunged against the soft tissue
of her brain, the pain trying to block the trigger. Trust,
defenses down, that was always the trigger she buried in her
subconscious; when those conditions existed was when the motive
came back to the forefront. With supernaturals, the reaction had
to be swift, because it would be detected quickly. No time to
get lost in a morass of emotions. She was lying next to an
empath, a sleeping one, but Nya's intent would invade her dreams
like a nightmare. Even though they weren't touching, the heat of
their bodies mingled.
Enough. She was crying. The vampire and his
witch were doing this to her. Nya forced the emotions aside,
centered herself to do what needed to be done with the uncanny
discipline she had always had. She reached under her discarded
tunic, slowly drew the small wooden eating dagger from the
scabbard. She pulled it in close to her body and then casually
turned.
This is wrong. WRONG. WRONG. They are your
lord and lady. You must NOT do this.
It was screaming in her head and Nya fought
it for the evil spell of magic it must be as she quietly,
effortlessly as smoke, lifted herself to the balls of her feet,
took the dagger in both hands and positioned herself. She did
not give herself a moment more to think. The dagger dove
downward, toward the vampire's chest.
She felt it as the blade moved in its
lightning descent, his awareness of some danger, communicating
itself to Maeve. That split second of disorientation, processing
the data, and then his energy slammed into her, knocking off her
aim. Maeve reacted with only love guiding her in her groggy
state. She threw herself over his chest.
If Maeve had been trained as Nya had been,
she would have flung herself up, knocking her off balance. It
was what Nya would have done. But instead she protected her
lover selflessly, foolishly. Nya stumbled over them, overwhelmed
by the power of Namir's defensive reaction, but his power
faltered for a moment as her dagger found a mark. Not the
intended mark, but Maeve's white skin.
No! The voice screamed in Nya's head.
Maeve cried out his name and he struggled up,
holding her to him, trying to get his bearings as Nya staggered
back from them. His eyes snapped up to her and agony exploded in
her heart.
Her brain slammed into survival mode, kicked
everything else out, and she was away from the cave, not looking
back, sealing off the moment, the anguish tearing at her
shields, the yowl of her beast shrieking in her heart. No, she
couldn't lose control and shift. She would die here if she did,
run to earth by the lionesses who would be coming to Namir's
aid, perhaps even now.
She could hear the howl of Namir's rage and
his bellowed orders ringing in her ears as she ran. Her training
advanced into high gear, evade…escape…run.
Nya plunged through the woods, the sounds of
pursuit fading behind her.
The cave was close to the water, and she
plunged into the frigid waves, headed straight out where her
scent would be lost. It cooled the beast as well, and helped her
regain control. She was a creature of the marshes and waters, of
the islands, and knew at dawn, the lobstermen would be headed
out, as would the sport fishermen in their cruisers to go deep
sea fishing, cruising close enough to see the picturesque
iron-veined rocks of the islands. If her body, fortified from
the cold by its lycanthropy, could reach one before her body
went numb in the frigid Maine waters, she would seize onto the
transom and make like someone whose jon boat went down from
getting too close to the craggy islands and got holed by jagged
rock. Otherwise she would drown, but that was preferable to
being torn apart by cats.
Namir would be delayed only a moment or two,
but that was considerable for him. He would summon some of his
pride to him before dispatching them after her. Maeve would be
his priority. As she should be. It choked Nya, the scream of the
witch echoing in her head and blinding her senses so that she
could not even think where the blade had landed, whether she had
struck fatally or not. She had failed. Failed. But strangely she
did not think of it as her failure to kill Namir. She had just
betrayed them…again.
She was overwhelmed by simple despair, and
the odd realization that this scene would keep happening again
and again, until she could find them and know who they were
before she was deceived by those who kept using her. They wanted
to keep the King from wielding the sword again, and she had once
again served their purposes, unless by some miracle she had
missed the heart or Namir could heal Maeve. A king-killing,
Cassius had said. Well, if Nya had killed the woman, their
mission had succeeded.
By destroying Namir's heart, she had
destroyed the King in him.
Back to Top
Nya Post 6
– Morning After – A New Resolve
Characters: Nya
Writer: Joey
Time: August 2
Location: Mainland Forest, Port Hope
Mentions: Namir, Maeve
When she woke, she was in the mainland
forest, close to home, and staring into the glassy eyes of a
decapitated rabbit. Nya struggled up, fighting the lingering
effects of the Change, and saw that the head was practically all
that remained of her kill. She had gorged herself with frenetic
energy, as if knowing she might need it. But it was just past
mid-morning.
Namir had summoned his cats to his aid only
minutes after she plunged into the water. She remembered gold
and green glittering eyes, searching for her, coming close to
the water's edge as the tide drew her out into the gray dawn.
She had Shifted in the water, her cat complaining bitterly about
the wet environment, but she was far enough out that the
movement of the swells camouflaged her tiny body and disguised
the complaint. She had trembled at the snarls exchanged, the
moonlight glittering off exposed fangs, knowing the lionesses
would tear that small body to pieces. Her Nya part fought the
frightened cat, almost wanting to reveal herself, let it be
over, but the ocelot's instinct for survival took over and she
drifted away with the current.
Her cat and Fate saved her, for even with her
advanced training, in her unbalanced state she would not have
had the ability to scramble onto the transom of the idly
trundling sport fishermen, and hunker down, wet and miserable,
managing to cling there. Fortune had been on her side when the
captain of the vessel swore, realizing he'd left his cooler on
the dock, and spun about to speed back in to the mainland and
retrieve his day's supply of beer.
Nya struggled to her feet, wiping the heel of
her hand in the leaves to remove the blood of the rabbit. She
wasn't far from home, from clothes that would again turn her
into boy or woman, as need demanded. A warmth prickled across
her skin as she remembered Maeve under her hands and mouth,
Namir's light, caressing touch. Just the memory made her body
respond in the same odd, moist way it had last night.
She shook it out of her head. Cassius would
be waiting for her report. Each time she returned from a
mission, where she took a life, or gathered information, he sent
her to the cold stone chapel above where they met after she gave
her report. He would order her to stay on her knees on the
stones, not squatting to her heels or bent over, but upright, so
that after several hours her back and thighs were screaming for
release. It was necessary, so she would never forget, never
indulge in any pride for succeeding at a mission. She had never
failed any orders. Until possibly now.
Nya stumbled over a root. She saw Namir and
Maeve again, layered in her memory, the people they were now,
but in courtly dress, turning to her from a stone table,
speaking, Maeve's soft hand touching her.him, then her eyes
following another, too often it seemed, another knight. It gave
Nya a shade of tight foreboding, which eased as Maeve's eyes
turned back to the king…Namir, filled with devotion and love.
Another memory, this one driving Nya to her
knees in the dirt. She saw Namir,.the king, in armor. The air
was hot with blood and fire, and then Nya screamed, her voice
harsh and deep, a man's voice, as she saw Arthur's son bring his
weapon down on the king's helm, even as Arthur…Namir…drove his
lance into the son's chest. Nya saw Arthur fall, and s/he was
shouting his rage and pain, tearing through his enemies, trying
to regain the place at his lord's side...too late. He had failed
them both, failed to protect them both. He was ashamed that he
should live while his king died…but Arthur would not let him die
at his side. One more task to do…The Sword.
The moment she had driven the knife into
Maeve and met Namir's horrified gaze flashed through Nya's mind,
obscuring the past. Nya surged up out of the memories, sobbing.
It was always one more task, one more thing to do. It kept her
alive and moving, as well as bringing her to the brink of
madness, time and time again in these debilitating fits of
confusion.
She hated ARM, hated her parents, hated their
God, hated them all. The power of the rage surged up in her,
knocking aside a lifetime of discipline and consuming her in its
blaze of purifying fire. She stood, exposed, naked in the
forest, her fists clenched, head thrown back, and a feral yowl
ripped from her throat. It was the rage of the cat, but it was
her rage, too, and she vented it now, venting her fury and
helplessness, screaming with the ferocity of a wild animal,
daring herself to be found, knowing she would not because this
was her destiny, her decision to make.
Had she thought this mission was her first
failure? As if the sun rising on the water shed harsh light on
the truth of her existence, she realized that, if Maeve lived,
this "failure" would be perhaps the only victory she had ever
won.
The trigger had been sprung, there was no
mind programming now. She was just Nya, a warrior with an empty
heart and soul, standing in the forest and facing herself. A
lifetime of discipline had taught her to look at all things as
they were, never embellishing, never indulging. Now she saw what
had to be done. She had mistaken her duty and she must answer
for that. She would pay the debt that was owed.
There was only one punishment fitting for it,
and, while it should be his right, she knew his heart…remembered
his heart, enough to know he might not be able to do it.
So she must make him do it.
Back to Top
Nya Post 7 – A Visit
to Cassius
Characters: Nya, Cassius (NPC), Talon (NPC)
Writer(s): Joey
Time: August 2
Location: Abandoned stone chapel in wooded area outside
Port Hope - ARM cell hideaway
Mentions: Namir, Maeve
The ARM cell to which Nya belonged consisted
almost entirely of ARM members who had voluntarily allowed
themselves to be infected with lycanthropy or changed to
vampires to serve the cause. Their existence was known only to a
few of the Inner Circle, and they were kept separate. She came
here to give her reports on her missions and to be chained when
the moon was full. Cassius was leader of the cell, one of the
first who had agreed to succumb to the virus for the good of
ARM, to give them an edge, permanently sentencing himself to
being a freakish monster.
When she first came to them, he told her
control would be difficult, taught her what things to avoid, but
how to be prepared for it if it happened. While he had succumbed
to the virus to serve God and humanity and so would be forgiven
his monstrosity, her sins had brought the infection upon
herself, so he had told her she must dedicate herself totally to
the purpose of ARM, never thinking of herself, never indulging a
moment of pleasure, spending her life paying for her sins.
They were based in an abandoned stone chapel
by an old cemetery, deep in the woods outside Port Hope Before
she went there to have her audience with Cassius, she stopped at
home to change. Cassius preferred her to dress as a nubile young
woman when in his presence, rather than as a warrior or teenage
boy. He told her over and over it was to warn her that woman was
essentially a weak creature, subject to her hormones, especially
one with her youth. She wore one of the outfits he felt was
particularly representative of sin, blue cire pants that hugged
her groin, ass and legs, outlining everything under it clearly
because she wore no underwear, as he preferred, and a beaten
silver belt that rode low on her hips, with a stretch croptop
that exposed her stomach and navel, the fabric clinging to her
small breasts.
He dressed her as a whore, according to her
father's standards, but he never used her, or allowed any of the
other Changed cell members to do so, though it was permitted,
justified by the need to keep a rein on the baser urges of the
beast. Cassius claimed that her power to serve them lay in her
uncorrupted innocence. She had stood hip deep in blood, but
because some man's organ had never pierced her body, she was an
innocent. An unfamiliar expression curled her lip and she held
it for a moment as she stood outside the stone chapel, amazed
with the unexpected feel of a sneer stretching her face. An
emotion of anger. Of hate.
Nya wiped it away as she came into his
presence, and knelt. At his bidding, she rose and presented her
throat to him.
Cassius studied her with his shrewd eyes. She
was blank, the perfect chameleon. She was his loyal agent, his
weapon of destruction in a package that looked like it should be
skipping off to grade school in a short plaid skirt and bobby
socks. Until you looked at her eyes. Those dark eyes that were
older than time. Did she have any idea what an old soul she was?
He had worried that the lycanthropy would eventually unleash her
knowledge of it, destroy the innocence that kept her so
ignorant, and so useful.
"I failed you, Cassius," she kept her chin
up, his teeth hovering just a moment from her throat. "I wounded
the Fey witch, perhaps fatally, but the target is untouched."
His body stiffened in the chair beneath her.
He liked her to straddle him when she gave her reports, and
present her throat to him as she had done promptly upon his
beckoning. His fingers, curled on her buttocks, tightened,
bruising. "You were to draw him away from her."
"I tried, but they would not be separated."
He snarled and shoved her off his lap. She
fell and rolled, came to one knee, her head bowed, facing him.
"You should have waited, then. He will be far more vigilant now.
We have lost time!!"
"But not progress," his second-in-command,
Talon, stood against the wall, observing. "If she indeed killed
the witch, she's nearly destroyed him, for a time. He will be
weak, distraught. He will make mistakes."
"I wish to make amends, just lords," Nya
murmured.
"How can you make amends? He won't let you
near him!" Cassius kicked her, imagining the Inner Circle's
wrath.
"He will if I go to him and offer him my
life. Is it not true, that in a rage, a vampire, even one as
civilized as Lord Namir, would want to kill with his bite, my
lords? What if the meat is poisoned into which he tears?"
Cassius stopped, turned. Nya saw his feet
approach her, felt the heat of his fury subside, though his grip
was still painful as he buried his fingers in her hair and
yanked up her head so he could study her eyes. "You would do
this. You would sacrifice your life."
"I have failed," she said simply. "And
failure will not be tolerated."
His touch became almost gentle, stroking
through her short hair, a tender caress that almost undid her
focused shields in a way his violence never could, because a
caressing touch had awakened her woman's body. Namir and Maeve
had done that to her. She lashed her response down with brutal
ferocity and kept her gaze on his, blinking, open.
"I never knew what a treasure I discovered
when I found you on my doorstep, naked and ashamed, fleeing the
police, the stench of your mother's blood on your breath. You've
never questioned your service, sweet Nya, or your punishments.
You know your place in life. I shall miss you." He nodded. "I
like your idea. Namir and his Alhambra are far too popular with
many humans. We must help them see the error of their ways, and
his death will be a significant step in that direction."
She waited. "Very well," he stepped back
after studying her a moment more. "Do as you say you will do. If
you do not succeed, I expect you will be dead. If you fail, and
live," his eyes narrowed, glittered, "It will not be for long.
Now, go up to the chapel, and wait for me."
* * *
He beat her of course. "You have failed
because of pride," Cassius admonished, bringing the
silver-tipped flogger down on her bare back. The stones of the
chapel floor cut into her bare breasts and belly. "You have
never failed before. You must stay here until day end, to repent
your failings."
Midnight. That was not so long, and it would
give her time to think. Nya felt the cut of the flogger, felt it
take flesh off her shoulders, and her tears trickled between the
flagstones, lost in the earth beneath, but she did not cry out.
The strikes would leave scars, as it had before, but he never
did it long enough to incapacitate her much, and because she was
a cat, they healed fast.
He chained her arms and legs to the silver
manacles built in the flagstones, his own hands in gloves,
binding her facedown before the altar, spread-eagled, naked,
cold and bleeding.
"Repent your sins, little girl," he said, as
he left her. "Think of how you will make restitution."
She had already thought of that. Now she just
had to endure the pain and wait for the right moment to do it.
Back to Top
Nya Post 8 – A Visit
to A Witch
Characters: Nya, The Witch (NPC)
Writer: Joey
Time: August 3
Location: A swamp outside Port Hope
When she left Cassius at midnight, she
stopped by her home, then drove her motorcycle to the outskirts
of Port Hope. She turned off on one of the side roads that ran
along the marshes, and took a boat through them, to a cabin deep
in the marsh, where a woman stood on the porch, waiting.
"I felt you coming, little one," the woman
said, staring at her through gray cataracts. "What you want is a
dangerous thing. You gonna pay me so I don't get no bad juju
from this?"
Nya nodded, not questioning how this woman
she had never met, knew why she was there. Since she had become
a lycanthrope, she had discovered there were many, many things
that supernaturals and the human magic users knew that mundane
humans did not. She knew of the woman from her intelligence
gathering on other missions, knew she was one ARM intended to
eventually have killed, a drowning accident in the marshes where
she lived alone. If the woman, who had never met her, had known
to be outside for her arrival, knew what she was there for, she
suspected ARM would not find her as easy a target as they
expected. At least she would not be Nya's target. No one would
be, ever again.
She handed over the bag of money, most of
what she had, expense money for missions, for basic food
supplies given to her at times by ARM. The woman weighed it, wet
her lips.
"Speak what it is you want, girl, so those
listening know it is your wish."
"I want a soulcatcher, and a blood poison.
One that will kill a vampire, slow and painful, once the
vampire's drunk of it. It should be able to kill a human, too."
"Only poison like dat, kill the person who
drink it, whether the vampire drink his blood or no." The old
woman nodded, and a smile flashed across her round face,
pleasant as oozing pus. "Instant karma, dat, eh? Dat what you
want, dat what you get. You paid enough, little girl. You paid
more than enough."
Back to Top
Nya Post 9 – A Shoulder
Graze
Characters: Nya
Writer: Joey
Time: Mid-December
Location: Nya's Home
So she returned to her home, and waited. ARM
would not call for her again. They would assume she was waiting
for the correct time to strike, would wait to see if she
succeeded in her task. She did some intelligence work and
learned Maeve lived, that her blow had done little more than
graze the woman's shoulder, painful but nothing close to life
threatening. As a warrior, she should have been ashamed at her
ineffectiveness. Alone in the place in the marsh she had made
her hideaway, unknown to ARM, she wept tears of relief.
The moon came, and she chained herself up as
ARM always did, refusing the cat the freedom to run, though this
time it tore at her soul in a way it had never done before. It
was as if, by turning her back on ARM, she had embraced that
part of her, brought it more into her soul. She imagined she
could hear the others calling to her, calling her to rejoin
them, run with her sisters and brothers again, but she knew it
was the hallucination of the moon, for they could only want her
dead for trying to kill their lord.
Then she heard Maeve had left to pursue a
quest in the Fey world, and she knew the time had come, knew
that Cassius would also know. With Maeve there, Namir might have
been softer, more moved to compassion, and she wanted his full
wrath, craved it not so much for redemption as for the end it
would bring. She would suffer, she was certain, she deserved
that, but she would no longer be used, and that was a far worse
torture than what she would offer to him to inflict upon her.
She dressed as a virginal harlot for Cassius,
an average-looking teenage boy for many of her missions. She
sensed she must do something different to appear before Namir.
She must appear before him as the warrior she was, take his
punishment as herself.
She wore the black body suit that stretched
tight over her frame and gave her supple body unencumbered
movement. She put the 9mm in the shoulder harness. The two
silver knives layered on her right wrist sheaths balanced the
folding miniature crossbow on her left. She shrugged into a
loose, ankle length duster, not intending to wear it long, but
it would get her through traffic without police notice of the
illegal weaponry. The semi- automatic she packed in her saddle
bag and would put into her outer thigh holster once she reached
her destination. The she picked up the soulcatcher bottle, the
vial of poison, and left the dilapidated shack behind.
There was nothing in it that made it home. It
was a barracks, a place to hide, to be safe. She turned her back
on it and went toward death.
Back to Top
Nya Post 10 – Is Namir
Home?
Characters: Michael, Nya
Writer: Joey
Time: Mid-December
Location: Alhambra
Nya took her boat to the island of the
Alhambra, passing under the bridge and then pulling onto the
beach. The wards detected her immediately, but the bridge
security guards could see her clearly. She was not hiding. She
strode casually toward the tense security contingent that
descended upon the beach as soon as she was disembarking.
There was a man with them, with the face of a
British aristocratic rakehell and the body of a god. He was not
wearing the uniform of the security contingent, but a cream
colored shirt that appeared handmade and perfectly tailored
slacks, as if he had joined up with them from an office when the
alarm was given. He had fair, flowing hair caught back in a
loose careless tail, the gray eyes intelligent, probing, not
entirely arrogant. He was also a vamp. He was powerful, perhaps
a Master, and she fought her own beast's instinctive need to
shift her eyes away as he approached, acknowledging his
dominance. He was leading the group.
She dropped to one knee briefly, recognizing
a show of respect might be useful, but then immediately rose.
"I've come to see Lord Namir," she repeated,
raising her eyes and meeting his briefly, enough to let him know
she was being polite, not cowed. There was only one to whom she
would submit.
"Indeed?" Michael raised an eyebrow. She was
lycanthrope, a young kitten, and yet she was carrying enough
silver on her to massacre a pack. He noted the semi-automatic
strapped on her thigh, followed it across a pair of nicely
outlined small breasts to the shoulder holster revealed by the
open coat.
"Perhaps you'd better disarm first, and tell
me what your business is with the Master of Alhambra. He's not
in the best of moods." The weaponry looked heavier than she did,
but her tight mouth and disciplined tension suggested she had
never smiled. Not once.
Nya straightened, advanced a step under his
watchful eyes, the wind shifting with her, bringing her scent to
them.
"It's her! The one who tried to kill Maeve!"
That came from one of the pride, a beautiful lioness in human
form that Nya had immediately recognized from her scent as one
who had joined the pursuit the fateful night at the forest
preserve.
They were quick, but she was quicker. The
semi-automatic came out of her holster and the small cross bow
shot from her sleeve, cocked with three silver tipped arrows and
drawn back to fire.
"The gun is loaded with silver," she said
flatly, focused entirely on her task to let them know she had no
fear. "The crossbow goes without saying. I'm here to see Lord
Namir. I am not here to hurt him, but I will surrender only to
him."
Michael held up a steadying hand to the
others, all amusement gone from his narrowed eyes. "I asked you,
little one, what is your business with him? And regardless of
whether or not that audience is granted, you will not be
permitted to see him armed. I suggest, if you want the whisper
of a chance of seeing him, you stand down."
Nya looked at him, at the cold eyes,
measuring her, measuring her intent, and felt an
inappropriately-timed warm shiver that strangely recalled her
reaction when she met Carlos earlier. She squared her shoulders,
ignored her cat's raging hormones, and dropped the gun with a
thunk to the sand. She removed the soulcatcher bottle and vial
of poison from the coat, shrugged off the duster.
She then proceeded to silently strip off her
weaponry, until she was down to the body suit and her boots. And
a small switchblade in the left one. She wasn't completely a
fool.
When she was done, she straightened, picked
up the bottle and vial, and extended them to him. Michael took
them carefully. Her eyes never wavered from his.
"You have my weapons. The vial is a blood
poison. I offer to take it in Lord Namir's presence, so he may
watch me die a slow, agonizing death, an hour to every minute I
made his lady suffer. He should not use his fangs to cause me
more pain once I take it, because it is death to a vampire. The
bottle is bespelled to catch my soul when it leaves my body so I
may never incarnate. I will remain his prisoner forever. Such is
the fate I deserve. I will wait here until he decides what he
desires."
With that, she dropped to her knees before
the silent group of weres, bowed her head, and prepared to wait.
Back to Top
Nya Free Post
– A Trip to Koreander's
Writer: Mark and Joey
Characters: Koreander, Bastet, Nya and Carlos
Mentions: Michael, Namir, Maeve
Location: Koreander's Rare Books
Nya hesitated, awkward as Carlos held her
back, opened the door and gestured her to precede him. The
chimes of the bell and warmth, the smell of exotic coffee and
the faint aura of chocolate, swept over her. Some of the
miserable uncertainty receded, and her mundane senses accepted
it as evidence that her surroundings were harmless, rather than
recognizing anything erected in the store might be affecting
her. Her cat sensed something else. Feline, and more than
feline.
Nya's gaze went left, where a black cat
blinked at her, lazing upon a stack of books. The indolence
contrasted oddly with the startling penetration of her brilliant
green eyes. Her gaze had an intensity unusual for an ordinary
house cat.
A flood of irate disdain filled her mind. Nya
stepped back at the indignant thought that invaded her mind too
abruptly to be her own imagination.
What do you mean, *ordinary* house cat?
The last one to suggest that is now a stone statue in Cairo.
