A motel in Placilla, Valparaíso
Eleven years before Fimbulwinter
(BGM)
It is a night of lust in Valparaíso. Shameless, unabashed wantonness has flooded its streets. It is neither a curse nor a miracle, but a sudden rise of demand and a city ready to supply. A manmade leviathan, an American aircraft carrier, has called port in the city, spewing almost five thousand horny sailors. A legion of testosterone short of rationality and brimming to the seams with the basest urge to fuck. For a weekend, Valparaíso and neighboring Viña del Mar have become the world capitals of prostitution.
Whores proudly walk the length of Errázuriz Avenue and neighboring streets—Cochrane, Blanco, Los Humos—like never before. Local Chilean women and transsexuals hoping for a quick buck have been joined by a small army of prostitutes from every South American country. Bars, discos and whorehouses near the port will enjoy their greatest weekend in many years. However, there are always those who are not satisfied with only the conventional supply. Away from the homeland and full of desire, there are always those looking for the chance to sin. To provide for those furtive men and women, there are those callous men and women who lurk in the shadows of the world’s oldest profession. One of those callous people is Rosa Colhuán. The product she offers is her fifteen-years-old daughter.
Liria has been selling her body for a year to this date. However, this is only the second time she is taken by more than two men at once. Bright girl that she is, Liria has already learned most of the tricks of the trade, most of all the right attitude and behavior. One year into her career, she only needs a few minutes to tell who is looking for a girlfriend experience, who is looking for a quick and easy fling, and who is looking for a passionate succubus who takes the lead. These sailors, loaded with pent-up, animal lust, merely wanted a pretty-looking outlet. Liria is almost grateful; skilled actor that she is, the girl nonetheless loathes pretending that she cares. It is much easier to be a cumdump.
The night passes in some sort of zen-like detachment. It feels almost like an out-of-body experience, in which Liria Colhuán watches herself pull off the performance that will earn her mother a good four hundred US dollars. A loud moan here, a quiet gasp there; just the right amount of sobbing and complaining to make herself look the fair maiden claimed by powerful, manly men. Her acting appeals to the basest masculine instinct, to the cave dweller carrying away his mate and the barbarian raider stealing the farmer’s wife. She receives no applause, only laughter and jeers. Even if she does not understand the English language, the gleam in their eyes, the crooked grins on their faces and the tone of their words is universal. They are selfish, crude, rough, even violent partners. They act all their pornographic fantasies upon her, all the things they cannot do with their significant others in the US of A. It is nothing unexpected; every girl who enters this business quickly learns not to expect kindness or pleasure from her customers. There are no Cinderellas in this world.
It ends earlier than Liria expected. Perhaps they tired faster than even they expected. Perhaps they were actually on a curfew, and now return to their ship bumping fists and smiling triumphant and perhaps a little bit guilty at their very illegal deed. Perhaps all the alcohol in their system messed up their ability to perform. Whatever the case, they leave the girl thoroughly used and abused, not a single thought of her own trip back home crossing their minds.
Alone in a filthy hovel, the kind of hidden, nondescript place were a minor can sell her body. This is Liria Colhuán’s life.
The stench of booze and sweat cannot hide the dirt and grime already engraved into the bedroom itself, a dark crust of filth to match the dried semen on the bedsheets. It is all too familiar already. Liria is used to this, and it is this realization that hurts the most. Nothing those men did to her can compare to the knowledge that this filth is already hers.
That the stench of alcohol, sweat and cum already clings to her clothes like it does to this room.
That it seeps into her pores and from there into her soul.
That she can smell it in her very dreams, for even those are filled of shapeless strangers fucking her even as they are devoured by flames.
That this is her life, and will be her life for the rest of her days.
Small fingers hold on to plain sheets caked in cum. A single sob escapes her lips; Liria allows herself no more. Her imprudent mind tries to soothe her with the memory of that one moment three years before; that of the boy and girl who made her feel life was worth living. She pushes them both deep into the abyss of her mind; she will not taint those memories with this filth. With her filth.
The life he protected. The life she preserved. It has become this.
Stained.
Polluted.
Tainted.
Filthy.
Filthy.
Filthy.
A second, blasphemous sob breaks the stillness of the night in quiet Placilla, far from the hustle of downtown Valparaíso and its weekend of rampant sex.
The thought of moving from that loathsome room never crosses her mind. The walk home will be long. In the remote case that she arrived home before the night is over, it would surely result in another customer, or perhaps her mother would scold her for not making a better use of her time looking for more customers herself.
No, Liria Colhuán will not move.
But she will not allow herself to cry, either.
Sleep comes quickly.
(BGM STOP)
*** ***
Cold.
A drizzle falling uniformly—a shower.
It strikes Liria without mercy, pushing her from sleep into sudden awareness, forcing her eyes open and then blinded by abrupt lighting.
“Wha, wha—!?”
“Stop flailing around, girl. It is bothersome.”
The voice hits her into stillness. A voice most unexpected, warm yet so painful to hear in this of all nights.
“You are—!”
Her attempt to turn around is stopped by hands that grab the sides of her head and jerk her so she is staring straight ahead at the shower wall.
“Be still,” insists the voice.
(BGM)
It is how (Liria imagines) a schoolteacher sounds like, firm and demanding obedience. Thus, the teenager can only do as told, and allow the unexpected intruder’s ministrations. Liria is aware but uncaring of her nakedness; the water that shocked her into awareness now feels gentle and soothing to her aching muscles. She is sitting on a plastic bathroom stool. Liria then catches a faint, sickly-sweet, fruity aroma, likely coming from the shampoo the other girl is now carefully rubbing on her long hair. She wants to ask about it, but her heart is beating so fast it is hard to breathe, and an unreasonable terror has filled her—that this bizarre scene will reveal itself a dream the moment she opens her mouth again.
Liria Colhuán allows herself to be bathed. It is a battle against her own thoughts and emotions, for her hair and her skin are taught tenderness no mother and no man has ever shown her. The second most hated part of herself considers this a learning experience; a possible new service she could offer her customers. The most hated part of herself manifests as a blush in her cheeks and heat in her loins, for her caretaker leaves no corner untouched and no inch unwashed, and Liria does not find it in herself to resist these gentle attentions. However, Liria finds herself wishing to hear that voice again, to know this is truth and not sick delusion.
“You…you are Lily, right?” Her voices comes out small, the voice of the small child hoping against all hope that this year she’ll get something on the day every other child gets presents for whatever reason. Every moment of silence is a stab in her chest and a thousand voices mocking her for hoping.
“…yes, that was how this one was addressed in the volcano town.”
The silence was torture. The words are shackles. They constrict young Liria, becoming condemnations in her mind. Why else would the fairy of light show herself before a filthy—filthy!—whore? The careful, delicate attentions from the arrogant girl feel like mockery to the pride-less one.
“I’m sorry…” murmurs Liria, likely not even sure why herself. Lily certainly voices as much.
“Why do you apologize, girl? What unseen ill have you inflicted upon this one?”
“I’m sorry…”
The mortal girl shrinks herself but she cannot escape Lily gentle hands running over her skin, clearing away soap foam.
“Hmph…” murmurs the Servant, and the poor girl sobs inconsolably. Then she reminds herself that tears are not allowed and bites her lips, as if her sadness were a physical thing tries to leap out of her mouth. It makes Lily sigh.
“Why do you not cry, girl? You clearly want to, but choose to do not.”
Lily shakes her head. That is the one forbidden thing. She is Liria Colhuán, and she is not weak. Mother said it: Rosa Colhuán’s daughter is not allowed to cry. Tears make others look down on you. Nothing has ever been achieved by crying. Tears do not put cash in their pockets. Tears do not put food on the table.
The world has already crushed the Colhuán family. Tears will not make anything better.
“Tch. Stupid girl.”
Moments later, a mysterious breeze roams her body, startling her to a gasp even as she feels herself being dried without a towel. Before she can be amazed by Lily’s magecraft that makes her mother’s herbology look like a scam, the other girl lifts Liria off her feet without effort, the strength of a Servant creating the most absurd sight of a waif looking no older than fourteen princess-carrying a teenage girl looking no older than twelve.
“Wha!? Eh, wait, eh!?”
Lily kicks the bathroom door away like an overexcited groom, and then throws the other girl in a humorous parabolic arc towards the bed. Much to Liria’s chagrin, the mattress has seen better days, so she most certainly does not bounce on it.
“Oww—uwah!”
Liria’s admittedly feeble attempt at pushing herself up is stopped by the Servant who climbs on the bed and pushes her down.
“Be still,” says Lily one more time.
“Uh, um.” Liria nods, her face the perfect showing of a deer in headlights. Whatever ideas in her head about what is about to happen come to a halt when Lily’s index finger begins to dance on Liria’s exposed pelvis. The baffled girl pushes her thighs together and holds a whimper inside as she resists the ticklish feeling too close to some rather sensitive parts of her body.
“Wha-what are you doing?”
“Ending a life before it can begin.”
Words can freeze. They have temperature and they can feel like liquid nitrogen flowing down your spine.
Again, Liria’s hurried attempt at pushing herself up and off the bed ends before it even begins. A single hand on her chest pins her without effort while Lily completes her mystery. The Servant then pinches two fingers together likes she is about to pull one of Liria’s well-trimmed pubic hairs, but what comes out is a tiny mote of light; a single firefly-like point of luminescence rising from the depths of her womb.
“Is that…?” wonders the teenager while half-amazed, half-terrified. Lily, however, closes her hand tightly around the diminutive light as if she is crushing an annoying mosquito.
“Do not mind it. It will not be your problem anymore.”
Perhaps, with a few more years of wisdom and a clearer state of mind, Liria would have pondered the strange choice of words in that sentence. Instead, she lets herself settle down on the bed, the night’s activities plus a cold shower dampening her metabolism and demanding proper rest. Lily’s attentions continue, placing a pillow under her head and a blanket over her torso before moving to, of all things, give her a massage. The gloom of the night’s labors has been dispelled by a strange, unexpected visitor doing strange, unexpected things.
It is in the middle of her legs melting like goo that Liria finally realizes that it does not smell anymore. Of course, she was washed all over, but the bedroom, too, is clean. It is still a depressing hovel, but there are no traces of alcohol, the room has been ventilated and the stench of booze replaced with clean air. Liria’s hand roams the bedsheets—they are indeed the same old cheap things, but the spots of dried ejaculate and other fluids are gone.
Like some sort of helpful guardian fairy, Lily has somehow cleaned the entire room while she slept. It has become a place to sleep without nightmares, and she is indeed about to do that…
“No, wait,” she calls out feebly. “Why, why are you here?”
“To meet you, naturally. It is a stupid question. Why else would this one set foot in this deplorable house?”
Again, Liria is naturally reminded of the night’s workplace and consequently of the—filthy—way she lives.
“I, I’m sorry…”
Again, the apology falls on deaf ears. Lily provides no answer, and Liria lacks the initiative to be insistent, dominated by her own sense of inferiority before the one she believes to be some sort of legendary witch or powerful spirit. Thus, the massage continues in silence uncomfortable to the recipient. The pleasant physical feelings as her muscles are thoroughly relaxed compete with the inner turmoil that constricts her chest and fills it with that ticklish yet painful feeling.
(BGM STOP)
“Where I come from, we believed that everything had its proper place,” Lily suddenly begins. “That bad things happened because something somewhere was out of place. People like me were supposed to identify those discrepancies and elucidate the way to correct them.”
Liria is again thoroughly manhandled; turned on the old mattress until the pillow under her head has been replaced with the Servant’s exposed thighs.
“The place of a child is to trip, to hurt, and to cry without burden. To make mistakes without bearing the weight of consequence. To watch their parents and learn from them their future place in the world.”
Lily’s hands now reach for the other girl’s shoulders, gently nudging and kneading the skin and muscles beneath.
“There are few things more deplorable than to watch a child improperly educated. When we have time for a proper exchange, I will begin by teaching you the most important concept that is holism. Now, however, you would do better by resting.”
Liria’s teary eyes look up at the Servant’s serene ones. Neither is bothered or seemingly even aware of their shared nudity.
“Are you…” After biting her lip for a moment, Liria finds it in herself to ask the question.
“Are you disappointed in me?”
“By the ways of this era, you are but a child, yet unable to fulfill your role as an element of mankind. You are still some years short of becoming a disappointment.”
Comfort and consolation will ever be hard to find in this person.
“Now, let sleep carry away all worthless thoughts.”
Liria wants to resist. She wants more. She despairs that she will find herself alone in this room when she wakes up, and her life will return to the same—filthy—routine. Without friends, without purpose, without anything to call her own, not even her body.
Lily is magic. Lily is light. Liria Colhuán can only find brightness in her life through the girl so similar in appearance yet on a completely different plane of existence. Her traitorous mind thinks of begging her to never leave her side, but she would never do such a thing. Rosa Colhuán’s daughter would never do such a thing. It is easier, then, to surrender to sleep, even if what awaits her is the inevitable return to her life of poverty and humiliation. This is made even easier when Lily begins to hum; a quiet, crooning melody; a vibration soft and lulling from her chest up her throat that eventually becomes song.
No matter the culture, and no matter the era, the wishes and ways of mothers towards their children remain true and unchanged.
Liria Colhuán is gifted with a most ancient lullaby.
“
usa ĝanu, usa ĝanu
Sleep come, sleep come
.”
“
usa ĝanu ki dumuĝaše
Sleep come to my child
,”
“
usa ĝanu kulu ki dumuĝaše
Sleep hurry to my child
.”
“
igi liblibani u kunīb
Put her open eyes to sleep
.”
“
igi gunani šuzu ĝarbi
Settle your hand upon her sparkling eyes
.”
“
u eme za malilikani
As for her murmuring tongue
,”
“
za mālili u nagule
Let the murmuring not unmake her sleep
.”
*** ***
?????
(BGM)
Darkness.
Liria does not open her eyes. She knows what she would see, and doing so would only make things more painful. She can feel them: beneath them, on top of her, inside her.
Them? It? She?
The Servant, Assassin, is an ancient evil. It is truly without form, but the perceptions and imaginations of humankind made it (her?) both inchoate and many-formed. It is not a violent being; not a predator, but an opportunist. If it is acting upon her, it means it has found an opening to seize.
Weakness.
Liria Colhuán has shown weakness in the fortress that is her ego, and Assassin now hopes to capitalize on it. Again, she is threatened with the loss of control over her existence. She should be used to it by now, but…
“Mmmnnn.” She shakes her head, her skin rubbing and breaking against hard chitin. Relaxing her body, surrendering to her own weight, Liria lets this tenebrous mindscape have its way with her.
Beetles bite her skin.
Maggots dig into her pores and bore tunnels in her flesh.
Snakes coil around her flesh and penetrate her.
Flies crawl into her eyes and ears and deposit their eggs in the moist warmth within.
They are all Assassin.
While Maria Westinghouse trades mental jabs with Saver, Liria Colhuán sinks in an ocean of vermin.
“¿Cuándo te vas a cansar de fastidiarme, po?” she murmurs, uncaring of the sharp, stinging mass of foul creatures that immediately crawl into her mouth.
This won’t bring me down.
The insects try to feed on her flesh, but they are instead absorbed by that same flesh.
I will never curse her name.
They aim to make her their sustenance, but they instead become hers.
I will never give up. Not on this world, and not on myself.
Even as they bite off pieces of her organs, the destroyed flesh is replaced with the crushed, paste-like matter of countless flies, ants, scorpions, beetles, locusts, and other plagues.
Because she never gave up.
To lose someone close is a wound that never fully heals. It is the opening Assassin saw, a hole through which could seep in and pollute her heart. However, connection and contact are two-way streets.
You made the mistake of possessing a living person this time.
Reaching deeper into Liria’s heart also means that Liria can take more of Assassin into herself.
I know better than anybody else, just how weak and pathetic you are.
Assassin is vast and inchoate. There is no possibility for agreement or even communication. Communion only comes through this invasive intimacy and the subsequent battle between possessing demon and willful medium.
Our affinity truly couldn’t be greater. But I sure as hell would never lose to the likes of you.
*** ***
Hotel Brighton, Atkinson Promenade 151-153, Valparaíso
Uttercold (-54 °C/-65°F)
(BGM)
It is cold. It is very cold. So cold that a person with as much skin exposed as Liria Colhuán would succumb to frostbite in a few minutes. Without electricity, natural gas, coal or any other energy source, it is catastrophically cold.
Liria remains a Servant, however, so this is not an obstacle. Unnatural as it is, Valparaíso’s current weather is not “supernatural cold” in a way that would cause harm to Servants. The Herald’s fearsome howl made it such for a brief period, but that terrible blizzard relented along with the mighty hound’s will to fight.
The Villarrican rises from the bed, the slipping bedsheet revealing her nudity to the frozen world. It brings a frown to her face—whoever brought her to this hotel room has disposed of her cloak, which is unfortunately not part of her Servant’s natural attire, but an actual, concrete piece of filthy cloth she used precisely to conceal Assassin’s complete disregard for decency.
Like all buildings in the frozen city, this room’s ample window lies shattered. The view allows her to identify her location easily. She is in the Brighton; the small, pretty hotel at the very top of the cliff by Atkinson Promenade. She is not surprised; it is not trivial to carry a human-sized load in this world of eternal winter. It also means she is not far from where…
Liria shakes her head. She will not cry. This time, it has nothing to do with being Rosa Colhuán’s daughter. Also, her tears would freeze.
Something wide and flimsy moves in the corner of her eyes, pulling her attention—
“¿¡Qué chucha!?”
Her very loud expletively naturally draws attention. Moments later, a man and a woman rush into the room—rather, the man rushes in, while the woman wobbles into the room like a drunken penguin.
“Wha—hey!” The abrupt intrusion incites Liria to turn her back to the newcomers to hide her nakedness, but that also reveals the very reason she yelled in the first place. Indeed, Marco Ahrens and Fiore Forvedge—the woman wrapped in a ridiculous amount of layers of clothing—stare intently at the most surreal, Kafkian visage.
“That…that is quite something,” Fiore says lamely.
“Hmm.”
“Hey! The freak show’s over!” Liria declares, covering her torso with the supernally flexible wings. They do not help much, being translucent and all. Regardless, Liria is loud and in charge.
“Fiore? That you, right?”
“Ah, yes, it’s me,” replies the older woman, voice a little muffled behind a ski mask. “Are you, um, are you alright, Liria?”
Liria cannot tell whether there is some nuance to those words. It matters not.
“Yeah. I’ll manage.”
She has to. She no longer lives solely for herself.
“Let me wrap myself a little. Then we can catch up.”
No rest for the weary. Liria Colhuán’s personal war has only begun.
*** ***
Quest Master's Note: Alright, that's enough of looking at other people for now. Next time we'll move back to Javier and to you guys making choices. Important choices.
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Originally Posted by Arashi_Leonhart
