H130, Day 221, 9-10 AP [Wraith]

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Two nights later, Wraith sits alone in the Mortuary; having retreated to the vaulted confines of the embalming chamber, after her lessons with Master Xanathis. Ignoring her hunger pains, she scribbles some more notes into her journal, and carefully arranges her surgical tools on the table beside the cadaver. The deader, a human in his prime, lay flat upon his back, eyes closed, bluish lips compressed, hands crossed over his chest in repose, and his pale feet protruding from the bleached white sheet.

The toetag pronounced in a bold, crabbed script that the deader was found recently in or near boneyard pond. There were no possessions on his body; most likely the Collectors stripped away any valuables when they hauled the berk in. He was fairly fresh, too, dead not more than forty eight hours.

The cause of death was unknown.

Wraith didn't care about that right now. She was more concerned with determining what bodyparts should be manipulated, or excised, to force an honest response from Fidrath... and the art of using anatomy for torture was something she never would've learned. So she just needed a fresh corpse; the fresher the better, and truthfully she didn't care where the deader came from, so long as he was nameless and destined for the Crematorium in the morn.

Rolling back the white sheet, Wraith prepares the cadaver for dissection; beginning with the standard post-mortem examination.

She'd done such procedures so many times before, she could perform them by rote with her eyes shut these days; so as she fell into the rhythm of her methodical task, her mind started to wander.

A plan was beginning to germinate in her mind.

She would meet with Hilathic again soon, no more that two to three days from now, in his cellar apartment beneath old man Orsomonder's case; bearing all the poisonous fruits of her findings tonight, complete with a full set of instructions on how the interrogation should be carried out.

Wraith hesitates, and cringes, at once sickened and disgusted with herself for planning this whole sordid charade...

[To Be Continued]

[Stix, if you feel that it's too convenient that the corpse mentioned here is the same individual killed by Hilathic, please change it if need be. Also, let me know if I get a bit too carried away with my posts. ]

[Uathach Blackmantle]

She'd ask her benefactor to perform the unconscionable act, because she knew she couldn't do it herself. Her gentle spirit shrivelled, recoiling in horror from what her wrath demanded of her. But no matter which way she sliced it, torture was still torture. It was an abhorent act no matter the justification behind it. And to treat Fidrath so horribly simply because he was a vile man was no excuse either. Who was she to pass such judgements on a man? Even the wicked didn't deserve to suffer as she planned to make him suffer. Otherwise she would've punished Ridnir Tetch a long time ago...

Hilathic.

His handsome face and sunken red orbs swim before her mind's eye. The strange little man had popped up seemingly from nowhere at the most convenient moment, sweeping into her life with the force of a Gods' driven zephyr. He'd helped her, gave her the answers she'd sought, and asked for nothing in return. She was fast growing to trust him, maybe even adore him more than she probably should. Worse, she realised she was starting to crave his company like some animal starved of it's master's affections, or a drug over which she had no control. She had too few friends in this life, and he had proven to be her anchor, her link to the Abyssal underground of Sigil, and her last ray of hope in these dark times. Not only that, but he was akin to her in more ways than most had ever been; and he'd proven himself to be hers, but most importantly little Aerin's friend and ally.

That last time she saw him it almost seemed that Aerin favoured his company over hers. No surprises, given her frightful and despicable behaviour.

Wraith sighs.

How could she even think to abuse Hilathic so callously?

He offered her the chance to free herself from her enemies, nay, to claim her birthright! And he offered her the chance to give her son a better life... and the hope of a full, if slow, recovery.

What mother could refuse such an offer, even if it was steeped in the rancid brine of Evil.

Though the means was unconscionable - she had to keep her mind busy, or surely she'd balk and abandone the deranged idea altogether - what other choice did she have? No matter where she went, if she ran from the inevitable, she'd be hounded on all fronts at every turn.

Nay, she had to face this, tooth and nail, and show them they should fear her.

She didn't want to disappoint Hilathic, or especially her son. She couldn't afford to fail either of them.

Her mind made up, Wraith returns to her delicate task...

[To Be Continued]

[Uathach Blackmantle]

The plan she'd begun to formulate was simple enough. She'd dispatch a message to Marrak via courier, or better yet, speak to a fellow faction member. John came to mind. She had skills that were useful to him, and he could give her information. It would be an ideal arrangement.

Wraith hums as she cuts methodically, excising the skin over the wrists to prod at the tissues and bones beneath. Sever the hand here, and it would likely cause massive haemorraghing. But cut the flesh and the underlying tendons deep enough, and she'd render a man's hands useless... or nearly so. She understood that the hands and fingers were sensitive, so this was a good place to start; as was any other high concentration of sensitivity in the body. Severing the fingers one knuckle at a time would pose less risk of bloodloss - thus death - while increasing the pain, and subsequent fear. Remove too much, and that hand would be crippled.

The careful application of a tourniquet below the elbow would stem the flow of blood, painfully and frightfully prolonging the man's life...

Once the meeting was arranged, Wraith would dress seductively; she'd wear perfume, something tailored to compliment and disguise her own sickly musk; She'd wear khol and rouge to add colour to her cheeks and eyes, and stain her lips red. She'd lure Fidrath up to her room, and court the vain man with flattery, fine food and a topshelf wine. Something exotic, perhaps?

Then she'd drug him. The man was a hedonist, so laudanum or nepenthe were good choices. She may be able to obtain some from A'kin; or if not the Yugoloth, then the Nightmarket. Either way she had to be discreet. Failing this, it shouldn't be hard to mix up a non-lethal poison from whatever chemicals she could find lying around the Mortuary; or purchase the ingredients herself.

Securing Aerin's safety was going to be the hard part.

She had friends in the Gatehouse she could ask for help. Failing that even Xanathis came to mind, so long as she could word the request correctly... but, did she really want to leave her traumatised son in such a creepy place?

Wraith shakes her head. No. It was a very bad idea. Though it seemed more likely that anyone who came looking for Aerin would search the Gatehouse first, she felt confident that Hadrian would keep her son safe.

Wraith hesitates, and stares down at the deader's dissected thigh. The wound she created was a terrible mess, the tendons and muscles carelessly severed as her mind ticked through the intricacies of the Plan. Cocking her head to the side she wonders, when was it that she last saw his sweet melancholic face, and sought his advice as she was faced by the advancing wave of her own madness?

[To Be Continued]