Stories From Liomeon

Chapter One: The Orphaned Scapegoat

There were no sirens to indicate the beginning or the end of the air raid. No screams of terror, just the sickening sounds of falling buildings and explosions. Azazel, too small to understand what was happening right away, clutched her stuffed octopus to her chest as she hid in the shallow cellar of the house her family used to own. The floor shuddered with every bomb that was dropped, Azazel too scared to do anything but wait it out. She was lucky that she was in the cellar looking for something to eat for lunch, even if her search was in vain. There was nothing but molded bread and sour smelling cheese. The girl was on her tip toes as the house above her began to creak with the first few bombs that were dropped in the distance. 

Rubble and rocks fell from the lazy excuse of a ceiling, as Azazel tried to protect her head with the stuffed animal, each shake and groan causing her to curl into a tighter ball. With one particularly close strike, she gives a loud scream when a piece of wood falls and hits the top of her head with a sickening thud. She whimpers as the sound of planes begin to grow faint before disappearing all together, the metallic smell of her own blood churning her stomach. 

The attack was over in minutes. The stench of blood and sweat filled the air, harassing the small girl's nose as she exited the cellar, dizzy and barely able to keep her feet. It was too much for her, as she bent over and promptly emptied what little food she had in her stomach onto the ash-covered ground. The ground was spinning beneath her small, bare feet as she tried to gain her footing again, looking around herself. The rubble of the house was still hot from the explosions, burning her tiny hands and bare legs as she struggled to stand again. Her silver hair was matted, knotted with dirt and pebbles with splotches of dried blood along her scalp. She looks around for a moment before suddenly realizing what she was looking for.

"Momma!" She screeches before wincing. 

She was quick to rush to the ground floor of the house, tripping over her own feet to get inside the destroyed building. It smelled of melting metal and burnt flesh, though Azazel wasn't sure if it was her own flesh or anothers. She scrambles, going to the last place she saw Momma, an old cat that lived in the kitchen area, under the washbowl in the kitchen. The young girl scrambles into the remains of the kitchen, taking a shaky gasp. Everything was destroyed, the cold box was partially melted, any food inside it was certain to be ruined; the cupboards were on the floor, the few family dishes in them smashed beyond recognition. The washtub was broken in half, the wood and metal burnt and too unstable to touch.

"Momma... Momma, where are you?" Azazel mutters to herself, carefully trying to move the rest of the washtub, wincing when it begins to crumble. Another few tugs at the wood, and it came loose off the wall, which didn't look any better than the rest of the kitchen. Azazel was frantic now, moving the wood and ash to try and see the ground, before spotting the familiar sight of a tuft of gray fur. She squeaks, digging more before finding Momma.

Momma was a ragged old thing, bald in patches along her back and face. Her teeth were chipped and broken, her jaw broken many times and crooked from her old days as a stray alley cat. The only thing remarkable about the stray was her ice-blue eyes, which seemed to glow at all times.

Except now, the cat's eyes are lifeless and dull. Azazel let out a pathetic whimper, picking the cat's body up and holding it close to her chest. "No... no Momma..." She couldn't hold back the waves of sobbing that soon followed those words, small hands shaking as she held the feline close. This cat was the only thing to keep her going, once she was separated from her father. The only reason Azazel continued to work in that disgusting factory. Her only goal after finding Momma was to keep this cat alive, and she couldn't even do that.

 It took a few minutes before she was out of tears, already becoming dangerously drained from exhaustion and blood loss. She stands again, as if it was a great effort to gain her footing and heads outside. Turning her eyes to the sky, Azazel watches for more planes as she walks to the nearby park. She was now paranoid, knowing from her old history classes that after an air raid, the opponents will most likely send in their ground solders to pick off any survivors. 

The park was only a few yards from her house, but the walk seemed as if it took years to complete. She wasted no time upturning the already loose dirt, creating a makeshift grave for her friend. It was only a foot or so deep, her hands too tired to dig anymore. Azazel hesitates, before wrapping Momma in the tattered and stained shawl she wore, lowering her into the hole and covering her up with the dirt again. This all felt wrong, like a horrible nightmare that Azazel couldn't wake up from. She was putting her one and only friend to rest, something she would have never thought would happen. 

Azazel sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The only funeral she ever attended was for her grandmother, but she was far too young to remember that. She was debating saying a prayer to God, to protect her friend before snapping her head up. There was a small, low growl coming from the bushes behind her. Afraid it was a rabid dog, she quickly hopped onto her feet again, stumbling and almost falling to the ground again. 

"I'll be back, Momma. You can bet your whiskers." Azazel mutters quickly, before walking as fast as she could back to the house, glancing over her shoulder every few steps as she did. She was keeping her eye on the bush, but never saw anything leave the foliage. At this point, she wouldn't be surprised if a rabid dog was her downfall, as she takes one more look over her shoulder before heading into the half standing house. 

Azazel looks through her pack for the third time, to make sure she had everything she needed. A change of clothes, a small bar of soap to clean herself and her clothes, the map of Liomeon that her father gave her all those years ago, and Mr. Squish. Mr. Squish was a stuffed octopus that Azazel's father gave to her when she was born. It didn't feel right to leave behind such an important memory. She touches her locket, then her waist. Under her patched dress, she wore another small pouch, which contained a handful of coins, her tiny sewing kit, and a pocket knife for emergencies. With one final look around the house, she slides her pack back on and heads out, towards the factory district where she worked. She wanted to see how bad the damage was to her town of Ritune.

Every building she passed was damaged in some way, from either debris or from the direct impact of the bombs. Up until now, there wasn't a war, or so she thought. Yes, there was poverty in every corner of Liomeon, but there wasn't unrest. Why would there be? Yes, there was always a stray rebel group now and then, but there was never a bombing in Azazel's life. The curiosity nipped at her as she walked to the entrance of her old building. Could a small rebel group even do this much damage? Who else would it have been? 

Mister Eugene's Textile Factory looked the least damaged of the factories on the block. The only visible damage from the outside was a few cracked windows, where shrapnel must have smashed through. Azazel struggles with the door for a moment, before wrenching it open with a loud groan. The inside was much worse. It looked as if someone went through and upturned all the sewing machines and workbenches. Sheets of fabric were torn and burnt in the middle of the floor.

"Wait," Azazel says out loud, stepping closer to the heap of fabrics. "This looks familiar."

The material was arranged in a pattern, it seemed to be a crudely made phoenix if Azazel was right. She remembered reading storybooks of the phoenix with her father when she was very little. A bittersweet smile melted onto her face as she remembers, crouching down to examine the symbol more. It was a dark purple color, almost burgundy. She thought it was odd that it was the only color burned or torn.

When she stands, she takes one of the smaller pieces of fabric with her, wrapping it around her shoulders and head. Once the sun has set, it would be very cold, the fabric would protect her ears at least. Azazel gets the fabric settled around herself, before walking to her old work area. The desk was on its side, the drawers scattered around the area. She curses under her breath, going in search of one of the pins she kept at her desk. It took a moment before she found the small container she kept them in. Pulling one from the container, she fastens the makeshift shawl under her chin, before lifting her dress to put the rest of her pins in the pouch attached to her waist.

With a sigh, she leaves the factory, heading back outside and down the road. There wasn't much else in the town beside the small neighborhood and factories. She begins to wonder if anyone else survived the attack, but the town seemed empty. Not even the stray animals that would walk the streets could be seen. Azazel continues to walk all the way to the edge of town, where she takes a look back.

The sun was setting now, the destroyed town painted in bright oranges and pinks. It looked like something straight out of one of those movies her older friends would tell her about. It was painful for Azazel to let go, but she knew it would be for the best. You can't stay in a destroyed town, even if the memories were calling you back.