The Bard's Book of Shadow and Dark

Chapter One- Fallen From Grace

Grace

There used to be a time when she was afraid of silence. Now, it was all she ever wanted. She relished the brief moment of quiet in the space just after Morte released her and just before Xylen and Lilith invaded Grace's every waking thought.

A wave of fatigue shook her limbs, and Grace leaned against the wall of the forest cave she called home. It was the best she could hope for, as an exile of the Church. Not that it lessened her hatred for waking up in the mornings to discover a puddle had formed under her while she slept and that she was soaked. Again.

Catching her bearings, she stared down at the barren cave floor, at the stagnant pool of water, one of many in her makeshift home, at her feet. Her disheveled appearance would have affected her once, in a life long gone and lost to the sands of time. Now, it was the blood coating her skin that gave her pause.

Whose blood stained her skin? What innocent had Morte taken on one of her misguided rages?

An image surfaced, imbued with a tinge of disappointment. In this, she aligned with Xylen. The loss of life at her hands disgusted her, but more so for the fact she wasn't hungry, and now she knew why.

Her stomach roiled, and Grace lurched forward, emptying the contents into the murky water on the ground. She hovered like that for a few moments, heaving, then staring at the pile of sick clouding her own reflection. At least now she wouldn't have to look upon the odd, four colored eyes that swirled like a compass. Blue for Grace, green for Xylen. Red for Lilith.

Black for Morte.

So neatly separate as if the Maker had divided them herself. At least her hair was normal, Grace mused darkly. Plain, wonderful, reliable brown reaching in tangled snarls to the middle of her back.

Lilith stirred in the recesses of her brain, as if waking from her slumber. The image still hovered at the forefront of her mind as the quiet Xylen inspected the blood drenched grass, the skin ripped apart by their own teeth.

The demons have struck again, Xylen murmured in contemplation, somber. The words echoed in the chamber of Grace's thoughts. Yes, that was Xylen's theory, that their tendencies were the result of demons. Grace didn't know the real cause, if she was being honest, but she didn't think it was demons.

Lilith, intruding as she mostly did, in a black mood, groused, Who gives a flying fuck? We're still failures. The spell should have worked last time. We'll be the laughing stock of the coven. I vote hanging. It will be better than the embarrassment.

Grace sighed softly, closing her eyes. And that was Lilith's take on things. That they were magical failures. That they belonged in some coven Grace had never seen. The sigh morphed, in its course, to a huffed half laugh. Just another morning with the voices in her head. Wonderful. Why she got stuck sharing brain space with two raging cases of insanity and an alter ego with a murder streak and a talent for holding a grudge, she couldn't fathom.

Grace sank against the rough cave wall, relishing the scrape of stone against her bloodied skin through the worn scraps of clothing she liked to think passed as a tunic.

She closed her eyes, swallowed hard. She wished her mother were here. It had been so much easier then, the two of them standing guard at the gate of Grace's mind. So much easier to keep Xylen and Lilith at bay, Morte locked away.

But both women had grown lax, lulled to complacency by the deceiving quiet. Morte hadn't let it slip her by. She'd attacked a man, killed a man, because he'd shorted them a couple coppers. All in the name of a grudge.