Battle Island was no Hurtplace or Bloody Mountain of Fist Grief, but Zaffran recalled a time when a brother told her that there was no funner or more hellish place on Earth! He put emphasis on mingled blood and gravel flying warm and high, and how at times you could savor the despair of a fighter as well-put blow ended their life or career. This brother, one in thousands, bleated into young Zaffran the thought of visiting. Battle Island would be a fun stop, he said, should she ever get lost in the area.
Well, today Zaffran didn't lose herself in the area, but actually made the time to come watch some fights. She hoped to learn from their silly, and nevertheless effective, strikes and tactics. Instead, she got to watch drifting chunks of areas and stages drifting above the waves like meat on soup. Or, eyes on soup. But not teeth! Those sunk to the bottom of a bowl, and were best enjoyed plucked and dry anyway.
Damnation, she needed to eat! Definitely, the suffering in the air brought about this hunger, souls and dreams that hadn't rightly settled after a sudden end. It made the goat's stomach sharp, growling. Yet, Zaffran couldn't stop a single stray Earthling to devour. Not even a baby, abandoned on a raft! Morose, lurching, the wizarding monster settled on a bobbing dome and took in the sights. Not a lot to these sights, was there? Just ice, cement, pitch black ocean under a starless sky.
When was the last time she’d actually fought at Battle Island? Morrigan knew it had been years now, but failed to pluck an exact number from her mind. The matches held here hadn’t been very formative to the martial artist she was today, had they? She watched as a younger version of herself skidded back from a blow to the temple that she had failed to roll from, the larger fighter quick to follow up and hail their fists down on her sloppy guard. So undeveloped, her style was back then. Morrigan turned to her left, seeing the side profile of a purple Shinjin, less outwardly critical than herself but undoubtedly aware of her pupil’s shortcomings. Or so she would assume. It wasn’t like she’d seen Master at the time. Turning back, the action in the arena came to a slow, fighters and structures fading away, including the younger Morrigan who had sorely lost that day.
Opening her eyes, Morrigan saw Battle Island for what it now was. With just a little difficulty, since night had fallen while she was immersed in her state of meditation. It was getting to that time of year where the day left much quicker. Standing up on the flat shard of debris she’d claimed to rest, Morrigan focused her senses to try and glean how best to navigate the field in the dark, only to feel a sharp tingle on her cheekbone. Her eyes flicked over to see the large remnant of a domed roof bobbing in the ocean. And though beyond her sight, she could sense the vitality of someone atop it.
With a hum, the Earthling made a rough count of how many appropriately heavy chunks of ice and ruin lay between her and the platform. When last she had been in this field of wreckage and met Nervan and Illuma — whom she was increasingly certain had departed Earth without returning with their other friends — she had been unimpressed with her own agility. She was much stronger now though. Taking a quick breath, Morrigan bounded from her place in a rush, touching down on each standing point for less than a second each time.
Leaving a trail of spraying water in her wake, she closed in rapidly. She took one final leap, but found she was shy of anything to land on between her last stop and the dome. A few months ago, that would have meant an embarrassing, impromptu dip. Not anymore. Snapping her fingers at the water, a flat disc of black and white magic manifested on the surface of the water, catching its summoner who quickly springboarded back upward. This time, she wasn’t short. After making no small amount of racket in her approach, Morrigan dropped out of the night sky and landed near the being she’d been sensing.
“Hello,” She greeted the figure flatly, just able to make out the stranger as somewhat inhuman in the low light, and clearly unaware that it was a strange way to begin a conversation. Frankly, it was not the weirdest way she had approached someone before.
Zaffran let go of half-formed cravings, her attention taken by a sudden pitter-patter on disturbed waves. Her feather-flanked shoulders turned, huge and dramatic, eyeing the red-clad human as she leapt unto the dome... or, rather, failed, but an inch short. What a dolt! A nightmarish cackle rose up the goat's chest, only to sour in her tongue as the human gracefully rebounded. The landing was excellent, the greeting less so.
"Hello, dear! And by my horns! With last skip, I thought, but not hoped, you cast to watery oblivion... Your end is another's, then." a mere visitor, Zaffran guessed from the Earthling get-up that this one was an actual fighter, seeking an actual fight. But did she look strong?Candle-fire flickered on the Prince's pointer finger, she brought the light between them so each could take in the beauty of the other. Well, Zaff already knew shewas beautiful, whereas the mortal was perhaps a touch past her prime. It was the hair, she realized, bone-white and promising a near funeral. Alas! There was still so much soul in those steely, dour, green eyes... "If it's a fight that you want, well, keep looking. I've come to peruse what is best in Battle Island. Imagine my shock when in place of matches, I'm witness to-- well, just you. Yet, for a match it takes two! And you don't look the type to have friends on call."
From her left sleeve, Zaffran shook out a scroll and biro.
"Well, let's go look for someone that'll fight you. Erstwhile, I'll ask you questions, to which you will answer candidly. As for what you will be getting in return..." the Prince drew in her lips, squinted, as though she hadn't planned for this eventuality "I will give you the gift of company, as pay. Perhaps a favour! And a scarf! All this cold, and you go sleeveless. I could throw in a sweater, too. Wouldn't that be swell?"
Although her appearance was sudden and potentially startling, the stranger seemed to be taking her in stride! Morrigan wasn’t sure what she meant talking about her ‘end’, it wasn’t like the water was going to kill her after all, but brushed it off easily. Watching the very tall woman hold out her hand, Morrigan drew back when a fire sprang to life on the tip of a finger. With some sight returned, she made a curious sound in the back of her throat, looking up at the now-illuminated face of a… Well, she wasn’t sure. Her goat-like features were plain to see, but she seemed very sharp in a way Morrigan hadn’t known zoanthropes to be, with one and a half horns peeking out from a crimson mane she rather liked the look of.
“I was actually meditating, but yes. Battle Island as it was once known has not been for a year or so,” Morrigan explained in the quiet, matter of fact way typical of her. “...and I do have friends—” So quiet, in fact, that she was very easily drowned out by the demon’s speaking and production of pen and paper. The proposal offered to her certainly confused Morrigan some, but she was more interested in hearing her out and finding where this led.
“I have a scarf, thank you. Not on my person, but I’ll live. I can certainly answer your questions to the best of my ability regardless, no scarf or sweater necessary,” Though amiable and earnest, Morrigan’s face seldom moved at all, much less shifted from her deadpan expression. Which is to say she looked like she needed the scarf about as much as a statue did.
Meditating, was she? Zaffran scoffed, her thoughts on reflection and pursuit of inner peace obvious. Turmoil was best projected outward, lashed at those too weak to fight back! Whoever had destroyed Battle Island knew this well, and the goat decided to ask for more details later. First, she had to win over the stationary.
"We do love friendship, don't we? Could use more of the stuff, alas." the Prince muttered without thought, unconcerned with the Earthling's social circle beyond it being completely and utterly absent (much like her own). Instead, Zaffran fought against the furling parchment ends, winning but a palm's width to write on. As for the biro, a simple writing implement, she was careful to remove the blood red cap and aim the point brass tip away from herself. The ink stained real bad! The taste was not the best, either.
"Alright!" she transcribed her victorious, little shout, writing in a demonic script of pentagrams and skulls. Her following words were more paused, as she struggled to wield a pen sized for humans "You dispense scarf, sweater. Why? Usually mortals take well to an exchange of tokens, it assures them that my kind won't be trafficking in things more essential." the pen tap-tap-tapped on a jutting fang "Well, it'll be your truths for my company. Cross my heart and hope to die." this could yet be turned into something more unfair, the goat need only come up with the right expressions... "Tell me, then. Why is Battle Island neither an island or embattled? Who brought about this change, that keeps you so far and distant." physically far, emotionally distant, the sorcerer bet that these two qualities were cause of the other. She stood before a hermit! No wonder the Earthling looked so old. And, for that matter, Zaffran remember that she had no name to put to paper.
Morrigan patiently watched while the demon warred against her writing supplies. She had half a mind to offer that she transcribe, but realized before she said as much that she had a better idea. Wordlessly, the white-haired woman extended her hand slightly askew from where Zaffran stood, then lifted up as a writing desk materialized to an appropriate height that would accommodate her new associate. An approximation of a desk at least, as Morrigan’s magic could take none other than its raw form, moreso resembling black-streaked, solid marble.
“There you are. I want for little that can be given and have little that can be taken. Sharing words bothers me… not at all, actually,” She decided with a shrug of her shoulders, then folding her hands over one another in front of herself. Morrigan could form some idea of what the she-goat meant by her ‘kind’, but was ultimately unperturbed by the thought of giving her time to an Oni. After all, it wasn’t like the chance arose often, and Master had taught her to keep an open mind about such people. Plus she’d crossed her heart, which had to mean something. To the point of Zaffran’s questions, Morrigan’s lips drew thinner as she considered them.
“Mm. I do not know how Battle Island was destroyed, only that it was, disappointing as that must be to hear,” Clarifying with an apologetic nod, she paused for a moment at the back half of the query. “...My name is Morrigan, so you may call me that. But I’m inland most of the time, it’s only by chance you catch me so far out on the ocean tonight,” She tentatively put it, visibly unsure of her own answer as Zaffran’s particular meaning of distance eluded Morrigan's immediate understanding.
A desk, how delightful! The demon was careful not to show appreciation, nevertheless pinning the rebellious scroll against the stony surface. Her pen flew, writing Morrigan's words faster than Zaffran's mind could take them in. As a quick silence settled, carried by waves, the goat tut-tutedwith openly disguised frustration...
"Disappointed, me? Perish the thought." the pen-tip pierced the thin velum, hitting the magicked marble. But a moment ago a hope had bloomed in the Prince's carnivorous heart, that she could find who had destroyed the Island and learn such skill at killing! Instead, all she had was a simple yokel. Polite and strong-looking, helpful, yet ignorant... "So you're neither from here, nor a remnant to this land destroyed, nor honing mind and body for an ultimate battle against the one who buried your past life and a beloved another." more assumptions were made, woven into a story, sprinkled with exploitable vices and misery. This game was very dear to Zaffran, it helped her seek damage in others and the best ways to prey on it! Sadly, as of late and very occasionally, the preyed-upon would end up dear to the sorcerer. Perhaps it was a good thing that Morrigan was not the tragic exile the demon had hoped, she could yet be had for dinner.
"Be that as it may, you must have a reason to be..." Zaff considered her wording, how it could be misinterpreted, economically and too-accurately answered. Sadly, convolution and distortion were a goat's second nature! "To be who you are, that is. Pursuing strength, meditating. Traipsing near the North pole sleeveless. Why isn't Morrigan making merry in these passing days? Were I as old as you, I'd be teating on eggnog like milk!"
TWC: 1179
HELLBOUND SORCERY ZAFFRAN "An itsy-bitsy favor! A little, widdle murder."
“...No.” Granting confirmation that she was not, in fact, aspiring to use her strength in service of a quest for revenge; Morrigan wondered if that was a commonality where the demon was from. She also had to wonder just what was being written on that scroll at this point, but their substantial height difference and the flickering light made it too much of a hassle to look. Maybe the Oni was just documenting her travels and those she encountered during. Would asking to read it have been rude?
Weighing her own questions silently, she put them to the back of her mind while Zaffran prodded further, interrogating just what the martial artist was here for. And seemingly misreading her colourless hair to be a symptom of old age. Still, it was a fair question. Why would someone so ill-protected be here, precariously navigating icy waters? There was no good general answer, but Morrigan knew why she was, as if the answer were innate in her.
“I don’t need to be happy. I am here because I work to improve myself, as I have done since I was a child. It is its own reward. It is my calling,” Morrigan provided her truth, immediate and clinical, as though the most obvious thing in the world. Her eyes had taken on a discernible focus by the simple act of restating her purpose, soon to fade as she took a long lock of hair between her fingers. “Also, I am still young as Earthlings go. I was simply born with white hair.”
Zaffran jutted out her tongue between her teeth, her lips restrained from smiling. Following this, there was something akin to a sigh or a drawn-out exhalation, the unsure tumbling of a laugh. How could she spin this into a joke? The self-denying, self-cultivating types were all deluded. Morrigan's delusion simply bordered on fact; the half-horned Prince couldn't readily detect a doubt of conviction in her tone, her stare, her actions, or her poorly chosen wardrobe! Here was a woman who just plain lived as she wanted, without preying on others... Very troubling. Very interesting.
"Any Earthling is young before me, dear. Cradle to grave, you mortals don't keep long company," the demon contemplated the white, shimmering lock of hair brought for her to see. Comparing it to snow would be apt, but surrounded by the stuff, Zaffran knew it would hardly be clever. "You wear strands of moonbeam..." she whispered, mighty pleased. Suddenly, she plucked a hair! This, too, she wrote down in shorthand, even as her attention was on the fine thread. "Auspicious, no? That you act so strangely, that you look so different. You survive, nonetheless, so you must be charmed! Dare I say that you were delivered by demons? Magic or not, this will make for a pretty amulet." Into the sleeve went the hair.
"Say, Morrigan," Zaffran began, stilling the biro "How did you come about? Through the natural exchanges and the proper channel, no doubt, and yet I would like to think that you and I might be as cousins! Insofar as a demon can be cousins with a meddled-with mortal, but one does not pick family. Leave it to chance to bring together such pairs, no?"
As she spoke, her eyes glinted with mischief. At the moment, there was nothing more she wanted in life than to utterly confound such a solid pillar of certainty.
Morrigan shrugged, easily accepting that she probably was quite juvenile compared to the wayward Oni. Though that did bring into question whether it was understood that she was still a young woman all considered. Healthy as she was, she might only have been a quarter into her lifespan yet. Interrupting that thought, Morrigan hissed through her teeth as Zaffran unexpectedly yanked out the strand of hair she’d been shown. Rubbing her scalp at the point, she looked up to the demon with confusion. “Ow.”
Momentarily perplexed and lightly insulted by the notion that she’d need some enchantment to live the way she did, Morrigan paused and took a breath. This demon wasn’t completely wrong, she supposed. Dropping her hand to her side, the martial artist glanced yonder while considering Zaffran’s colourful phrasing and the exact circumstances of her own birth, becoming decreasingly bemused until she met the Oni’s golden gaze again.
“You’re not wrong. In fact, I’m surprised you can tell. My godmother was a Shinjin of the Otherworld, you see. The sour sort, granted, thus I’m sure she would agree to being more like you than she is her kin,” Morrigan explained, folding her hands behind her back. She didn’t expect a demon’s opinion of any Shinjin was inherently high, but maybe Zaffran understood her meaning. “I was named for her. She ensured my safety when I was born and taught me the principles I’d build my discipline on…”
Silence took her for a moment, Morrigan’s thoughts evidently drifting to her memories, though she swiftly snapped back to the situation at hand. “I know little about you, but perhaps you’d like her. She’s very… loquacious. We do not have that in common.”
They had been talking for some time, long enough for Zaffran to again feel that growing empty in her stomach. She had to wonder, would Morrigan make a good meal? Could she be drowned in a sauce pan? Torn between demi-glace and dry rubs, the demon tried a sage nod at the Earthling's words, unaware of the string of slobber running down her chin, now an icicle. She would flick it before saying, with kinder eyes:
"Mmm. You know what we call that kind of Shinjin, there downstairs?" she winked, splaying her fingers "Sour grapes!" cursed, dexterous digits wiggled like mad worms, and as the goat cackled, the more her hands appeared to try to wrench some manner of humour from the impossibly deadpan mortal... Zaffran was practically tearing up the air, before giving up and resting her mittens in her armpits. It was, after all, supernaturally cold!
She thought it strange -- and even if she wouldn't admit it, sweet -- that a demon (and here she used the term in the loosest sense) would thrust their own name upon a mortal. Demons were more symbol than fact, often presences without object, so was it not a manner of affection, to tear out yourself so a mortal may benefit? Of course! This was also a rather undemonly way of being. The older Morrigan couldn't have rot so completely.
"'Loquacious', yes, I know the type. So wordy and loud. So full of themselves. No inside voice, not even outside! I hate their whole lot..." it was the Prince's turn to be lost in recollecting, bedtime stories about righteous Shinjin undoing the honest work of evil! "No, no, I much prefer mortals. You as you are, loud as cat's footfall! Which is to say, you sound like good company." the redhead monster threw stares at the fighter's stone-hewed arms, imagining them fried in crumbs "Or interesting company, to say the least. Say, Morrigan, light of my eyes, pacing heart in my bosom, where around here may we eat in peace?"
Unfortunately, but perhaps expectedly, Morrigan didn’t so much as snicker at the joke. Worse still, she didn’t even understand it. In an attempt at politeness, the reserved woman nodded despite the certainty she was missing something and let the moment pass in painful silence. She liked the demon well enough — she thought so, anyway — but the feeling she knew something that Morrigan didn’t became evermore pervasive.
“Ah…” She muttered as if to prove Zaffran’s point, doing little else but quietly blinking at the professed distaste toward her godmother. Though she couldn’t very well blame her one-horned acquaintance for that. Of course she knew better than anyone how difficult Master was to get along with, and far be it from her to expect the benefit of the doubt. Conversely, it seemed Zaffran liked the Earthling plenty, to Morrigan’s surprise. Not that it showed, naturally. Maybe if she were a more bashful woman, the demon’s flattery would have made her turn a shade had the cold not already put a frosty pink on her face.
“Well, I suppose Battle Island once had concession stands, but as you can see…” Morrigan gestured broadly at the debris field, turning away from Zaffran as though she needed to examine it herself. “No restaurants. Though if you’ve food of your own, there’s hardly anyone to disturb your meal besides the sleeping seabirds. I certainly wouldn't intend to," She explained with a shrug, slightly confused by the question but endeavouring to be helpful all the same.