It's been a long day, and with summer around two weeks away the sun has decided to linger in the sky a little longer, leaving the air a little muggy even as it slowly starts to dip. It's getting on towards the evening, which means that most of the market has started to finish their last sales and pack it up for the night. There are still quite a few stalls that are open, though, including the one Weaver heard tales about. The one that might just have what he's looking for. The stall is more secluded at the end of a winding trail. There are privacy curtains set up around, some barely more than mangled, black netting that drip endlessly with bits of black and grey ink. The place is decorated like one might expect from a voodoo shop, with crystals, skulls and dark themed objects.
There's a woman manning the stall, a Lost from the looks of it, half of her face shrouded with skull-like bone that seems fused to the skin. Long horns protrude from either side of her forehead. She is tattooed and gowned in green leather. Her expression is bored, eyes wandering anyone that bothers venturing out this far.
Weaver knows his way around the market. For most things. Shaving away part of his being for the reclamation of his old self is another matter. He's as dressed for the weather as one would expect in a short-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and boots meant for stomping around the hedge. "Excuse me," he calls to the woman, flashing a smile with the greeting. "I'm looking for a specific kind of marketeer if you'd happen to know of the type." He pauses, crimson gaze cast left and right before continuing. "Someone that trades in kiths."
Eyes snap towards Weaver when it becomes clear that he's starting to make his way towards this particular booth. Despite the weather, as soon as he gets close enough to be heard, he can feel the bone chilling shift in the air, echoed in the cold smile that briefly touches the woman's lips. "You have come to the right place," she offers, her voice not just a single tone, but three seperate voices that seem to speak as one. All female, though aged differently. "But something like that doesn't come cheap. Or easy."
Weaver's used to the one revealing a predatory grin to unsettle those around him, but when it's used on him it sends a shiver down his spine. "So that's what that feels like," he mumbles under his breath. He clasps his hands together, and nods agreeingly. "Good. Good. I'm willing to pay almost any price, but how is it not easy? Is it not the usual transaction of goods and whatever kinda currency we may bear?"
There's laughter that follows his last question, in that same triple tone as before, though none of the laughs are kind. Her body rises from how she was leaning on the table, a claw-tipped finger gesturing over him. "You are the currency. It is not a simple exchange of goods but a trial. Not a trial everyone can pass. There have been those that have tried and died in the process. Some have succeeded. But win or lose it will be agony the whole time." She cups her hand to gesture back over him, dramatic gestures that just seem to be a part of her nature. "You are ripping away a piece of yourself. A piece that was sculpted in Arcadia. Have you ever reached into your chest and ripped out your own lung? It will be very much like that."
Weaver brings his own claws to his chest at that question, and stands there like that for a spell. "I haven't tried it, but I wager that I could live through it." He looks up again, and takes a deep breath. It's let out in a smoky sigh as he regains his confidence. "I'm willing to take on any kinda trial you can throw at me. It's not like I haven't suffered for something before, and I bet it'll be a piece of cake." His last words more for him than the woman.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you would choke on your own blood before that final tug that frees the organ from your chest. There is but one way to know. I am Maiden of The Three. If you wish to continue you will sign this." The woman snaps finger fingers, a parchment appearing in her hand. She unrolls it and sets it down along with a needle tipped pen. "It says that you will trade one kith for the other. The one you trade will become mine. A piece of the pain you experience will also become mine. If you fail, it is of no fault of the stall and nobody can come seeking retribution. It states you have been warned of the danger of death and will continue regardless. You will prick yourself with the pen, the tip will take just enough blood for you to sign. After you sign, the pen will disintegrate so that you are not leaving any blood behind. Read the contract fully before you sign." She turns to start preparing a mixture of something that's already beginning to steam. "What kith for what kith?"
Weaver sighs again, and grabs at his wrist. He looks over the document for a beat, and then back to her as she speaks. The pen's taken next, and he jabs it into the palm of his other hand. As he leans forward to look it over properly he speaks. "I am a Mirrorskin and Skinwalker among other things. I wish to reclaim my past as a Windwing and Blightbent. I am tired of hiding who I am, and hiding away from what I was once capable." He gets to the end, and signs his name on the dotted line. "What next?"
There's a flicker of surprise on the woman's features as she studies the dragon. "Hm. A dual kith swap. I've never had someone be so foolish as to try both at once," she murmurs quietly. "This may very well kill you, but if you survive, I will make sure you are wheeled some place safe for the rest of the night. I very much doubt that you will be able to move very much by the end of this. That is not a part of the contract, but I will offer that kindness as reward for your being so foolish." Once the contract is signed, the pen disintegrates in his hand, nothing but ash for a moment, before that too blows away in the wind. She takes the paper and seals it up, setting it into a steel box behind her. "This will happen not externally, but internally." She shoves the steaming glass towards him. "Inhale deeply and sleep."
"I'm no fool, woman," says teh fool. "I'll come out of this alive, well, and better than you'd ever expect." Weaver's pride has never been a hidden thing, and he takes the glass within his palm. He breathes deep of its vapors, not affected initially. "See? Wait. Internally?" He tries to get out the word again, but it looks like he's chewing on peanut butter instead of trying to talk. His eyes lazily lid over unevenly, and he murmurs something about the Alamo or other when it finally gets him in full, and he topples forward.
Maiden leans over the table as she watches him fall over. There was nothing but solid ground beneath him to land on, and the thud that he creates when he impacts seems to amuse the woman. Maiden settles back down into her seat, a leg crossing over the other as her head falls back, resting against the seat. It doesn't take long before she meets with him on the other side of the dreamscape. The room expands around him, endless arrays of mirrors as far as the eyes can see. It's like a fun house, but it's certainly not going to be any fun. His reflection is cast in each of the mirrors, each one a little warped and different, showing his various forms he's taken over the years. There is no sign of the woman, but he can hear her triple-voice as if it's coming from the mirrors. "This is you. All of you. For each form you have taken, there is a piece that lives inside. You destroy the mirror, then you will find the piece inside yourself. You'll have to dig it out until there is nothing of it left in you. You may begin."
Amid so many different faces leaves Weaver in awe. "Well. Shit." He scratches at his chin while slowly turning around to take it all in. Before the question bubbles up from the dragon she answers the unspoken query. "That's all!?" he shouts. He harrumphs, and looks down to his claws. Back to the first mirror his gaze goes, a visage likened into a much older version of himself in tattered clothes and a tired smile. The longer he stares at it his anger grows until he launches at it, fingers stretched wide as he attacks the reflection.
After his question there is only laughter. It's haunting in here because it seems to come from everywhere. Even some of his own faces are laughing back at him from the reflections. It's unnerving. He lines up across from the first mirror and moves to attack it. It shatters loudly, tha glass shards spraying everywhere, only to turn into mist and fade a moment later. For a long few moments there is nothing.
Then...
A spark, stabbing pain radiates from his side. Upon inspection, the tip of a shard of glass seems to be poking out. It isn't from the mirror, but rather inside of him and trying to get out. There's just enough of it to pinch in order to wrench it out of his skin, with all the blood and pain to follow.
There was nary a moment for Weaver to relish in the destruction, even if was tearing himself a part in the process. The feelings of sharp pain at his side as him taking up his shirt and then throwing it aside as he looks over the newly made wound. Without waiting another moment he takes it out of his side with a grunt of pain, and he palms it for a moment. When he draws his hand back his eyes go up with surprise at the spilled blood. Nothing else comes from the dragon as he looks for another reflection, destroying it in turn until he moves on to the next.
For every mirror that he breaks, another shard of glass starts to protrude from his body. They are sharp, cutting and they don't just hurt the flesh, it burns down deep into his being. After another three mirrors are destroyed the pain gets to be too much. He has to take them out or he's not going to be able to move much longer. He pulls at each one of the shards, they rip but refuse to come loose, just causing more pain without actually prying from his skin. "Are you sure you are ready?" the voice questions. It's Maiden's voice coming from a nearby mirror. "If you can't remove the past, you cannot proceed to the future."
Weaver grunts and growls in pain as each shard cuts through skin and scale. As more and more come out he has to stop. He's already grimacing in pain, and doesn't deign to answer the maiden. Instead he stands still, and focuses on trying to get the shards out of his body. He has to calm himself, no small feat at present, but he's able to do so long enough to remove more and more of his being. His torso is a red mess at this point, and color the top of his pants dark red. However, he carries on destroying them all - one mirrored part him after the next.
With that display of willpower Weaver is able to pry the pieces out of himself and let them clatter onto the ground where they shatter. Which leaves more mirrors in his path. It seems like they are narrowing down, however, a glint of light that seems out of place shining from further on. But there are a few more mirrors before then. There's was a time not too long ago when he took on the face and voice of someone he loves. It appears that the reflection staring back at him now. Glowing lavender eyes lift to gaze up at him, and those long ears sort of drooped in sadness. Velvet's hand lifts her palm against the glass as she stares at him. That's playing dirty.
Weaver makes his way through from one reflection to the next. Some looked upon fondly, others with mild disgust, and quite a few with curiosity as to be so long ago or so meaningless they'd been forgotten. He grows tired and bloody along this destructive path until he gets to the image of Velvet. A growl rumbles in the back of his throat as he stares down the faux reflection of her. There's a single moment. Hesitation. That growl builds up into a roar as he jumps at it so full of fury and rage.
More laughter peels as he roars and destroys the mirror, shattering the vision of the Velvet skin he once wore. It shatters and mists like all the other, but this shard starts to poke itself right through the center of his chest above the heart.
After so much pain and self-punishing torment Weaver's now in tears. His breathing has grown ragged and the pains tenfold. This last one does indeed cut deep, and he has to lift his hand up to make sure its there. Symbolism or not it hurts like hell as he yanks out that final shard, and lets out a gutteral scream of pain. It's enough that he falls to his knees afterward, still clutching that piece of glass.
"Ooooh, that pain memory would be delicious to keep for my collection, but I think I'm going to let you keep that one." So benevolent, truly, is Maiden. "My treat." The words are clipped. She'll take the pain from when he couldn't get the shards out. "Not much farther to go now, darling. Three more maybe? And then you'll find the light. One last piece at the end." The mirror beside him leans down, head tilting as one of his reflections sneers. "Or do you need to stop?"
Weaver kneels there, sucking air as tears stream down his cheeks. The maiden's laughter pushes him forward, and he tries to get to his feet. He's tired and he's in pain, at least until he's looking up at himself. His first attempts at getting up lead to him staggering about, and with nothing for support he topples again. The questioning from his reflection bites deep, and in turn he holds that the shard of glass in his hand tight enough to bleed from new wound. He powers through it, forcing himself to his feet as he makes a headlong charge at his reflection.
Crash! The glass shatters again, that snear wiping from the reflections face as it explodes outward. Another piece of glass sticks from his rib cage, painful, but a little less than the previous one. Perhaps he's dulling to the pain. Or maybe he's getting close to blacking out and it just isn't mattering as much? "Two more," the voice(s) sing songs throughout the room. He can see it now, beyond the mirrors, a strange door that looks like it's more of a flap than anything. Is that-- skin?
Weaver's felt pain before, but this is a new feeling. There's pride in it. A sick kind of pleasure as another shard juts out of his side. He's smiling, likely losing as much of his sanity as his blood when he pulls the piece of himself out. Two more? Two more. He charges forward as best he can, claws dragging on the ground as he rips at one mirror and then again. As the mirror shatters and blows away in memory he falls to one knee. He mutters several curses in several languages as he starts taking out more of the glass, and makes his way to that flap of skin.
He's bleeding pretty badly at this point, his energy nearly gone. From that position on one knee he can see the flap not so far away. It is most certainly skin, it looks like his skin, in fact, red and scaled. This whole time he'd been ripping out mirror pieces but there was nothing about the skinchanger. Which means this must be the final piece she was talking about. As soon as he touches the flap, he can feel an echo of the touch on his own flesh. There's a light behind it, freedom. Escape. As soon as he starts to move the flap, the pain begins. Not just a normal pain, but more like being flayed alive. It starts at his feet, and the further he opens the flap, the higher it goes. It's like ripping off his own skin, and it's going to take all of what is left of his willpower to push through.
He's gonna end up with a complex if he survives. Weaver's testing at first, and screams in pain when that first hint of pain comes. "What the fuck kinda shit does this crazy asshole get into?" he grumbles before pushing at teh flap again. The pain's great enough that his curiosity of the maiden is no more. He pushes it up further and further, screaming bloody murder all the while. Despite it all he keeps going with everything he has in him.
"I get into a lot of things. I told you that few survive these trials, now you understand why." The Maiden stands in front of him now, her hand lifting. A pair of glass orbs wind against each other in her palm. One seems to be filled with a faint, green gas. The other seems to flutter in her hand like wings. "Congratulations," she chimes in her triple voice before the hand shoots forward and plunges right into his chest. It's a surprise, of course, but there's no pain with it. The hand retracts a moment later, with two other orbs, one a mirrored ball and the other a flesh toned one. "Now wake up." With that command, the world flashes brightly and he finds himself awake, on the ground, covered in his own blood, and very changed.
The Maiden's eyes snap open as she pushes up from the chair, setting the manifsted orbs and another small gass phial into that steel box from before. She leans over the table to look down at it. "Our business is concluded. Someone will be by in a moment to pick you up and take you where you can rest for the night. As cocky as you are, surely even you understand that what you just went through requires your body to rest for atleast a few hours before you go tromping off again."
Weaver doesn't have any words for her. Instead his gaze flits to the balls in her hand. His gaze flicks to her eventually, his mouth open to say something. All that comes out is hoarse, harsh breathing. He tries his best to get whatever it is out, but to no avail as he eventually comes to.
As he awakens to the pool of his own blood he finally gets it out. "Jesus Tittyfucking Christ!" he shouts. He eventually pushes himself up, the effort straining him after all of that pain. He has to pull of his shirt for his newly returned wings to move, and when he does so it comes with a sigh of pleasure that quickly turns into a grimace of pain as he coughs. "I can make it on my own," he debates despite the fact that he truly can't right now.
"I'm sure you can walk, or even crawl out of here. But you will not be able to protect yourself on the Trods or run from the Wild Hunt, or deal with a briar wolf attack. At the moment a briar kitten would give you a run for your money." The Maiden smirks. "If you are so defiant that you simply must go now, I will find someone to escort you to a door." Whether or not he argues, she does exactly that, finding him an escort that will lead him to the closest door so that he can return home.
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