Warrick asked me if revenge was the impetus which drew me to knock upon his door for the means by which to reach the disembodied spirit of Taltos. I told him no, what I seek is survival and the only weapon I will have in my paltry arsenal against Asmodeus would be the one he so graciously provides me. I cannot hurt the Briar King nor defend myself against him in anyway for the curse's enchantment ties my hands point-blank in this regard.

Revenge would indicate I can walk away from my misery at any time, ignoring offence but a vindictiveness within me, a overblown pride will not allow me to swallow it down. Yes, the Briar King has wronged me grievously and will do so again, but I can neither escape him and in the end.. his wrongs will add up and equate to my death. I am not vengeful, I am desperate.

Indeed, after the very brief contact with Taltos, the long arm of the Briar King spoiled everything in short order. The Necromancer had painstakingly packed up the witch board and planchette, spurring me to beg to remain the night so we might try again come the morn. I couldn't go away not knowing if I had an ally in Taltos or not.

Yet, as Warrick showed me to a feminine sleeping chamber in which I might pass the night, my nose began to bleed. It was a small, bothersome trickle at first, but the flow increased exponentially over time until I was forced to leave in the dead of night.

Asmodeus was calling me home, tugging on my leash. I had been out of his reach long enough.

[0 petals fell]

The Necromancer wasn't anything at all what I expected. My measuring stick had the man gnarled with a crooked spine, withered by the putrid, corpse-raising arts he dabbled so strongly in. His outside matching whatever darkness which lay beneath the skin. I expected someone who would snarl when they spoke and had a temper as mean as an old badger backed into his den. I expected a dingy shack coated with dusty webs and a yellowing skull glaring from each corner. What I got was a disturbingly elegant man with a small house that was as neat as a pin. What I got.. was someone who makes me nervous, tongue-tied and all crossed up.

Warrick the Wise was impeccably hospitable although we started off a little bumpy with his first question. He asked if I brought an army along for the long ride into the Gloomy Woods. An army of two? There was Calliope and myself and no one else. For a man to ask a stranger if they brought reinforcements smacked of paranoia and so my reply was to ask if he was expecting one. That is a good piece of information to have, whether an army is due on someone's doorstep in the next little bit. He told me no, perhaps not.

The Necromancer often deflects my most blunt questions but it only afterwards when we've moved onto another topic that I realize I never got the answer I sought. He is a shadow in conversation, slipping away in a blink if too bright a light is cast upon him. Yet I am never in an obvious lurch of uncomfortable silence as we move from subject to subject, task to task. He got me to call to the witch board, to command the spirit of Taltos to come forth so I might suggest a pact.

The board's pointing device is much akin to a miniature table on tiny legs. It slid about the face of the board without any help from the Necromancer or myself and what a strange, gut-dropping sensation that was! My first inclination was to jerk my hands away but a deeper, more fundamental and secretive yearning had my fingers remain in place. I am not convinced this will be my avenue of contacting the bitter enemy of the Briar King but I have little choice but to try.

What I did not count on is the Necromancer.. Warrick, being more than a cold, detached contract involving coin and much persuasion on my part. He will want paid, yes. I am not saying that, but his first instinct is to give aid and .. even though he is a quiet, unflappable presence, I am quite aware of his humanity.

[0 petals fell]

When I speak of legends in reference to the Briar King and his Rose, my choice of word is perhaps misleading. What I should be saying is.. fables. Stories for mothers to tell their children late at night to keep them in line with healthy fear. As time has passed in Carver's Outpost, the story of the demon and his witch consort dwindled to a mere ghost story. A verse.. if you will, which falls in eerie singsong refrain from the lips of a child.

In it, it speaks of the great betrayal of the Briar King against his brother, Taltos who had a tender for a young woman named.. Rose'Elle. One look at Rose'Elle and Asmodeus fell hard to the sin of lust, soon plotting to sweep the only obstacle in his path aside, which was Taltos who was courting her.

The rhyme is sketchy on whether Asmodeus killed his brother or buried him alive but in either case, Taltos vanished from Carver's Outpost and Rose'Elle was devastated. Nothing Asmodeus could do would heal her broken heart and soften her towards him.

In a moment of keen frustration, he made a most wicked pact with dark, terrible forces who did indeed grant him the power to bind the reluctant Rose to him.. but also increased his appetite for destruction by ten fold. He was an out of control tyrant, killing any who opposed him with a viciousness which couldn't be allowed.

Seven mages came together in hopes to stop him, but all they could muster was a binding spell which pens him within the confines of the Amberleaf Weald. They were unable to kill him, nor could they sever the inexplicable bond between him and his Rose.

A bond he would use to his advantage.. long after Rose'Elle's death.

But what if I can raise Taltos back to the land of the living? Would he not exact a terrible revenge against his brother? Or I could at the very least speak to his spirit. Perhaps he knows of an Achilles' heel I could use that no one else knew about. It is all farfetched but I refuse to believe that Asmodeus is invincible. After all he is kept prisoner in the Weald!

But if I hope to reach Taltos I will need someone who can cross the boundaries between the living and the dead and that is why I write this to you from beneath the outstretched branches of an ancient gnarled oak.

Calliope is resting and sampling the tender shoots of grass in the clearing a few feet from me. I am not in my own forest.. I seek the ghost of Gloumenwood.. a Necromancer whose name came to me as a curse upon the lips of an old Gypsy woman. Warrick the Wise.

[0 petals fell]

And so now I return to your confessional and sink down upon my knees beneath your patient stare. Have I disgusted you yet? Have my errors stacked so high upon each other that you can no longer see over their towering house of cards to where I kneel? Or is it that you haven't pieced it all together yet? If so my pride would take a lesser blow which means in layman terms I would dearly love to leave you in the dark. It's a jealous pang on my part. I wish I was still wearing a blindfold.

Asmodeus was my dark secret. The way a girl might hide rich confectionaries and truffles under her pillow as a guilty pleasure best describes my own handling of this man. I told no one about him, nor why I was sneaking off to the Weald practically every day.. and not returning until well after dusk. He, in turn.. convinced me that he was an outcast, shunned and hated by those of Carver's Post and therefore banished from ever stepping cross the villages borders. An outcast, like me. It was my language he was speaking.

Asmodeus also told me, a horrible magic enchantment had been unjustly cast upon him by a consortium of seven mages and until those seven either died of natural causes or simply... died.. we could never be together. I know it sounds trite, hearing it from an objective stance as you are. But when I was with him, I burned with hatred for these seven misers who would dare lock away the one man who understood me from the outside in. They were the twisted, political hand of the Outpost's town council, all of whom were jealous of Asmodeus and sought to sweep him aside for their own gain.

I killed one of the mages, traveling to his home which lay on the fringe of the City of Gates to see it done. And you know, he wasn't some manipulative, greedy old goat. He was a little old man who had one shiny star in his life. A garden. A garden he wanted to share with me because I was masquerading as a peasant selling fresh field flowers. The elder invited me right into his sacred, beautiful Eden and I desecrated it with bucketfuls of his blood. I don't know how many times I stabbed him. I lost count after he fell.

Asmodeus is not who he led me to believe but now that I have blood on my hands -- in HIS name -- it is as if some invisible power has overcome me almost completely. He is Master and I am slave.. and I will slay his captors one by one if I cannot find a way to break his hold over me.. or to kill the Briar King himself.

The legend.. lives. Both of us.

I am his Briar Rose.

[0 petals fell]

I struggled but the snare had soundly captured my foot. I dangled not three feet from the forest floor, upside down and suspended by a long, knotty vine to the sturdy boughs of a tree. Twisting, turning but unable to jack knife upwards and get a hand to the vine noosing my ankle, after several minutes I understood it was fruitless to try. My body weight had surely cinched the vine far too tight for me to slip free. Like a hunter's trophy, I hung on display, batting my hair from before my eyes so I might see.

He was on me before I could blink. A snarling blur with hooks for hands who shook me so hard my jaw rattled in its socket. Words flew from his mouth along with his spittle into my face.

"YOU PIECE OF UNGRATEFUL GARBAGE!! YOU SLUT!! WHO IS IT THIS TIME?? WHAT IS HIS NAME? SOME SNOT NOSED LITTLE LIMP-DICKED NOBODY?!! DID YOU THINK I WOULD WAIT ON THE SIDELINES WHILE YOU SMILED AND BENT OVER FOR ANOTHER MAN?"

"No.. No.. A-A-Asmodeus..."

"DON"T YOU FUCKING LIE TO ME, ROSE ELLE! I SAW YOU WITH HIM. DID YOU SPREAD FOR HIM? IS HIS SEED UP IN YOU, GIRL? I SHOULD RIP THAT STINKING LITTLE WOMB RIGHT OUT OF YOU! YOU ARE MINE! YOU BELONG TO ME! SAY IT. SAY IT ROSE ELLE.. ROSE ELLE BELONGS TO ASMODEUS.

"But .. b-but I'm.. "

"Say it Rose Elle. Why do you make me treat you like this? You really have no cause to cry, you know. If you did not lie to me, did not try to fool me I wouldn't have to correct you. Now here.. I'll cut you down and you can curl in my lap and tell me how sorry you are.. and then we will both be all better, no? Now be good and tell me who you belong to and we will forget this ever happened."

"I belong to you, Asmodeus.."

[0 petals fell]

The next three days flew by in an intoxicating blur. I spent every waking moment I could with Asmodeus, making excuse after excuse to Father so I might slip away from my duty at the shoppe. It is wrong for me to lie to him, no matter the reason, yet I fear he will soon demand answers to questions which never seemed to make themselves known when I am with Asmodeus.

I cannot tell Father where the man lives nor what he does in life to rub two coins together. I could not rightly say if he was Lord, serf, or roaming outlaw. His title, if he bears one is as enigmatic as his surname. When I look into his eyes, these mundane details are cast aside as our conversation wraps its coils about nature's unfailing beauty and on the flip-side; human nature. Art. Writing which feeds our eyes and souls. Dreams. He wants to know everything about me.

I should have known such whirlwinds eventually calm and we must bow our heads to the tasks which life places at our feet. I was somewhat reluctant in my pew however. "Bryony. The herb garden misses you something fierce. Do you think you could spare some time to weed and water it?" I looked up from the breakfast I was picking at, blinking and caught wondering if Asmodeus would find me fetching in soft, sweetheart rose. I could sew a little. "Today? But but .. but I was hoping to harvest a few more valerian before they wither up for the season."

Father chuckled at my crestfallen expression and laid a patting hand upon my shoulder. "I thought you would give me guff, daughter mine, so I asked Alistar to help. He will be here any moment. You have just enough time to fix your hair." My hand hurried to the offending cap of fire atop my head, sinking in the soft waves before I swept it back in gentle taming from my brow and cheeks. "What is wrong with my hair?" He only chuckled, looking very smug for a man who was sick and dying a few days ago.

I missed his meaning. I can tell these things. It is a gift.

Fathers. Men! And worst of all boys! I was stuck with Alistar who loves peppering me with questions. Does my hair get darker when the weather gets chilly and the sun hides most days? Do pull the weed then twist out the clinging root or the other way 'round? Do I mind eating outside? Am I more of a mind to savor sweet or was I a fan of sour foods? And on and on.

The neglected garden was a living weed. It took us hours to finish and when Alistar finally left, dusk was in full bloom, casting a somber glow over the horizon. I hadn't been able to visit Asmodeus and I moped all eve, aching for the morning to come so I could dash off and reunite with him. And when dawn broke over a sleepy Carver's Outpost, I was out the door before the sun had a chance to burn off the morning mist.

Yet, I did not get but one footstep beyond the first saplings before something slithered about my ankle and I was yanked feet first into the air, hanging me there .. upside down and without wings.

[0 petals fell]

After a few droughts of the snakeweed, my father did recover. Come morning, the deep hacking lessened to a bare tickle in his throat and by day's end, he was good as new. I cannot tell you how close I thought I was to losing the man. Before, delirious fever had raged in Father to such a degree, he could not use the privy by himself so the sight of him settled in his chair by the hearth, slowly sipping on broth.. did well by my eyes. Did me well. And so I was ever-so anxious to return to the glade and personally thank Asmodeus.

I did not tell Father about the handsome stranger I met in the woods. Reflecting upon my reasoning I suppose I did not want him to damper my excitement with stuffy warnings or perhaps going so far as to forbid me going into the Weald by myself. Which is exactly what I did the next day. More the fool me. Eagerly I returned... so eagerly that had he not spoken, I would have missed Asmodeus as I bustled by. Today he was waiting for me at the edge of the tree line and not Varda. "You just missed your wolf.. I assume he is yours. How many men do you leave pining in wait, beautiful damosel?"

"None, Asmodeus!" My snicker matched the impish glint in the man's eye. Teasing me about a wolf! A wolf I haven't seen in days and am I bit worried about to tell you the truth. "Varda left already?" Asmodeus approached me and lifted a curled tendril of my hair from where it rested on my shoulder. "Yes, perhaps he did not like the competition I represent." His husky whisper came moments before he cupped the back of my head and led me to his mouth. "I missed you, Bryony."

The stolen kiss was one of many. The laughter never melted away. Even when we were silent and gazing over the pretty marsh pond we had spread a blanket beside, the warmth of our laughter could be felt in my belly. We had a little lunch together while we talked and teased until the day had mercilessly paraded away into the dusk. I hated to leave Asmodeus there upon the last of the copse of trees but taking me in his arms, he made sure our farewell would be memorable.

I hope father doesn't notice my kiss swollen mouth tonight.

[1 petals fell]

Crushed rose petals on the bottom of his sandal. I do not know how long I lay curled at the fountain's base. The gurgling sounds above my head were too much for me. Gurgle. Blood bubbles at his lips.

I had gotten sick, over and over. Sick until I retched up blood and sank down to ball up in fetal denial. Rose petals and a little mud from gardening. I couldn't stay. Someone would come. Eventually someone always does. Why hadn't anyone come when he screamed? Sloppy work there girlie. He saw it coming.

I desperately needed to leave but my stomach was cramping into an iron knot. Would my legs be steady enough to run? I doubted. Open your eyes. He fell so his face is in the bushes. You don't have to look if you don't want to.

I reached blindly upwards for the stone lip of the fountain, pulling myself to standing. There, I found myself staring at my hands, my nails in particular for burgundy sludge was lodged beneath each one.Bloody index. Bloody ring. Bloody pinky. Thumb is the only innocent.

Not just my hands. My gaze traveled on. I had rolled in blood and that wasn't the half of it. I had thrown myself on top of him and with clawed fingers dug out the gelatin whites out of his eyes from their sockets and .. and.. I had stabbed him so many times, he must have been dead long before I was through.

What have I done? What evil have I done for the name of love?

Asmodeus.. you didn't tell me..

[0 petals fell]

"I .. thank you. My father thanks you. I could not be more grateful.... touched. This is more than I could ever expect, Asmodeus." How long had it been since someone lent a helping hand without my asking? Or even when I did ask? Due to history not my own making, I am a bit of pariah at Carver's Outpost. I do most everything on my own.. but not this. Not this time.

The day had been gruesome, my fear running at jackrabbit speeds and his compassion wormed its way inside. He got to me. Tears gathered in my eyes, blurring my vision of my would-be benefactor. "Look at me, crying when I should be picking what you made for me," I whispered, lifting my arm to wipe the shame full wetness on my sleeve.

Asmodeus beat me to it, his gloved fingers gently brushing their backs against my cheek. "No Bryony, leave the tears. They make your eyes shine like jewels." Perhaps my errant attention had allowed him to draw this near to me, for the man stood close enough to make the caress an easy task, his personae casting an intimate ambience like netting about us both. "What.. what can I do for you. As a thank you? Please do not be polite and say it was nothing on your part. You have no idea what this means to me."

His smile came slow. The hand at my cheek turned at its wrist for his fingers to spread along my chin and jaw. He rose my face upwards with an urging of fingertips. "Bryony, I do not intend to be polite when it comes to you. Indeed, I desire two things, despite my gift of one. The first is I would very much like to be invited in. To dinner.. with you and your father." His gaze drifted intently over my face before fastening upon my mouth.

"Anytime you want to come, Asmodeus. Anytime. I would love for Father to meet you."

I whispered this vow only moments before he bent his head and kissed me. Without preamble or announcements and... without asking my permission.

Asmodeus.

[0 petals fell]

"Asmodeus, then. I am Bryony." My responses were rudimentary at best but I could have sworn we held another conversation, one spoken with the eyes and far more engaging then our courteous back-and-forth. Wolf-blue. His eyes. So light a shade, I fell into the visceral black of his pupils.

Did I know this man? Wasn't it his arrogantly sculpted face I have glimpsed in the shifting tease of crowds? That cannot be right, no. He was a man who might pray to blend into anonymity but find it a piety never to be achieved. His hair alone, a darken shroud which shivers down his back, light fawning helplessly with in the blue-black sheen, would undoubtedly set him apart from the masses. I wanted to finger all that black but not to sample its texture. I wished to know if his hair would be warm or cool to the touch.

"It is a pleasure to have last met you, Bryony.. one which is all mine." He gathered my hand in his gloved fingers and drew it smoothly to his lips. I have seen ladies become recipients to admiring kisses upon the back of their hands. I always thought the tradition looked so awkward and one-sided. You know, pomp and circumstance without any substance.

Yet, the man's mouth was furnace hot, his breath warm enough to rival a wyvern's sigh. I shivered in my skin while my mind took up the banner of temperature, lending me a secret thought. I fancied I could sense a molten tongue behind his lips and teeth, a perfect match to all the heat. And then I quickly snatched my hand away.

"Yes, it was good to meet you.. Asmodeus but I cannot linger. I'm sorry. I have to go." Every minute counted and I could once more hear the merciless ticking on time's clock. My face felt too warm and I know my nod was nervous but I backed from the man in as graceful manner as I could. My ears were buzzing in the silence but I did not fail to hear his soft reply. "Bryony. It does not go unnoticed by me that something vexes you. What is your burden? Tell me. You never know, dear damosell, it may be within my power to help."

I turned, several paces worth of gap between us then but his regard collected my gaze and held it strongly. "No insult meant, but I don't think you can help, Sir.. Asmodeus. My father has taken ill and needs some herbs from these woods. I best get around to hunting them too. Snakeweed is hard to find a good crop of. Please understand."

I back-peddled a few more steps, about ready to nod and make good my farewell but the stranger canted his head to one side and asked, just as quietly. "I do understand there is no one to take care of you... and yours."

He then rose his hand and arm, extending his curled palm towards me. Following this, his fingers flicked outwards in a sharp motion, once and only once. From the soil about my feet, small tender shoots poked through the loam and like crones casting a fountain of youth spell, the stems slowly unbent their crooked backs to stand tall. The stalks grew thicker, reached higher until tiny buds broke open with the fuzzed, light purple florets of snakeweed. I could smell their tickly pollen in the air.

There was more than enough to make a decoction for my father's bloody cough but were these magically summoned plants ...natural? And should I accept this stroke of good luck and compassion?

[0 petals fell]

The bloody cough did not abate, only added a raging fever to its allotment of symptoms. Father is delirious between the lambaste of the two and unable to keep down any of the cough expectorants we have on hand in the shoppe. The blood concerns me. He soaked two cloths which I held to his lips in under hour so after making him as comfortable as possible.. I hurried out to the woods behind our house.

I needed a more powerful astringent than I had in stock and the twice-writhen root of the snakeweed plant is excellent in the easing of hemorrhages. On my latest herbal excursion, I had seen several of its puffy, lavender flowers dotting a knoll deep in the woods and had marked the location in memory. I hated leaving him but there is not one in Carver's Outpost I trust to watch his fitful sleep while I find the medicine he needs.

Now, I do not take Calliope into the wilds with me, no matter that my beautiful roan could make those trips in half the time as my two short legs. The reason why was patiently waiting for me at the edge of the tree line, sleek muzzle lifted to the faint lullaby of wind in the trees. I do not tell Varda when I will return to the Amberleaf Weald but the wolf possesses an awareness beyond my ken. He knows when I can escape and is there waiting to shadow my step.

Reaching out, I offered my hand to his omniscient nose. It is our greeting of sorts, and I suppose a sign of my trust he will not snap my hand off at the wrist with those giant, steel-trap jaws of his. Today, he had snuffed at the tips of my fingers longer than normal, no doubt smelling the bloody scent of father's sickness and the bitter strains of feverfew decoction.

I was glad for Varda's silent company, no matter that I did not say anything of father's malaise. So when the forest suddenly turned as quiet as a tomb, I glanced back to the wolf, only to find him missing. Not one bird's chirp, not one breath of wind. Life's sound had died so quickly. It was an oppressive nothingness against which my slowing steps seemed the booming march of a giant.

"Varda? Varda!" I called his name softly, hoping he was close by and I simply couldn't see him. The trees pressed in on me, closing in too tight. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck, bringing a shiver along for the ride. "Varda?"

"Have you lost someone, sweet Damoselle?" I whipped around to see a rider sitting calmly atop his mount. He was not ten paces from me and I heard nothing until the warm honey of his voice wrapped me up in query. All the blood in my body had sunk to my toes. I pressed a hand to my pounding heart. "Oh Sir..You..You.."

"I did not mean to frighten you. Please accept my most sincere apology." Unruffled, the stranger was a pillar of serenity but the washed-out blue of his eyes held mine with an intensity I was not accustomed to. His gaze offered no polite respite, not even when he dismounted his ebon steed and came down to my level.

"I am Asmodeus," he said. "Asmodeus. I wish to hear my name upon the lips of such a beautiful woman rather than a mere title."

[0 petals fell]

Bright and early this morning, I was rudely awoke to the knowledge I am officially a woman whereas yesterday I was not. At last my woman's red moon has begun. I had started to believe I was completely immune to this curse of blood and would be childless my whole life long. I had started to believe many dire things... for you see, all the other girls my age have long ago stepped fully into womanhood while here I am eighteen and only just beginning. But at least I am beginning! I have been living under the hush-hush fear my secret shame would fuel another round of gossip and people have plenty to natter about when it comes to me as it is.

For its premiere, the flow came as a thief in the night, leaving me ill-prepared. I was forced to scramble about in the dark house to clean up myself and the bed sheets, doing my best to keep my father from noticing the break in my morning ablutions. I do not have a mother to share these womanly woes with so even now that I am in the clear on normality, there is not a single soul to spill the beans to. I suppose I could tell Varda.. but I doubt the wolf would understand why I care about the cruel things people can say.

I was congratulating myself by the time Father came down from the upper floor. The heady smell of mint tea brewing on the hearth was there to greet him and I was one put-together Miss, busily chopping the feverfew blossoms from their stems.

As he came into the kitchen, Father breathed in deeply, throwing his skinny chest out. "Ahhhhh.. it must be Chauday. No one will come within ten yards of either of us today without regretting it."

He was referring to the feverfew, you see the entire plant reeks with a bitter scent. And not just the blossoms or stems, why even the roots bear the same olfactory trademark. The smell was especially powerful with the batch I was currently working into next week's infusions. At one elbow I had a pile of the flower's heads. They have delicate white petals surrounding a golden floret. At the other elbow, the green slender stalks and roots.

Taking up his tea cup, my father paused in mock speculation, a finger touching to his chin. I was eyeing him with a grin, knowing what was coming. He had that twinkle in his eye, the one I love so much. "We would be quite crushed if the Lady Hildegarde decides to stay away today, won't we?" he turned to ask me. "Oh yes Father, destitute with remorse." Bad of me, but I might've spoiled the delivery for I was snickering under my breath, to which Father soon joined me.

"That's a pretty potent batch you have there, Bryony. Good morning." When we had piped down, he kissed the cheek I offered and went about milking his tea into an early grave. We banter often about his ruination of a good cup of tea with unneeded cream. Surely it must spoil any medicinal benefits from the herbs. "Good morning, Father. Did you rest well?"

His tea doctored, Father set it aside and was putting on his working apron when he paused to clear his throat. This attempt did not seem to work for with a hand curled under his mouth, he coughed lightly on his way over to me. "Everything alright there, Father?" I teased him, looking up from my work. He nodded in answer, clearing his throat a few more times while shaking his head. "My throat must be dry this morning.. Now. I cannot let my apprentice do all the work. I will get the ambelic.."

And just like that, he buckled over and the light, surface cough deepened with alarming swiftness to a hacking sound which he could barely finish before the next one wracked through him. "Father??" I dropped the knife and hurried around the counter yet by the time I got to him, he was down on one knee, laboring in a fit of coughing of the likes I have never heard from him. What little catchup breathing he could get in between this endless string of coughs was nothing more than shallow wheezes.

I dropped to my knees next to him and just as I did, the next deep, guttural exhalation came up sounding wet. Blood sprayed the floor, my father's clenched fist and left a garish pattern of scarlet across my lap.

Blood, everywhere, blood.

[0 petals fell]