#almost 5 AM can't sleep so... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[sins-of-the-sea]

"Oh, come now, Phoebus…" the Master begins as the fractal arms retreat into the shapeless dark. The waters sway to and fro as the souls that light up the night swim towards his direction, obscuring his view until a single humanoid 'foot' steps forward. Seemingly human. This form is still hidden beneath a kelp-like shawl that obscures his features. Mayhaps he has shed off the form he typically appears within the Locker for Phoebus' sake.

"Phoebus. Son of Avignon. Little Phi. Wake up, child."

No response. There barely is a breath.

"Ohhh… yes, yes. I have… forgotten a part." The Master then extends a hand towards Taryn… and presses the tips of his middle finger and thumb together, the index pointed towards his new thrall while the rest tuck in. Readying for a snap.

"As part of the deal. This is what you asked, Miss Nargarian."

-=Snap.=-

Like a flick of flint, Fire and Brimstone has landed upon Taryn. The very flames of Sodom and Gomorrah. The punishment for Lust. And his gift.

As Taryn burns, she not only feels the fires upon her skin. Not just on her flesh. Not just on her bone. For with normal fire, the deepest of burns wouldn't have any feeling at all--after all, the nerve endings would have been destroyed. This is beyond what Taryn's nerves or fibres can even fathom. More than smoke in her lungs. The curling of ash within her fingertips, the crumbling of every cell in her body.

What she felt was Phoebus' pain of betrayal from his brother… added on top of Taryn's own history of neglect, abuse, manipulation, and treachery. From the incident of the bridge to the affliction that haunted over his mother, from starving in South America, to almost truly tasting death in Mactan.

Soul fire. The fire of malice from one brother to another. Not of wrath, but bloodlust. An act not of retribution, but harmful desire.

"Ahh, my apologies, Madam," the Master says mockingly. "You said so yourself, on certain terms--that you wish to bear his immolation upon your own self. I'm afraid it's a bit… difficult to separate the fire that burned his flesh from the one that burned his soul." He grins. "I pray you do forgive me," he says with a smug chuckle.

All while this is happening….

Phoebus' stare is blank. He is here. He is breathing... a little. He is alive. But there is no blinking. Not even as embers fall on his skin.

----- HOW terrible it should seem that the pain is familiar to the woman.

So many years, so many times, on so many countless occasions and for so many reasons and by so many people had similar sensations burned and ripped through the very fibers of her being. Teeth gnashing, back arching, enough to bring a grown man to his knees wailing for mercy, and yet all that escapes the newest tortured soul is an elongated groan through teeth clenched so tightly they almost threaten to shatter.

And then... the nothingness. The stillness. The betraying peace that brings wonder of if the pain is over.

She shivers despite the lingering heat emanating through her veins as if her blood were suddenly replaced with magma. A sensation that sends a sharp memory jolting through her mind, of a terrible fever she fought to overcome. A fever that had been brought on by the sea.

The Master's hand upon Taryn's neck is a stark difference to how her body currently feels, but that doesn't seem to be a focal point of concern any longer, and her mouth doesn't even quiver to form a response. Her head suddenly lifts; slowly. Large ears park up and tilt to and fro, and her gaze moves towards the wisps of light that have been allowed through the curtain of the waves.

Sure enough, there lies the other half to this tragedy of crimson-haired lovers, restored to flesh as agreed upon. She blinks, silently noting the soft breath, the movement of his chest and shoulders as he comes to terms with breathing once more.

But there is no movement from the woman's end. Not a twitch, not a waver, nothing more than a blink or two.

For, as promised, Taryn Nargarian was no more. The fever was the last glimpse of memory allowed to the freshly reset mind of this being. There was no more pain, no more heartache, no more anger that riled in the woman's chest from simply hearing the name Phoebus Duchamp.

For, as promised, all the remained was a beast, a hunter, a tool that bent to the devil's will until it was deemed her time to face the unforgiving flames.