Dark Divide ✓ [WLW]

Chapter One - Unto Death

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𝐈𝐅 𝐄𝐕𝐘𝐋𝐘𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃, it was death. The sorrow written in the lines of a frigid, unforgiving hand that took your hand in its own and did not let go. The cracks in your voice as you begged, pleaded, and prayed for mercy.

Mercy was to be earned, and Evylyn had not met a single soul who she believed was pure enough to deserve mercy. Mortals and immortals alike were the same–rotten to the core.

Evylyn didn't consider herself to be a saint, either. She'd done things she wasn't proud of–things that did, in a way, tell of a fate she was worthy of. A destiny that most would cower and screamed at the mere thought of. But unlike the wicked monsters who deemed her a beast, she was willing to change.

And, in her correct opinion, necromancers did not follow the reputation they'd garnered. Yes, there were a few rotten apples, but what group didn't have a select few the majority turned their noses up on? Even the self-righteous, morally sound poets of the world weren't all that perfect when you looked below the surface.

The few accepting mortals she'd met were dancing on the thin line between pure and tainted. However, Evylyn couldn't–and wouldn't–play reaper with mortal lives, so she truthfully didn't care what their intentions were, as long as they didn't end up with her dead. One of them provided her with a tavern tucked away in the shrouded forests of Fospyae, far from any city. Cheap alcohol and quiet ambiance? More than enough for Evylyn to take a seat. A plus was that she didn't hear any hushed rumors whispered into the cold air. It was enough for her to ignore the questionable cries of animals echoing deep within the woods as they found a frail mortal to snack on.

She tucked her nose into the dirty shot glass, the pungent, bitter smell of vodka warming her insides as she drew her glacial gaze across the tavern. The floorboards were caked with mud, and most planks weren't in one piece. Plenty of the wooden tables were missing their corresponding chairs–Evylyn was sitting in one of the few standing chairs in the tavern. And there were only two other souls in the dingy tavern, one being the owner.

The vodka tasted terrible–like a poor mix of cherries and blood–but she couldn't complain. This was one of the only taverns in Astania that wouldn't run her out upon catching a glimpse of her. Practicing banned magic aside, her appearance was one of the most recognizable species. Though nothing in particular stood out about her, the moment you took a second look, you would notice Evylyn's crimson skin was highlighted in lavender–the whites of her bones, tinted with the magic that surged within her.

Delvian were blessed–though Evylyn believed it to be a curse–with an affinity for necromancy magic. Her deity, Xytyx, made sure they looked as he did, with a dramatic flair on bones and glowing eyes. That, paired with being a "spooky necromancer", did not make her particularly popular.

Evylyn sighed, downing the rest of her alcohol and letting its warmth seep through her chilled body. One of the only pluses to cheap booze?

The magic and fruit it was made from would, quite literally in some cases, set your insides on fire.

"Another round?" a drawling voice called from behind her; the owner. A portly Qhelmite, the gentleman always made Evylyn feel welcome with a smile that stretched from ear to ear and eyes that sparkled with kindness. He seemed to be able to easily tune out the constant, grating dripping from the faucet behind him; something Evylyn was struggling to do as her fingers curled harshly around her glass.

"No," she replied. She didn't trust anyone within Honeybrew Tavern, staff or not. She knew they'd likely sell her out if presented with the opportunity; after all, she was sure she had a pretty number of Datuy circulating for her head, whether it was attached to her body or not. She paused, nearly forgetting her rusty manners, before adding, "Thank you, though."