A Cold Welcome
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The North is a cold, cold place. That much is obvious to anyone who's ever read a tourist's handbook or heard stories along the road. Any travellers who have passed through its freezing embrace will tell you that it can also be a noisy place; being closest to the Pole of Air, which carries the sounds of existence on its emanations; the wind screams as it dips close to the ground, shrieking its agony as the cruel rock spires jutting from its snowy flesh lacerate it, scourging all beneath it with the chill that it brings.
And yet, over the howling of the wind, another voice can be faintly heard, coming from a comet of green fire streaking down through the clear blue sky...
"-n't yoooooouuuuuuu daaaaaaaaaaaaaare-"
The cry terminates in a vaguely anticlimactic thud that throws up a clod of frozen snow that is swiftly torn away by the wildly-blowing wind. As the last ribbons of snow are flensed away by the merciless gusts, a crater, already filling with snow, is revealed to be the end of the comet's flight. Within that crater slowly stands a young woman, dressed in strange-looking armor, her pale lavender hair moving... oddly in the wind. It's being blown by the air currents, that much is certain, but it seems to be actively defying the very wind itself.
"Where the- oh right, the North," the young woman groans, before hugging herself. "Damn, but it's cold. Better find a place to take cover. Let's get a move on, then..."
Saying so, she vanishes into a blur of speed, the chill receding from her bones as she literally outruns the very concept of heat loss. As she sprints, the memories of the last few moments before her transition to Creation flit through her mind...
The woman is sitting at a table in a private solarium atop one of Malfeas' sanity-defying towers, opposite a tall, four-armed man who is at once contemplating the entity before him and bathing all of the Demon City in his viridian glory.
"My dear, dear girl, your antics have always amused me... but sad as I am to say it, they have to come to an end."
"Say what? Why"
The Green Sun favors the lavender-haired woman before him with a bemused smile, which is probably more infuriating than any answer he could give. While not exceptionally cruel by demon standards, the expression on her face is simply... delicious.
"Ah, they taste so good," he says, suddenly bringing his face close to hers, miming the action of licking up her tears. Mariko is not amused. Wary, because he is still Unquestionable and far more poweful than she, but that doesn't mean she has to roll over for him.
"That's enough of that," she says, planting both hands on his chest and pushing him off. Ligier simply smiles again, resting his chin on one of his four hands.
"But really, you should know why. You've caused a lot of trouble in the layers; defeated, frustrated and humiliated a lot of citizens. The most recent one was... hm, I can't even remember. I suppose it all started with that Soul Reaver you bear, but it seems you've made a hobby out of it. Thing is, dear girl, you've forgotten a very crucial part of the hierarchy of Hell."
Mariko looks genuinely puzzled. "I have?"
"You do know that every citizen is a soul of one of the Peers, don't you?"
"Well, duh, of course- oh."
The Green Sun can't resist a chuckle at Mariko's response. "I don't suppose you've encountered repercussions? Well, I'd guess not. I've been covering for you for some time now-"
"I never asked for that!" Mariko interjects. "I can wipe my own ass, I don't need you to-"
"It doesn't matter if you wanted my intercession, dear girl; you came to me for tutelage, and what citizens see when a mortal girl goes to speak with the Heart of Malfeas and leaves intact is that "she is favored by him". Since that impression was never corrected, it spread, and now many of them think you are my protege. Which, I suppose, is not too far from the truth. You have amused me, and there are some whom you have inconvenienced whom I would dearly love to see put in their place. And you being what you are, you were the perfect catspaw. Am I to be the keeper of another Yozi's Chosen?"
"So... all this while, I've just been your toy?"
"You were a very entertaining toy, if it's any comfort."
Mariko ponders this, her hair subconsciously cupping her chin.
"No, I can't complain," she finally replies. "So... what happens now?"
"Well. I've done my best to ward off reprisals against you without seeming like I'm involved, but, well, I'm not actually obligated to protect you, and you'd be offended by the offer anyway. The fact remains that several of the Peers have been sufficiently incensed by your actions that they are, personally, mobilizing assets to bring you down. Even if I could be bothered to officially name you as my ward, it wouldn't stop them, and more importantly, it wouldn't stop you. And it would be tremendously annoying to have to go to war with them again, in any case."
"That's all right. Thanks for the heads-up. I'll just... not sleep. Or something. And keep my eyes open."
"And how long do you think you'd be able to keep it up, dear girl? A year? Two? You can run. You can even hide. But vendettas last longer than that, and while I've repeatedly said I owe you nothing, I would hate to see you perish."
His hands suddenly grip hers, catching Mariko by surprise... and too late to phase out of his grasp.
"I've arranged a little vacation for you. Don't come back for a few years. Think of it as a good way to... cool your head."
One of his free hands lifts a coin of Malfean brass to her Caste Mark. Mariko's eyes widen as she realises what he intends.
"No, Ligier, do-"
There is a flare of light, brighter than the sun, and then all that is left of Mariko in Malfeas is the acrid stench of brimstone.
"Have a nice trip, dear girl," he says to the empty air, before turning to the veiled woman behind him.
"My lord," Berengiere bows. "Where have you sent her?"
"Somewhere the heat can die down, Weaver. Oh, I know, you're worried about Mariko. Don't be. I guarantee I have not harmed her... well, bruised her pride, maybe, but otherwise, intact. You will tell your friends exactly what you saw here, won't you?"
"Yes, lord," the Weaver of Voices nods. "Mariko approached you, spoke without proper respect, and then you reduced her to little more than a lingering scent on the wind."
"Precisely," he smiles. "You may go now. Close the door behind you."
"Yes, lord," the demoness assents, before backing away from him and shutting the portal to the solarium. Ligier considers the burned out coin he's holding, the artifact he forged especially for this purpose. Granted, it wasn't a huge investment of resources... but still, it was an investment nonetheless. He places it on the table, between Mariko's seat and his, and sighs.
"Do keep yourself safe, Mariko..."
Back in Creation, Mariko facepalms.
"Dammit, so that was his plan all along! He boots me to Creation and makes everyone think he was dealing with me, and then the other Unquestionables don't go all passive-aggressive on him. His toy to the end! Damn!"
Still covering her face, she nimbly dances over the treacherous ground she's sprinting over, hardly bothering to look at her surroundings.
"Then again," she shrugs. "He did save my ass. So... I guess I owe him. Just as bloody planned."
Sighing to herself, Mariko runs ever on.
