[center][h3]The Skull[/h3][/center]

Mirren was in a deep slumber, a coma even, the mental and physical tramua she had endured as well as the poison working through her veins forcing her into as great a battle for her life as the one she just fought. Perhaps even greater. For if she loses, she might not just perish, but lose her mind entirely for the rest of her days. 

She found herself in her darkest nightmares, in the most twisted corners of her mind, ghosts of the past and spectres of her imagination coming to haunt her. It was a miasma of sensation and feeling that overwhelmed her, leaving her stranded in a vast ocean of mania and confusion. She saw impossible things, things without description. And there was pain. So much pain. 

And through it all, a voice that was both a whisper and a scream, that she could not block out. 

"Give in Mirren. It is easier that way. Let me embrace you." 

Suddenly Mirren found herself under a scorching sun, in a vast desert with sand the color of blood. A monstrous wind blew and now the sand was blowing into her face, blood scoring her skin and lashing at her like thousands of small needles. And then she felt herself begin to be pulled down by hands and arms. Grey, rotted limbs that slowly but surely began to draw her under the sand, she felt a sea of bodies beneath her, writhing. And somehow she knew that all the people she had killed were with her. 

As the voice continued to coo and shout in her mind. 

"Be at ease, warrior. Rest. The fight is done." 

Mirren looked around within the dream, this new voice was unlike the previous one, attempting to torment her, drag her under the sand. Again, she swatted away at the festering arms that clawed at her, dragging herself to the top once more. 

Perhaps it was another mirage, vestige of hope manifest in her own subconscious, the beast she had fought had tried that before - hope, once taken, was more horrible than never having it at all. And yet, there was no harm in trying once more - she'd defeated this beast in life, she could handle it in dream as well.

Loudly, she called, "The fight is not yet done - I haven't had cream off a whore's tits yet." Breaking the fingers of yet another fetid hand, she continued to search, "Mind telling me if you're another illusion, or one of the army's mages?"

A shadow appeared before her, formless and vague. All that Mirren could see of it was the outline of a smile, "I'm here to help you, Mirren. In madness, there can be much pleasure. You may even find your whores there." 

A dark palm stretched out to grasp Mirren by the hair and shove her under the sand. But then, the sun dimmed and the largest murder of crows Mirren had ever seen appeared in the sky. They blotted out the sun and dominated the sky, pecking at the shadow with their beaks and clawing at him with their talons, until the entity roared in pain and vanished. 

Several crows began to flap into the shape of a man, and Mirren heard a new voice, fatherly and soothing, "Death converges on you, Mirren Sand. But you can escape it. This is your mind, your dream. In here, you have the power. Find it. Before it's too late." 

The crows blocked the howling sand, pecked and clawed at the hands holding Mirren down, giving her breathing room, the oppurtunity to free herself. But slowly, even the thousands of crows began to slowly succumb to the sand and grasping dead hands, and the darkness began to coalesce once more and swallow up the black birds. Her time was running out. 

Mirren spluttered, disappointed but unsurprised with this turn of events. She gritted her teeth, once more seizing hold of the outstretched arms and hands that grasped at her, breaking, snapping, and pulverizing them with an exasperated sigh. Truth be told, this hellscape of a dream didn't actually look all that bad - perhaps a nice shaded house to get out of the sandstorms in, but otherwise not bad on the eyes at all. Even so, it was immaterial, that much she knew. That voice, whatever demonic grudge it held against her, grated in her mind - perhaps it meant to break her down, crush her spirit and will to resist. In truth, it just annoyed her. She'd killed Bezeel, dammit, and yet he apparently had to continue his fight, tormenting her dreams now.

Under her breath, she swore that she'd have to find his corpse at some point and bury whatever was left of it in a pit of manure. 

Another hand grabbed her shoulder, and she turned, face to face with the wide eyes of the first man she had killed. For a second, she was taken aback, her own eyes widening in shock, before hardening. Just as she had year ago, she drove a knife between those eyes, snapping the bones that clung to her and trudging on. Another hand, and she turned, slashing outwards with a sword she could have sworn had not been there a moment before. Another hand, grasping at her leg, and she slammed down a shield that had likewise not been there a moment before. For a moment, she was confused by the sudden appearance of weapons she had seen Bezeel destroy before her eyes, but now was not the time to ponder the intricacies of her subconscious. She slashed with a vengeance at another outstretched hand, neatly severing it, kicked savagely at a second one. 

Blood started to seep out of the sand, turning it to a red soggy morass like mud, making her steps slower, her footing unsure. The corpses still writhed, and the smell of gore and viscera was now dominant. The crows continued to do their best to shield and aid the mercenary as the wind turned to stinging rain and storm clouds appeared to cover the blazing sun. She had to keep fighting through the slog as the dead men wailed, any misstep meaning she would be dragged under. 

The demonic presence reverberated through the desert, sending vibrations in pools of blood colored water and seeming to press against her skull, "Tell me. Why do you fight? For what reason? You are a killer. And always will be. You will not die peacefully. You will die in battle, in pain, sooner or later. Eventually you will weaken as their years take their toll, and someone stronger than you will kill you. All so you can do what? It is pointless." 

"Rest. Stop fighting. And let darkness take you. You deserve it. You know you do." 

The bodies increased, not just the people Mirren killed. But the people she had seen die. The ones she hadn't saved or let die. The people who had died because she had killed a brother or son or father. The people she would kill, and all the other deaths she would cause if she kept living. Mountains of the dead, a screaming, agonized press that kept growing and kept pressing to her, trying to suffocate her under their wailing weight. 

Mirren grimaced, and continued to struggle on, hacking, slashing, punching, and kicking at the festering corpses. Perhaps, the voice had a point, but she cared little - she knew that living her current life would inevitably end those of many, it was a fact she had accepted long ago. And still, she persisted, perhaps it was selfish to place herself and her own comfort over the wellbeing and lives of many others, but she cared not. She would escape from this nightmare, that much she was confident of. When, how, why, all of these she knew not, but she continued on, hacking, slashing, fighting with a fury as inhuman as the tormenting voice that sought to crush her. 

Perhaps it was another illusion, perhaps she was gaining control, she knew not, but after what seemed to be days on end, as her arms screamed at her, every ounce of her body shrieked in protest, as she hacked through the never ending tide of bodies - their numbers seemed to thin, to wane, no more did they press in on her in a throng that blotted out the sun. They still numbered many, but now she had hope that there might be an end to them. 

The question now was a matter of her own endurance. 

Outside the dream world, the body of the mercenary known as Mirren was fighting for its life against the poison. Laid in the center of a spacious tent, and surrounded by solemn flames and chanting red priests, the followers of R'hllor fought back in their own, sending their prayers and purging flames to fight against the miasma that ate Mirren's body away. The healers had long given up as mundane methods had proven far less successful. Maesters and Alchemists both had pried the woman with several powerful elixirs that helped stave off the mystical poison. Water mages kneeled next to the fire priests and sang in their own rites, glowing water playing itself over Mirren's body as their compatriots chanted.  Amidst the middle of the chorus chanting, the priestess known as Mella Florent bit her lip.

Not all the might of the faithful gathered there could shrug the curse that she had been beset easily, such had been the might of their foe. The Florent noblewoman bitterly gathered that if this was the Vulture king's brother, they would need every sword they could spare. For their opponent, according to herself, had powers that could cheat death even. 

Was all there to it? Mella Florent clenched her teeth, unable to succumb to despair. Only one option remaining. The Last Kiss. Once a rite to purify the soon to be departed, when the magic arts came back, the Last Kiss would give new life instead. However, such power was only wielded by the truly faithful of the lord of Light. She...was no high priestess yet, so its effect might not be great. She certainly never tried before. But among them all she was the most important.

Stepping into the circle, she leaned over the tortured body of Mirren, inching ever close to her face. Poor, foolish woman. She could have lived another life, but now her looks were beginning to suffer the wear and tear of battlefields. Such a fierce warrior. She wondered how many times she had kissed others with those lips of hers.  Mella Florent gulped. Mirren had the chiselled body of a warrior, yet she was a woman. It was...confusing. But it had to be done. She had to kiss her in order to make it work. She swallowed, and focused.

Her lips touched Mirren's own mouth, as she felt a slight jolt. She focused her mental prayers, and felt like something sudden stirred from her chest.  Her mouth felt hot, and her eyes went wide upon the sensation. Glimples of flame and lights were caught by her eyes as she kept locking her lips with Mirren's. Deep inside, she knew. That was a Last Kiss.

The voice growled, booming, "Even if you escape, you will not be able to run forever. One day you will succumb. One day madness and despair will take you. One day you will be MINE!" The last word was a boom throughout the land, flattening everything to the ground for a moment. 

Mirren grinned, a fresh burst of energy from where she knew not. It wasn't huge, there was no lightning bolt of vigor, but she stood properly again, cutting down the last emaciated, fetid corpses that shambled towards her. "I think the correct words," She called, feeling a burst of laughter welling up in her chest, "Is you'll be a dried head on my wall!"

There was an endless shout of rage, a thunderstorm of fury that seemed without end as the darkness rushed in to Mirren. But suddenly, there was fire and light. Mirren's illusory weapons fell to the ground as a corona of fire surrounded her, burning away the blood and shadow, leaving her one point of light in the hellscape around her. The clouds began to part and the crows returned, cawing and flying around her as she began to float above them, into blue skies. 

Then she opened her eyes. There was pain and weariness, and she hadn't felt so sick before in her life. But she was awake and alive. And for now the voices had ceased. 

She woke up with Mella Florent's lips on hers. 

Mirren cracked an eye open, her mind taking a moment to register what exactly was going on right in front of her. It was certainly a surprise to wake up to the press of Mella Florent's lips, certainly not an unwelcome surprise, if nothing else.

"I thought only knights got kisses from the pretty noblewomen after fighting monsters." She murmured, grinning, "Didn't get the memo they changed that policy."

Mella Florent's eyes went wide with surprise as no small amount of comfort and relief soothed her body. The plan had worked. The woman would live to fight once more, and she and the Fire Priests' reputation had lived up to it. However, surprise and comfort soon gave to in to fluster, as her face reddened to a shade not unlike that of her hair, an angry scowl forming in her factions like a small predator surprised and cornered.

"You deviant!" She cursed, horrified to see the fact, the woman seemed to have [i]liked it[/i]. Her hand raised, and imparted swift judgment, the slap being a fine follow up of her angry words. She wasted then no time in crawling her now spent and exhausted body from Mirren's topside. Standing up with what dignity she could muster, she gave a last sideway disgusted stare to the mercenary. "You should count your blessings. Had it not been because our craft, you would have died." She added, her voice almost breaking into a hiss. She had to wash her mouth off.

"Inform Garlan that...we brought back his blade." She said dryly, as she eyed a priest who deployed a brazier for long communication distances. Merrel had finally conceded they would need even to employ sorcery to communicate with eachother, and she was not going to pass the opportunity.

Mirren grinned to herself as Mella Florent stormed away. She had her doubts as to the truth of the woman's claim - it was entirely possible her actions had given her the last burst of energy, but to take all the credit for herself and the red priests... Mirren shook her head, grinning to herself. If she was to be honest, she'd rather have a second round with Beezel than deal with religious zealots.