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[Cezanne Abella]

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Cezanne took a last look around the dojo at the crumpled corpses of succubi and fan dancers. Such a waste. And yet it’s why she’d come. To see death in the cold dark eyes of the daemons who stalked the lair beneath the fan dancers’ dojo. To taste death on the edge of a serrated fan. For whatever reason, it’s what she’d needed.

She heard a familiar rustle...the leathery wings of a succubus unfurling, readying for battle. But Cezanne knew she’d had enough of death for one night. She retreated to a dark corner of the room, giving herself just enough time to utter her spell as the creature approached and let fly a fireball that illuminated the stone walls of the dungeon. Kal Ort Por.

The theatre was darkened. Only the warmth of candlelight from the tables within illuminated the stained glass windows to shine in the night. By the light of the street lamp on the steps, Cezanne dismounted Covenant and led him into the stables. She dropped her ladened pack by the gate and put out a sheaf of fresh hay for the dark horse to eat as he, too, rested and recovered from the night’s hunt.

She took up her pack again. Could it possibly have gotten heavier? Inside the theatre, Cezanne blew out the candles, one by one. She gave the food crate a glance, but instead opted for a bottle of wine from the shelf. Heavily encumbered, she shuffled to the stairs, hefted her pack higher, and climbed slowly up to her chamber.

Cezanne poured herself a glass of wine and emptied the night’s spoils out across her bed. Piles of gold glittered by lantern light. Gems and jewels sparkled as she rolled them like dice into their respective piles. The fan dancers certainly do love their sparklies. Cezanne held a star sapphire up to the light and watched its starburst dance across the surface as she turned it this way and that. Maybe I do too… She smirked and dropped the single stone into the pocket of her dress.

[Cezanne Abella]

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After half a bottle of wine, the depths of her pack had yielded the last of their treasure, and small roll of brightly-coloured paper caught Cezanne’s eye. She took the roll and untied the thin red string from around it. Cezanne unfurled the paper and examined it carefully. The lantern light illuminated it, shining through the gossamer-thin parchment. Such a sunny shade of yellow….What would a creature of darkness possibly want with something like this?

Creases across the paper puzzled Cezanne as she fluttered it lightly between her fingertips. The paper fell into a natural fold, furthering her curiosity. She lay the paper down on the bed and began retracing the creases one at a time, fold by fold, until all seemed in their proper places. The paper had become what it once was--what it had longed to be again.

Carefully, Cezanne lifted the folded paper, which fell open in her hands. A brilliant yellow butterfly, dainty wings spread for flight. Cezanne’s lips parted in stunned admiration as she examined the intricately-folded figure.

Cezanne fished the star sapphire out of her pocket and held it in her free hand. She looked from the stone to the butterfly, each in an open palm, weighing them like a set of scales. Unceremoniously, she tossed the star sapphire into a pile of similar stones, and laid the delicate paper butterfly atop the pillow on the empty side of her bed.

Amongst the piles of gold and jewels, Cezanne lay on her side gazing at the sunny butterfly until her head with its dark, disheveled curls sank into her own pillow in slumber. Even as sleep enfolded her heart and mind with darkness, her hand reached out to touch a fragile paper wing one more time, and a slight smile played across her lips. Half drunk and dizzy with fatigue, she spoke aloud, green eyes still veiled with sleep.

“I shall call you Dennis.”