The sky was heavy violet with only small wisps of white to break up said shade. Odd, he thought, for this was no natural color. Odder still, the Miqo’te was upon his back in four, maybe three, ilms of water. Four, after testing with his fingers.
“I must be dreaming,” he spoke aloud.
Elbows propped him to recline. He was clothed in simple colors: shades of grey. There was silver trim upon the dull asher kersey. Buttons of mottled stone were dotted there. The Miqo’te ran his touch over the pattern for a few moments before raising himself up in full.
“In stark opposite to that which reigns above,” he murmured.
Not alone, went his senses in quick report.
The witness of contrasting colours lingered as he surveyed the surrounds. Not alone with a gaunt man standing apart from a crowd gathered about a tree. The tree itself lifted upon a stone platform which stood upon another tier of stone. Not alone with another Keeper, like himself, only this one stood far off near roaring falls…
“Hidden Tear!”
The location burst from his lips unbidden. This was Gyr Abania; he was within the province of the Peaks. Easterly from Ala Gannha and beneath a strange sky. His red brow furrowed as he pondered the state of the heavens. Not once in his recollection of annals and idle conversation with proclaimed experts had he heard of it turning so.
So lost was he that he only just realized there was no din of chatter from the crowd. The silence was chipped away at only by the jabbering of the Miqo’te who was a dozen fulms away from the rest. Rhuli’a bent his ear hard towards what his distant kin was saying but the noisome waterfall only gave a glean of the timbre. Guttural. Similar to how his own mantra was made when he was in dark reverie.
His right hand shivered. The veins raced. Torn between investigating the weirding chant afar and investigating the gathering near, he ultimately chose the latter. Not for the least reason that the gaunt man had been staring at him.
“How now? You put eyes upon me and speak no greeting? What are we gathered here for?”
Rhuli’a greeted the man, a Hyur, as his station demanded. He tried to crane his neck past to see what the spectacle was but failed. All he could tell was that there was a tree, as he could before. The Miqo’te would need to push to the front for more. The gaunt man proffered a hand and, with slight trepidation running up his back, Rhuli’a accepted.
They parted the crowd as they came to behold what had gathered so many. There, upon the tree, was a hanged figure. A tail marked it as a Miqo’te and as Rhuli’a neared he could tell exactly who it was. The gaunt man had not released his hand and spoke for the first time since this dream came to be.
“Did you know him?”
Rhuli’a studied his strung up self. This was a him of previous cycles. The tattoos upon his jaw were red instead of black. The countenance was unmarred save for that single, shallow scar he had carried since childhood. The burn was gone, along with all the contortions it brought with it. And, instead of the deep red he carried now, his hair was a fair shade of —
“Once. Forever went his footsteps when he thought them impermanent. The wound was fresh and weeping then. No inclination, possessed he, of how wide the yaw would go. Whole across the body and spilling into the soul once the truth of this star came forth and visited it again through labour and response from fellows, flock and heavens. The refrain was: War.”
The Keeper still did not seek freedom from the clasp of the man. The scene of himself both looking upon the corpse and the condition of that thereof began to overwhelm him. That which was strung up did not move; no wind was present, Rhuli’a realized. An irregularity was caught in the corner of his eye and he gasped as he turned to behold it in full. In the distance, a monumental skull was hewn from the rocks of the Peaks. Instead of a jagged crown along the horizon, there was rictus grin and eyesockets of deepest shadow. Vilekin was soon to spill forth from those holes. Dread welled up within him.
“That wasn’t there before,” noted the gaunt man.
The grip fell from Rhuli’a’s fingers and he recoiled. Nausea was churning his insides but he fought down the urge as he broke away from the tree and grim crowd. Pointedly placing his back towards the skull, he stumbled over to the Miqo’te from earlier and was sick upon the ground next to his kin. The finer points of the mutterings became clear as he wiped flecks of chitin and gossamer-paper wings from the corner of his mouth.
“I cast off to the far bank and nothing changed. I wished to be different but man remains the same. I cast off to the far bank and nothing changed. Seven and one and two, the knife dulls if in sheathe it stays. I cast off to the far bank and nothing changed. Deliver your son from stone, can you not see it is of tomb-make? Loss of self or perhaps sense as I put my name among the bones. Seven and one and two.”
The figure of this chanting Miqo’te and the attire upon it were utterly unremarkable. Sable color in tail, tuft-ear and hair. Dark skin. Clothes that would protect from dust but not bite of wind nor scorching summer ray. Rhuli’a listened to the passage recited for a full tick before interrupting.
“I was dubbed those numbers. Long ago. In that exact order. How do you know that series?”
The chanter paused. Looking past the one who cut through his words. No doubt meeting the hollow pits of the skull, Rhuli’a thought privately. A few moments passed before an answer was given.
“Who doesn’t know?”
An infuriating response. The frustration was so palpable the chanter took a step back, wariness in his features. It did not afford him escape from the snatch of the cuff and bunching of cloth the Keeper put upon him. Captive now to fury, Rhuli’a spat several remnants of locust legs to the side. They twitched in the scrub grass.
“Think hard on your next words and try again,” snarled Rhuli’a. He could feel the blind hunger of the Sarcosuchus slither into his arms and coalesce as a hard knot in his neck. “Or I will start tearing meaning from you.”
“... Nothing will change. You’ve seen where the road ends; I am just reminder. I am just remainder. That series is the same title in another language. Another format, as if you had written your name backwards. The letters are unfamiliar but you would know them if you saw them. The skull is getting closer, milord. Do not turn around.”
Rhuli’a was frozen. He obeyed but only in part; his eyne flicked to the water to gauge the truth from reflection. Only the skull was there. No sky, no crowd, no tree. That thing was close, too close —
A hand fell on his shoulder. Even through the cloth, Rhuli’a could tell it was snakeskin. Three fingers. The grip which rooted him firmly there was but a portion of an immense strength. Sweat and chill immediately started to bead and creep through him. The Miqo’te shirked from the water in haste; he did not want to see the shape of what held him.
“It is seven fulms tall,” began the chanter. Rhuli’a could only shut his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw another pair open; the orbs were surrounded by purple skin, mottled like age-touched stone. Darker than dark were the wet centers.
“Two arms and two legs and a tail. Leathery beast of scale. Distorted make is its head, flattened wide with scraps of cloth attached to its edge with hooks. They have names on them, Rhuli’a. Ones forgotten and remembered. Three fingers on one hand, two on another. A blade at its belt it will only harm itself with. A maw of flat teeth. It works its jaw to pulp tree and bone to those papers. Then the blade works to spatter the letters upon them in that fine red ink.”
The Keeper was quivering, frozen in place with ears flattened and tail wound close to him. He opened his mouth and only found small whimpers and cries coming from it. The skull was near and his shoulder went to jelly, rife with splintered bone, as the clutch there intensified. The pain dulled him to meandering series grunt, unable after a time to manage even that.
“And it is seven and one and two.”
…
Rhuli’a started. Awake now. There in the Peaks his body knelt and the morn bells were nearly upon him. A vigil of two eves had he spent fasting and avoiding any speech given to fellows like himself. Only the beasts knew his syllables and gave him a wide berth. The inside of his mouth was dry and he untangled his limbs from the pose he had kept. Standing, the shards of the dream were rapidly disappearing from the mud of his consciousness. But he spoke one dire recollection.
“There is death somewhere deep in these mountains.”
The sheets were scratching into him and sweat was beginning to pool under his back.
Rhuli'a stared at the ceiling. It was well past the morning bell and, despite the travels of the previous eve, he could not fall into rest. To better distract from how slow the sands went, he turned to his partner upon the mattress.
She was suspended. Clear skin and pale hair. She was suspended next to him. He admonished himself for the interrupted admiration. The physical qualities always disrupted that stream of thought. Poetry perforated by the very subject it was attempting to uplift. The Keeper sucked air through his teeth. What a line.
Ena stirred and Rhuli'a fell quiet and still.
…
She shifted onto her side facing towards him, disappearing half her features away. A light snore began and he tickled her nose with his fingertip. Baring teeth as she scrunched her features in automatic protest. One of the softest parts of her, he thought to himself. Again did he visit his touch. Once more. Again.
A little doll in his bedside. A shift of his legs as she bleated soft and turned away, still lost in dream, spread across the damp they had made earlier. His back, hers, on the sheets; elbows and knees of she next; their names were mantra in that dance. The recollection made him shiver and draw close, earlier discomforts already fleeting.
And then the Ave spoke.
"Lie back."
Huffing, Rhuli'a obeyed. Albeit with a tug at her wrist and pinch at her palm. The ceiling came into his vision again.
"Close your eyes."
Salvation. Warm dark. Wet touches were at his neck next to tender the marks there. The pillow slid back and the mattress was there. Her hands were busy on his chest.
And then they plunged inside.
The marrow and layers of osteoblast and osteoclast did little to stop those enterprising fingers. They cradled his innards and treated them delicately. Pushed his lungs flat. Ena smiled as he began to breathe weakly. Showed teeth as he regained his strength with the come away of her palms.
"You're different now. I can tell. There's a circanian shift. The blood is flowing faster now that summer has come to pass and spring is your memory, which..."
There was a twist of two fingers around the carotid. She had shifted up to his neck. Paralysis reigned from shoulder to toe. A crane of his eyes and empty working of a jaw was all he could make.
"I must ask, if I put my hands into your brains, is there an image of me now in that season? Or did I go where all the rest shuffles to come winter? Did you remember who I was when..."
Her eyes darted to a particular finger. Paler than pale skin laid in a thin band there.
"Where is it? Where is the gift? I put that band on you and you left it elsewhere?"
Rhuli'a struggled to speak; he only managed after gurgling wetly for a full tick. Copper stank in the air, he was bleeding somewhere.
"It's inside you. I put so much in there. Don't you remember? I remember..."
Knitwork flashed before his mind along with button eyes and cross stitch palms which were still sunk in him and the clutch was so terrifying. It felt like cotton caught in the teeth. It ought have been soft paws of a doll's hand but it shouldn't have been ground in the sensitive enamel and,
"I think I feel it," came her answer and along with it a massage back down to his larynx. The dishevelment of her hair caught in the light coming through his false window. The red parchment cast down beams of the same shade. Rhuli'a started to count them to keep from fainting. Distraction lay in how it painted her hair a most appealing color. Another lay in her tightening grip below his skin.
He had never felt so alive.
"But I only think. All I -know- is that you are changing and you changed recently. Much and more. It's attractive now, your winding path down the river when it is all afire with the sunset. Promises of long nights and courtly dances within bramble kingdoms and steppe gardens. But, autumn is next! And when has kindness, that little ember, ever persisted that long?"
There were her hands about his heart. Anticipation and dread rose as intertwined gorge when the flesh of her mixed with the flesh of him. Scratching, surrounding, singing with keratin were her nails about that red center and he was sighing. Not breathing but continuously sighing.
"Wounds are going to blossom into us, Rhuli'a. And. I. Am. So interested! In seeing how you'll cut into me. Or will you tear me apart? You know where the stitching lies and those hands are cultrate, precise and belong against me. Summer will be lacerations I'm sure. Do you think you'll take an eye in autumn? You love to see me sleeping on my side, face half-mashed out of view. You could take that part away! And in winter, bleach the exposed bone and kiss me there. The nerves would be gone but I would feel it."
A centipede slowly wound from behind Ena's neck. Nothing about its movements were natural. This was the only time Rhuli'a's eyes left the Ave's. The armour of the vilekin was red. The legs were black and shining. Wherever it roamed, Ena's skin began to dry. She was speaking but he could not hear her. Eventually, the thing coiled atop her white locks. It looked like a bejeweled circlet, catching those red rays which bounced about in her hair.
The Ave severed a chamber of his heart with a pop. Rhuli’a made a sound deep within the back of his throat. Choking on it.
" — that you're looking at me!? How do I know that you are? Because I know there's black blood in you. Tempered to ash and soot and sorrow and that hate you spoke to me outside of the gates. I -know- that! But I don't know if you're there, Rhuli'a! Do you know what it's like, standing next to you while you speak to — "
There went another and Rhuli'a began to feel too warm. Layers of knit sweaters were burdening under his ribs to try and burst through his chest. He found her violet eyes again and wished a smile to his lips. Ena's features were contorted in anger. The urge to cough was constant.
" — gone! I wasn't there in winter! And, gods, do you know how lucky I was? You can't control yourself! A pile of flesh and bone puppeted by strings Rhuli'a Kanjun can't quite reach. But gods how I adore that beyondness! I do! You’re beyond self, fear, consequence…”
More pieces of him were parting under her nail. Each cleave froze more muscles in his face. The burn scar on his features, oddly enough, began to wind back to smoother skin. Unmaking the hateful glare on his eye. Restoring his smile.
“What’s beyond love? Is that where we’re headed? I’m curious. And that’s why I’m staying; that’s the only reason.”
The centipede began to catch multiple colours now, despite only red ranging down from the false portal above. Blue, green, amber, lilac; it was stained glass. A halo of heavenly decay, Rhuli’a thought to himself. It was all he remembered before Ena pushed both of her palms together and burst his heart.
…
The Keeper awoke violently, starting from the sheets and realizing the cool air kissing at his back meant he was drenched in sweat. Rhuli’a took in great gasps of breath, causing his bedmate to stir. Ena looked at him with creased eyes and he shook his head. A pale finger was placed on her lips, quieting her before she spoke.
of the world. The sight of mountains put an unalienable truth to the metaphor. A host of other qualities could be put to the sight. Other things drawn akin. Endless lists makened with scrapbook, dullard comparison. Poets putting out lists of their lovers qualities rather than tightening fist to attempt welcome claim. But it was not to be so in Rhuli’a Kanjun’s mind. There were scars showing on him; clothing was sparse on the body of the Miqo’te. Up went sandals to wrap at heel and protect the sole. Cloth to billow out and lend wide silhouette and shield to leg and groin. Bare everywhere else save the sigil of crescent moon. It was pinned among red hair.
Rain had come and gone the past six bells. Headwinds stopped total departure of the grey pillows about Rhalgr’s domain. Easternmost, The Lochs, sat son of Him and setting of Him and broken glory of Him. Three times holy, whispered Rhuli’a. It came from ragged throat which was glad for rainwater when it came but was used to some other fare for the entire eve: the silt-texture quality of dried sweat. Shivers had taken him violently whilst upon this sojourn atop the great juts of The High Bank. Southerly reaches clattered his teeth and saw him lose water and grip to be covered in that salt of himself. Inducing madness in isolation, he chided at himself. There goes higher perspective cloven quite sweetly from full belly and undaring minds.
Quite necessary, assured Rhuli’a to his shadow and the partner did not bother to respond, instead making to follow his movements as the Keeper rose. There had he gone well from lucidity into waking half-dreams atop this some seventy yalm jut from the ground where the climb had put fresh divots into the parts of his hands which were not callused and clutched into fists now as revelations began to spill forth. Thistle and thorn which spoke to opportunity amongst the woods which gave way to a parting of boughs to put intrigue in silver lining and tongue to his teeth where he still understood himself to be all while a long retch came from the shadows of his vision. Sickness, he surmised. Out loud.
In East End It Will Begin And Put Company To Trail Hidden.
From This Start Flies Apart These Opportunities:
Visions of Foetid Soul, Wickedness From Man
Or
Visions of Gnarled Fang, Go Drip With Venom Bloodborne.
Rhuli’a took in a breath and collapsed suddenly, hard on his quarters. The tail of him narrowly leapt aside at the last moment to avoid serious damage. Gasps of air came and he began to wheeze, holding his throat and realizing prior sun had been spent in damning fast. No grain no meat no root and seven onze water. A purification of ample distractions that his body clamoured for seven times over now.
A bite at his lip spilled salt most precious into his mouth. Greedily drinking his blood, he began to make for his descent, speaking the glimpsed prophecy over and over again. Smiling.
went the thread into anything but a pattern. Goading things that were beginning to unmake the natural paces learnt over the thirty-and-three cycles spent in this body, from crawl to upright, one drop at a time. It was the blood he announced aloud and to no one as the stagger carried him up another patterned step upon ascent; there went Rhuli’a Kanjun to suffer under these stars handsome and white whilst the rest of the peoples slept and were disturbed not by troubled dreams of no more tomorrow and thus driven to one action alone: a bodily climb up the stream of colours that made up the mountainside shuffle in the higher climes of the Peaks.
Riddle of Earth speaketh answer as thus, foundation! - and in this revelation, eclipses away the weeping red of mourning and shy-away doldrums of tomorrow’s promise. It encourages change! He spoke, again to himself and no one else. These small mantras helped when the head swam. Thin air and exertion paired well to put weights on shoulders, foot and tail. The former two sank whilst the latter one was near-still, robbed of its usual animation as gloves bit into another handhold.
Yes. Putting to paces the measure of the day cut away from the present. Pebbles fell from a tyrant grip to dash away. Far from memory, rattled and then nothing. It had started with a dream which drew hot red to his features and parted him from pleasurable company. Struck earth beneath his heel and saw it stirrups in the next. Sarcosuchus low came from the back of his throat as a spasm of muscle began to shake in his right calf. Calm, he growled. Placid lake surface like a glass sheen, where this beast dwells so too shall I make myself still. Once his words died, the image of the scaled beast bloodborne flashed in his mind.
And he was whole again. Chakra had slithered from his second gate and flooded into the worn limbs and set his teeth on edge and eyne to fire while no other part of him burned. It filled him with a sickly energy that saw him press his face against the stone for a moment brief before resuming his climb. One after the other. What happened after he had mounted his steed in Ul’dah?
The wind whistled as the son continued to make for the peak.
Commotion, but nothing troubling. A usual affair for the sparse farms which dotted some of the ringlands. Proud Spoken who kowtowed to the reigning Republic but made no firebrand of themselves nor put steel forward when the call came forth. But the offender was not of that group, remembered Rhuli’a. That one was a proper lilac-blooded clutch, three daughters and a son to boot. The offended was a dotard. A curmudgeon who had clung through Theodoric and the Empire only to be overruled by the new blood. Seven yalms given to the new people whilst seven onze of gil was given in reparation. Light and Shadow, murmured Rhuli’a. And the edge of the coin: seven words of warning should there be further feuds.
The air was getting thinner and nausea was setting in. Could a power divine prevent my own humours from drowning my lungs? It was a thought racing through Rhuli’a’s mind, coughs becoming heavier and more humid. The cry of roc and griffin were at the edge of his senses. Plodding stone his trail. Remember, remember. There was no more memory to draw from. A brief spat arbitrated and dismissed, only now recollected at so violent a labour.
He spilled out onto the mountaintop flat heaving and becoming sick. Black and yellow colours flashed in his mind and he thought once more before falling to intermittent fade. Awakening later and recoiling at it.
“Was my last memory to be of conflict petty amongst the people?”
An odd mantra to be sure - yet nonetheless it spilt from the mouth of Rhuli’a Kanjun as a whisper, pacing about the small alcove that had been set aside. Freshly commissioned, the Resistance title he wore shone over the mantle of the flag in truesilver:
“Captain.”
The glint of gold and ruby’s shine beheld the title, its weight, its merits. Pausing on his rumination come the scuff at the door, Rhuli’a’s tranquility was disturbed, the beating of his indignant, snow-white ears sourced to an intruding corporal, fresh-faced and fleet of foot.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. But, as things are still loose and in needs of clarification, we just need to go over...”
Words dull and smelling of parchments-soon-to-be-inked washed over the Keeper, his fastidious expression put forth like a mask. Officiate duties, decorum, what was and was not sensitive state information; all was taken in one ear, noted in the most rudimentary of senses, then passed out the other. The long drape of the flag, royally violet and stone-still, proved more entertaining than this clerical rambling.
“And to finish, sir - can you, with definition clear and succinct, speak aloud and swear what you and yours will be presiding over?”
The mechanical nature of the line’s delivery saw Rhuli’a regain lucidity, the Keeper’s appreciation of the flag disturbed. Glancing one last time at the purple threads, of how they wove a uniform color in the even light Azeyma pushed in past his office’s window, he spoke his answer in two words.
“Internal affairs.”
The declaration in brief seemed to satisfy the corporal, the flutter of a quill and salute all he had to offer as he left the Miqo’te to his own devices. Taking a seat in a straight-backed chair, Rhuli’a slumped and looked over the room.
Stonework ancient and strong, utilitarian decoration - save for the window to the right, stained glass its corner as the clear portal within blazed the noon light upon the flag; soon it weighed upon the nocturnal Miqo’te in kind. A brief check of the chronometer was all it took for him to slip closer to night, drifting off to dreams.
The chime of his linkpearl woke him. Blearily putting it to his ear, the Miqo’te began to light a nearby lantern, the crackling message relaying as the light caught ablaze.
“We got him.”
Expression darkening, the captain rose, marking the time by the position of Menphina’s half-hidden face. A pang of regret ran through his chest at the absence of a curtain complete, either by shade in the sky or by whatever was at hand to shield this room.
“Bring him here.”
Half a bell after the command, a pair of rugged Highlanders threw open the door, a struggling Midlander, dressed in Ul’dahni riches, held firmly between them. A hood of sable hid the identity of the man and muffled the complaining. Forced to his knees and kicked into a whimpering quiet, the silence in the room grew heavy.
“There is oft a penance ascribed to each crime in the cities of man,” came a cold voice. Traces of the serpent’s shifting scales, dry skin shifting over shale and rock.
“A sentence to be carried out, no different than inking a signature upon a page.”
The hood snatched away from the Midlander’s face, the light blinded him briefly before he could make out his surroundings. A wicked dagger of bronze, curved and cruel, seized his sight first. Then the bearer, a grim, ash-decorated Miqo’te with pale skin and silver hair which caught the light from the lantern and moon in tandem.
“But this is a cradle, something newly-made and struggling - a land of salt and suffering,” elaborated Rhuli’a, moving closer to the prisoner. Looking pointedly towards one of his entourage, the Highlander nearest to the door bowed her head, retreating to step past the threshold and bar the door tight from the outside.
The flag fluttered as the door slammed shut.
“I can think of only one sentence to those who rob a cradle,” declared the captain.
What followed was best left undescribed. Tales of falsified tax codes, the duping of weights concerning salt, and many other tales of economic treachery, trickery, robbery fell like the autumn leaves from the Hyur. At the end, he drew breath no longer, victim to a false promise of freedom and the first lie Rhuli’a ever told within Ala Mhigo.
And as he cleaned his knife, corse wrapped in a carpet and carried off to be lost to the crags, he turned to behold the flag. Once uniform, the tapestry of the state hung in gradient, crimson and scarlet hued across the holy shades of violet.
It drew a smile crooked to his countenance, then his eyes to the plaque.
The Ghimlyt Dark brooked no mercy, shell and spell alike striking away any bodies which broke one line or another. Gouts of flame, fragmenting explosives and the crackle of gunfire and broken bone warred with fervent battle-cry from each direction.
And in one such corner, the Crimson Herald and his banner were on the backfoot. The van for a regiment deployed to stop a spearheaded machina assault, their scouts had been fooled by the enemy, expressionless Garlean masks and machine advancing and cutting swathes into the ranks.
Lilac-cloaked regulars and bannerets alike fell prey to shaped steel, gunfire and missile - scarlet spreading through the once proud crests of Rhuli’a’s men and women. A singular thought persisted even as he evaded through the ranks, dodging around compeer and carcass alike, barking orders through a linkshell to beg for aid and mitigate the scouring visited upon the peoples of salt and suffering:
“Not again. Not again. Not again.”
And little did his advance and calls for aid do to avail. The greatest of his charge held their own, battle-axe and greatsword gleaming in the moonlight: two Hyur of titanic make, well above six fulms and completely encased in armour. Ferus the senior, Brynja the junior; those two joined their commander, a shell narrowly missing the three.
Their eyes all briefly met for a moment, the hopelessness and painful eventuality of their way of life shown plain by another brace failed against the onslaught of gear and blackclad boot.
“Those who live by the sword die by the sword.”
And then the heavens opened. A brilliant blade of the Levinfather himself cascaded down and struck the field, stunning all and shutting down the machinery in an overload of the systems. As the panicking members of the Empire set about to repair the bulwark of their column, the fading light illuminated the sickening sights to the remaining Ala Mhigans three.
Facedown soldiers, some heaped and twisted upon each other.
Griffin-beak masks running hot even still, half-molten and embracing the flesh it once protected.
Death. Death.
And anger.
It was Brynja who first roared out, as the light began to die. The maddened, red tinge of the Autumn tradition was the last glimpse anyone caught of her.
Rhuli’a was second, his howl something alien and unknowable, like the great growl of the sarcosuchus. Ambient aether gathered at his wrists as he faded to nothing.
And last was Ferus, who did not deign to pound his chest or shout to drown out the din. Instead, his greatsword swung once, planted in the ground - and his body split apart from his shadow, both obfuscated by the roll of clouds.
Only rain and occasional cries of command rang out, the Garleans packing in tight.
With wolven step did an axe advance, cleaving three men at once, dashed back into shadow to avoid a hail of gunfire. With levin lancing did a murderer advance upon the gunmen, tearing them apart in a flurry of punches and kicks. And as both parties panicked, two great strikes, one of shadow and one of steel, lay them low. And so it repeated. Again and again and again and again...
Mist rolled in. Combat turned to slaughter. All while howls, the anger of invaded earth, continued to bray over the cries of dead men.
A storm brewed overhead, all parties upon the road stopping to stare. The Lochs were no stranger to the fury of frothing winds and dark clouds but the auspices that gathered this sun were different.
Markedly so.
Great veins of violet swept the sky, cloud an afterthought as something that could only be described as a beating heart captured the province. From day labourer to solider, all stared, all were enraptured and all broke as soon as a great bell began to ring out.
Ixxion was a storm: his hooves, thunder; his mane a gathering gale; eyes electric and roving, the body of the Breaker’s will made manifest struck across the sky in a signature crooked. Descending upon the plains of the Lochs, the beast swiveled and turned, its majesty demanding attention.
And a gaze of ruby and topaz sparkled from the nearby road.
Rhuli’a Kanjun, on his belly and crawling across shale and stone, had no mind to retreat. The burning brilliance before him saw the hunter, newly-drunk on the reclamation of Ala Mhigo, more daring than ever before. A studious stare caught the debris and rock nearby aspecting to violet’s whim, electricity aetherical marking it.
A whinny cut the concentration of the Keeper cleanly, his mismatched gaze darting back over to the beast, trying to sink further into the dust, praying that he had not incurred the Levinfather’s wrath.
“For it is no sin to covet power. But the method you make of it...”
Rhuli’a wet his lips as his mother’s words ran through his mind, his brain wracking plan after plan on how to claim the holy gifts Ixxion so carelessly left behind.
Deliverance came by way of a queer savior; the witness of the spectacles penned many a new chapter in tales of the small folk.
Phoebad, of number and strength, rose up from the ground, scrabbling at the hooves of Ixxion, eliciting protest and harsh reply from the great avatar. Stamped to pieces, the throng nevertheless continued their assault, stone simply reshaping as it was blown to bits by heavenly wroth.
Mouth agape, Rhuli’a took a moment to collect himself before sprinting dead-on into the heart of the chaos.
One grasp could crush his bones; one stray bolt could send him to a teeth-chattering death, convulsing and dying just upon the shores of Loch Seld. And yet, as these thoughts ran about him, lacerations piling on by way of blown apart phoebad, he glanced towards the newly hefted banner over the battlements of Ala Mhigo. And he knew no fear.
In time, burnt, beaten and bleeding, Rhuli’a fainted just shy of a Resistance patrol, the heavenly marks stuffed into every pocket and spilling forth from his embrace.
“Again.”
Another admonishment left the instructor’s mouth, the newest cohort of potential pugilists his subject. Above the candlelit training hall, the sigil of the Pugilist’s Guild hung, their motto made plain by the engraving: A closed fist absent of any spilt gil.
A half dozen youths was the group, with ages ranging from seven-and-ten to as young as three-and-ten summers. Stripling Elezen, Hyur, Lalafell and the odd Miqo’te all groaned and retook their positions. Undisciplined and marred with the obtuse, too-fast, too-slow spurts of growth all too common at their age, they made to pair again with whoever they thought looked weakest. The battle-scarred Highlander acting as tutor had made it abundantly clear that only the greater among them would find work within these walls.
Blood had already began to spatter the floor but none saw fit to fly as of yet - not when the alternatives were to return to back-alley scheming or toiling drudgery of the colosseum.
“Be able to make your own way in life,” barked the instructor as fists and kicks began to fly! “Seize what you can; opportunity is all you have!” Indignant yells, the occasional squeal of pain and the wicked thud of bodies being sent to the brick sounded out, some of the senior associates of the Platinum Mirage placing bets as they returned from the toils of the sun.
In time, only two remained on the floor. Two others stood as newly minted members of the Mirage, their opponents already forgotten as they had slunk out the door, bruised and beaten. Any fortune that could have been gleaned from this house was, at this time, beyond their reach.
“Now’s not the time to think on that.”
The correction, unspoken, had been conjured within the skull of a snowy-haired Keeper of four-and-ten, blood trickling down his locks in a brutal, honest stain of weakness. It pooled at the corner of his eye and near-blinded him from his opponent. The line he repeated dulled the clamour sparking at his senses in this too-bright haunt, the stone false and hewn. Not like the mountains at all.
What did seem mountainous was the Highlander boy in front of him...
“Near a man - now’s not the time to think on that.”
Both bled from the knuckles; both unsteadily shuffled in circles within the cage of soon-to-be comrades; the more raucous of the onlookers began to pepper the wiry Miqo’te and hefty Hyur with gil coins, peanut shells and other debris.
And still the hatred shared between the two drowned out all else.
The Miqo’te made to move first, dashing in to kick at an already bruised shin, baring his unbloodied side in full to try and keep the boy in his sight. Elbows cocked in at a defensive shield, the howl of pain the Hyur cried out saw him rewarded, then rebuffed in turn.
A brutal swing of clasped fists broke the guard and gait of the Keeper, sending him sprawling, the blooded side of his head cracking on the pavement. The Hyur, still nursing his wounded leg, stood where he was, his hands already falling to the limb by instinct, whimpering as the pain began to overwhelm and hobble him.
“... !”
No words formed, no syllables came to mind; all Rhuli’a could do was babble nonsense as his knees knocked together as he scrabbled to his feet. All had grown quiet, the display turning cruel as the two limped closer to make the fulms into ilms.
Brown eyes met ruby and topaz. The last thing Rhuli’a remembered before the clash was how the hot embers of rage were tinged with fear.
Then the bearer swung at him, the Miqo’te’s parry lashing out like a bolt of lightning. Throwing wide the strike with a snake-like surge of his forearm, his opposite hand curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm with how fiercely he wound his knuckles. Crossing over his entire body, Rhuli’a’s fangs were bared in full as he sent the strike center to the Hyur’s face.
Blood flew, skin split and cartilage gave way to bone.
And still the boy stood, utterly stunned but upright all the same. All held a breath, even Rhuli’a, the sheer fortitude shown shocking him to a standstill. Then he looked to the instructor.
“Again.”
Where flowed command, hesitation ceased. And Rhuli’a seized his position in the Guild with another, brutal cross.
“Tear me apart then. I couldn’t care to breathe. I couldn’t care to be, a moment longer, in this place. My heart’s endless bleeding has caused me so much ugly disgrace. And you have carved a valley through my soul.”
— Helaena C Moon @ http://hapless-hollow.tumblr.com/ (via hapless-hollow)
“An ancient and terrible technique, my son. Yet one you should be aware of all the same.
There are magicks which can take root in steel and stone, breath life, however brief, into things otherwise lifeless.
Born into this waking world, what do you think it cries out for first and foremost?
What thirst takes root? Will it be the same one which tickles the back of your throat when you loose an arrow? That anticipation which clings to you for only an instant, regardless of your mark being felled?
Yes, Rhuli’a, blood. In a near-instant your steel shall become as ravenous as any who walk upon this star. Baying, this bloodless beast -will- come for you. Sprung forth from a grip you’ve fashioned its history from, a clutch that I expect you to form as merciless, my first and favourite son, it will be just as fierce and wild as you.
I can only hope you are not so far gone at the time of this spell as to witness fire spring forth from the edge. By then, it will be far, far too late.”
A collection of candid moments in ugly starlight sweaters for @moonlifter of Aedwen and co. c:
These are actually for last year, but I am a slow fool and got them done in the like March? T v T Anyway, here they are for you guys now!
The Comet’s Howe
Ala Mhigan build, small cottage for @steel-peak
It was a retreat, smaller than his other holdings but no less grand. When he needed to escape the pressures of the Gold Court and other Monetarists, or a place to stay after a day of hunting…this was home. It was a place to display his trophies, whether it be a fearsome beast or handsome boon from his campaigns. It had what he needed to enjoy himself in peace, to enjoy his latest victory or seek respite to rejuvenate his spirit. He took special pride in the Ala Mhigan fixtures he had installed to give his refuge a greater sense of home. He kept a shrine, of course, next to his bed. Moss and stone from his homeland to serve as backdrop to his burning altar. There was almost something wild about the shrine, but it fit among his possessions, for he had other such odds and ends of history and faith in his room. His bath was made from a part of a temple that was destroyed in the reign of King Theodoric. Surrounding it, he had prayer lanterns that were salvaged and remade. His bath was a place to heal both body and soul. Important for someone who, among his other accomplishments, was also a devotee of the Fists of Rhalgr. He’d even commissioned a refugee who used to make the colored glass windows in the old temples to do the ones in his sitting area. It helped him feel closer, he’d said, and he would spend some afternoons sprawled on the pillowy couch beneath those colored beams composing poetry or songs after a good hunt or fight…
(Housing commissions open)
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
gamechangershow
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
