Local Grumpy Magician

"If you wish to survive, you must destroy me!" [And then they did.] // Closed Macuil RP blog, associated with FERP // SPOILERS AHEAD

[let-flayn-cook-deactivated20240]

Flayn and Énna || A dragons hoard

Flayn carefully opened the library door, peaking through the small gap she had made, the student had done this time and time again, wishing for a moment of quiet to speak to the Churches ‘newest’ arrival. Énna had not been at the Monastery long and the student desperately wished to have a moment in which to speak alone with him privately. It had been a thousand years since she had been able to speak with Macuil and it was rather vexing she hadn’t managed to catch him alone yet.

She enjoyed her life as Flayn, without a question of a doubt. It allowed her freedoms that she hadn’t had since she was a child and it gave her a way to put the terrors she had suffered behind her. Though there were many things it had taken away from her. Her fathers ability to actually act as one and now, the inability to be open with her uncle. She had missed him after all and there was much to catch up on. Content that the various staff were far enough away from Macuil’s perch, Flayn finally pushed the door wide open, skipping up to the table that Macuil had covered in various books.

“Good afternoon, Ènna, it's been quite a while!"

@thecallinggale

[thecallinggale]

let-flayn-cook

Oh dear, he really had not changed at all, had he? Her uncle and her father clearly held some sort of issue with each other. Though Macuil was busy playing with the many books he had amassed, Flayn found herself rather un-amused with his little horde and down right frustrated that the two had clearly had some spat and she had heard nothing of it. They hadn’t seen each other for over a thousand years. They’d watched their people lose a war and their lives together, including the people they loved, was that not enough to forget old wounds and petty arguments. She didn’t even know what it was about, Cichol being secretive as he was. Disappointment was all she could feel. They had more family here at Garreg Mach than they had experienced since the war. Finally, they were all coming together.

“You know, cousin, I was.” She smiled quite widely, snatching the book out of his hand to examine the spell he had been attempting before. It was such a bold spell to try, indoors no less. “Though apparently, I am to now find out what you and my brother have argued about.” If Macuil expected her to behave less childish, then he was sorely mistaken.

In an attempts to force information out of him, Flayn kept a good grip on the book in hand, quickly turning away from him in hopes that it would prevent him from taking it back. “While you tell me, I shall familiarise myself with whatever beast of a spell you were trying to complete!”

His questioning ‘Was?’ was cut short by the book disappearing from his hands. Or in this case, was stolen from his hands. Any sort of response he was trying to muster came out in a fumbled attempt at words while he listened to his dear niece demand to know very personal business between him and her father. She had guts, though he figured his systematic intimidation of any of those rotten children had no effect on her. It didn’t make the event any less surprising.

“Now where did you learn to do that?” He questioned at last with a breathy laugh, extending a hand to summon the book back to him. And yet another surprise, the book offered no response. The only way that’d not work is its holder resistance to magic was high. She was an adolescent by their races’ standards, so it couldn’t be that high. This Flayn was full of surprises, it seemed. He lowered his arm in defeat and walked closer behind her.

“Flayn, dear, the little squabbles between me and Se… your brother-” He didn’t bother attempting his name while discreetly trying to reach around her for the book, continuing, “are not of any business you need to worry about. It’s not overly important in any way, so if you could just hand me back that tome...”

[thecallinggale]

Dust rises // Open

Warning: Vague mentions of blood

Millennia. It had to have been millennia since he had been allowed to leave this Flame-damned room. An exaggeration, sure, though it sure felt like it. If he had to listen to that… Miranda or whatever her name was complain about her love life a single more time, he’d snap back into awareness so quickly time itself would bend at his command.

One slip-up had landed him in the monastery’s infirmary, if a failed battle against countless waves of dark mages counted as one and not multiple. He could curse up and down to every god and goddess of every land, and it wouldn’t change the fact fate had dropped him so close to this wretched place. This wretched place that so kindly took him in and was taking of him and it was sickening to think about for too long. Such kindness only given when they didn’t know what he was.

Wincing as he sat up, he regarded the bandages wrapped around his almost fully exposed abdomen, minus the tight cloth still wrapped around his chest. The bandages layered around his stomach were new, or at least, not entirely soaked in crimson. It stung still when he bent, but he couldn’t handle suffocating in that bed any longer. 

The pain crackled up his side and stole his breath in his first step. A cough forced itself from his mouth as he hunched over the other bed to catch the lost air. Once he wrangled it back within, he continued his harrowing journey across the room to the door. His mind was still fuzzy from disuse, though clarity was building up. In the hall, he could hear other people nearby in the one of three rooms around the infirmary. Who, whether familiar or not, he had no idea. It was close enough that it gave him no hope for simply waltzing out. He’d need to plan something more complicated.

‘Or,’ he mused inwardly when he noticed the large window, ‘I can do this my way.’ No lock, easy latch; No problem, easy escape. The stained glass opened with relative ease, and though his vision lurched at the height, he found the distance from the earth comforting. A wind spell could keep him from breaking his ankles in a jump, but to climb; There’d be a view there to collect his bearings of how far an exit was, then he could make his way out of the monastery, find a map to Sreng, return to solitude...

Now standing on the windowsill, with a shaky but sturdy grip on the window’s arch, he attempted to calculate the effort he’d need to reach the roof. He’d have to do so quickly before anyone could enter and catch him.

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Years of solitude had made him impregnable. Countless lonesome, maddening centuries had developed his already exceptional independence, granting him the ability to weather even the most tumultuous of disasters. Completely self-sufficient, he had the capacity to survive alone, secluded from society. But even an unassailable fortress wasn’t immune to crumbling from the inside. Days were lost to ruminating in his guilt, his regrets, and self-loathing that still crept in the dark corners of his mind. Haunted by the death of his wife, the unnecessary injuries sustained by his child, and genocide that swept away his people in an eye’s blink, he found no solace in his thoughts. Even the sanctity of his dreams were violated, reminding him of his failures and the looming threats of groups he had still been unable to identify. Fears of which were difficult to speak.

Perhaps this submission, this minuscule presentation of vulnerability, was the only way Seteth could comfortably indicate that he wasn’t as seemingly unaffected by the tragedy as he appeared. He was a changed man; neither he or any of his siblings were the same youthful Nabateans they had once been. But he wasn’t ready to emotionally release the pain, the suffering, to truly mourn all he had lost and the way it had impacted him. Not today…

“It’s my duty…”

Drawing in a deep, but calm breath, Seteth found himself unable to agree with him. There was no doubt that Énna was older than both himself and Flayn, but he did not believe that merely being an elder was reason enough to carry such a hefty responsibility. He considered arguing with him, but Énna refused him the opportunity, instead offering a follow-up comment completely contrast to the topic they had been addressing. Separating from him, Seteth raised a hand to his face, pinching the skin between his eyebrows with a hefty sigh.

“You never cease to amaze me with the gravity of your ridiculous endeavors,” He replied, his expression exasperated, “you do realize that I supply the pond with fish, correct? That fish do not naturally swim into such waters?” He shook his head, too tired to respond with an explosive reaction.

“It best be prepared with a minimum of four spices, if you wish to be spared.”

Seteth seemed to bite the line cast, allowing him a breath of relief. Even when he initiated such conversations, he found such serious and emotional discussion tiresome and, eventually, just uncomfortable. More confrontation saved for later in favor whittling a tale to whisk them in a new direction. Some embellished details did no harm, because it wasn’t as if he hadn’t zapped more fish than usual. It wasn’t as if he was the only liar in the room.

Not being the sole silver tongue around served as an issue on its own. Iron sharpens iron, and in his time forging weapons, silver could do the same. Énna smiled brightly all the same, white blades catching light from behind his lips. Not to bare fangs in a threatening way, rather coax a fellow predator closer. The stirring of some ancient hope that Cichol would somehow be as cheerful as he once was left a mere vague sorrow to grasp. The path ahead was one way only, and there was no use reflecting now.

“Of course, Your Graceliness. You are ever so merciful!” He said with a sweeping bow; Sarcasm drizzled from his words. In a fluid motion, Énna lifted his arm again to wrap around his younger brother’s shoulders. “And with your ever abundant kindness, I must ask you to extend your hand to me,” his easy smile strained, “and assist with the fact I have no idea how to actually make that. And that the kitchen staff doesn’t like me for… various undisclosed reasons.”

With a laugh, he stepped around Seteth, clasping his hands behind his back and backing toward the door. He opened his mouth to continue, but faltered as he looked at Seteth in full. His eyes flickered across his frame and all at once, it was hard not to take into account how much he’d grown. Physically was a given, yet did the man know how differently he held himself? This was no Nabataean child, nor the grief-stricken slate from war. A new form, a new Cichol to learn about. Seteth.

He shook off his brief silence as he turned to the door. The teasing hilt of his voice was still present and persistent. “If you’d like to be of assistance, shall we be off, Serac?”

[thecallinggale]

let-flayn-cook

Flayn was left in shock, being yanked to the floor and into the protective arms of her uncle with a small yelp, shielded by the spell gone wrong, that now bounced aggressively throughout the library and out the doors she had just walked through. Perhaps she should have closed them..

“Uncle!” Her voice was quiet, least she be heard in the silence of shock that had taken the room. It reminded her of the times as a child, in which Macuil had encouraged her more curious nature, which often resulted in some small scolding when it went too far. The memories and the fact that her uncle had clearly not changed at all, brought a smile to her face, though it may have been her nerves, at the idea of being caught. “You can’t just use anything you’ve found for your magic– that could have been a holy artifact! Or expensive.”

Hesitantly, the girl looked out from their small hiding spot, focusing on the sounds from beyond the corridor. The library was far too close to her father’s office for her liking and the incident would be easily be linked to the two of them, or at least Ènna… When the silence slowly morphed into quiet murmurs, and the tension seemed to ease, she calmed.

“You truly haven’t changed in all this time, have you? And neither have I, uncle, I’m still the exact height I was last time we spoke!” Flayn was shocked really, she had expected a change more similar to her father’s or Seiros’s. One that left damage deep enough to be seen through the eyes, yet it seemed Macuil, on the very surface, was calm with the reality of the world.

“I suppose you have me there! Quite honestly, I’ve had difficulty recalling the last time I saw you. Let alone your height!” He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. ‘You sound just like your father,’ Énna thought, yet shook his head instead of saying it aloud. Perhaps not physically, but even looking at her he could tell she had grown quite the bit, despite being so sheltered. The lack of walls around her made him relax immediately because finally he could have a talk that was not a battle to be one. He just needed his mouth clean.

And, as if fate had it out for him, knights clambering in the hallway, momentarily disturbing the library’s peace, and he almost let a curse soil his tongue. He held his breath as magic sparked at the tip of his fingers, anticipated some intrusion, to be relieved that they left without entering. They even closed the door behind them! Flayn may be a bit upset, sure, but he couldn’t help his smile.

“Anyhow! That is in the past,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “it is not our problem, and we need to keep moving forward!” The exaggerated faux show of optimism deflated quickly, followed by a dull tone, “...Or whatever your ‘brother’ has been trying to drill into me. Wants me to drop the grudge, y’know?” His strained, toothy smile was counteracted by a sharp rolling of his eyes, and the expression dropped fully for a groan of dismay. 

Extracting himself from his niece, he swept his arm to present the hoard of tomes stacks in the little corner of the library. “But enough of that, you came here for a reason, no? Welcome to where I hide away most of the day. Just here to play catch up, small fry?” Already, he was back to flipping through the tome containing the failed spell, but made an effort to divide attention to her.

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Countless lonely centuries of distancing himself from others to protect his precious identity caused him to visibly flinch in his brother’s hold. His expression was unchanged, but a panicked, desperate voice in the chaos of his mind screamed for him to tear away from the contact. Touch inherently invited closeness. An individual in close proximity to himself could potentially discover his inhuman features, conclude that he was falsifying his identity, and discover the truth that he was of a race with transferable power. His pulse momentarily surged, but Seteth composed himself. This was no stranger that had seized him. It was his brother, one that shared the very blood he attempted to conceal. He released the breath he had held, still unable to meet Énna’s expression. Seteth scoffed at his indication of victory, but was too exhausted to scold him. He shook his head at Énna’s words.

“I am in no need of protection,” He replied quietly, “but Flayn…I would be deeply appreciative if you were to look after her as well. She is young. There is much of the world she does not understand. She is…too kind. Too trusting and open-minded. The very traits that make her admirable are also the traits that make her exceedingly vulnerable. It…it will help me rest easier knowing that I am not alone in ensuring her protection.” Though he welcomed Énna’s offer in protecting Flayn, he struggled to accept the same for himself. For so long, Seteth had always stood as a unwavering pillar of support to those who needed him. He was the strongest of them all. It was his responsibility to be the strength that held everyone steady, even if his own foundation was crumbling. The burden was massive, difficult to bear on his own, but he struggled to share that weight. If he could hold it himself, there was no need to trouble others. And yet…

Énna’s grip tightened on his forearm as if he would somehow slip away from him if he didn’t, and Seteth could feel himself breaking. Neither of them were fond of showing vulnerability of any kind. It was a truth Seteth had long known even before their time apart. But in this moment, Énna was revealing a weakness of his own. Was this an olive branch? Seteth’s eyebrows drew together, wearing a painful expression as he gazed to the floor. Énna was utterly infuriating, terribly immature, and on most occasions, possessed a horrible attitude. But he cared about him. If he didn’t care about him, he would have been too prideful to offer this. He tore his arm from him, meeting his brother’s expression after avoiding it for so long. Then wordlessly, he pulled him into an embrace.

“Thank you…Macuil.” He whispered under his breath.

“‘I am in no need of protection!’ Says the man incapable of deciphering when he has too much on his plate. That can be my job now.” Just as he went to laugh, Seteth pulled his arm away, lighting a flame inside of him. The determination to do something, anything useful had him ready to snap back with some explanation as to why he should. Why he should have to help shoulder the burden clouding the image of his little brother and clouding the innocent boy he once was out of existence. Then Seteth hugged him. Cichol hugged him

Then he was surrounded by the arms of his kin. Then he was holding not Seteth, but Cichol. He was holding the man who left a bloody, bloody war as a widower with a half-dead child. The man who Énna, no Macuil, heard sob once then never again in his presence. Here, he wasn’t crying, but the vulnerability seeped out and soaked the elder all the same. Énna returned the embrace to hold him.

“It’s my duty,” he responded uncharacteristically softly, “because I swear I will be including you in that protection thing. Both you and your daughter are younger, so technically speaking…” Holding back the chance to tease wasn’t in his nature, though the laugh that followed was a bit shaky. He has so many years to make up, far expanding over any mortal lifetime, but he’d do so carefully. The strongest glass was still glass, after all.

The silence stretched on until he mumbled, “This may not be a good time to mention this, and don’t be mad… I may have depleted the pond’s fish… but, spicy fish stew for dinner?”

[the-progenitor-god]

Mischievous Tales >Macuil

[thecallinggale]

the-progenitor-god

Sothis sighed softly. She had known that her little one here was very proficient with magic but if he wasn’t careful he could get seriously hurt. Sothis peered down the cliff and saw what his magic had caused below. She just shook her head as she just made a mental note to clean up the cliff edge after she was done here with her small lecture she wanted to give Macuil.

“You are getting better with your flying though, the training must be going well.” Sothis knelt in front of her son and gently eased him back up to his feet. His transforming seemed to be going at least a bit more smoother than other children on hers not quite experiencing the pains of it yet. The transition he had was very clean though. Not a lot of pain or blood this time.

“You know I love coming by to see how well you’re adjusted though, Macuil. It’s always so nice to know that you’re adjusting and practicing so much. Your wind magic is phenomenal and I couldn’t ask for a better mage.” Sothis also loved handing out praise to her children as well.

It always helped better them in their studies and made them strive for something that they could hopefully achieve in a small amount of time.

A child always craves a parent’s approval, so hearing her praise made his eyes light up. He worked hard to perfect spells to show off to anyone who’d watch, conjuring illusions and manipulating the elements with flashy colors. Attention seeking, some may call it, but he just lived for the art of it. Giggling, he stood up while brushing the dirt off his robes.

“Flying goes great when the wind’s at your fingertips!” He beamed, summoning a small pillar of air to prove his point, only for it to shoot skyward and startle him. His hair bristled in response, not unlike a bird puffing out its feathers, but he brushed it back down with a huff, then a slow, sheepish smile.

Macuil was not a trained liar, so speaking the truth eased the tension in the air surrounding him. As such, he was prone to blurting out whatever he was thinking. “Speaking of, um,” he thought of how to phrase it for a moment, rocking on his heels, “I may have been spying on the mortals again, BUT for good reason this time, I swear!” Not a trained liar, and also not good at pacing.

“They’re practicing some new magic! I think it’s like Reason, but it’s not manipulating any element I know of.” The boy took hold of his mother’s hand to bring her over to the cliff’s edge, motioning down to the people below. “See! I tried asking them about it but they told me, ‘No, you stole our chickens last week!’ or ‘Sorry, but you keep dropping large fish bones on our roofs.’ Which, might I add, is utterly ridiculous. I would never!” The ramblings of his discovery failed to assist his attempt to feign innocence.

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Several centuries ago, Énna’s attempt at intimidation might have frightened him. He had always been envious of his brother’s control of his Nabatean heritage. Énna could easily channel the dragon features of his choice, shaping his face and body as he desired. Seteth had never possessed such a fine control over his heritage. Even before their mother’s murder, Seteth struggled to command his raw strength in dragon form. One particular loss of control caused him to cease transformation all together, despite the protests of his siblings. He looked into Énna’s draconic eyes, his calm countenance unwavering.

“You always did mask your concern behind the thorns of your mocking words. You patronize me incessantly, then expect the privilege of access to my personal affairs. Complete insolence.” Seteth retorted, crossing his arms impossibly tighter. He was suppressing his anger, preventing himself from raising a hand against his sibling, despite being provoked. With Seteth’s natural strength, it wouldn’t even require his full potential to snap Énna’s bones. His full strength could be utterly lethal, if his brother were unable to strike back with the power of his magic. Growing exasperated, he turned away from him. Regardless of his anger and disappointment, he did not wish to harm him, even if he had become more than deserving.

Seteth opened his verdant eyes, his eyebrows drawn together as he stared to the floor. Though Énna’s approach was utterly infuriating, he understood that he was coming from a place of concern. They had been separated for hundreds of years, and he had been enduring one difficult situation after another. Flayn’s injuries and hibernation. Rhea’s experiments and involvement in the church she created. His frown deepened, and he finally drew in a breath.

“There is an unknown foe that has somehow become privy to Flayn’s Crest,” He said finally, feeling defeated, “I fear for her safety. If she were to be attacked by them, she would be unable to defend herself. Every night, I dream of her being gutted, slaughtered and transformed into a horrifying weapon that goes against the very fabric of nature. The very thought of it sickens me beyond measure. I could not…continue forward if…” His expression fell.

“Apparently not complete insolence, considering you’ve told me what I wanted,” Énna replied and with caution, he gently grasped Seteth’s forearm. It was the best means of comfort he could give, because whatever he was going to say next could not be. How he wished Indech could materialize that very moment, for he was by no means the comforting sibling.

Énna could tell Seteth the truth; He could tell him he really believed humans would always be a threat to them. He could inflate his fear and explain his own apprehension to them. He could, but he wouldn’t. Inflicting paranoia on an already anxiety-ridden mind was not helpful in the least. But the world had a harsh reality, so was there no true advice to give?

He could lie to Seteth. Give false reassurance everything would be fine. There was little danger or threat and they could live peacefully now. Yet his brother knew better than that. By their Mother, he had experienced it first hand. He hadn’t deserved to, after that war, suffer any more than he had. Strange how fate always sought to kick down those already falling. No, speaking his mind was the only option. And yet, his mouth had other ideas.

“I can’t assure you there’ll be no danger in the future,” was a good start, but he had to follow it up, “but I can assure you I’ll be here to make sure little harm befalls Flayn and you. I… I’m here now, and I don’t plan on leaving you like a fish out of water.” His grip tightened a bit. “Not again.” He hadn’t wanted to promise to never depart, because the nausea still rose anytime he passed a noble in the halls. Because they spoke about crests and relics like gifts and not tragedies.

And yet he never wanted to leave Seteth alone again. If he thought his chest ached when he could smell the stench of the tainted blood (”Crests”, he corrected internally.) from across a courtyard, leaving his little brother to stew in guilt and fear every waking day was a lance through the heart.

“Not again.”

[the-progenitor-god]

Mischievous Tales >Macuil

[thecallinggale]

the-progenitor-god

Preparing her children for future events was always a struggle for Sothis. Making sure that they all had the proper resources to work with and training weapons so that they were all strong in their own ways. Helping them with their dragon beast forms and helping perfect all their weaknesses was something of an almost daily routine at this point.

She wanted to make sure all her children were prepared for the worst. Sothis wouldn’t be around forever unfortunately. She knew that her little ones would grow up to be strong little warriors. She loved that her children were all blossoming well. From her littlest ones, to her eldest ones. Indech was well on his own to becoming an excellent archer as well as Cichol learning the lance really well. Yet Macuil, he was having difficulties.

He didn’t have any skills with weapons yet his magic was excellent. Sothis didn’t mind helping out with Macuil’s magic abilities. She had some proficiency with it as well but watching him whip up wind storms needed to stop or else some people would start getting angry.

“Macuil…? How is your magic going? Controlling the wind is difficult, I know.” Sothis landed down, feet touching the ground as she approached one of her older children. She loved each and every child so much Macuil had always stuck out to her though. He always seemed so secluded and to himself most of the time.

The wind followed the motions of his hand obediently; Leaves rising and falling the rhythm of ripples in the air before being swept away in a quick stroke. With legs swinging over the cliffside, Macuil watched his parade flutter about without a care in the world. That’s how it would appear to any passerby from behind, at least.

At his mother’s voice, however, the umber feathers of his wings bristled as they burst into existence in a flash of blue light. He cursed his stone heart for panicking so easily, and his nose for failing to catch her scent sooner. He turned back to face her, to argue, ‘No, it’s not difficult at all.’ His sweeping arm, with his hand still shadowed with the green magic, had other plans. The wind, ever so obedient, followed the arc of his hand and caught his wings like a sail, sending him tumbling off the cliff’s edge with a shriek.

Flying lessons had most definitely not been a waste of time. Reflexively, he tucked in his wings to shake free of the wind’s control, then soared back upward close to the rocky steep. In another flash of blue, the extra appendage disappeared, not overly used to shifted into a hybrid form yet. Macuil, with the magic now dispelled, panted on his fours. Hopefully his mother wouldn’t notice the ruckus down below the cliff’s edge, where he had only, maybe was having a bit of fun with the Agarthans. Whether they were still upset or laughing at his dismay, he didn’t care to tell.

“Mama! How-” He took a deep breath, “-How nice of you to stop by! Everything is… fine. Ignoring that incident with me falling.” Without proper preparation, Macuil was not a good liar by any means. Deflecting he could do, but even then, the cracks in his facade wouldn’t be hard to spot.

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Must he allow me no peace? Seteth thought to himself bitterly, his dull eyes narrowed with exasperation. The lines beneath his eyes were a slightly deeper, the skin under his eyes a shade darker, and his jaw a bit tighter, indicating a noticeable lack of patience in the typically calm man. After a nightmare of that caliber, he wasn’t prepared to endure another onslaught of Énna’s endless inquiries, and sought nothing more than to dive back into his work, preventing his mind from wandering. Naturally, luck worked against him, as it seemed Énna had been privy to his restless sleep. That complicated his ability to deny him answers.

“As I have told you once already, I am not so little anymore,” He began, avoiding the matter that was likely of more import to his brother as long as possible, “I have grown in the years passed. It is foolish to think I would remain the same after such a considerable amount of time, though I suppose I can understand where you have gathered that notion. You haven’t changed hardly at all.” He hadn’t meant for his words to strike as a jab, or perhaps he did. Seteth knew he was becoming too irritated, which had been Énna’s aim all along: to wear down his defenses.

“Didn’t your mother instruct you that it is rude to interrupt a moment of repose?” Seteth finally replied, his words combative as a result of his grouchiness, “I slept the same as always. There is no need for you to concern yourself.” He crossed his arms as if to somehow better guard himself. After experiencing such great adversity, Seteth feared very little. However, Énna’s persistence did concern him, and his brother’s knowledge of him.

It would only be a matter of time before he broke.

With the window behind him and day only just breaking, a shadow cast itself over his front, and the angled brim of his hat blocked his expression. Only the gleaming white smile stood out.

“Our mother, Seteth,” he spoke from deep in his chest instead of the height of his throat, backing his words with a deeper, more sinister tone, laced with venom. A single step forward came deliberately slow, followed by a second in not hesitance, but forbearance. Prowling, almost. Though he’d wait as long as he needed to strike, it didn’t mean he could feign impatience to coax out a reaction with such attempts at intimidation.

“You best not forget where you came from.” Some part of him should feel bad for being a nuisance in the moments following what must have been a nightmare to remember… But he didn’t. The earth dragon wished to fight? They’d fight.

After a third step, he had closed most of the previous space between them. Beneath the hat’s brim, his eyes slipped to slits and glowed in the low light. His smile didn’t even twitch. “Sleeping the same does not mean sleeping well…” The pupils dilated when his eyelids fluttered half closed. Their height difference wasn’t dramatic on foot and yet he bent slightly at the waist so they were mere inches apart. “Now why doesn’t the little one want his rest, hm?” Fangs were shown in the large, toothy smile, perhaps frustratingly derisive.

Any reaction was a win. The knots in his stomach from channeling an inner bastard told him otherwise.

“It’s almost as if something’s bothering you…”

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

The chamber was eerily silent, safe for the click of his footsteps, his ragged breathing, and the echo of moisture dripping from the walls in beaded drops. With his signature spear clenched in a tight fist, he navigated through the vaguely familiar stone hallway, only fueled by pure desperation. Deeper and deeper he traveled, his concern only growing as he failed to encounter a single foe. He had expected to at least encounter a handful slinking among the shadows, but there had been nothing. No magic. No attacks. Not even a single word. Breathing heavily, Seteth finally reached a single door that had been situated at the end of the hallway. This was it. It had to be. Swallowing a choked breath, Seteth stepped forward, gripping the rusted latch of the door. The sound of splashing liquid startled him and he lowered his gaze to his boot. In the darkness, it was thick, inky and filthy. He couldn’t identify it.

He pulled on the door with all his strength, and when it finally gave away its resistance, Seteth was met with a horrifying sight. Blood. It coated the walls and floors. The awful, rancid smell of death choked him, and he gagged despite his attempts to maintain his composure. Upon the wall, a weapon was mounted proudly, with a mangled body just beneath it. It bore the Crest of Cethleann. Seteth screamed, but his voice made no sound. Darkness surrounded him and he began to sink. He clawed and clawed, but he couldn’t make it to the surface. Flayn’s screams and cries filled the silence, echoing in a constant chain of torture…

Seteth’s verdant eyes flung open, his pupils thin and draconic. He jerked his body upwards with enough force that the papers lying beneath him took to the air, scattering across his office in disarray. His heart painfully pounding against his chest, rapt with terror. His eyes searched his surroundings, but there was no chamber. No blood. No Flayn. He was in his office at the monastery. Judging by the stream of sunlight that warmed his back and divided the floor, Seteth assumed he must have fallen asleep working. He brought his hands to his face, massaging his temples before taking in a weighty breath. It was just another nightmare. He stood, his chair scraping behind him with a creak, and began to gather the paperwork that littered the floor.

“We are working through this together now, you understand? If I’m going to be stuck here a while, I might as well be useful.”

Macuil’s words echoed through his mind and he released a sigh. It had been two weeks since his brother had joined them at the monastery. He had been adjusting reasonably well considering his discontent with the church, and had managed to blend in relatively seamlessly. Due to their similar appearances, they opted to present each other as cousins, gaining the trust of the knights and devotees to the church. Macuil had been pestering him ceaselessly, and Seteth had diverted those conversations dauntlessly. He sighed, standing and stacking the papers against his desk.

“I know you are there, Énna.”

In all honesty, he hadn’t meant to be in the room when Seteth awoke abruptly. The night sky twinkling teasingly to tug him away from his room and on the high turrets of the church’s spires. His heart ached as he watched them in a new sky, and before he could blink, the sun was rising. Figuratively, sure, but it didn’t keep the disappointment from stirring.

He had no technical duties, though he considered it routine to drag Seteth from wherever he was to actually eat breakfast. Mother knew the man was forgetful when it came to anything that wasn’t his work. Thus why he was at the door in the first place and why he could hear the panicked whispering prior to even entering. Initially he feared an intruder and mentally prepared to blast whoever was on the other side of the door out a window. His brother wasn’t the tremble-in-fear type, rather he’d be silent until he saw an opening. So that left…

“Oh, Cici…” He muttered once the door was open, regarding his younger sibling with pity. Slight jerks and quivers in his slumped form made it difficult to resist adjusting his position. However, any sleep the advisor could get was beneficial, no matter how painful. Énna scrunched his nose as he entered the room in full.

He combed through the bookshelves to distract himself from the quiet whines until the flutter of papers flew into the air to catch his attention. Slinking into the back corner of the room, he observed the distress whatever the nightmare had caused Seteth in silence. Once he was called out, however, he pulled a sly grin onto his face.

“Aw, you’re no fun! I was thinking about scaring you, but it appears your mind’s already done that for me, little one,” he twirled a string on his robes idly as he spoke. “Not a nice nap, I presume?”

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Releasing a heavy sigh, Seteth raised a hand to his face, pinching the space of skin between his eyebrows as if it would somehow alleviate the irritation that was already giving him a headache. Prior to even explaining the pleasant situation to his brother, he had anticipated it would be poorly received, but he had forgotten just how troublesome Macuil’s attitude could be when he was discontented. While Seteth’s judgement had been polished in his years of solitude and in the last twenty years working alongside Rhea, he still found it difficult to remained composed when exposed to such vexing behavior.

“Yes,” He replied calmly, attempting to maintain control of the situation, “but I do not feel she did so out of desire for glory. It is my belief that she rewrote history to protect us to remain. We cannot place our complete trust in them. If they were to become privy to the truth of the Hero’s Relics…we cannot guarantee history would not repeat itself.” He stated, his words largely cautious, with a subtle underside of fear. The thought of himself, his daughter, or his remaining brethren being mangled into grotesque weapons was enough to make him feel ill. He stood, approaching Macuil’s bedside and squeezing his shoulder.

“Rest. I will see to your safety,” He leaned closer to him, ensuring that prying ears would not hear his following words, “I suggest you never lower your guard. Not to Rhea, not to anyone. Please…Macuil.”

His efforts to maintain a disgruntled expression were futile under the truth his brother spoke. Seiros, much like her immediate elder Cichol, had always been one to act out necessity. However, her necessities were more often than not emotionally driven, unlike the earth dragon’s. To believe she was not acting selfishly for what she was doing, for what she had done, was risible. He didn’t speak his thoughts this time, though, and instead released a heavy sigh.

“Time will tell if what you speak is true of her.” Exhaustion had clung to his limbs while already beginning to settle. He fought a yawn as he continued, “And as long as I’m here… I will assure history will not repeat.” How witless of him to make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do everything he could to prevent another massacre.

He tensed at his warning of Rhea, heavy eyes opening to flicker over Seteth’s face. Slowly, another grin stretched over his features, as large and toothy as ever. “You think I would? Of all people? You wound me, brother.” For emphasis, he pulled a pout and held his hand to his heart. A giggle coaxed him back into a more solemn tone of voice.

“In all seriousness… I’ll take caution as you do. But if you think that means our little discussion is over, you are greatly mistaken,” he said with a narrowed gaze. A flair of pain caused a hiss through his teeth and the guise crumbled, reflecting in the worry in his stare. “We are working through this together now, you understand? If I’m going to be stuck here a while, I might as well be useful.”

[thecallinggale]

let-flayn-cook

Flayn carefully opened the library door, peaking through the small gap she had made, the student had done this time and time again, wishing for a moment of quiet to speak to the Churches ‘newest’ arrival. Énna had not been at the Monastery long and the student desperately wished to have a moment in which to speak alone with him privately. It had been a thousand years since she had been able to speak with Macuil and it was rather vexing she hadn’t managed to catch him alone yet.

She enjoyed her life as Flayn, without a question of a doubt. It allowed her freedoms that she hadn’t had since she was a child and it gave her a way to put the terrors she had suffered behind her. Though there were many things it had taken away from her. Her fathers ability to actually act as one and now, the inability to be open with her uncle. She had missed him after all and there was much to catch up on. Content that the various staff were far enough away from Macuil’s perch, Flayn finally pushed the door wide open, skipping up to the table that Macuil had covered in various books.

“Good afternoon, Énna, it’s been quite a while!“

Ink that once was soaked and dried on parchment shimmered in the air inches above its prison. A mumbled incantation spilled seamlessly from the parched lips of a warlock deprived of their tomes for over a millennium. He drank in the knowledge greedily, completely captivated by the magical advancements that he had yet to witness, aside from… No time to dwell on Sreng. There was so much to soak in, and the dark corner of the library was quiet, he was alone, so nothing was going to disturb him.

Except that voice. The last he heard of it was a scream over the cries of the dying, a weak rasp in the silent days of an echoing cave. To hear it in full blossom again sent him on a trip he didn’t recall paying for. Sevin, or whatever his name now, had already mentioned her presence, yet between fake names and fake history and new religions and new spells and that damned Archbishop- He hadn’t much time to think for himself.

The incantation, despite his wild running thoughts, only cut short when he chirped her name. “Ce- Flayn? Flayn!” Right right, her name. He turned to face her, to take in her small face for the first time in forever, when his mistake gurgled angrily in his palm to reclaim his attention. Where the small blue light he had been conjured had laid, in its place, the orb shuddered with jagged, red lines tearing its form apart. Maybe, just maybe, he should have dismissed the spell before speaking.

It leapt out of his hand suddenly, causing him to startle himself off his seat. Without a mind of its own, it bounced against the walls haphazardly. Énna tugged Flayn by her sleeve toward where he sat on the floor to tuck her closer to him as the ball flew about. Down the hall, distantly, he finally heard something shatter, a few yelps, then apparent silence.

“...I hope that wasn’t expensive, but it’s not our problem if we aren’t caught,” he said at last. “My! You’ve grown so much, little one! Do they grow their children like plants? You seemed to have sprouted rather quickly.” In truth, he couldn’t recall if Flayn was actually the exact same size as she was then. That was probably fine.

[thecallinggale]

Hearing Macuil flippantly question his eager dismissal vexed Seteth greatly and wore on his patience. The younger Nabatean swiftly grew rigid, his jaw clenched tightly and his expression morphing into a mild scowl as he feebly held onto his calm countenance. His brother had always been able to discern his deflections; digging his claws deeply in him until the truth was exposed. But Seteth was not the same man he was all those years ago. He had grown stronger, both mentally and physically. He had become a pillar of strength, a foundation to support others and a dauntless protector. His armor would not be shattered so easily.

He supposed Macuil’s shock was understandable. After shutting himself away for centuries of intentional solitude, he was certain that the new order of the world was both confusing and frightening. The very fabric of history had been rewritten, and Fodlan’s bloody truth buried for the sake of protecting the few Nabateans that walked the earth. At least, that is the motivation Seteth chooses to believe.

“Don’t,” Seteth’s voice was calm, but there was a dynamic of power that commanded attention and strength behind his words, “it is pointless to speak of the past when our priorities lie in the present. I refuse to speak more of it and I have no intention of changing my mind. As you are aware, I despise repeating myself, so do not ask me to say it again.” He hadn’t intended for his words to be so abrasive, but Seteth was attempting to make it clear he did not intend to crumble to the pressure of Macuil’s pestering. Witnessing his brother’s coughing fit, Seteth sighed, his irritation ebbing away. He stood, striding across the room for a brief moment, before returning with a glass of water.

“You mustn’t agitate yourself over trivialities. I assure you, I am fine,” He offered him the water, “drink, and I’ll tell you the present situation.” He returned to his seat beside him, pausing for a few moments of silence as he determined what needed to be said.

“History has been rewritten. You would do well to familiarize yourself with the books in the library. No one must learn of our identities. Not our names, not our origins, nothing. Here, I am Seteth. Residing at the monastery with my darling sister, Flayn. Archbishop Rhea is the title our kin has chosen,” He explained, frowning, “there is…a matter I am investigating. An unidentified group is targeting the church. The question I asked you…I am attempting to discern whether your attackers may be associated with this group. I fear their aim is not truly the church, but the remaining Nabateans.”

The pout was rather amusing to see, though he supposed in the other’s eyes, it had meant to be intimidating, surely, and the speech that followed further pressed the point. He stared dubiously with a raised brow that left him appearing entirely unimpressed. Not entirely, since such a paternal tone directed toward him proved that this was an evolved form of the Cichol he knew. With a roll of his eyes and a gente sigh, he spoke to the floorboards, not without mocking ‘I despise repeating myself.’ in a taunting tone.

“You wish not to speak now, fine” he donned a more serious voice again, accompanied by a slight rasp, “we will not speak now. To think you’ll never have to keep me from tearing off the damned fortress of a mask you wear is foolish. I’d suggest acquainting yourself with the idea of repeating yourself sooner than later, brother.” The fire behind his eyes would not be so easily quelled. Stone impassive to the simmering flames could shake under the blast of a fireball gaining momentum.

 Agitated over ‘trivialities’ his ass. There was nothing trivial about it. Fine, his ass. As he accepted the water gratefully, he continued to glare at the ground that scorned him. Seteth spoke as if he had mentioned staying at any point in time, as if he had not been planning on leaving as soon as possible. As if this was a permanent arrangement. He could want to deny it all as much as he’d like while the truth would stand. He couldn’t leave him again so soon. He could never do that after what little he’s heard out of the corrupted treasure laid trapped behind the walls.

 Rhea, Flayn, and S-E name. So he was being thrusted into hiding. Nothing new on the mortal plane, then. Again, he ignored the ending part of Se...Cichol’s explanation to question its beginning. “Rewritten, you say? As in, Seiros- Sorry, RHEA actually blatantly lied to nearly all mankind, everyone across lands believe, and has even named herself head of this Church? Can’t wait to read that.” The sarcasm of the statement carried out easily in his voice as he leaned back on the bed. He was wary of allowing himself to drift into slumber with that word still bouncing in his head. Logically, it wouldn’t happen, yet…

 Centuries. Cichol was alone.

 He couldn’t not think about the possibility it could.

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

Seteth stiffened, wrinkles of vexation forming between his eyebrows at his brother’s words. He gripped his forearm tightly, his fingernails attempting to dig into his flesh through his sleeves as he fought to maintain his composure. A subtle indication that Macuil had struck a nerve. In his time away from the monastery, Seteth had spent every waking moment dedicated to the protection of his daughter’s life. She had slept for countless decades and even when she finally awoke, she was too weak to remain conscious for long. Guilt and regret had gnawed at him in his solitude, emotionally destroying him. It had only been Flayn’s brief, waking moments of clarity during her rest that maintained his sanity.

“She has only just awoke from her sleep,” He replied softly, unable to meet Macuil’s analytical eyes, “for centuries, I concealed her. I did not wish to see any further harm befall her. We spent many quiet days together, alone. All I could do is provide her protection, and hope she would one day awaken.” He closed his eyes, pursing his lips with an unreadable expression. He knew that his brother would know of whom he was referring without name, as he dared not speak it and risk his daughter’s safety in the monastery. After a few passing moments, he opened his eyes; green hues depicting a grave emotion.

“I lacked resources. I was exhausted…I had lived without order or life’s comforts,” He began, leaning all his weight onto his right leg, “I returned to Zanado. There, I encountered Seiros. She implored me to return to the monastery…and I accepted.”

“My injuries aren’t so bad, little one.”

He was caught off guard by Macuil’s comment, only indicating through the widening of his eyes and raised eyebrows. It had been millennia since he had been last addressed by such phrase. As if he had leapt into the salty sea of the Rhodos Coast, a childhood memory washed over him: a terrible storm overtaking Zanado, with harsh winds causing even the Goddess’s domain to tremble in submission. He was less than a decade old then, terrified by the force as the wind tore through the land. Macuil had been the one to comfort him then. Shaking himself of such exceptionally distant memories, he frowned.

“Still, your injuries are significant. You would do well to take care, lest you are determined to slip into a sleep for recovery,” He shook his head, “I assure you, I am far from little. You speak as though we are centuries apart.”

He placed his hands onto Macuil’s shoulders, gently pushing him into a seated position on the bed.

“You would feel differently, if you have seen all I have witnessed.” He mumbled mostly to himself, sitting beside him.

“Tell me…who inflicted such injuries upon you?”

He prided himself with having a sharp wit, but his mind had dulled, so it was slow to comprehend with the words being said. Sure, seeing he’s chipped away at some of the brick laid before him was nice, yet… Centuries? Cethleann slept that long? Through the settling fog, he couldn’t pull a vivid image of her battered body to the forefront of her mind, despite knowing how badly she had been injured. She had been young, she wasn’t built to take hits, exhausted from healing usage, and in an already gorey mess of a battle… Why hadn’t he factored that sooner? Cichol must have spent… Oh, by Mother’s heart.

“Centuries?” He finally repeated aloud, “Alone?” though his tongue slurred the two words together strangely. Not that he noticed, he was busy playing catch up now. The dull ache spreading from his body to his head was a mere obstacle. Centuries. And only in the last few decades or so it seemed she had awoken. Cichol hadn’t slept then if he said he was watching over her, Macuil knew him too well to know. Yet, now, it felt like he didn’t know him at all. The hundred-year word echoed in his mind endlessly, taking up such a large portion of his consciousness, he forgot conversations went two ways.

There goes little Cichol, deflecting admitting to a period of time that must have had such great magnitude on the man he’s become (the brother Macuil didn’t know), that it appeared for just a moment, he hadn’t changed at all. He has, so greatly… He wasn’t getting away that easily.

“You c-can’t-” His breath stuttered against suppressed cough. “You can’t blatantly say, ‘By the way, my severely injured kid slept for much, much longer than expected so I stayed with her the whole time stewing in guilt. Then our probably-still-batshit-crazy sister asked me to join her cult so I did.’ Then question me as if I’m the one that’s not okay!” He hadn’t meant for his voice to rise to a bark. It was unbelievably frustrating to wrap his head around how much he’s missed and how much he left behind. He’s heard only snippets of the ‘Church of Seiros’ in passing skirmishes, and the latest and last Srengian battle was a topic he didn’t want to touch on just yet.

The question was, was he actually sorry? Is that where the anger stemmed from? He couldn’t think, he couldn’t-

He opened his mouth to say something more- Dammit, anything more, yet there was nothing he could offer. A harsh cough wracked his body to take place of the paragraphs and pages he couldn’t speak. How could he feel true remorse for fleeing a land filled with the scum that killed his race senselessly and without mercy. How could he not feel it after hearing what could only be a snippet of an eternity of loneliness. There was no time to think things through anymore, it seemed. No room to be made in the clutter of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered once he reigned control of his breath, “What in the Eternal Flames had I left you with?”

[thecallinggale]

st-cichol

“I see you still hold a grudge against me,” Seteth stated with a frown, crossing his arms loosely as if to mask any noticeable vulnerability, “I cannot say I am surprised. You were never one to forget that which has crossed you.” His voice was calm, but far from apathetic. Though strength and judgement had always been his greatest assets, he had never been able to distance his emotions from conflict. Rather than display them, he buried his feelings deep within himself, allowing them to fester into a poison that slowly ate him away from the inside. His eyes shifted away from his brother, instead looking to the paneling of the wood floor beneath them.

“I am afraid I do not have an answer to your question,” He admitted, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “I only returned here approximately twenty years ago. A mere fragment in time…insufficient to pass my judgement.” Seteth drew in a breath, attempting to organize the uncertainty that plagued his mind. He was overjoyed to see his sibling alive and relatively well, but he had never known how to approach him in conversation. Their departure hadn’t been on good terms, only serving to complicate matters. He had always felt closer to Indech. He found great value in Indech’s wisdom, and little barriers to communication regardless of subject matter. Macuil, on the other hand… But, that wasn’t to say he did not admire him. Macuil had a polished mind, so much so, that he was certain he could outwit the Goddess herself. He lifted his head, his eyes falling to the terrible injuries that carved out his brother’s body.

“You should rest. Your injuries are severe, even for someone such as yourself.” He approached him, but uncertainty and hesitation continued to mar his every action. It had always been like this, even as children. Seteth working his mind in circles whenever they fought, attempting to find a way to ease the tension. Yet, even when they had squabbled as children over trivial matters and Macuil had grown cross, he had always felt his older brother’s watchful eyes monitoring him from afar. It had always reassured him of their kinship.

“I…regret our parting conversation,” He says finally, speaking on the uncomfortable topic neither of them seemed keen on breaching, “much has happened. Seiros is here, and will seek your audience.” His words were a statement, but his eyes instead portrayed caution. It was a warning.

His brother, even after all this time, continued to hold as cold as stone. An impassable wall so carefully constructed as to obscure the view it held behind it. Soon enough, it appeared, walls had been built around every side, roof and all, to contain the truth within it. But when so hastily built, it was bound to have some cracks. As a once overseer over such production he knew where to search.

It was tricky, after being in a beastial form for so long, to shake off the animal attributes he had attained and maintained. Walking on two legs wasn’t something he had entirely forgotten to do, and yet he found his top half slouched slightly in preparation to reach to the ground as he prowled. His steps weren’t uncertain, though hesitant, as he stepped around Seteth, eyeing him the whole way around.

“You waited so long to join them?” He sneered, and though he had only two inches on him, his gaze was shifted down to him. Such a vantage point made an interesting view upon the shorter; Like he was unused to being talked down upon, but held such dignity not to let it shine through. Even stone cracked under pressure, and he could see the lines already. How far could he push? How far should he? They had met again seconds before and with such progress in damage done so quickly, whether the other knew it was happening or not, was a bit much to handle. He could spare backing off.

“My injuries aren’t so bad, little one.” Despite himself, there was a growl that crept behind his words, intended to be more of a purr. He couldn’t shake the traits so quickly, though he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try. He backed up physically in hopes to not put on an overly intimidating display. “And regret doesn’t suit you well.” That was the weight that held down the body then. Its source unknown, but a start no less. He continued more tacitly, “Especially when you are not the perpetrator.”

While it was true he felt he was in the right for leaving to live in solitude, it would never excuse the fact he left his younger sibling alone with his dying child. The image of the blood soaked Cethleann would creep into his mind at times amidst the sandy mirages cast in strange shadows in watery sunlight. He’d sleep for a decade to rid himself of the thought. He supposed he couldn’t do that much anymore.

“As for Seiros…” He made no verbal reply nor attempt to finish the statement. What came was a flick of his wrist, to which magic flickered and appeared to die swiftly. Yet, across the room, a pointed hat jumped to life, landing in his hand breezily. The brim came over his eyes and all that was offered was a pointed-tooth grin. He tensed at the exertion from such a simple action, locking his knees in hopes the other wouldn’t notice them shake.

His confidence stood strong, but the fear of the Immaculate would always run deep. The wall may not be as strong, though the other’s eye couldn’t be that sharp. Hopefully, at least.

[thecallinggale]

@st-cichol In silence, Seteth stood outside the door of the infirmary, attempting to overcome his hesitation. His left hand was balled into a tight fist, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm, while his right rested on the tarnished doorknob. He had seen his face for himself. The traits were undeniable; verdant green hair, long pointed ears, and his very presence were of Nabatea. Even now, through the solid oak door that separated them, Seteth could sense another Nabatean awaited him on the opposite side. He lifted his expression, his verdant eyes staring at the grain of wood before him with scrutiny, as if it would give him answers. There was no doubt in his mind that this man was Nabatean, but could it truly be his brother? One that had sworn off humanity so long ago?

Macuil.

Their last discussion had been heated. Macuil felt betrayed that his brethren would coexist alongside humans, after their reprehensible actions. Seteth had attempted to explain to him his reasoning and actions, but Macuil’s patience had run thin. His brother had left before he had the opportunity to fully explain himself. It was not long after Macuil had left that Seteth had done the same with his family. But now, out of necessity, he had returned to the monastery. In the eyes of the public, he assisted the Archbishop with all matters of the church, supporting it with every fiber of his being. Behind closed doors, he tried to investigate Seiros’s experiments; to convince her to cease her desperate attempts to resurrect their mother. Such matters required patience. His daughter’s safety was his highest priority, after all.

He drew in a breath. Seteth’s own patience dissipating. He could not stand here a moment longer, speculating whether the injured Nabatean beyond the door was his brother. He needed the answer. Summoning up his courage, Seteth entered the infirmary, and was greeted with the sight of an injured man standing on the ledge of an open window, gazing towards the ground with a calculated expression. His waking face was unmistakable.

“It really is you,” Seteth broke the silence, his voice calm despite the circumstance, “I must advise against leaping. You will only cause a commotion.”

Shocked, he squawked in response, nearly falling out the window. His grip tightened on the frame, however, and allowed him to not fall to his death. Well, less his ‘death’ and more an inconvenience. With a huff, he stepped down from the window, pushing the long locks of yellow-tinged green from his face. Damn, did he need a haircut? Did he care?

“I’m aware,” he spoke without looking up as he adjusted his robes. “Though I’ll have you know I was planning on climbing, not jumping. I’m not a complete fool.” Content with clothing, he finally meant the newcomer’s eye, only to be thrusted back a thousand years time in no more than a second.

-

“You trust them so freely!” Macuil had hissed at the younger, Cichol, who had looked on with barely maintained anger. “Slaughters of our race! Our people! I know you haven’t forgiven them, and you will not force ME!” In a fit of rage, he had swung his arm back, producing an arc of wind with the motion. Emotion long coiled had sprung forth with the fangs of a snake that had been starved of substance. He hadn’t cared who he’d hit, he hadn’t cared who he had hurt, and he certainly hadn’t cared for traitors who trusted sanguinary men who they wished to walk amongst. Indech may silently watch on, but he’d be quiet no longer.

“I’m finished here.” He didn’t look back. His head was held high and his heel was heading ahead. “Live amongst mankind. I shall find my own place in this vile world.” The feathers left fluttering in the wind behind him drifted down upon his home now lost a second time.

-

Reality dragged him back hastily. Where maybe a minute had gone by, he felt he had stayed settled for much longer. Before him stood a man he never thought he’d see again, and he wasn’t sure what expression to bring forth to even begin to show the mangled feelings in his gut. To hug, or to slap, that was the question.

While the second option was immensely appealing, there was a weight not so easily hidden from his eye that laid on his brother’s shoulders. He’d pry when he could, but for now, he let a semi-nervous smile tug his lips upward. Oh, what a reunion this could be.

“Long time no see, Cici? How’re the genocidists treating you?”

[thecallinggale]

Dust rises // Open

Warning: Vague mentions of blood

Millennia. It had to have been millennia since he had been allowed to leave this Flame-damned room. An exaggeration, sure, though it sure felt like it. If he had to listen to that… Miranda or whatever her name was complain about her love life a single more time, he’d snap back into awareness so quickly time itself would bend at his command.

One slip-up had landed him in the monastery’s infirmary, if a failed battle against countless waves of dark mages counted as one and not multiple. He could curse up and down to every god and goddess of every land, and it wouldn’t change the fact fate had dropped him so close to this wretched place. This wretched place that so kindly took him in and was taking of him and it was sickening to think about for too long. Such kindness only given when they didn’t know what he was.

Wincing as he sat up, he regarded the bandages wrapped around his almost fully exposed abdomen, minus the tight cloth still wrapped around his chest. The bandages layered around his stomach were new, or at least, not entirely soaked in crimson. It stung still when he bent, but he couldn’t handle suffocating in that bed any longer. 

The pain crackled up his side and stole his breath in his first step. A cough forced itself from his mouth as he hunched over the other bed to catch the lost air. Once he wrangled it back within, he continued his harrowing journey across the room to the door. His mind was still fuzzy from disuse, though clarity was building up. In the hall, he could hear other people nearby in the one of three rooms around the infirmary. Who, whether familiar or not, he had no idea. It was close enough that it gave him no hope for simply waltzing out. He’d need to plan something more complicated.

‘Or,’ he mused inwardly when he noticed the large window, ‘I can do this my way.’ No lock, easy latch; No problem, easy escape. The stained glass opened with relative ease, and though his vision lurched at the height, he found the distance from the earth comforting. A wind spell could keep him from breaking his ankles in a jump, but to climb; There’d be a view there to collect his bearings of how far an exit was, then he could make his way out of the monastery, find a map to Sreng, return to solitude...

Now standing on the windowsill, with a shaky but sturdy grip on the window’s arch, he attempted to calculate the effort he’d need to reach the roof. He’d have to do so quickly before anyone could enter and catch him.