As it stumbled back, Neeson pulled his weapon out of its mountainous body. He readied himself for yet another attack, his eyes taking hold of the troll's left leg. He swung his axe at that leg, taking aim just below its knee. It made a gruesome, stomach-turning sound as it passed, cleaving through the bone. Blood and shards of bone flew through the air, splattering upon the old man's clothing.
Its only root to the world cut, the troll began to tumble. It landed hard and heavily upon its back, sending a tremor across the plane. Disheartening was its presence, taking a quick peek down at its leg. The damage was tremendous, feeling its lower half lost and pinned underneath its back end. The blood spewed fast and furious, the pain excruciating.
The old man simply stepped on ahead, requiring this troll's life. In the midst of all its suffering, Neeson stood just before its head, raising his axe up high. He then began to cut away, hacking repeatedly into its face and neck until it breathed no more. Over and over and over and over again did he viciously bring the axe down, a guillotine which ruthlessly butchered the miserable creature.
Just behind Neeson was the group, rushing in to catch up to the old man. But much to the surprise of most, Malik's confidence in Neeson's abilities certainly wasn't a joke. The trolls had been assaulted without relent, the hunter mercilessly slaughtering his prey. They watched -- some in horror -- as Neeson continued to chop away without end.
What was left of that troll was a twitching, bloody mess. Its face shredded and mashed like ground beef, so grotesquely mutilated that it was far beyond recognition. Finally, Neeson yanked his crimson-washed axe out of the troll's ripped up visage, turning around and finding the group just standing there, completely dumbfounded.
This blood-bathed man looking at them, his stoic, hardened eyes peering without life. Such was a look which seemed to infuriate the Neheztelian goddess Lamia, Raphael feeling as the air grew charged with a radiating, incomprehensible hatred. The young man turned to where it felt this miasma, concerned.
"What's wrong?" the heir asked.
"Concern yourself not with me,
Palaemmir,
" the goddess dismissed Raphael's worries, clearly doing battle with something in her. "I am simply... reminiscing."
Such a return like a hand pushing him away, unable to calm his qualms. This malevolent force strong and overpowering, to the point where Raphael and several others began feeling physically oppressed. The heir just took air in and out, trying his best to relieve himself of some of that stress.
At the head of the group, Malik turned to face his allies. "We should be safe to search for now, but don't let your guard down," the former master strongly suggested, taken in earnest.
Calvin pulled his hands behind his head, finally able to hold himself calm and relaxed. "'Course not," he replied. "Man, I was kinda nervous 'bout dis trip befor'. But wit' the ol' fella 'ere, gotta say, now I'm really feelin' it!"
"Quite so," Kereske added, crossing his arms. "His strength is certainly impressive."
With that, the group took to the search. They tried their best not to stray from one another, keeping together like a herd. Neeson kept the watch, his ears peeled, his eyes wide open. They scoured this city, some getting lucky and scavenging a good find. But the search continued for the vast majority, searching through the ancient city.
A city lost, visuals of the past haunting them with each step. A visit from the fallen, like a soul desperately grabbing onto their ankles. Bones of families found scattered throughout the greenery, entwined in plants. A sorrowful discovery, to actually acknowledge this overwhelming loss...
Daevarro had located an old soldier barracks, a discovery which had him flag others of its existence. Others were warned and so they came, hungry for the equipment that they searched up-and-down for. Multiple rows of bunk beds were found, some of them still bearing the unkempt blankets of a soldier who jolted out of his sleep to defend his homeland.
Calvin was among those who were invited to this place, him along with his brothers and sisters in black. He casually investigated the place with his eyes, a messed-up shell of what was a building. The walls and ceiling were caving in, the world letting itself in the door. The sunlight shined through the broken sections of the building, giving it a rather unique look.
"Nice find, shady," he complimented Daevarro, walking down the aisle of beds. "Got p'enty-a stuff 'ere."
"Anyone could have found it, I was just the first one who did," the young man passed with modesty, intolerant of any praise.
"Ahhh, shady," sighed Calvin. "Always the humble one, ain't ya? Yer makin' me look bad!"
The lazy assassin then ceased in both words and step, his eyes settling down upon a strange piece of equipment. It sat there along with the skeleton of a human, dressed in an attire fit for maximum comfort. But clenched in its boney hand was a weapon of some form, an odd claw-like weapon made of steel.
"'Ello, 'ello, what's dis?" the assassin asked out to the atmosphere, sluggishly reaching his hand for the weapon. Calvin cautiously pried it out of the soldier's dead hands, careful not to do any damage to the remains out of respect. To think himself and this group so desperate that they had become nothing more but petty thieves, looters of the dead. It was so demeaning, so deplorable...
But his curiosity took full possession of him, becoming like a slave to higher sense of inquisitiveness. His pale blue eyes methodically inspecting the weapon, finding its blades still pretty sharp. Parts of it had been eroded by time, but for the most part it appeared kept together. Calvin's lips rose with a grin as he emitted a tricky snicker, shamelessly sliding it into his pouch full of tools of the trade.
The assassin then turned to his right, finding a flock of his fellow Lamians had entered the crippled barracks. But it was not them whom his eyes truly fell onto, but the dark robed young man whom his brothers and sisters avoided like the plague. Daevarro appeared to be in mourning, gazing sorrowfully upon the grizzly toll. A woefully high number, an incredible burden to endure.
Up to his waist in thoughts, his legs stood solidly in place. That was until a hand came down upon his shoulder, ripping him up from that haunted ground which rooted him. Daevarro's head quickly spun in that direction, heading off to his left. He found then a smiling Calvin and a hand which supported him, his face ridden with shock to be suddenly rid of his negative space.
"C'mon, shady," Calvin attempted to encourage Daevarro. "There ain't no use 'n cryin' over split milk. What's best now is ta 'nsure such thing's ain't repeated, y'know? Make sure their sacrifice ain't 'n vain!"
Daevarro's face retracted to normalcy, nodding his head in accordance to Calvin's words. He snapped himself out of his saddening streak, standing straight and tall, holding his head up high. Calvin removed his hand from the young man's shoulder, using that hand now to give Daevarro an assuring thumbs-up.
"Dat's more like it," the assassin reacted, calmly joyful.
Daevarro's head then pulled away from Calvin, his eyes lost. He couldn't help but to sense something... harsh in the air, a heavy push on his body like gravity were trying to pull him down. It had been there for a bit now, but it only seemed to get worse by the minute. He reached for his sister's pendant for comfort, trying to keep himself calm and level-headed even in this sickening environment.
Calvin couldn't help but to notice this happening, crossing his arms as he watched with interest. "Feel it too, can't ya?" the assassin said to the young man.
Daevarro quickly twisted his head back onto Calvin, surprised by his assessment. "Huh?" the young man spoke. "Wait, you can as well?"
"'Course," Calvin confirmed, but then an unusually serious look masked his face. "I've felt something like this before... A couple-a years back."
"What is it?" Daevarro questioned with a slight stress in his tone.
"It's Lamiaquil'a," he answered. "Nobody else can feel it 'cause they don't have the
Avae'vatu,
like we do. This weight that you feel... It's the result of her anger. And not just a little anger, but a whole,
whole
lotta it."
"I see," the young man understood, processing this information. "But what for?"
"Who can say?" Calvin returned, shrugging his shoulders. "Whatever it is, it ain't gonna let up. Jus' bear wit' it, shady."
"I'll try," Daevarro agreed with a nod of his head.
Daevarro, Calvin, and the herd of Lamians continued to search vigorously for any sort of object deemed useful. Robbing the dead of their last possessions, the only thing which offered them comfort in their time of death. Even still could Daevarro not shake off that feeling, withstand that oppression, that lingering feeling of sickness in his stomach.
Not too far away laid yet more remains of a house once full, now hollow and lifeless. All that was to be found were the distant whispers of days past, still speaking its history like an eulogy. The portraits upon these walls acted as the epitaph upon the tombstone, displaying families in a most elated state. The scattered remains of them laid buried under the rubble and debris, some wounds shown even down to the bone.
Faded smiles of joy were all left in the distant past now, back in the glory days of humanity. But now, now these portraits were reduced to no more than placeholders for cobwebs, succumbing to an army of dust particles. Yet still did mourners gather, feeling painful, heart-aching thoughts like an elephant upon their chests.
Raphael himself was in one such situation, gazing upon an old portrait in great detail. A family of proud, honorable hunters, posing before their large prey. Pelts of white fur laid upon the floor, heads of stone-jaw trolls adorned the walls. Such glowing faces, grinning from ear-to-ear, perhaps a depiction of the happiest day of their lives.
It was something Raphael had looked at way too many times, but it never seemed to get easier to cope with. This tremendous loss, this all-consuming grief... He let go a deep sigh, trying to stave off this escalating tide from swallowing him whole. The silver-haired heir's ears then caught a sound from behind, a pair of footsteps drawing near.
He didn't turn to face whoever was behind him, his eyes ensnared upon these unforgettable faces. "It never gets easier, does it?" the familiar voice was heard, his mentor Malik stood to Raphael's right. "All the lives we've lost. All the sacrifices we've made. All the burdens we bear."
Malik's face found Raphael, rusty brown eyes gazing upon his pupil. "Cherish these feelings of grief," his master continued. "If we did not feel this pain welling up inside, we would be no better than those who brought us it."
Raphael nodded his head. "I know," he acknowledged, his voice echoing his still lingering sense of disbelief that he was actually being lectured by his master.
But Malik could read his pupil all too effortlessly, finding that there was something else hanging on his tongue. A question, a doubt, a sense of confusion, a shroud of mist concealing the road. Malik crossed his arms, his eyes jabbing at Raphael like taking a stick to a sleeping bear. The old master knew that his student's mind still trickled with loose ends, but who knew just how Raphael would take them.
But regardless, Malik patiently awaited his student to muster up the courage to speak. He wanted Raphael to engage this conversation, to pursue this truth of his own volition. It took just a short amount of time, but the old master could watch as Raphael wrestled with his interest, his mouth squirming around to speak.
"I must admit, I never imagined Telvern to seek betrayal," Raphael's master expressed, trying to loosen his pupil's lips. "Your mother often spoke about him, but not a word was ever ill. Frankly, if it weren't for her words, I fear I might have overlooked him."
"Master," the young pupil finally got out. "My mother... You knew her, didn't you?"
"Yes," Malik honestly confirmed. "We were friends, good friends."
"What... what was she like?" Raphael asked, with sad curiosity did his tone come through.
"Well, she was quite a lot like you," his master answered, closing his eyes and joyfully recollecting those days of old. With a light grin on his face and a chuckle to himself, basking in the light of those days so distant. "Your mother was so... steadfastly faithful and protective of those fortunate enough to know her as a friend, yet always so humble and down-to-earth. She was kind-hearted, never daring to think of herself ahead of others. And no matter the circumstance, she could always find a way to put a smile on one's face. She was an amazing woman, that one..."
Raphael looked to his master, never recalling him in such a strange space. A happy kind of sad, joyous of this sorrow, this melancholy. "I'm glad... you got to know her, Master Malik," the young man admitted. "If only I could've as well."
Malik opened his eyes, looking upon the grave expression riddling his pupil's face. "You still can, Raphael," his master told him, placing his hand on Raphael's shoulder to raise his spirits. "You'll find her one day. I know you will."
Raphael rejected his master's words of encouragement, much to Malik's surprise. "No, I won't," Raphael replied, somber. "She's gone, master. I've been told that... my mother is dead."
"By who?"
"Lamia," the young man responded.
"I see..." Malik returned with skepticism, quickly then shaking it off. "Raphael, were you... ever told why it was your mother left that night, twenty years ago?"
"Just the things you've told me," the heir answered.
Malik appeared rather surprised by Raphael's return to him, his eyebrows raised up. "Is that so?" the master spoke, caught off-guard. But his shock ran from his face, becoming more Malik-esque, calm and composed as it were. "I'll be quite frank with you, the truth is far different than anything I've told you."
Raphael listened intently, watching as his master formed the proper words to say. He braced himself for the raw, unfiltered truth, fortifying his will for a will-crushing answer. His old master readied his voice, a commanding intake of oxygen withdrawn into his lungs.
"In fear of discovery, Markus and I escorted your mother and father to a location southeast of the city for your birth," Malik began, drawing his pupil's ears very closely. "Shortly after our arrival, your mother went into labor. And before long, you were born, Raphael. The days that followed were among the most joyous I had witnessed, but I'd begun to suspect that something was... off."
"Others became aware of your birth," his teacher answered him. "Right in the middle of the night, Divus suddenly alerted us to a threat. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by human soldiers led by a Solasúian woman. Her name was Culana Kórakas."
"I've heard of her," the young man stated. "She was on the Ruler's Counsel as the representative of the Kórakas family before Caerus took over."
"She claimed to have found "the evidence" she was looking for," Malik went on. "We couldn't allow anyone to know about you or your mother, so we engaged them in battle. She ran off as we drew our arms, none of us could give chase. We had to quickly dispatch of her men, but she was long gone by the time of our completion. Your father took to panic, feeling you and your mother pulled out from under his shield. I hadn't ever seen him in such a state, I tried my best to offer him calm. But his fears yet subsided, until his brother showed himself."
"Momus?" named Raphael with a sense of bemusement.
Malik nodded briefly. "As though from thin air, Momus appeared there in the doorway," he explained. "He stood there, dressed in a strange black garb and a hood over his head. Your mother instantly addresses him as
"Yáatiq,"
which your father recognized as a word of Neheztelian origin. Momus then informed us that he had murdered Culana before she had time to escape, which still did not relieve your father's anxieties. The fear of discovery had long claimed his mind, the situation was essentially his worst nightmare given form."
"But why was Momus there to begin with?" the young man wondered. "Did he know?"
"We never informed him ourselves," Malik told Raphael. "He found out by his own means. As for his goals, I cannot imagine it other than the taking of your life, Raphael. You are a Barn, the sworn enemy of every man, woman, and child who swears loyalty to Lamia."
"Why didn't he kill me then?" Raphael's questioning came furious. "He had so many opportunities, yet he chose to help me instead..."
"If I had to venture a guess, I'd say because he was conflicted," Malik theorized. "To think you the child of a fellow Lamian, that thought was most likely enough to stay his hand. The only solution to his problem was to instead aid you, so you'd not follow in the footsteps of so many of those who came before you."
"I suppose that makes sense," thought Raphael, somewhat satisfied with his master's hypothesis. "So what happened next?"
"Lord Divus began seeking a solution, one which could guarantee you and your mother's protection," Malik continued. "With tears in his eyes, he found his answer. To separate you and your mother from him, that was his conclusion -- his only solution. Momus volunteered to take Astrid someplace safe, while Markus volunteered to raise you himself. Your mother was understandably devastated, she argued fiercely against it. But your father was set on this, believing it the only way to ensure your safety."
"'Twas an instance most difficult for her," Raphael could hear Lamia add, but strangely he saw as Malik's body seemed to react to it as well. His head shuffled all along his space, his hand quickly finding his sword. "She sought relief from her encumbering grief, so she offered a prayer. A call which beckoned me to bring aid to her disconsolate heart."
Malik picked on a weird, distorted voice which appeared from nowhere. He was alarmed, ready for a fight. He searched every corner with quickness like a troublesome fly buzzed around his head, trying to locate the strange noise his ears were picking up on. But there was no body which this warped voice came, no source at all.
Beside Raphael, Lamia took account of Malik's strange reaction. She pondered with intrigue, gazing upon the master. "Oh? Has my voice reached your ear?" the goddess questioned curiously.
