Although most of flower's internal structures were not seen, long, white stamens stood straight out and were curved outward ever so slightly. The tops of each of these stamens possessed a peculiar, ethereal glow, shining with an otherworldly iridescence. In the midst of his pondering, Balor couldn't help but to notice this brilliantly striking flower, and more especially for the fact of what it was about to do.
Suddenly its elongated petals snapped off of the main body, fluttering gently downwards into the adamas vase below. Balor was rather surprised by this happening, vexing was its nature. "The flower..." he mentioned quietly.
Hearing her lord's words, Ulyssa chose to let him go and have a look herself. Her head turned off into that direction, setting her rusty brown eyes to her left. She settled upon that unusual flower, finding it now without its gorgeous purple petals. The young servant's face grew with amazement, her eyes alight and widened.
"I've never seen it lose its petals before," she stated with excitement, then looking back upon her lord. "This is a
Renailis Leasa,
a type of flower not native to Gielinor. It sheds its petals once every season, trying to better its adaption to the changing climate. Its appearance is never the same as any of its previous incarnations, constantly altering in structure, shape, size, and color. It's an old heraldic symbol of the gods, representing rebirth, renewal, and improvement."
"I see," Balor replied, then looking to her. Seeing her face finally appear alive with some kind of emotion filled up this empty hole in his heart, his heavy, sunken face uplifted with a light smile. "You certainly know quite a lot about them, don't you?"
Hearing her lord ask this simple question, Ulyssa began to further her explanation. Every ounce of detail about this particular plant spewed from her mouth, flowing into Balor's ears. How odd had things become, a former Balor would resent this blatant waste of his time. He would loathe this absurd, useless excess of information.
She went on and on about it like she were a book with a mouth, going through every detail, no matter the size. Yet Balor did not try to stop her, he simply did not want to. He was completely captivated by her chatter, listening intently to every word, every syllable that came out of her mouth. His smile growing more reaffirmed by the minute, finding this moment rather... soothing.
But unbeknownst to them -- or perhaps they realized it and merely accepted it -- their hands were adjoined. Their fingers entangled in each other's, synchronized in this harmonious feeling. The idea of staying together for the sake of never being alone was something they both shared, and one they'd never forsake. For in this moment, Ulyssa finally felt herself like a human, a person with thoughts and feelings.
And Balor too, hearing as a horrible person like him made this young servant feel this way. Like an archaeologist's brush gently wiping across a brand new discovery, he found a truth. He found that he needed to change, no, he wanted to change. To become a better king to his people, a better brother to his beloved sister, a better person to everyone.
To uncover these things just by simply being in each other's company, both Ulyssa and Balor learned a truth. Like that flower of which they speak, they needed to alter, shed their skin, become something more, something better. Knowing this truth discovered, they looked to each other, eye-to-eye, hand-in-hand, and wished, hoped that this would never end.
Spirits were lifted, revived, but elsewhere, bodies lifted, the daylight revived. That barren, ruined village known formerly as Taverley was alive with activity, its population coursing through its veins. With the frigid warmth of the sun bearing down upon them, those of this merged body of the Lumbridge Resistance and the Desert Assassins prepared for the journey ahead.
They donned attire appropriate for the trip up the steep, unimaginably gelid mountains. Thick, heavy raiments, long, wool blankets-turned-capes swallowed up their bodies. A hide that fought off the shivering winds quite well, most having slept in these garments to build up heat for the brutal odyssey ahead.
With heated, misty vitality pushing out their lungs, the group departed the lonely, overgrown hamlet. A blustering wind battering their backs, sending their capes aflutter. They boldly settled one foot afore the other, how bravely did their eyes nestle upon their ever-so-terrifying future, growing by the second.
Neeson acted as navigator for this ship of humans, setting course across a lake devouring the land. Passing by an old building which once held the loot of explorers amany, the lake which was overrun by the ocean began to take swipes at their feet. The bitter kiss of those frostbitten waters did sting, especially for those with boots well-worn and tattered.
Those of the former Lumbridge Resistance remained eerily quiet, most of them so focused upon the path ahead that they simply neglected words. But the dark-robed young man Daevarro was consumed, surrounded by kin of the same color. Lamians who could accept him, who welcomed him into their family, walked beside him with gums flapping. Daevarro did his best to be as polite as possible, just as his sister and all those of his family taught him, if even he grew internally nervous and introverted.
Shakir, off to Libitina's right, just displayed pure disgust, glaring at that vile heretic, this Daevarro. But the young man was surrounded by both those who hated and by those who accepted, Libitina saw this dazzling display of human kindness. Proud as a mother to her own children, her typically emotionless face grew luminous with a light, tender smile.
But this mother-like figure couldn't help but notice something just ahead of her, the silver-haired young man Raphael and his rabid disdain and distrust over one whom formerly resided amongst her kin. Telvern was attended to like a prisoner, never able to leave the paranoid, piercing glare of his nephew. Raphael kept him at his front constantly, and always corrected the genius, would he ever to stray even a centimeter.
They headed for a path not traveled in quite some time, the air's temperature steadily crashing. Beginning to depart the village, they were constantly stabbed in the back by eyes which feared their unknown presence. Those living here had their frail sense of whatever they referred to as 'normal' gradually reclaimed, watching those foreigners shrink into tiny specks on the horizon.
As they had became encased in snowy rock, as snow began falling down upon their heads, as the winds howled like that which the mountain was named, they paused for a moment. Some took in their environment, having never seen such a place in all their life. Tall, lively pine trees placed all around them, the waft of sweet resin made this climb seem almost an outdoor expedition.
But alas, such a pleasant, aromatic scent would be but a deceit, a lure, a trap to die. Those of this group were steadily clinched by the air, a deadly chill as bone-chilling as death itself. It clung to them like a tub of leech, ripping through their flesh and suckling their very life dry. No, not even the warmth of the sun could stave this horde, a meager flame could never oppose a torrential downpour.
It was hard to manage, drawing in the raw air that felt like an icy flame in their lungs. It was then that the snow had suddenly began falling fast and furious, creating blinding, white-out conditions. What was just in front of them was now as white and plain as a sheet of paper, barely able to even make out their foot in front of the other. The sun had disappeared, any hint of life and warmth a mere fantasy.
"This is... ridiculous!" weakly cried the Lamian Shakir from the far back, panting heavily to catch his breath. But his complaint went unheard, the angrily whipping, bellowing gales deafening all sound but the snow beneath their heels. Any attempt at chatter was all but ceased, focused now only on surviving through this.
The beclouded path ahead went on infinitely, some wondering if it even had an end. Some prayed for relief from this frozen purgatory, picturing so desperately those shimmering sands, those fiery, grain-swept winds of the desert. Neeson pushed on ahead like a shepherd leading the blind, his footprints in the snow served as a marker for those behind him.
The snow grew deeper and deeper, from once shallow to now all-consuming. They were now up to their knees in the burdening white, trudging through it like walking through thick, swamp mud. The repetitive crunch of the snow under their feet just as taxing on their minds, levying every ounce of strength left in them.
Traversing through what felt like miles and hours of deep snow which varied with incline, a terrible, stinging ache drilled through their legs. Their muscles were set ablaze, completely torched by the exhausting trek. All stamina pushed ferociously out of their lungs, beating a gelid sweat out of them. They pushed their endurance as far as it could go, their eyes averted to the stampede of footprints ahead to keep from getting lost.
In the midst of their wandering, feeling nothing but the grievous bite of exhaustion upon their legs, something felt wrong. An ominous, foreboding sense of impending doom settled down upon them, more specifically upon those who bore eyes that shone. A sensation ever present just as these ice-bearing winds, those familiar with their Solasúian senses knew exactly what this feeling was.
They immediately reached for their weapons, giving them a good, firm grip. Although, due to the cold, giving a solid grip was quite the challenge, being their hands were exceptionally stiff and frozen in place. Such an action proved startling to the humans in their midst, forcing them to grab hold of their arms as well.
Raphael, who stood beside Neeson and Malik, was frankly alerted by the hooded old man's sudden aggressive action. He looked upon them through the white, blurry curtain, his face weighed with concern. "What's wrong?" Raphael asked them loudly, trying to beat the howl of the wind in their ear.
"There's something here," the old man Neeson responded rather vaguely, perhaps because he knew not what it was himself.
"Be on guard, everyone," Malik strongly urged, a message that would be relayed to everyone behind him. From mouth to mouth to mouth was it passed down, everyone taking ahold of their weapons. Everyone shuffled their heads around, some frantically, seeking this threat. This collective response sprouted with life, but bodies shook with fear upon hearing a particular noise break the sound-plane.
A loud, smooth howl suddenly came out from the white darkness, drawing everyone's attention. Its sound rushing into everyone's ears, sounding an alarm. But then out from the blinding mist appeared a rather foul beast, pouncing upon a Lamian and taking him by complete surprise.
He was snatched up in an instant, disappearing into the thick mist which encompassed everything. Yet could their ears occasionally make out a furious, frightening snarl, the wails of that Lamian snatched up drilling an absolutely horrific image into their heads. It forced many to back into one another, making sure to keep together in these horrible conditions.
Having been just beside the Lamian taken, the lazy assassin Calvin fastened his teeth in frustration. "Dammit!" he cursed angrily to himself, charging blindly into the pearly shroud.
Having seen the barely visible Calvin suddenly disappear, Kereske immediately turned his head behind him. "Stop, you fool!" the merchant-turned-assassin yelled, condemning Calvin's hotheaded reaction.
The taken Lamian in black was drenched in white and red, a case of ferocious, sharp fangs ripping into his throat. He screamed in panic until he could no more, his vocal cords savagely torn and spat out of his body. He struggled in desperate haste to pry this beast off of him, but could no longer when all his strength literally bled out of him.
He laid there, his throat a mangled mess, all its structures shredded up around him. His blood ran down the thick patch of snow, dyeing its dazzling white crimson. Calvin had searched for this disappearing brother, only to find him dying and a beast standing overtop him, having gouged out his throat.
A large, four-legged beast stood before him, one which wore fur as silvery as the moon. Each of its gray hairs stood erect, giving its coat a wild, bristled appearance. Its sneering face covered in blood like war paint, its vicious set of yellow-ish teeth bare above its gums. An unpleasant combination of drool and crimson cascaded down its mouth like a bloody waterfall, bits of flesh still stuck in between its canines.
Calvin was notably appalled by this rather gory scene, of the foul creature which had claimed the life of his brethren. The assassin quickly recognized the creature, although no such beast existed back where he's from. As a child, he vaguely recalled watching Telvern practice his summoning, giving birth to a beast strikingly similar to this one.
Yes, Calvin recalled the young genius calling it... a wolf.
The beast settled its glare upon him, a set of dangerous, wide-opened amber eyes locking onto him. The assassin quickly ripped out his sword from its scabbard, knowing now that he had to be ready to defend his life. It stepped forth, stomping its front paws into the snow, the intimidating growl which it emitted certainly shot a shiver even colder than the snow up Calvin's spine.
It then dashed swiftly forward, forcing Calvin to react accordingly. It was unknown territory for him, not familiar with the tactics of a wolf. Yet most four-legged creatures typically have one particular strategy, Calvin using his memories of witnessing the attacks of Telvern's many familiars to his advantage.
As expected, the giant, near man-sized wolf leapt off the ground, attempting to pounce furiously upon the assassin. But he was expecting this coming, and although cumbersomely, he managed to step off to his right with near-perfect timing. Readying his weapon, Calvin lunged forward, impaling the wolf right through the mid-section. It released a weak, painful whimper, a disheartening sound which Calvin would rather not hear.
Calvin then launched his left foot forward, kicking the beast back in order for him to retrieve his sword. The wolf let out another cry as the blade was forcibly ripped from its body, its blood littering the snow beneath. Through the blinding snow, the assassin could just barely watch as the wounded wolf crashed into the snow, lying there near lifeless.
Laying witness to the fruits of his labor, Calvin's ears caught the stomach-turning sound of screams bellowing off in the near distance. The thought of his comrades in danger left him with a nauseating feeling, a horror which sent his body to flight. With all his might did he push through all the snow, ignoring even the terrible burn of his exhausted muscles.
Beyond the laid-back assassin, the group was a scattered, panicked mess. Knowing that such isolation would prove fatal, Libitina urged herself to react promptly. "Stay together!" she commanded aloud. "If we are separated, they will simply pick us off one-by-one!"
Through the thick filter of the howling gales, most were able to hear her issued order. Those black sheep which were astray were herded, quickly rushing to her side. They merged together, becoming a single collective unit. Even Shinon fell inside their flock, most likely only to watch his own hide. They stood firm around their queen, acting as one massive shield of blades. Any beast which stood against this crowd met an unfortunate end, if even they did occasionally take one with them.
Yet something laid claim to Libitina's mind, a foreboding sense of... calling, danger. Perhaps not to herself, but to someone else not in her gaze. Something in her forced her to push outside of her crowd in the midst of the chaos, completely flying in the face of her own decree, her own orders. She sought something out, trying to find the answer to this dooming sense.
Beyond this armed force stood Daevarro and Neeson, following the exact thought process as Libitina. A few of those savage wolves suddenly bolted out from the white beyond, their terrorizing eyes locked onto one of those two. A tactic to take on the seemingly weakest of the group: a young Daevarro.
Daevarro was notably flabbergasted, being the prey of two wolves. Hearing the fearsome trample of snow draw closer, Neeson was swift to react. His eyes cutting through the fog, able to take notice as the dark-robed young man was the target of a pair of wolves, most likely kin. The hooded old man pushed himself forward, reaching his hand out ahead of him.
Neeson's hand managed to meet up with one of the wolves' neck, his wrinkled, callus fingers wrapping around its soft, flared-out fur. With that wolf in hand, Neeson violently slammed it down into the ground, placing all of his Solasúian might into it. A devastating shockwave of agony pulsated through the wolf's body, receiving a blow which nearly broke it in two.
One wolf still gave chase, lunging for Daevarro's left leg. Its terribly sharp fangs clamping down, yet all it tasted was air. It would seem Neeson's efforts were in vain, for Daevarro was never there to begin with. That Daevarro who stood there was nothing more but one of his shadows, seeing as it began to disappear the moment the wolf's teeth made contact with his leg.
The hooded old man was quick to capitalize on this moment of confusion, swinging his axe with all he could bring to bear. The strike was boorish and brutal, cleaving through the wolf's tough, muscular flesh like it were made of bare thread. Its blood spewed like an explosion of paint, soaking everything in the vicinity.
The corpse of the wolf nearly severed in half by Neeson's immense strength, its broken ribs protruding from its butchered flesh. The hooded old man then moved on from his victims, readying his bloodied axe for the next kill. He charged headstrong into the blinding, snow-drenched white, running calmly yet seemingly enthralled by the anarchy.
