After this quick engagement of conversation, the master and pupil severed their connection, separating from each other's presence. Raphael plunged into the white beyond, his reddened face getting pounded by a multitude of snow flakes. He traversed through the terribly thick sea of snow, practically hopping his way across.
Even with those blowing winds whistling in his ear, Raphael could still make out the sounds of battle and death in the distance. He tried his best to turn his cheek to the screams, to simply ignore his allies in danger. Indeed, finding this slippery serpent was more important. After all, just who knew what he intended?
And like tracking an animal, Raphael found a solo pair of steps embedded in the snow, steadily becoming filled up once again. No use in questioning whose footsteps these were, the young man followed them promptly. Intently did he trek through this bulky, near impenetrable white, thinking about just what to say to Telvern once he found him.
"'Twould be best to speak not in a tongue lashing,
Palaemmir
," suddenly did Lamia advise, as though able to read Raphael's mind. "His is a presence of which you shall require."
"I don't need your advice," Raphael swiftly shot her down, battling his thoughts all alone. "I can handle this myself."
Lamia simply chose to accept this rejection, respecting his decision. Pressing on, Raphael could begin to very barely hear the sounds of struggle, prompting him to move even faster. He blew through the white like a snowplow, seeing the vague image of a man and a great, bright fiery light ahead of him.
Yet another image did surface, the dash of a wolf speeding through the snow, aimed on getting that man in the back. Raphael emerged upon the scene, finding that glasses-wearing genius upon his knees, a dagger fastened in his hand. He had summoned a familiar to his aid, a towering, powerful being of flames known as a Fire Titan.
All of the snow in the general area was reduced to large puddles of water, allowing free motion in what would be otherwise terribly cumbersome conditions. And such freedom was something Telvern took full advantage of, taking it to a wolf which attempted an attack on him. A team effort between him and his flame-born titan, allowing Telvern to gain an easy kill.
But unbeknownst to him and his titan, a wolf emerged from behind, ambushing the genius. However, it seemed Raphael would have a say in such an attack, preventing its happening. He suddenly appeared almost like a ghost, thrusting his right leg forward. His boot hammered into the side of the beast like the ram of a ship, sending it tumbling off to its right.
Telvern appeared genuinely surprised by this happening, looking behind him while his knees were stuck in the moist earth, having delivered a mercy kill to the wolf before him. Despite having been dealt a heavy blow, the tough, bulky beast managed to stay on-balance, keeping itself upright. It glared upon Raphael with pure hostility, revealing its set of sharp, yellow-ish teeth.
It then suddenly sprung from its aggressive stance, honing in on Raphael. But the Fire Titan had enough, quickly turning around and slamming its fist down upon the wolf in motion. That flaming thunder came crashing down upon the wolf, creating a cloud of dust to appear. The sickening sound of crushed bones popped violently into the air, followed disturbingly by the smell of searing flesh.
The titan lifted up its hand from the now-scorched earth, unveiling the flattened animal beneath, still drawing breath. But so broken was its body that it could no longer move, an inconceivable painful thought to bear. With mercy and care did Telvern tread, kneeling beside the dying beast and injecting his dagger into the base of its neck, effectively ceasing its suffering.
Like watching a dying flame, Telvern gazed into its eyes which faded with life, its haggard breath ceased, its heart-rending whimpers ended. The genius then sighed rather heavily, cleaning and readjusting his glasses as they had become discomposed after all the movement and action of battle. Able to see properly again, the genius began to rise to his feet.
Standing tall once more, Telvern slowly pushed his steely brown eyes onto the silver-haired young man beside him. "You've my thanks for the—" the genius proceeded to express his appreciation, yet something rather... painful would forcibly shut his flapping jaw.
A right hook came flying his way, pounding his face in. Telvern was momentarily stuck in a daze, able to see an entire constellation of stars. He was as staggered as a drunken man, feeling the intense sting of the blow even as he couldn't feel his frostnipped face. Before Telvern's body collapsed into the snow, Raphael quickly managed to grab hold of the collar of his coat, violently dragging the genius back closer to him.
"...Well, that's certainly a unique way of acknowledging someone's esteem," Telvern sarcastically commented, his voice agonizingly hoarse. "And what have I done to deserve that embellishment?"
"You know damn well," Raphael spitefully answered, gripping the genius so tightly that his finger nearly ran through his coat's fabric. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"I was in the midst of battle," Telvern tried explaining. "My mind ran away from my surroundings."
"Don't lie to me," the silver-haired prince rejected Telvern's reply. "You and I both know that you were trying to escape. Why else would you stray from us?"
"As I've stated, I lost eyes on my location," the genius continued to plead his case. "I was, after all, attempting to avoid becoming a cornucopia to some rather frenzied beasts."
"
Palaemmir,
his words intend not to deceive," Lamia calmly informed her enraged vessel, suddenly swooping into the tense conversation in Telvern's aid. "His voice resounds with veracity."
"I told you that I can handle this, Lamia," the young man angrily reiterated, not daring to lose eyes upon the man in his death grip.
Telvern's brown eyes pulled off of Raphael, turning to his left. "How peculiar," he found, gazing into the space where he heard Lamia speak. "Even as I cast nothing but a shroud of suspicion over you, you'd still do battle for me."
"I am not without compassion," she replied.
"Enough," Raphael demanded in a vehement tone, keeping his eyes sharply upon Telvern. "Dismiss your familiar."
The Fire Titan appeared to look upon Raphael with aggression, clenching up its hands into burning hot fists of raging flames. "His tone is making me really furious," the titan commented rather angrily, although to Raphael's ears it sounded like the titan was merely grumbling to itself. "Perhaps burning him alive will make him learn his place!"
"There's no need for your brand of 'enlightenment', Titan," Telvern then replied to his violent, flaming giant, never releasing his eye-hold upon the silver-haired prince. "I've little space for negotiation, so the only viable option available is to simply comply."
"I don't agree with it, but it's your decision to make, master," the Fire Titan professed, letting go its hostility. "Just try not to get yourself killed..."
With that final request, the titan's massive body had began to dissipate. Eyes were beginning to heal, the burn of its luminous red flames which spewed from its contours slowly lessening in intensity. Its melting, sweat-inducing heat fading away, skin no longer feeling scorched like sunburn. It had vanished from this world, returning to its own spiritual domain.
A long pause overcame the two, both simply staring through the windows into the very house of their existence. Raphael's heavily coiled up fingers begin to pry loose, releasing this genius from certain imprisonment. Free to stand on his own again, Telvern quickly readjusted his coat's collar, readjusted the cape over his shoulders.
As Telvern was fixing himself, Raphael's eyes strayed southerly, grasping ahold the glint of a dagger in Telvern's possession. Like an abandoned house lost in the woods, his mind became covered in a web of multiple different stories, bound together by one single strand: Telvern. Linked like chains, each rattling with a different tone, speaking both for and against the genius.
If he ever truly wanted to escape that desperately, he could have easily taken that dagger to Raphael at any point. Or perhaps it was simply because he did not desire to kill, too cowardly to murder him while he still wore... that face. Telvern's steely brown eyes sharply gazed upon that visage of the man he once served and revered, feeling his own cold exterior pierced by these eyes which belonged to the sister he had lost.
The clamor of battle all but a distant memory, nothing but silence to listen to now. Telvern's eyes scanned the environment thoroughly, finding a darkening, a sudden lacking of light. "Night is approaching," the genius quickly noted. "If we attempt to locate the others now, we'll merely end up succumbing to frostbite and hypothermia. I advise that we withhold our search and seek shelter until morning's light."
Raphael removed his eyes from that dagger which drew him from this earth, averting his gaze to his right. He seemingly gazed off into space, but realistically, he was looking upon where he could feel Lamia's presence. Despite his lash for independent thought, he turned to her for her opinion, her guidance.
"His words bear truth," she told her vessel. "T'would be sensible to commit to his suggestion."
Like taking a sword to your own shield, Telvern's eyes deeply stabbed into the atmosphere from which Lamia's voice resonated from. Regardless of her attempts to preserve him, Telvern still felt this hideous sense of distrust over her. Multiple thoughts and theories swam around in his head like fish in a pond, most concluding with a negative outlook upon the Neheztelian goddess. Could it be that she merely defended him to get him to let down his guard, to buy his trust?
"Fine," Raphael begrudgingly conceded, settling his heavy-handed stare back upon this man whom he so greatly distrusted. "You lead."
Moving forth of his own volition, Telvern did as was demanded of him. His right hand recoiling beneath his coat, sliding his bloodied dagger into a worn leather sheath upon his waist. Walking freely and without trouble within a temporary domain, the two had to only battle against the cold. A blind, frigid war was waged, one with an army which only strengthened in number.
Another group was wayward in this white beyond, yet their track had a destination, a place in mind. Daevarro, Libitina, and Neeson had found safety inside a small, empty cave, perhaps a formerly den to some wolves. Yet there was evidence that this place was used for something more, finding the presence of humans here.
Aged, partially buried spears and a small rock formation which suggested a fire ring were found here, the latter sure to be taken full advantage of. The hooded old man not in sight, having gone out to seek wood for a fire. Meanwhile, Daevarro and Libitina were left to themselves, fulfilling their own tasks. Daevarro kept the air warm, lighting a fire of his own creation, whilst Libitina attended to her injury.
Tying cloth cut from her own clothes above the sight of the injury, the usually stolid assassin turned curiously over to her only company. At an arm's length away, Daevarro sat cloistered like a shy turtle. His left hand raised, a small but infinitely valuable fire roared faintly in the palm of his hand. And although he did not mention it himself, the dark-robed young man appeared worse for the wear.
"Are you all right?" a concerned Libitina asked the young man like a mother to her child.
"...I'm fine," Daevarro replied with a low, painful tone, feeling a pounding in his head like a hammer upon a nail. Libitina then watched as he turned to her, the young man's face listless. "How's your leg?"
"I'll manage," she answered, more worried over Daevarro than herself. "You appeared exactly like this after our battle in Ormemel too,
Dimri.
Are you certain that all is well?"
"Yes," the dark-robed young man swiftly assured her. "...Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."
"Very well," the assassin acknowledged his request, returning her crimson red eyes upon her own leg. "But you mustn't push yourself,
Dimri.
Our group depends on you, and we will be leaning upon you in the near future."
Daevarro sighed and shook his head, agreeing with the woman in black. "You're right," he told her. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
"That's all I ask," she said to him, smiling very subtly.
And then that mysterious, red-washed man suddenly appeared, killing all word like an executioner's sword unto a criminal. Any chance to ask questions thwarted, his presence like a stranglehold to their voices. The serious, stern-faced Neeson was successful in his mission in more than one way, for he bore more than wood. Wood was tugged beneath his left arm, but slung over his right shoulder was the skinned, emptied out carcass of a wolf.
Libitina became the victim to his soul-piercing eyes yet again, watching him glare at her as he passed. He stepped over to that empty fire ring, carelessly tossing the wolf's body aside for now. Neeson began to assemble the wood very carefully, placing them together like a pyramid. Once finished, the old man turned his frozen eyes over to the dark-robed young man.
And without a need for an order, Daevarro came over slowly somewhat, carrying the preciousness of fire. He put his flame-wielding hand up to the wood, the overpowering force completely overtaking the weaker will. It was rather pathetic, so Daevarro gave it breath so it could breathe. An army of covetous, starved beasts ripped its teeth into this wooden body, beginning to take it whole.
The flame grew larger and larger, a welcoming warmth ushered into this small, rocky den. They could just feel the chill melt off of their bones, beginning to feel something other than pain once more. Perhaps the grandest feeling of all, knowing that one had survived death. To just merely be alive, that in and of itself was a miracle.
Neeson then began to butcher the wolf he carried further, slicing into healthy, meaty sections of the beast. He then cast them into the fire, beginning to cook the meat for supper. With nothing else left to do, the hooded old man merely watched the fire before him. Watching those meat slabs cook akin to watching grass grow, but their wondrous, delicious smell could make mouths cry tears of joy.
Over the invigorating warmth and majestic dance of the fire, Libitina gazed upon the old man, seeing the orange flames' bright, vivid reflection off of his callous, glowing blue eyes. Her mind replayed memories of the most recent past, recalling her encounters with the old man. His gaze upon her always ripe with venom like a dead tree bearing poisonous fruit, his eyes eclipsed with a seemingly long, treacherous history.
"Speak if you've something to say, woman," Neeson's gruff voice suddenly demanded, knowing of those red eyes upon him.
Attempting to endure his malady, the young man Daevarro felt Neeson's words strike a chord of curiosity. He couldn't resist, finding his eyes scurrying over to the two. Despite being caught red-handed, Libitina continued to stare peerlessly, without fear. Her crimson red irises beamed down upon Neeson, an old man who would not return the favor.
"I cannot help but to notice that whenever you look to me, you glare with spite," the usually stolid assassin commented. "Have I wronged you?"
"No," the old man answered, tending to the fire.
"So what then?" she continued to seek answers. "If not because I've wronged you, then what?"
"You bear the eyes, skin, and hair of a Neheztelian, yet you are not of their kind," Neeson explained.
"How do you figure?"
"They are of black blood, not red," the hooded old man would respond, still not giving the assassin his eyes.
"I see," she returned, having been figured out. "That's very observant of you... Neeson, was it? But your observation is not the answer I seek."
"The Neheztelians are dead," he said to her.
"Indeed," she replied. "Yet, through us, their memory lives on.
Paladimris áljin a Palalazolu
carry on the Neheztelian beliefs as was taught to us by our
drág Essa
."
Neeson's jaw simply ceased all motion, peering into the fire without a soul in his eyes. His hand reached for those rough, uneven cuts of wolf meat placed in the fire, flipping them around to start cooking the other side. The flames appearing in his eyes, yet it seemed he gazed into flames of a different variety, of a different place.
The situation grew with lucidity, the writing was on the wall, spelling out a clear resistance on Neeson's part to speak the truth. The tension in the air was thick and heavy, like the atmosphere had become wet concrete. Daevarro's eyes swayed back and forth between the two, finding their conversation draw to a stalemate.
"You know nothing of your
drág Essa
," Neeson then suddenly spoke out to Libitina.
"And what do you know of her?" Libitina then inquired.
"Enough," he returned. "She cowered in the safety of her tower and watched her children be slaughtered."
"By "tower", you refer to the Far-Gazing Tower of the Neheztelian civilization, correct?" she asked, looking for clarity. "...You speak as though you were there, Neeson."
The old man then just sat there, peering into the fire, his very breath stuttering at that thought. He existed in this world no longer, but was instead forsaken in a world of his own construction, one over a hundred years old. Visions of flames as black as charcoal blackened every inch of his mind, hearing still vividly the deafening wails and screams of his victims ringing in his ear.
Faces -- far too many to accurately recount -- appeared as swiftly and as violently as a summer storm; males, females, many of them children. He could see them, most of them unarmed farmers essentially. He peered callously into their eyes as they begged for mercy, the sight of them scrambling to protect their youngest.
The muscles of his arms could still remember the motion of burrowing an axe into their flesh, a form he most certainly mastered with extreme repetition. His nerves able to recall the feeling of their blood splattering across his face, hearing then the sound of their very last gasp of air, his eyes beaming directly into their souls without a soul to call his own.
"...I was," he then finally admitted, his emotionless tone stirring up many emotions of the one whom he spoke to.
