On the other side of Calvin, the genius Telvern Thaddeus had another thought in mind, his steely brown gaze seeking out life in this deserted waste. "In times as these, such sights are copious, as commonplace as any ordinary village," he callously stated. "Succumbing to useless sentiment is wasteful, unless your intention
is
to waste valuable time."
Hearing Telvern's criticism of him, Calvin let out a heavyhearted sigh, rubbing the back of his head. "I know all dat, but..." he returned, saddened.
Paying no more mind to these morbid, sorrowful ruins, the silver-haired heir Raphael examined his surroundings. His life like an hourglass, feeling the time trickle down, thus extending the plight of the humans in Governanti. Without anymore consideration, he shuffled his head in every direction feasible, hoping to find some kind -- any kind -- of life.
Blasting through the water, Raphael searched meticulously. He peered down streets once brimming with life, only to find more debris and wreckage reflecting off of his purple irises. He scoured every nook and cranny where a human being could be, finding not even a speck of anything... until he found something.
His eyes funneled down one street on the outskirts of the heart of the fishing village, taking notice of an unusually shaped figure crossing the putrid depths. With speed did Raphael approach this being, a being which almost looked like a cloth on the move, a long, thick, horribly tattered cloth draping them entirely. Though their front was still mostly visible, wearing a very dirty, formerly white chemise and soiled pair of trousers.
If one paid attention, they could note lengthy brown strands of hair hanging down from underneath the cloth. This fellow's choice of wearing such broad, bulky cloth was reasonable, given that the bonechilling sting of the nearby mountain still hung around. This garment was this fellow's desperate sword to combat this cold, the only weapon they had in their arsenal.
Drawing closer to this fellow, their appearance came more into focus. With both of their callus, bloody bandaged-up hands, their shrunken, elongated fingers clenched onto a long wooden board of some kind. It must be a splintered piece of the pier, with several bits of it sharp and pointed like a spear. Judging by the state of some of these bits, this fellow could be possibly using this board as a harpoon, given the dried blood and rot which it had begun to suffer.
However, the truest piece of notable information about this fellow wasn't their shredded attempts at clothing or their extremely makeshift harpoon. No, this award went to the contraption residing beside their legs. Raphael's eyes scrolled down and found a pair of old, wooden, barnacle-encrusted stilts there. These stilts were tied to the fellow's legs by way of rope, once around their ankles and another time around their feet, the latter being placed upon a foothold attached to each stilt.
But Raphael avoided any and all thought he must've had in regards to the unusual device, noting its purpose to avoid any unwanted ailment when it came to prolonged foot immersion. A mindful design, he believed, an important, essential construction to survive in these conditions. With steadiness and preparedness, Raphael approached the lonesome soul, who carried on without acknowledgement of his very existence.
"I'm looking for the capital of Alverra," the young man told the strange fellow. "Do you know how to get there?"
His voice ushered its way into the atmosphere, staying the fellow's stead. Having walked past Raphael, they turned their head, peering back at him. Their face revealed out from under the cloth, having been looking down at the ground as they walked to avoid tripping on their stilts. A pair of hollow eyes stared blankly, silently at Raphael, unmoving, unfazed by his appearance.
Evidently, it was a woman underneath, although it was impossible to tell due to the plethora of clothing they were wearing. The lower half of her face was concealed under a mask of sorts, an attempt to ward off the almost unbearable fumes of the waters below perhaps. What could be seen of her face was emaciated, her skull nearly visible even beneath her skin, her hair dark and just barely hanging off the water's tip.
It was as though she didn't understand his words at all, just continuing to stare vacantly, profusely. Even as a whole minute was consumed, Raphael just stood there, seemingly impatient of his answer. She merely went on gazing emptily, seemingly without intelligence. But looks were the greatest deception of all, her eyes falling down to Raphael's feet. Then slowly, steadily, scrupulously, strangely, they rose back up, climbing back up all the way to Raphael's face once again.
And in this instant, the woman just turned away, quietly resuming her walk onward, dropping not a penny to the beggar seeking knowledge. Such an act left Raphael in a state of vexation, rather off-put by the whole ordeal. To be merely cast aside and ignored as though unheard was quite frustrating, forcing Raphael's legs forward in pursuit.
"It's unlikely that she'll speak with us," the genius Telvern's calm, assertive tone flushed into Raphael's ear, halting his foot solidly in place. "We'd be better off requesting such information from another, preferably someone a little more eager to converse."
Even Raphael had to admit, there was truth to be found in Telvern's words. It was more than painfully obvious that this woman would not speak, no matter how much he pleaded. With a sigh, pouring out all the stress that had been building, Raphael reluctantly recoiled, recalling all the steps he had taken. His eyes scoured the decimated lands for another soul to question, picking apart every piece of debris to be found.
A few streets down the way, another soul was found by those of this merged body. Kereske and several of those of his congregation found another soul, existing hopelessly in this forsaken hamlet. Proceeding towards this strange, hunched-back fellow, he took note of their scavenging, very slowly ripping apart some old debris, thoroughly sweeping his hands across and inside the water.
Unlike the last dweller, this fellow wasn't equipped with stilts, removed for a moment as they sought out whatever it was that they were looking for in the rubble. Just behind the dweller, Kereske plastered his brown eyes upon them, examining them. Their thin, brittle arms, their scabrous, callused skin, their filthy, tattered, crinkle-patterned garment. They wore a long, dark colored cloth just like the last dweller, but this one reached even further beyond the previous one.
"Excuse me," the merchant-turned-assassin politely approached, drawing not a speck of attention from the dweller. "Might you know the way to the capital of Alverra? This is the first time my friends and I have traveled here, so we're having some difficulties with directions. If you could kindly offer us guidance, we would be very grateful."
When came the conclusion of his words, so too came the attention he sought. Slowly did this dweller's head turn around, stopping shy of Kereske's direction. Though not completely discovered, their face was revealed under the folds of this terribly discolored, barnacle-coated cloth which covered much of their body.
It appeared to be an extremely malnourished man in his thirties, a great, thick, matted drape of hair covering the lower half of his face. He stared not with his eyes, for his pupils appeared whited out and blank. All he appeared to do was sit there in silence, his face turned off to his left, his lips unmoving, his tongue stiff.
Yet, even through the darkness beneath the man's hoodlike cloth, Kereske could note a subtle act of intelligence. His brown eyes watching the man's nostrils flare open, realizing the presence of multiple people here, given the multitude of disturbances in the water around him. A moment of eerie yet analytic quiet would pass away, leading to the dweller to turn his bone-bare cheek, returning all his attention to his search.
Instantly fed up with the ignorance of the man, a certain ill-tempered archer bursted out from the crowd of black. Shinon's eyes stabbed furiously into the man's hunched back, struggling to hold back his urge to pick the man up and shake him. "Hey, the hell's your issue!?" the volatile, red-headed archer's voice violently ruptured like a keg of dynamite. "He's talking to you, old man!"
Despite the overwhelming hostility raining down upon his head, the dweller carried on with his search, unfazed by the venom in Shinon's tone. Oh, how this occurrence tried Shinon's patience, causing his blood pressure to sky rocket. Fed up with this nonsense, his hand lunged out ahead of him, going for the dweller. Yet he was stopped just short, finding Kereske the wall which he had hit.
Shinon's black-as-coal irises sharply turned on Kereske, finding the merchant-turned-assassin shaking his head in a rejecting manner. "Tch..." the archer angrily scoffed, forcefully retrieving his hand from Kereske's grip.
There was little more that they could do in this case, and harassing a blind man wasn't exactly on anyone's to-do list. So, with regret, they recluded, leaving behind the dweller. They retreated to the commander and chief of their movement, disgruntled and empty-handed. They found him back at the heart of this devastated, ocean-bathed fishing hamlet, under discussion with some of his most trusted comrades.
Such conversation led to Raphael to brood heavily, to carefully weigh and consider all of his options. It was more than evident that the dwellers of this gods-forsaken domain would not take their question, so another plan was required. However, Raphael's eyes found Shinon, Kereske, and his company of black, clinging to the idea of a simple solution to all this waywardness.
"Anything?" Raphael asked, subtly hopeful that this experienced veteran of haggling and lip service might have come away with something.
Kereske dejectedly shook his head, shocking none in Raphael's company. "No, unfortunately," the merchant-turned-assassin would reply, crossing his arms. "I've begun to believe that we're not going to find anything here."
"I concur," calmly expressed the genius Telvern. "It would seem that those who reside here have been subdued by its condition. An unsurprising revelation, given the plethora of diseases one could contract simply by dwelling here for a brief moment. Whether it be by hands of ailment or not is irrelevant, they've clearly lost the will to speak. I should think this the appropriate time to move along and seek another outlet for all our questions."
Giving Telvern his undivided attention, the old merchant-turned-assassin Kereske seemed impressed. "Once more, a fluid, agreeable assessment from Telvern," he commented with a smile, drawing the irritation of a select portion of his flock.
"All right then," the silver-haired heir Raphael concluded, having gathered all the advisement. "Let's go."
No longer seeing the purpose of lingering here any further, the no-nonsense Raphael pushed on ahead. Stoic as a knight to do battle, the silver-haired prince moved on, more prominent were his ambitions than wasting anymore time here. He took not even the time to reflect, to look back, to lament upon those broken homes, those broken lives.
Following readily, faithfully behind the heir would be the many, his own brand of loyal soldiers. Cutting slowly through those vile, murky tides would be Telvern, Malik, Neeson, Daevarro, and Libitina. Yet some began to wonder, those in black whispering strange confessions behind Raphael's back. Yes, they questioned his integrity, the pure veracity of his intentions.
To literally no one's surprise, Shakir was among these naysayers. These doubts certainly brewed furiously, wondering just exactly why they risked their lives, sacrificed lives, to cross that mountain. Why continue on, why even start to begin with? He was a Barn, their greatest enemy. Why did Lamia choose him? Why did Lamia choose those who she's blessed with her
Avae'vatu
? They were the opposite of everything she taught, of everything they believed.
However, these silent words would be silenced, as important figures of this Lamian family would hone in. Calvin and Kereske appeared before them, putting to bed their restlessness like a lullaby to a raging beast. After all, Lamia was an all-powerful being, capable of understanding the heart and soul far deeper than any human's comprehension. She specifically chose them, chose them for a reason, a purpose.
Regardless, they moved on from this disheartening, demolished village swallowed by the corrupted, malformed sea. They focused, trained their eyes forward, not daring to get caught up in the past. They deserted this old barnacle-lined village, pulling out of the grasp of distant echoes of past life and forgotten dreams. They entered the darkness of the night, longing for respite after a brutal trek.
Though night had just begun to fall upon them, darkness had already nestled well adjacent to their side of the world. The silver, wax crescent shone with a subtle, yet brilliant light, inviting in the thick blackness to consume the world. A truest display of black and white, of light and darkness, of good and evil.
Huddled beneath this blanket of darkness was Governanti, burrowed in the moon's shadow as though too afraid to be revealed by the light. The city was asleep, so deeply asleep... Yet like sleepwalking, it acted, breathed perpetually, even in the midst of its dreams. Its life was simply integrated into its being, its mind, and what a better place to examine this truth than the very establishment which this city gyrated around.
The Imperial Palace of Governanti basked in the glorious light, its remarkable, masterfully crafted exterior glistening faintly. Yet while the world beyond these walls fell into a state of inactivity, a state of subconscious slumber, within them was a completely another story. Like an animated corpse, this place continued to live on and on, immortal, undying.
Within this adamas-clad body were many different sorts of people: fearsome Loyal Knights, enslaved human servants, even tireless bureaucrats. Even in this wee hour of the night, life still pulsated inside this crystallized carcass. One such life was a young, chocolate-haired woman, a woman who accepted the address of Ulyssa.
The servant came down a long, adorned hallway, passing by adamas walls which bore wondrous designs, beautifully crafted adamas lanterns which hosted eternal sunflies, and honorable banners of blue, bearing the winged lion insignia. Her feet bearing down upon an equally blue rug, one which stretched all the down to the end of the hallway.
After attending to all her duties around the castle, Ulyssa wished to make one final stop before resting herself down for the night. As she respectfully, decently traveled down this hallway, she was the target of the multiple Loyal Knights who stood solidly at their posts. Their glowing, teal blue eyes piercing beneath their great helm's visor slits, unable to make out their eyes, only menacing twins of burst light upon a black backdrop.
It was more than evident that security had certainly intensified since the attack upon Ormemel, even moreso than typical. Their presence became like the very castle itself, every itch of wall, every banner which swayed, every speck of dust in the air was them. They covered a vast amount of space, judging everything, everyone... and Ulyssa just so happened to be among the many that earned their great distrust and disdain.
Yet the glares and thoughts of hate did not falter this woman's stead, did not decay her step. She was without reaction to them, their eyes beating down on her in a vicious assault, digging into her back as she passed. But regardless of that, she approached the door into the room of whom she wished to visit, undeterred of the knights' spite.
One such knight of loyalty stood beside the door, his armour even more decorated than that of the other Loyal Knights in his presence. So ornamented was it, one would duly suggest its purpose more ceremonial than practical. And unlike his brothers and sisters, this Loyal Knight wore a long, purple-ish blue cape made from the finest silk. As Ulyssa came to the door, the decorated, black armour-clad knight raised his hand to her.
"Halt," the knight's voice came out from underneath his great helm, an unusual tone that Ulyssa was unfamiliar with. Regardless of such petty issues, she immediately stayed her step. Noting her obedience to his order, the knight lowered his hand. "What business have you with His Majesty?"
"Please pardon my intrusion," Ulyssa calmly pleaded, despite the hostile, heated environment around her. "Is His Majesty still up at this hour?"
"And who might be asking?"
Ulyssa then bowed to the Loyal Knight, showing utmost respect to her superiors. "I am called Ulyssa, a servant to His Majesty," she informed him, loosening his guard. "Please pardon my intrusion, but I request permission to enter so that I may attend to any need His Majesty might have before I retire for the night."
"Ah, pardon my suspicions, I've yet to meet you," the knight handled his error responsibly, a god strangely without judgment of a human. "Indeed, His Majesty is still awake at this hour."
"May I attend to His Majesty?" Ulyssa then requested once more.
"You may," he then permitted, stepping aside. The servant pulled herself up straight once again, stepping towards the door. But before she could raise her hand to knock upon that fantastically decorated surface, the knight stopped her. "Wait, before you enter..."
The knight's call bound Ulyssa immediately, freezing her hand solidly in its place. With her attention drawn, she turned to that ornamented knight of loyalty. "Yes?" she inquired, her voice stoic and monotone as though without any ounce of curiosity at all.
Ulyssa's rusty brown eyes then watched as the knight peered down his left side, reaching his hand into a small pouch attached upon the strap of his sword around his waist. From that pouch did his black steel-clad hand rise, clenching between his fingers a strange pale yellow flower of sorts. The knight then raised this flower up towards Ulyssa, quite the odd type of thing for a knight to carry in his pocket.
"There is a tradition among my family to gift a flower to whomever we meet for a first time, symbolizing friendships that may come to 'bloom', so to speak," the knight answered the bemusing perplexity of this flower's purpose. "I'd like to offer you one, if you'd have it."
Without a facial reaction at all to his proposal, the young servant bowed at his gift, showing her greatest respect to this knight. "I would be honored, sir," she answered his call without enthusiasm, emotionless.
"May I?" he politely asked her, this rather vague question which bewildered Ulyssa. "It is traditional for women to wear flowers in their hair."
"I am a servant—" Ulyssa then stated, lifting herself back up, yet her words would be slain almost as instantly as a second.
