• PM To Join • A hero's life

[Aeon]

40th of Zi'da, arc 717

A hero's life is a rough one, to say the least, but it isn't one Aeon regretted leading. He got to choose what he would become, and if he was asked, he would certainly say he was proud of ending up in a tavern in Scalvoris, on the far side of the world, instead of on a farm back in Warrick, like his father asked him to. The boy's face was almost entirely covered in his cloak, the one he had been wearing almost non-stop for a whole arc as he moved through the door. There was already yelling at the bar, no surprise there. There was always yelling in taverns such as these, no matter which part of the world one was in. And Aeon would know, having been almost everywhere from Uthaldria to Scalvoris, at least for a trial. Never did he imagine he would miss the Saun sun on the plains of Gauthrel. He wasn't one for hot weather, but it was so bad in Scalvoris town, that he would go back at any point. And it would only get worse, if he had to stay the night in this shithole of a place instead of in a real inn, or even better, at Faith's house.

Faith. She was the reason he was freezing right now, barely avoiding frostbite, and yet he couldn't bring himself to curse her name like he'd cursed Immortals a thousand times in the past. She was too happy of a person to be cursed. She truly was something, and the boy was bloody glad he had a friend such as her. Except he would've been gladder if she could've chosen a place to live which didn't have hailstorms and icy weather. Still, a hero's life was a rough one. "Thank you", the boy said to the woman as she handed him a key to his room and led him upstairs. She seemed cold as well, everyone bar the people yelling at the bar seemed cold. This tavern wouldn't last the winter. As he moved through the hall on the second floor of the building, he could hear a baby's cries in the room next to his. As his luck would have it, he would have to sleep in the room next to a restless baby. A hero's life was a rough one, he reminded himself as he paid and tipped the woman and she left him alone in a room with one bed. He wasn't used to sleeping alone in a room. Bloody foxface decided it would be smart to stay in a sunnier town down in the Empire, at least while Aeon was visiting his lovely friend. What was also weird, beyond just sleeping in an actual bed instead of at a campsite, was the lack of animals. Both Ariel, the scython-ur he had from way back when he first met Fridgar, and Tor, the three-pawed Sohr Khal, were currently staying in some comfortable stable, underneath their fur or feathers, while he had to deal with the cold using only a black cloak.

The baby's cries, however, got overwhelmed by the yelling from the first floor, and Aeon knew what was happening. Yet another bar fight. He'd had one too many of those after his first one. The young, scarred man didn't like beating up helpless civilians, and that was what bar fights entailed, considering that was when helpless civilians threw themselves on one another in hopes of getting beat up. And yet he didn't stay upstairs. He had a feeling in his gut that this would be more than a bar fight, and that he'd want to be down there for it. He didn't enjoy violence, not in the least, but he did see himself as a good peacemaker, or rather bouncer if things got too out of hand. And just as he traversed the last few steps, he could see the figure of a drunken lunatic getting punched in the face by yet another drunken lunatic. A hero's life was a rough one indeed. And the fact that the bouncer of this tavern probably saw the ice forming on his teeth and left for home as quickly as possible didn't help either. Aeon didn't want to be the one to set the fools apart, but if he didn't do it, they'd wreck the place to pieces. And he didn't want the place he would sleep in to get wrecked to pieces. Nor did he want the baby upstairs to get hurt.

A punch was thrown his way immediately after the blond boy got close to the lunatics that were still throwing fists into one another, and seeing how even a blind dead man could see the punch coming, Aeon caught the man's hand and twisted it, throwing it in another, completely opposite direction."Party's over, you folks are going home." He said in a still rough voice, seeing how he hadn't truly talked with anyone in several trials. But as the eyes of everyone present moved from him to something else, the scarred boy got the message. The party wasn't over. Only later would he fully realize what he'd done, seeing how the punch he redirected away from himself, well, it ended up going towards him, or rather it? Whatever the feathered monster's reaction to the punch was though, Aeon would move his hand into his cloak, ready to draw the dagger he had prepared for situations much like these. He knew that face, that monstrous, hideous face (not that he was much better). It was the face of the thing that killed him in one of his dreams, seasons ago. He could never forget about that dream. The monster had a mace of sorts, and it went straight through his metal armour and into his bones. He couldn't risk the dream repeating itself, and thus he was ready no matter what it decided to do. In other news, though, the drunked fools resumed their fight shortly after Aeon interefered, and were just about to wrestle one another onto a table on which a decent-looking fellow was eating in peace.

[Noth]

The twilight hybrid had not begun the night seeking trouble, though it seemed to have a enjoy finding him. It had always been his lot in life to be confronted with assorted issues and problems, though there was at least some variance in their creation. Some were simply persons great and small, ones who manipulated or connived, or ones who were blunt and bull-headed. Even when he was a boy he had needed to deal with those who would laugh and giggle to themselves at the misfortune of the half-blood. Other times the issues were less conspicuous, or perhaps even less palpable. There were sanctions and laws passed that could become frustrations, changes in schedule, logistical issues arising due to unforeseen occurrence, and occasionally even economic trouble as a result of his unseemly work.

The latter of the two forms of issue was rearing its ugly head on the fortieth night of Zi’da, upon the island continent of Scalvoris, when the frost and the chilling, biting winds had grown to their zenith. He had returned from a trial of assorted activity, of social conversation and confrontation, discussion and such, and even a hint of sight-seeing and exploration when it presented itself, and though his day had been busy, he had expected his night to be peaceable and quaint. He had entirely expected to return to the rented bed that he had nearly every night throughout the season, only to find that the all of the rooms for the trial had been rented out to others, apparently in preparation for some festival or other. It had been a frustration, but he had been allowed at least to retrieve his things and set off before the sun has taken a nosedive behind the nearest mountain range, plunging the land into unfortunate and bitter frost.

That particular misfortune had forced him to locate another inn to host his presence; he wouldn’t even bother trying to convince one of the locals with their pitiable candles that he wasn’t a menace. It would be a lie, and unfortunately it seemed liable to be one that he couldn’t pull off with any semblance of honesty. In truth he appeared like a warlord on the run, a pack hefted over his armored back, crimson eyes menacingly flaring from behind a metallic armet, the gentle thud thud thud of the adamantite mace at his side, rhythmically keeping time with each step.

Thankfully, it took him only a short time to locate a suitable structure around the outskirts of town, smoke pouring forth from its chimney in great plumes. He entered, listening to the raucous noises of patrons as they bickered and laughed with one another, an army of alcoholics crowded around their source, nearly falling over the bar as they crowded over it searching for their next fix. He pressed his way forward into the crowd, shoving aside a rowdy fellow who looked somewhat frustrated by being removed, but one look at the monster before him and he apologetically went to beg elsewhere for his drip of drink.


He began to calmly negotiate a room with the struggling barkeep who rushed to and fro, serving drinks to his hungering guests as the Avriel attempted to hold his attention for longer than a single trill.

The entire process seemed to be somewhat unsuccessful, but eventually the slobbering hordes had been sated for long enough that the hybrid could once again make request of the rooms. A price was agreed upon, and the hybrid had reached out to the bar, intending to place down several golden nels when tragedy struck. A drink was spilled by an uncaring patron; the issue amplified by the fact that it was not his own. This started a new round of jeering and bickering and unpleasantly worded demands that the offender pay for the drink.

It was not entirely unexpected that the fight would break out, but it was a sudden development, and the hybrid found himself glued to his seat, awaiting the arrival of the room key from the now somewhat panicked barkeep who kept calling loudly for his absent bouncer to take care of the issue before it escalated. The Avriel was uninterested in interfering with the squabbles of others, and felt inclined to leave himself out of the gradually growing conflict unless he was directly drawn in, at which point he recognized that he would bring it to a rapid end. Some people fought only to incapacitate their opponents, and some fought with passion which burned away once they had proven their point. Noth fought most of his battles to the death, and that had ingrained upon him a necessary severity bordering on cruelty in his martial aspects, one that demanded recompense for wasted time and energy in the currency of crimson. No, he wouldn’t kill someone for the offense, because even he was not so brutal, but they would suffer, certainly.

A movement from upstairs caught his attention for a brief instant, as though the Fates themselves had directed his murderous gaze towards them, even in the midst of the turmoil, though perhaps he was notified of the man’s presence more acutely by the way he shouted out to all in attendance that the fight was to be finished, and that they were to disperse. Noth recognized the blonde tint of his hair immediately, the face that he had seen twice in the past, and yet never once in reality. Dreams were made of strange things, he was coming to find out. He was a noble, was he not? Was that simply an affectation of the mind playing tricks upon his bygone memory, a falsified remembrance meant to imply certain traits of character upon the boy?

He watched him with curiosity, observing as he began to break up the fight in his own way, observing as the upset patron took a swing at him, only to have it deflected right into-

The fist caught him squarely in the face, though thankfully he was saved the burden of pain by the metal armet which lay there. It had been an accident, a plain one, and the hybrid might have forgiven the intrusion into his peaceful existence, at least for the boy, but the young man turned and gazed upon him, and some part of him must have remembered how their last meeting had ended. Part of him must have recalled the gory mess that had been made of him, of how he had been slain so violently, and with obvious regard for the atrocity he faced, he drew forth a blade. The inner predator that Noth so often embodied gazed upon the threat, saw the challenge inherent in having drawn a weapon, the escalation beyond the simple act of engaging in a bar-room brawl, and he arose from his seat.

“Hello Aeon. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” He growled, his voice seeping with an intent of murder, his hand dropping to his side for the adamantite mace he kept there, his other removing the pack he kept upon his back. “Must we play this song and dance once more? I’m sure we both know how it ends.”

[Aeon]

He was afraid. His toes curled from the cold just as much as they did from fear. The shivers that went down his spine were there from the chilling wind that blew through the not-quite-well-made door to the same extent as they were there from the fear. Aeon could remember only one other time in his life when he was so afraid, and that time, he was facing a monstrous two-headed hound that roared fire and crushed buildings with ease. That was how much fear existed in the boy's veins. He held onto his dagger with his wooden hand like his life depended on it, because it most likely did, and moved his other hand, the one made of skin and muscle and bone, towards the handle of his longsword. He paid a lot for that longsword, it'd be a shame for it to hang there on his belt while he got killed. He didn't want to draw a visible weapon and upset the crowd, and yet he couldn't just stand around if the monster before him drew its mace. His brain seemed frozen, without any solutions or ideas, the only logical thought inside it being 'take him down with you'. The boy could remember the dream almost vividly now, and the colours danced before his eyes. Red, there was red, his one eye was covered with blood, and there was black, partly from him going unconscious, partly from the insides of the crushed helmet. And there were several shades of blue. The monster's armour and feathers, those were blue, but not like the sky. While the sky glowed an innocent, light and happy blue, the feathers of the monster were darker, more menacing. Intimidating.

"Prince of Eternal Mercies. My apologies, I never did get to hear your real name." Aeon said, trying to appear calm as he shook beneath his cloak. Even his voice nearly failed him, and he barely managed to finish his sentence before something stopped in his throat. If he was forced at swordpoint to say another word, he couldn't. The beryllium emerald surface of the dagger was now coming closer and closer to being fully revealed along with his gloved left hand, and the boy's brain went into overdrive. The last time they faced each other, in their dreams, Aeon was dressed in full plate armour from head to toe, without being half frozen, and he still got killed, literally. Now, all he had covering him were a coat and above it, a cloak. While the coat would provide limited protection against a dull knife, the cloak couldn't even do that. It was only there to keep him warm and hidden from prying eyes. How was he supposed to win this fight? Or, to be more realistic, how was he supposed to survive it? The young man's best bet was the people scattered throughout the ground floor of the tavern. And yet, his moral code simply stated, no collateral damage. No innocent would get hurt. And they were all, albeit a little bit foolish and drunk, innocent. So, what would it be, Aeon thought, his morals or his life? It was the hardest choice he had to make yet. If he could get a bit of range, maybe he could dance around long enough not to get hit by a forceful attack from his feathered opponent. The ruler of Etzos, or whatever he was in reality, liked forceful attacks, ones that shattered bones and incapacitated opponents with ease.

"Yield now, and you may live." Aeon said simply as life returned to him. It had been a thousand arcs since he last spoke in his mind, and yet only a few moments in reality. He didn't have the confidence he claimed, and Noth could probably hear his voice fading in and out as he spoke, but he needed to do something to buy himself time, and while he spoke, his foot moved behind the other, ready to jump back on the first sign of trouble. In the background though, one of the fools was knocked over the bar with a loud thud, and another followed with a yell, going straight for some barrels one could only assume the contents of. This, Aeon was hoping, would be distraction enough for him to throw his dagger in the winged man's general direction. He was god awful at throwing, and thus it wouldn't have surprised him if he hit nothing but a painting on a wall, but it was worth a shot. This, however, did mean that he drew the first move, and thus if anyone asked after the fight was the matter of the past, he would've been the one to blame. Aeon wasn't one to stop halfway through though, and immediately after throwing the dagger, he would proceed to draw his weapon and jump back into one of the stances he so carefully practised ever since his youth. If the winged monster was half as good at fighting as it was in their dream, Aeon shouldn't stand a chance, but hopefully, the Prince of Eternal Mercies liked to dream big.

The barrel of some fuel for fools would soon be crashing in the background, making all people and monsters present deaf for but a moment, as the two idiots kept on their unofficial wrestling match, one biting on the hand of another, who, with his other hand, pulled at the hair of the first man. It was a chaotic scene to all present, but thankfully, nobody on the outside would be able to gaze upon the mess that was this tavern. Soon enough, there would be alcohol everywhere behind the bar, and the boy legend of the sword and the feathered monster with the mace would be at each other's throats. At least that was what it seemed like.

[Noth]

The hybrid could see the subtle effects of fear begin to caress the young man before him, took note of the way that he struggled to remain under control in his presence. Noth could only begin to guess how he must have felt to face someone who he had seen so vividly slay him in the past, could only imagine the sensation that must have ripped through his mind at the thought of facing his killer. The dream that had been so vivid began to replay to the best of his memory in his mind, certain aspects flickering to mind in an instant, others drudgingly stepping forth into conscious thought. He could remember the armor that had graced both of their forms, the glinting of sunlight as it lanced off of the metallic shells they had both worn. He could remember the color of blood, the spilling of it across the otherwise scenic plaza, the gasps and shocked exclamations of servants who had watched the entire ordeal, had observed as their king was broken underfoot, slain with a violence befitting savages and wild beasts.

Crimson eyes flickered into focus as they gazed into the boy, attempting to ascertain his ability from a simple look, though clearly he was unable to determine that before the combat had begun in earnest. Regardless he took careful note of the blade in his hand, the dagger of an unknown metal, and he began to question whether or not it was constructed of the same material as his sword had been in the dream. How much of that strange meeting had been reality, and how much had been constructed fiction meant to convey ideals and motives as opposed to the truth. The Avriel observed as the noble boy drew a longsword from his side, notifying him that it was quite possibly true that he held talent with a blade, a notable feature, albeit one that would not save him. Noth relied heavily upon his armor, the metal there capable of deflecting most bladed instruments with relative ease, and he doubted that the sword would be able to pierce that steely hide. His own weapon on the other hand relied entirely upon blunt force, and though its adamantite flanges were certainly capable of jamming through armor, he relied mostly upon the rattling of bodies within their armor, turning their suits into cages with which he could thrash their vitals.

He referred to him by his title, making it known that he had never had the opportunity to learn his name. The Avriel simply grinned with a wickedness he was sure was visible in his eyes, even through the armet, and responded with, “I doubt you will.” It was an entirely unnecessary chore to reveal his personal identity to the man, especially when it seemed almost apparent that he had conflict on his mind. Should he be unable to promptly defeat him as he had in the realm of dreams, then it would be a potentially disastrous mistake to make it known who he was, because then he could be tracked to his home of Etzos; though admittedly that would take a severe amount of investigative work, far beyond what seemed realistic or even plausible. Nevertheless, steps were always taken to ensure safety, and anonymity provided its own level of that.

It was entirely true that there were far too many people scattered through the establishment for a proper duel on the same level as their previous one, but whereas Aeon held moral convictions which restricted him from collateral damage, the hybrid felt no such emotion. He certainly did not wish to strike at any of the innocent bystanders, but if they still remained when the battle began, if they still stood closely, their eyes gazing upon such a close-range duel, then it was their own fault for being too close. What was one more unfortunate soul to his list of slain, another pile of unrecognizable meat that would never more be referred to by a human name.

An order was granted him, an ultimatum which spoke both of arrogance and skill, further warning the Avriel that his future opponent likely possessed a fair amount of martial talent. He had once been far too prideful to ever bend the knee unless he was incredibly outmatched, but recent events involving Delroth had taught him lessons in that regard, and he had learned that it was sometimes more amiable to simply surrender peaceably than to force the hand of those greater. Nevertheless, he was not so foolish as to believe he would be treated with any semblance of peace from the warrior-boy before him. No, if he surrendered then he would likely be hauled away in the name of justice, or else slain upon the spot with sudden betrayal, an excusable offense in the name of some self-conceited ‘honor’.

He was about to reply as much when a cacophonous racket took him unaware, and he glanced instinctively at his side to observe what manner of explosive had created such force, the distraction forcing him to remove his attention briefly from Aeon. There was the gentlest whizz of something sliding through the air, and the Avriel returned his attention to his opponent, hearing the clink of metal and a sudden sharp pain in his torso. He wore chainmail upon his torso and abdomen to allow for greater movement, and whilst it was perfectly capable of deflecting most weaponry just as plate was, it did have the slightest flaw of being composed of intertwining metal as opposed to a singular sheet. The thrown dagger had for the most part been deflected, but because it was a weapon designed for stabbing, its tip had been thin enough to slide past one of the interlocking chains, and press into his flesh. The subsequent force of the throw had rattled the larger portions of the blade against his chainmail, and forced it to disengage from him, leaving a thin streak of blood trickling down upon the individual rings. Altogether, less than an inch had managed to cut into him, but nevertheless it was painful, and it made the Avriel grimace for a few moments as he regained composure.

He pressed his head downwards somewhat, allowing his armet to protect his throat, and tucked his arms in tightly to protect there as well. Once positioned properly, he began to slowly approach, his mace pointed vertically in his hand as he neared, crimson eyes observing the fancy footwork of his foe.

“So quick to violence.” He growled, swinging suddenly, the mace going from right-to-left in a horizontal path towards his head, an evident attempt at ending the battle early, though, it was not swung with quite as much force as it could have been, a blow that would certainly debilitate if it landed home, but perhaps not slay, a testing glance. The reason for this would become evident half a trill afterwards as the Avriel slid forward with forcibly movements, jamming his vicious talons downward in a stomping motion at the feet of the child, apparently attempting to sever his toes with the motion.

[Aeon]

Aeon really didn't want to be the one to cause the fight, he really was a hero in his heart, but there is something about seeing the face of death that makes everyone want to run or fight it. Aeon was a fearless individual, surely, having wrestled a jacadon and tangoed with a sessfiend, as well as flown into rows of Naer and witnessed the torture of an Immortal, and yet he was still terribly, wet-his-pants level of afraid of death. Death, ever since Ryqos died, has been something the boy has tried desperately to avoid and thus seeing someone who has already killed him once like this, in person, it wasn't a good feeling. If it was anyone else, literally anyone, Aeon would've waited, tried to talk, or not initiate a conflict at all, but the winged monster was something of a bad omen for the boy. He gave the monster a chance to yield, true, but in hindsight, he didn't want it to yield, he wanted it to be gone forever. And if the young man was at least brighter, he could've talked his way out of seeing the feathered being ever again. Surely it also didn't want to have to deal with him. Alas, Aeon was the muscle, not the brain of the operation most of the time, and his instincts said fight, so he fought.

The blond boy didn't hesitate to throw the dagger, but if he was to survive, he would say that it was a mistake. Really, the true plan for the battle shouldn't have been to engage in a fair fight, but to do it with mud all over it, waiting for the opportune moment and end the fight with one quick movement. But when has Aeon ever formed and followed plans? The young boy did what he did, and he would have to live or die with it, but surprisingly, it wasn't that bad of a decision, as it turned out he hit the target dead centre, unlike each time he practised. The lady luck was on his side to-trial, maybe he could just pull this off, he thought as the smallest drop of sweat found its way on his forehead. And as the mace moved from its original position at the feathered creature's hip, Aeon drew his sword instantly. It was adamantite, like the one in the dream, and he was sure his opponent would've remembered it. Now, tactics formed themselves in his mind and he decided on one specific idea. For the first time in forever, he listened to logic, and decided it would be best to stay on the defensive, blocking and dodging as much as possible, while letting the pain and bleeding from the wound his knife made sink in. It didn't have to knock the avian creature opposite him out, it only needed to slow him down enough for the young swordsman to end their fight. And he would do it, without hesitation, for if he didn't, he knew death awaited him.

The mace swung, and the first move had been played. The half-Avriel decided to test the boy's reflexes, to which he responded readily. He blocked the mace, his sword going as close as possible to the handle of the weapon, as he did not know which material the item was made of, and if that material was capable of damaging adamantite. Why, one might say, would one care about the condition of their weapon in a fight to the death, and well, Aeon would answer, it was because a broken sword couldn't finish a person half as well as one that wasn't. The boy, however, was unprepared for what came next, and the feathered creature's talons dug into his left foot, which was in front of his right one, making the young swordsman grunt in pain. No foe he had ever faced had the means and the smarts to utilize a move so well-placed and efficient, thus he had no reason to expect it. Of course, those were just excuses Aeon's subconscious gave itself as the conscious part of his mind worked on a solution. He jumped backwards instinctively before he could figure out what exactly to do, ripping his cloak and shoe apart on his opponent's talon.

He was now several feet away from where he stood before, and with the corner of his eye, he could see it. The red waves that travelled through the air, heating up the room. There was fire, and suddenly, there were more important things than the monster before him. Several drunken fools stood gazing into the embodiment of destruction on the wooden floor, while others ran for the door, which was now on the other side of the room from Aeon and Noth. If Aeon had a brighter mind, he probably would've decided to negotiate a ceasefire with his mortal enemy before deciding to drop his sword on the ground and run like hell for the stairs, but to his misfortune, he wasn't of the brighter kind. The fire spread quickly, aided by the alcohol that was spilt across the room not long ago, beginning at the end of a torch one or other of the lunatics knocked down in their fight.

"People upstairs!" He yelled at the winged creature, and ran up, that is if his bones weren't shattered by the mace while he turned his back towards the monster. He assumed that even monsters such as the one he was fighting had to care for innocent people dying by accident, and thus he put his faith in Noth that this one wouldn't just abandon him, or worse, kill him from behind. Aeon was running completely on adrenaline, considering he was probably missing several toes on his foot, and was bleeding out on the floor, but he somehow would reach the room next to his own, and knock as hard and fast as he could, before running into the door and knocking it down. "Fire! You need to get out!" He yelled out, mostly from the pain that was coming from his foot, and the woman at first ran backwards, towards the bed, where her baby stood on its hands and knees, giggling at something. The boy proceeded to mumble and wave his hands around to show that he would take care of the baby, and for her to run, and she, with the help of some divine force, understood it all. By the time Aeon would get to the baby, most of the ground floor would've been in flames, leaving only small openings for him to move through, if any at all. The baby cried as he went down the stairs again (why didn't he jump through the window on the upper floor?), and looked at the hell that the room had become. If Noth decided to help him, he could've kept the fire away from at least a single window or the door, so that the young swordsman could manage out of the building. But if he didn't, the most likely course of events would be the boy and the baby getting swallowed by the flames.

[Noth]

Noth could certainly understand wanting to avoid death. For so long he had been the one to cause it, had been the one to steal away the lives of both the innocent and the guilty, but the overhanging specter of judgement which strode over his shoulder was still enough to banish sleep from his mind on some lonesome nights, to cause his heart to ache with anxious worry. There was nothing wrong with it, he had concluded after some analytic thought, nothing wrong whatsoever with fearing death, especially given the form that it commonly took. Were it true that all persons who fell asleep into that permanent coma were able to join their lost loved ones in some form of paradisiac conditions, then there likely would not be nearly the stigma surrounding that inevitable event horizon which must be crossed by all living things. As it stood, however, Noth was fairly certain that all aspects of death were controlled by Vri, and if he could count on the Immortals to do anything, it was to guarantee that the mortal races were mistreated and abused.

If the twilight hybrid had been in the shoes of Aeon; metaphorically, of course, talons made such ventures both uncomfortable and entirely unappealing, then he might have chosen similarly to the boy. He was not one to start an open conflict that he did not feel certain he could win, but given the history between the two, given the fact that one had already slain the other, actions made far more sense than they might have otherwise in regards to a pair of complete strangers. Fear was a grand motivator, and whilst it certainly drove heroes to perform their utilitarian and charitable tasks, it also drove the common man into wretched ruin.

The dagger wound in his chest ached sharply with every rapid twist of his body, the skin around it stretching and pulling at the sudden cavity, causing further streaks of blood to gently drizzle down onto the rings of chainmail which had failed him, alerting the individual armor pieces of his displeasure with a drop of crimson for each. There was pain, certainly, but it was neither unbearable, nor a particularly deadly wound, and he felt confident that so long as the fight did not drag on for breaks, he would be capable of healing it with relatively little effort. Nevertheless, it was true that even a minor wound could be enough to slow down a prey beast, and the hybrid felt the effects of such prophetic words, finding his motions somewhat congealed by the sharp wound.

The first true strike of their engagement; discounting the thrown dagger, of course, had been deflected with relative ease by the swordsman, allowing the hybrid to view both his technique, and make a broad approximation of his relative skill. It was fascinating that he had chosen to block so low on his weapon, and at first the hybrid discounted it as a mistake caused by a fearful or else mildly inexperienced mind, but he gradually began to consider the wisdom of it, recognizing that if he were able to strike directly upon the blade, it would likely snap in twain under the powerful force of the mace. After all, maces had been made to combat metal and the weapon itself certainly didn’t care whether it was being used to strike at armor or blades so long as its purpose was satisfied.

Thankfully for the hybrid, his unexpected and savage assault with his talons had caught his opponent off-guard, and he could feel the familiar sensation of fleshy ribbons and warm blood pooling underneath his predatory nails. It was not uncommon for persons to be entirely unprotected from such assaults, because it was likely uncommon that most people would ever face an Avriel in combat, especially on the ground. Most of the purebloods were probably far more satisfied with the prospect of breezing through the air a dozen feet from their opponent, and turning them into a pincushion with whatever missiles they had thought to bring with them. Now it seemed that Aeon would pay the price for his ignorance, and the hybrid kept score in his mind, noting that they had both stricken wounds upon one another.

A sudden flare of temperature caught his attention, and he nearly spun upon his heel to deflect whatever fireball had been cast at him, but when he looked he found that there were neither any mages, nor in fact altogether many people, but instead a raging and scorching fire which was blazing gradually out of control. The flames were lapping away at the spilled beer upon the floor, drinking it far faster than the lecherous and vile patrons had ever been able, fighting for its food with far greater ferocity than they ever would have displayed. He considered that he would be able to vanish from danger in an instant should he desire, but whilst the inferno was growing, he recognized also that he had plenty of time to escape.

The clatter of a sword to the ground drew his crimson eyes, and he watched as Aeon came barreling towards hi- no… besides him; he could clearly make out that he was going towards the stairs. Opportunity presented itself to strike, but curiosity and a drive to finish more important things kept him from striking at the blonde-headed brat, and he quickly meandered towards the gradually scorching bar so as to retrieve the pack he had dropped previously, listening as Aeon shouted that there were people upstairs. In general, he cared little for the lives of others, and so he did not go rushing up into the second floor to assist in the rescue. To his credit, however, he did ensure; after he had left the building of course, that there would be a window open on the off chance that persons needed to escape through it. He watched as the building itself threatened to collapse, the beams catching fire and beginning to tumble slowly to the ground with great groaning noises, the death knells of consumed arbor. He observed as a woman ran down the stairs, sprinting for all of her ability towards the door before realizing that it too was engulfed. She turned in a panic, spying the open window and sprinting towards it, but her momentary delay was too much, and one of the pillars nearest her let loose a roar and a crack as great as when a hammer strikes an anvil, and it collapsed upon her, banishing her into oblivion.

He saw Aeon there, and in his hands was a young babe, and immediately his sympathy increased beyond its usual bounds, and he swatted at the flames with his sole wing, battering back the fire with a great thrust of air; though, unbeknownst to him he was feeding the rest of the flame with his actions, and promptly called out to the blonde, pausing in his repelling of the fire for an instant to thrust out his hands.

“Aeon, the child!”

[Aeon]

He had played this game a thousand times. He knew it, up and down, here and there, everything about it was familiar to the boy. And yet, there was something new about it this time. The game of life and death wasn't something most people in Idalos had the pleasure of experiencing more than once in their lives, but Aeon, he wasn't most people. He had lived through it more times than he could count, and played it according to a thousand different rule sets. And yet, this time was different. He could hear buzzing in his ears, suggesting he had hit his head. And maybe he had, maybe this was all a dream, and he would wake up, and still be in Uthaldria, outside the behemoth snake he had fought with Fridgar. Or maybe, one of the falling stones had hit his head in Saun of the last arc, when he fought the two-headed monster of the Immortals. Or maybe...or maybe...the list went on, considering the young man had been in life-threatening situations too many times to count. He just didn't want to admit to himself that he could be killed. And everything could die. He knew this, better than most, and yet...he was in denial, not giving in to Vri just yet, as he raced through the flaming building, leaving a trail of blood coming from his foot.

What was different this time, Aeon would ask himself if he were to survive it. That. Exactly that. If he were to survive. If. Never before did the young man have this serious of a doubt that he would live to see another rising of the sun. There was something about this situation that screamed for him to run, ever since he first saw the feathered and armoured monster that had killed him in his dream. His subconsciousness did not want to experience the pain and darkness again, and so it screamed at him to leave this place, to leave the building and go as far away as he could. But he was a hero first and foremost, and heroes couldn't just run away. Especially not from monsters, and the prince of eternal mercies was a monster. However he hid his skin, beneath feathers or armour, however he changed his manners, he was a monster. And Aeon knew it. And then, the fire happened, and the heroic nature was once again to blame for the boy not running away. He knew the risks of rushing upstairs, and yet he did it anyway. By the time he was back down, with the baby, he could see the wooden structure collapsing on top of the baby's mother. He thought as he held the newly-orphaned child, and he thought. The pictures within his mind were all a blur by now, swallowed by the heat and fear that radiated from the fire. He was walking on a fine line, both literally and figuratively, as he dropped his cloak behind him and rushed for the window, where the monster he was so eager to destroy stood, keeping the fire away.

Aeon could feel the heat on his skin, moving through his coat and shirt, and through his pants, just to make him sweat. He could see the red waves dancing in the air all around him, and the only thing he focused on was getting to Noth. If he could just get there, everything else was unimportant. Moments passed and the winged man yelled out as Aeon reached closer to him. The boy didn't hesitate to place the blanket-wrapped baby into the monster's arms, hoping that again, like when he threw the dagger, lady luck would be on his side, and his enemy wouldn't just throw the child into the fire, and push him in as well. A piece of wood set aflame dropped just an inch or so next to the young swordsman, and he could only be grateful that he wasn't killed by it. The roof was falling apart, and he needed to get out, and do it fast, so as soon as Noth had gotten the child, the blond boy would attempt to climb through the window. Of course, this was if the winged halfblood moved away with the child, for if not, and if Aeon was to hesitate even a couple moments, he could've gotten killed by any number of things. It could be the fire that had by now reached his feet, or it could be the falling wood from the ceiling, that was now bound to appear. A hero's life...ended swiftly after all.

[Faith Augustin]

Timing.....

It had been a wonderful, marvelous surprise to see via the Echo Scrolls they used to communicate that Aeon, her friend, was here in Scalvoris. Aeon, Fred as she called him, had been her friend as long as Nir'wei had and, like the Sev'ryn, he was her brother in her heart. He had not ever backed down from what was right, he had taught her and Padraig to fight, he had warned her about Malcolm and made her promise to live her life and be happy. Faith, frankly, adored him and every correspondence from him had made an incredible difference to the former slave. But none more than this.

He was here.

With a beaming smile, she had penned a note for Padraig and left to go to the Inn where Aeon had been staying. Why was he staying in an Inn? That was ridiculous, there was no need for it. Faith had a home, a hearth and a place for him to be. She owed him so much, she knew. Her thoughts were scattered and bouncing, one off the other like bubbles blown from a want by a child. Fred, not ever giving in to being 'mister', Velma her name given by him so that it was all fair. As a slave, as a free woman, Aeon had been her true and faithful friend and that he was here, now, quickened the young woman's steps. Not by much, nothing could at this stage in her pregnancy, but she went as fast as she could.

Excitement fluttered in her chest, delight as she wondered how long he was here. Surely, considering the weather he would be here for at least next season? And with her skills these trials, she might be able to do something for the scars, but that train of thought stopped at the realisation - oh, he hadn't seen Cally's! She had so much to show him, to tell him. Maybe she could help, he'd mentioned wanting a metal for his hand and he and Tristan had spoken about Malorite. She had near a full ingot of it, from Padraig's wedding ring and if Aeon wanted it, then they could travel back to Rynmere via the Eclipse Portal. There might be something, somehow, that could be done for him and either way, her friend was here

And then she smelled burning and saw flames flickering in the sky.

Faith's heart twisted in a knot in her chest, she could go no faster than she was, her pregnancy impeding her as she moved as fast as she could. Her whispered prayer was delivered with a shaking voice. "Vri, Famula, Moseke I beg you. I beg you, please, not him. Please. Not him." Yet, somehow the young woman knew. She was chasing time and time was winning. It was a good thing that she wasn't emotional with this pregnancy, Faith thought, as tears started to pour down her face. Turning the corner she saw it.

All of it.

Him.

"AEON!" Faith screamed at the very top of her lungs and somehow, the pregnant young former slave broke into a run. But it was like in a dream where running took her nowhere and the heat from the burning building was just too hot and she could see it happen but she couldn't stop it happening, but then there was more than just the young man she knew so well, the tousled blonde hair and the kind, laughing, injured, pain-filled, intense eyes. Her friend who had given her so much when she had nothing to give. His eyes looked for just a trill at her. For a moment it was like it was all she saw, those eyes of his. "AEON! NOOOOO!" Wait. Please wait. Wait, don't die.

But she tried to move forwards and again, the heat hit her backwards and then, she saw him.

Which meant it was a dream. It must be a dream. The Prince of Eternal Mercies. He had held her as a shield against attackers in a dream. He had played games of skill against Padraig in another. Yet, not so long ago, someone here in Scalvoris had been responsible for the brutal slaughter of Skinny Jim, the serial killer - they had written a note, tied to the body which they hung in the middle of town and they had signed that name.

Oh, she had known. This was her fault. So wrapped up in Padraig's disappearance, so concerned with the pregnancy. She should have done something, then Aeon would not be here. This was her fault.

Faith tried to get forward, to get to him, but the waves of heat his her back and the former slave fell to her knees, feeling them graze against the gravel in the dirty snow, ash from the building falling on to her hands and arms and hair and she looked up at her friend's eyes with tears pouring down her cheeks. "Aeon, please," she whispered. "Please don't leave me. Please... no."

[Noth]

All things came to an end.

Every story that had ever been told had come to an inevitable end, every falsification of the truth had eventually been uncovered, every inclination towards action had eventually faltered, and every person great and small had perished. All things which had ever amounted to anything whatsoever must inevitably amount to nothing at all. The heroes of today became the monuments of yesterday, passing beyond a mortal coil into legend, and the villains who struck at the world so vilely became the boogeyman of disheartened children and masquerading nobility.

There was a sort of mortal dread that could be encompassed in that truthful statement, an unfortunate ending to a story otherwise magnanimously decided to be worthwhile, a lifetime of deeds whether good or wicked having come down to an unstoppable moment, an incorruptible truth, and then… nothing. It had always stricken the twilight hybrid as something unfair that all of his favorite stories must die away into embers, their righteous flames extinguished so unjustly, but what could be done of it except to remember the things that had passed, and hope that something not entirely dissimilar could follow in the footsteps of the departed.

It had grown so monotonous, considered the hybrid as he stretched out his hands towards the ailing Aeon, attempting to remove the child from his grasp and rescue it from the scorching flames roaring just behind. The constant threat of betrayal, the distrust, the anger and the hatred, the murderous tendencies and cruel actions, the rending of flesh from bone, of defiance from form. It was a never-ending struggle, a battle that could never come to an end, a conflict with no hope of armistice nor truce, a war without a victor. At times, his situation seemed so desperately hopeless, so inconceivably cursed, as though he had been damned many times over by the godlings in his pursuits, as though they observed his every movement and inflicted damage upon the minutiae of plans he had not even enacted.

He felt remorse sometimes, and it ate away at him like a fire of its own. Sometimes he considered the faces of though he had slain in the past, compared them before and after his assorted onslaughts, saw projectiles jutting from their bodies like pins in cushions, saw chunks of meat scattered in ways that would turn the stomachs of the strongest men. Of course, he hid the feeling, unwilling to allow the world to see any semblance of weakness in him, and he carried on in his atrocities, because the fiercer acts drew the patronage of the fiercer men, and those could assist him in his goals far better than the passive and the docile.

A small cloth-bound bundle was thrust fiercely into his arms, and he glanced down for less than a trill, identifying it as an infant. His thoughts flicked back in a heartbeat to the moment when he had learned that he was responsible for the slaying of an unborn child, of the feeling of pain that had caused him to learn that he had brought a story so prematurely to its end. It had been no more that child’s fault that its mother had been drawn into combat than this one’s fault that a fire had only recently slain its dame. And yet… hadn’t it been the mother in the maze who had initiated the first bout of combat? Had it not been her who had decided that she wished to fight with him? Could he really be faulted for acting in self-defense, for defending himself against someone who so clearly wanted to harm him? Still, if the world had learned of his deed it would be he who would be shackled with reproach, because it had always been his lot in life.

The thought of self-defense made his chest ache ever so slightly where a blade only moments prior had pierced it. He could feel the blood continue to trickle ever so gently down onto the individual rings of chainmail, could feel part of himself leaking out of the wound. The choice of life and death stood before him there, and he recognized it as he looked unto the ailing Aeon, saw his blonde hair beginning to turn white with the flickers of ash dripping down so heartily from the ceiling and onto him; a subtle reminder that the entire structure would soon collapse inwards upon itself.

Had he been the one to strike the first blow? No. Had he been the one to draw his weapon first? Again the answer was a resounding negative. And yet, he would be the one blamed as a villain for the actions taking place, the one taken into custody should the Elements arrive, the one subjected to more abuse over the violent inclinations of another, solely because of what he appeared to be, and assumptions over what he must therefore have been.

A thought flickered to mind, one curious and full of introspective value, and it was that: “A hero was someone who stepped up when everyone else backed down” and he amended to it, “And so was a tyrant.”

If it were the heroes place to lead, to show righteous indignation, and to gallivant forward triumphantly until they had achieved their goal, to act as paragons, then it was the place of a villain to showcase what it meant to be a pariah.

There was a loud cry, a screaming noise, and it rattled through the woods, the cry of a specter of death, and it spoke the name of the blonde boy before him, as though it had chosen him. The Avriel was galvanized into immediate action, stirred awake from his introspective slumber, the entire ordeal having passed in no more than a pair of trills, the boy already partway through the window when the blade came upwards to meet him, the dagger drawn from his oft-hand plunging directly into the space above his collarbone, dead-center in his chest with a sickening ease.

“Goodbye, your majesty.” He slandered, and thrust backwards with the blade, pushing the blonde figure directly back into the furnace, yanking free his bloody dagger at the last possible trill and beginning to step away as the window collapsed in upon itself.

And, he felt no remorse, because all stories must come to an end.

The crimson-eyed murderer spun upon his heel, child still clung tightly to the crevasse of his arm as he began to stalk away from the scorched building, a familiar shape catching his attention as he began his withdrawal.

“What an eventful night it has been, Hostess. I didn’t quite expect to see you so soon.”

[Faith Augustin]

As a child, Faith had watched one of the other slaves die.

She had seen many of them die, they were expendable and had to be pushed to their very limits, after all. Taken as babies, as she had been, they had to be tempered like steel, forged like swords into the shape that was destined for them. They had no names, no identity, their lives were owned, completely, by the masters in Athart. If they were weak or flawed, they broke. If they broke, they died. She had seen it a hundred, hundred times. Broken, damaged, weak slaves whose life had been deemed unworthy of continuing.

She had seen it so many times, but she had watched it just once.

Faith eyes blurred with the tears which she shed, but she saw it all happen in dreadful, awful slow motion. Aeon looked at her and as her eyes met his ~ and in that moment they both knew. He didn't want her to watch him die, she wanted more than anything to save him. In Athart, as the nameless slave had died, their eyes had met. It had been a lesson, then, from the owners. A lesson that they were told to attend to. One of them, picked at random. To remind them they did not own anything, not even their lives. Moments before, the girl had been standing next to her. She was the one who was chosen to die because of where she stood. From Faith's perspective, she'd been the slave on the left.

The look in her eyes had been relief. She'd even smiled, just a little.

Aeon's eyes, though, as they met Faith's, they showed a hundred things, none of them like the nameless slave in Athart. Recognition, horror, concern, desperation. Not a calm acceptance, but a fight, a constant fight. Wide eyed, Faith stared at him, transfixed to the spot and unable to tear her gaze away as the Prince of Eternal Mercies killed her friend. Kneeling on the ground, she could do no more than watch as the place started to collapse and Aeon's light in the world died.

When the slave had died, the one on the left of her, Faith ~ although at that point, of course, she had no name ~ had realised that she felt a twinge of envy. The girl suffered no more, was no longer hungry and cold and tired and abused. It was the only freedom they would ever have, she had believed then. Of course, her understanding had been simplistic, she had been ten arcs old. But that had been what she felt. When she told her owner that, he had promised her a long life and it seemed cruel, although it too was a lesson she knew.

As she watched the slave die, the ten arc old she had been felt envy. Now, nine short arcs later, as she observed her friend die in immobile, frozen, horror, a part of Faith died with him.

And then, his killer spoke to her.

Slowly, carefully, Faith rose. She would not kneel here, in front of him. It was not easy to rise in such an advanced state of pregnancy, but Faith stood and she lifted her head to look at him. Why was she surprised, she wondered. Kura, Niv, both of these people she had met in a dream and they were real. Here too was the monster she had dreamed of while still a slave and, now, as a free woman. Her silver eyes were calm and cold, her body had stopped trembling.

In that moment, Faith made a decision. She could do nothing now, nothing that would harm the child which grew within her, or put that child in danger. But she would defend herself without pause, would kill him if he raised one mutated, twisted hand towards her. Right now, that was all she could do. One trial. Soon. She was going to be the one who killed him. She was going to watch as the life left his eyes and when she did he would know it was her and he would know why.

Aeon had been her friend. Her brother in all meanings of the word and this creature had killed him. Yet, he knew what it was to love. Faith knew that. She had seen his reaction when she had said the name and as the cold rage in her eyes regarded him, Faith promised herself that she would not rest until she had broken him. Taught him what his life was worth. Standing, she held out her hands, the tattoos visible on both wrists, as it was on her throat and the black fingernails also.

"Give me the child." Her voice was deep and low, it did not shake. "Please."