Guys I Just Found Out That By The End Of Next Week My Aunt Is Gonna Be Staying At My House IN MY BED

Guys I just found out that by the end of next week my aunt is gonna be staying at my house IN MY BED FOR 2-3 WEEKS ya'll 😭😭😭😭😭😭 I'm gonna kill myself😭😭😭

𝕥ꪮ𝕛ⅈ ᠻꪊડꫝⅈᧁꪖ𝕣ꪮ ⅈꪀ...

~ꪀꪊꪑ᥇ꫀ𝕣 ꪮꪀꫀ~

♤ Warning: language, suggestive content, mentions of a toilet?

♤ Includes: Toji Fushigaro, random bf texts

♤ Disclaimer: This is my work please don't steal it!!

♤ a/n: I just realized this time line is a bit fucked up but oh well ig

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ____________________________________ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

● Blood Orange

● III - Hall of Adelaide.

"Goodbye, Lysander."

Every crack in the cobble and every stone rode over by the old grown white oak spokes of the coach plucked him from a restless daze.

"Almost there, sir Cossick!" The coachman yelled through the thin walls.

He looked to the seat before him, where Esandolyn had sat, anxious and beside herself, not even an hour earlier.

It had been a grueling week, the sleep gnawed at the strings that had been keeping his body afloat.

Like a puppet whose thread could fray and snap at the slightest of tugs, he sat there limp and hung.

Not a moment had passed where his mind hadn't gazed on Esandolyn's face or touched up on the worries he had supposedly tucked away.

He wished so dearly that he might fall asleep, that the troubles that pestered him, or rather the troubles he chose to pester, would leave him be.

The coach swayed to a halt, and his door was opened for him by a guard whose reflective metal sheen brought cossicks hand to his eyes.

"Thank you."

The guard replied with a formal salute, his open hand on his sternum followed by a bow, which Cossick absentmindedly mimicked, though his own was a half-hearted one.

The staired entrance to Wilrife Castle, which always felt a few steps too long, extended up to a mossy stone base that the structure of the castle itself rested on, as though it was a neat display piece atop a podium.

Curtain walls as tall as five men extended from the base and acted as corridors, or walkways level to the heightened floor that led to surrounding areas on the hilltop land.

Up the steps and to the eastern corridor, down the stone brick floors and under the complex wood joinery of the black tiled rooves was his intention, but his plan was foiled at the sound of murmering voices.

Be it staff, guards, or even members of the public, he wished to avoid interaction, maybe from a deep rooted desire to self isolate or possibly worse, a self inferred concern of being incapable of interacting in a high enough manner due to his tired state.

He favored its flat flooring and cool shade as well as the fond memories of sunsets on the balustrades over a bustling kingdom, but with streamlined travel came the company of others, and he was in no mood to dabble in the small talk of whoever might cross his path.

Fortunately for him, there was a gap between the eastward corridor and his destination, a patch of forested land that he could cut through.

He walked some ways onto the corridor to the spot where the monotony of supporting log columns was broken up by a staircase that led down to a platform and door in the center of the wall.

He descended and ignored the entryway, peering over the edge where he threw his satchel, and then himself onto a patch of soft grass below.

He landed, braced, and then diverted the stress into a roll. He groaned as he rubbed at his pauldrons, wishing he had removed them beforehand.

He trudged through a barely defined foot path lined with overgrown shrubbery, thorns, and creepers that took every attempt to latch on.

A grassy field drenched in the shade thrown by the castle's tall spires, where sharpened blades of grass lapped at his legs and left behind soft dew stains from the morning's frost at every step.

Grasshoppers leaped from perch to rest, and birds swooped from high to low to catch them, flicking brilliant droplets of water all around.

To a stream teeming with the life of tadpoles and frogs alike, then over the flowing water where he stumbled and knocked a bush that blew a cloud of gnats into the air.

He was no stranger to the field. The path of trodden, yellowed grass was his own work, and the familiar landmarks were known only to him.

Eventually, the clear green and flat lands became murky and rough, at the edge of the forest the last of the shade brushed against the shadows of the trees and the slowly warming day shined down through the leaves.

His path had been effaced by hard ground. The gnarled roots were not as forgiving to his footsteps as the flat plains before.

He leaned on the rough bark of trees, and more than once, he stood still and looked back to see if he where he had come from was where he was meant to have gone.

He caught sight of the walls through a break in the trees and made his way steadily to them, he walked around to the side where he spotted the rooves of buildings peeking over those of the corridors, birds perched in morse on the crests and filled the air with a dissonance.

To the front of the rectangle area, he arrived at an arched, wagon wide entranceway that opened to the end of a beaten path where soldiers and Knights would march, their horses close behind.

The armory gardens were quiet. Only a few guards walked in and out of the buildings, half dressed, laughing about something unheard, changing shifts, he figured.

A storage for all armor and weapons of those that served the kingdom and castle, it was too large a space to be so empty, an abandoned village square is what it had become.

To see a place that was once bustling reduced to only a few men was a strange sight, an almost uncomfortable sign of the days and what they meant.

Underneath the footsteps of guards patrolling the walls, he stood, and far ahead, a moonlit, midnight black, was pulled into the shade of one of the buildings, grabbing his attention.

***********************************************

"Hello, Aesper."

He rubbed his hand over her sleek, oil like fur, flashes of white bands rippled over her muscles as she raised and lowered her legs in place.

"Yeah, greet the horse first. It's not like I've ever done anythin' for ya." The voice emerged from a sleek black helmet, a red plume shot from the back like the tail of a proud pheasant.

"Hello, Geoffritte." He raised his hand in an attempt to pat his shoulder as he did the horse's.

"Don't you dare."

The armor the man wore was dark, spiked and bulky in a way that conveyed strength instead of size, colored in an obsidian gloss both void of all hues and shining a deep purple in patches illuminated by the sun.

He removed the helmet and took a deep breath in. His hair was just as dark, slicked back and glistening with sweat, coiled in tight curls that fell just above his shoulders and strands that drooped at the sides of his head.

His face had shadowed features, too, bold eyebrows, deep set eyes, and a strong nose above his joined mustache and beard.

"How has life as a farmboy been?" Cossick asked.

Geoffritte threw his helmet at him, maybe with more force than he intended, or maybe with just the right amount.

He caught it either way and laughed it off, chucking it back with a gentle underarm.

"It's been shit!" He took Aesper by the reigns and led her to some posts beside an armory building, surrounded by hay and a trough of stagnant water.

Cossick watched as he removed the plated gauntlet off of his left hand and placed it in a carrier bag on Aesper before reaching into the water to scoop the grime and debris from the surface, flicking it to the ground with a sickening splat.

"There ya go, baby."

Aesper drank gratefully, gulping down large amounts at once.

"I stare at grain all day and watch cows an' sheep like a glorified herder!"

He whipped the reigns around the post, taking the loose end with his other hand to fasten a tight knot.

"There're wars bein' fought an' I'm sat lookin' at some stupid tall rock in a stupid field!"

"But," He simply shrugged, "No use pissin' on about my worth, I am where I'm supposed to be, the Queen knows what she's doin' so I'll show those sheep a herder they've never seen before."

"But you'll still complain about it?"

"Aye, I'll still complain about it." He led the way around the corner from the building they had been behind.

Their footsteps went from muted crunches to solid taps as they transitioned from grass to the central square.

There were seven buildings arranged around it, connected by paths branching off of the main.

Double story brick built structures plastered in a sun baked yellow tinge quoined with white sandstone blocks and braced by crossed beams surrounded them.

Massive windows cut through the walls and turned them into hollow boxes instead of solid bricks blocks.

At the centre, a large vase with blooming handles overflowed to its lip, then spat out a stream of twinkling water into a weathered basin below.

The disturbance shifted the waters, where bronze coins caught the sun through the ripples above them, turning the waves into a liquid mirror.

He limped to the rim and kneeled, scooping a handful of water and splashing his face.

He spat the remainder of the now salty liquid from his lips and produced a rag tucked away at his neck to clean the excess.

"You look bad, Geoffritte."

"Aye, I'm tired. Things are takin' more effort than they used to these days." He chuckled softly. His eyes seemed to be watching everything and nothing at once.

"You should share your duties. There's no need to do them alone."

"Maybe." He said.

It was not a reply of elation or of thoughtfulness. It was quiet, and it sounded almost like a weight had been considered.

He heaved himself up to his feet again, dusting off his knee guards, "Ya look worse, boy." Whatever it was that cornered him in his mind had let him be, "have you been sleepin'?"

"Wherever I can."

"Ya ought to sleep wherever you can't as well then, ya look like shit." He walked away before Cossick could reply, away from the fountain and up the steps to one of the buildings.

"I'm not as washed up as you, I don't need a full nights rest just to get out of bed." He retorted and closed the door behind himself and Geoffritte.

The corner of his mouth crinkled up to form crows feet at his eyes, "I'll shove this helm right up yer arse, ya know I will."

They walked down a carpeted hallway, past the towering windows that absorbed the light of the day and repelled it outward in a golden bath drenching the walls.

"Isolde's trial. It was today, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was."

Geoffrite ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, "I would have come back sooner. I wish I'd seen her off for it."

"I'm sure she understands."

"I'll apologize personally if she makes it out of there."

"You don't think she'll make it out?" Cossick paused in the middle of the hallway, but Geoffritte continued on.

"I doubt it. Ya know, I bet it didn't even last ten minutes," he laughed, shaking his head, "It doesn't even matter who judges or seconds. The whole thing was one-sided from the get-go."

They came to a large set of doors, vines creeping in the direction of the wood's grain, slithering up golden embossing and looping around a pair of knight's helm.

The seam split the slabs in two and revealed the way through parted gates to an arrangement of twelve armored stands.

"It was Balic that oversaw the trial."

He smirked slyly. "So you took my advice, eh? Breaking into somebody's home is a bad deed, ya know." The smile faded quickly, and his shoulder came into contact with the wall. "Yeah, I don't think it'll go well in that case."

Cossick nodded in agreement. He walked over to an armor stand that had a helmet as the only flesh that framed its wooden skeleton.

"Looks like Rowan is already here." He gestured at the sword on the fifth armor stand.

"Aye, first thing I saw, I can't avoid him now." He exhaled with a shake of his head, "he's going to make fun of me, I guarantee it."

Cossick huffed a short laugh, "I'd bet on it."

Unclipping the buckle on the sheath's belt, he slid it around the waist of his stand and secured it tightly, fiddling with the position of the hilt at its side.

"Maybe she'll be okay." Cossick said, voicing his wonderings.

"It's free money. Anybody else who'd done the same thing'd be locked up or killed as soon as the match hit the kindle, but she's a knight see, she's got ties to the royalty and that royalty isn't here to fight back."

Cossick examined the armor stand beside his, the one that Esandolyn's blue jeweled sword hung on, wondering if she had been here earlier that day.

If she had looked at the same stands, what she might have felt in this room surrounded by the shells of the warriors that were meant to be by her side.

"So you agree that they framed her for money?"

"I don't know if they were lookin' to frame her specifically. Any one of us could've done just fine, but yeah."

"Something is wrong, Goeffritte. I don't mean the setup, I don't mean the corruption. Something feels wrong."

"Aye, I know what ya mean boy, the skies are boilin', off the bones we have rend the flesh of the earth."

"What?" He looked up concerned, only to see Geoffritte examining his own blade, sliding his fingers across the shadowed steel, perturbed, eyes under duress, gazing on the almost blinding white armor contained by the stand marked with a one.

"Have you been drinking, Geoffritte?"

"Lysander..."

"Hm?"

"I was once told of a man who fought the heavens with hands bare and bloodied, filled with rage at divinity's impertinence."

He must have appeared confused, Geoffritte only stared back, and a light in his dark eyes refused to fade.

"Yer seething, boy." He walked forward and held out his blade as an extension of his arm through which the tip was thrust into the center of his chest.

"There's a lake of fire burnin' in here."

Cossick attempted to push the sword from him with the palm of his hand, but it didn't budge, Goeffritte only pushed harder, and he stumbled a step back.

"I don't know what's happenin', but whatever it is, it's coming," He looked to the floor, "It's coming, and we can't stop it."

"Stop what, Geoffritte?" Cossick stepped back further, allowing the blade to fall, hovering above the floor just before it made impact.

An expression unknown to Geoffritte and unknown to Cossick, too, crept its way into the fine edges of his skin and with his voice low and husked he spoke; "If an inferno is to a blaze what death is to the white knight, may none tarnish your flame."

"Geoffritte, what is this about?" He was wary, one hand slightly raised, tucked behind his turned waist and hovering above his hanging sword while his other hand stretched before him as a ward to keep Geoffritte at bay.

Outside the window, a loud noise sounded, startling the pair whose sight lingered on the bars behind which clouds roamed an open sky.

"You need not worry, boy, just hallucinatin' is all."

Cossick had listened to his words, and he did so earnestly, for they were words from a man who chose not to speak of anything other than what he wished.

Through his heightened senses and the pounding in his ears, he heard the sword slide into its leather casing and by the time he broke from his frozen state, Geoffritte had already place his sword on his stand and was now out of the room and halfway down the hall.

***********************************************

To the castle and through its doors, at a corner where the surfaces were decorated with cobwebs and dust made doilies.

In a watch tower on the western side was a hatch, and beneath it, a staircase overlapped around a stone support column.

Sconces flicked out their embers with a sputter, but even their floating light became null in the void of their spiraling descension.

A beam of torch light could be seen at the end of the stairs, and human shaped silhouettes moved about before they could be heard.

The dark opened into a cavernous hall, and stale wind appeared to blow through the doorway, causing the flames on the wall to falter.

The ceiling could not be seen, from the nothingness a chain appeared to form and on it, many rings of steal inside and below each other hanged and held candles.

On the walls, in open sections spaced by banners sized from the floor to the apparent ceiling, woven and entwined with the images of many a noble heir, twelve shields borrowed the light with their reflective rims, two in a row and six in a column.

The space was endless, with room for hundreds more, not even the left wall had been filled with kings and Queens and the shields of their holy knights.

At the central point of it all, with grand chairs surrounding its edgless ends was the round table of the Queen.

Represented like the face of a time piece, but one of a single hour extra, wherein each seat was indicative of a digit, starting from the thirteenth farthest from the door and moving forward to the sixth at the front.

"Apologies, everyone," Geoffritte bowed his head through the ajar door and made his way around the right side of the table, tapping the shoulder of knight adorned in a crimson armor.

The blood-soaked rust of its sheen gave off a faint glow that made even his eyes appear to be a deep red.

"Don't worry, Rosalind isn't here either." The blonde haired man answered. He sat at the clock's position of five, his legs shifted sideways off his chair, chin raised and resting on his hand propped on the table at his elbow.

"Good afternoon, Geoffritte." A woman's voice emerged from across the dimmed way, her light blonde hair barely visible.

"Hello there, Miss Emlin." He smiled.

"Good afternoon, Rowan, Lyla," cossick followed behind, nodding at the other two, to which they replied with mumbled greetings.

He took his place at the eighth seat to the right of Emlin, who placed a warm hand on his, flashing a comforting smile, a silent acknowledgment, and an attempt at consoling him.

Geoffritte pulled out his chair two down from where the hand of the thirteenth hour would point and beside him, at the first seat of the table, on a white cloth that had been draped over the chair, an old cloak sat folded in solitude, its body missing.

Its hem had grown old and frayed, it's once lustrous exterior had been dulled by time and dust, once a glorious and pristine white. He rubbed his hand over a sunken pocket in the middle, wiping away at a layer of dirt.

"This meeting is cause for concern. I think something is wrong." Emlin said. She fidgeted at a strap on her wrist and removed the now untied glove from her hand.

Hallet leaned into the curved rails of his chairs backing, "Of course it is. This can only be about the war."

"It might be of the Queen." Geoffritte stated.

Metal tapping could be heard echoing from a distance, as it grew louder it grew closer too, and quicker still until; "Hello everyone, I hope I'm not late!"

She gingerly opened the door, which groaned at the slightest of touches, then closed it behind her while wincing at every screech.

She stood before the table and bowed, two thin strands of hair fell free from behind her ears and swung into position, pointing at the floor, one strand longer than the other.

Her face was thin and tapered off into a sharp jawline, just as her eyes did, sat beneath crested brows.

When rested, her top lip would be raised slightly beneath a button nose, and a white flash from her teeth could be seen peeking from behind.

Her armor was faceted at points where embellishments accented the silver plating, cut gems of a citrine hue fixed to their settings.

"You're just in time, Miss D'emile." Geoffrite reassured.

"Hello, Gen." Cossick smiled as she walked up to him. Her hand lingered for a moment on Esandolyn's seat before she moved on past Emlin, to the right of which she sat and shared a few soft words.

"What held you up?"

"Well," she said breathlessly, "There was a robbery in town, and the thief drew a weapon, I accidentally broke his nose and had to deal with the town police." She stated matter-of-factly.

Cossick just now noticed the small droplets of water still on her hand and a faint bruise forming on her knuckles.

"How have you been, Mister Geoffritte? I haven't seen you in a while." She asked.

"Oh, I'm always well dear, thank ya for asking."

"Had enough of watching that stone pole yet?" Hallett chimed in, snickering.

"Just wait until you get yer own, Rowan, we'll see who finds it funny then."

From a sudden entrance revealed only once it had opened, a well-dressed woman with an aura of nobility tied to the sturdiness of her posture and wound through the tight coiled hair that bloomed from the back of her head entered the room.

"Greetings, Knights." She saluted with a hand on her chest, bowing deeply.

The room roared with the scraping of wood against stone as the knights stood to reciprocate the greeting in wordless respect.

She remained standing, clasping her hands at the waist of her floor lenth gown. The colors were difficult to differentiate, but there was a clear pattern of intricate lace trimmings at every layer, flowing loops and dangling jewels at the ends of her sleeves.

"Thank you all for attending under such short circumstances, but times are dire. Let us all join in prayer and begin."

The knights unsheathed their blades and drew them forth over the table's top, their non-dominant hands over their hearts, and their swords joined by their steel.

She drew a breath through her pencil thin lips and pressed their leaden tips to the stale air, "To our Queen's order we serve, and to our lord, we bind our ties. Loyal only to those who share the great name of leader and for none shall we prosper or lust. We join our hands to our blood and we join our blades to our brotherhood, for as many we are one and as one we act as many, to pledge and to serve with the utmost of bravery and chivalry in the face of all that is evil and tainted. Amen."

"Amen." They said in unison, sheathing and seating themselves once more.

"Before all else," she took a scroll out from a fold in her gown and unrolled it, "We have an urgent letter from our queen regarding the war taking place in Landol."

"I qoute," She paused before continuing with a breath 'During the dead of night, a raid was launched on our camp and in the midst of the battle, lady Aurabelle Hallet and sir Catalea Fesidea, who were in charge of protecting me, were injured in battle.' "

Gasps sounded, and Hallet sat up suddenly.

For a second, the room flashed red, "Is she okay?" His tone was drenched with worry.

The room had come to a stand still, not even the clusters of wax candles dared disturb their shock with a burning wick.

"Yes," Rosalind assured him, contuining to read, 'Both were wounded by a type of weapon we have yet to come across, a mobile weapon that uses a combustible powder, similar to those used in cannons, to shoot a small projectile strong enough to pierce flesh. Their vitals are steady.' "

Geoffritte had taken to tapping his fingers against his thigh, his mouth moved as if he was chewing cud.

"Why did she think sending the weakest of us to a war was a good idea?" Hallet spat through a clenched jaw, "I'm leaving for Landol immediately." He stood and retrieved his helm from the floor.

Cossick and Emlin watched him closely. They made no moves to react, but their fingers were tensed, twitching in preparation to grab at their swords.

Genevieve had already stood, both hands planted to the table, eyes steadfastly set on his.

"Sir Hallet, sit." Rosalinds voice boomed in the chamber, an absolute order that forced him to stand in place, slowly lowering himself.

"The Queen has requested that we do not act. The knights currently in the kingdom are to remain and attend to their tasks. Am I understood?"

"... Yes, ma'am." He answered, fury aimed at the tables top in an almost boiling rage.

"Thank you."

She turned her attention back to the scroll, folding it away, "We are burdened by the speed of horseback travel, so we can only hope and pray that everything is still okay, but for now, we act as though nothing has happened."

She, too, was worried, and it was clear from the way she spoke.

Her intention was not to hide it. There was no shame in being concerned, only shame in not obeying her orders. she visibly swallowed it down and cleared her throat of the remains.

"Now, a newer development. A mysterious third obelisk has appeared in the northern mountain village of Eischdall." She turned her attention toward Goeffritte, "How is the situation regarding the obelisk at Monteg farm?"

"It's been quiet, ma'am, not a cause for concern."

She nodded as if it was expected news, "Due to the nature of the obelisk in Landol, we can only assume this one will follow suit, you are to return today and continue monitoring its position after we conclude this meeting.

"Aye, ma'am."

Emlin's voice chimed through at the end of his sentence, "May I volunteer to take the lead on this one?"

"Your motivation is appreciated, Lyla, but the Queen has specifically requested that Lady Genevieve D'emile take charge of Eischdall's obeslisk."

"Are you sure ma'am? I am more than capable of handling this task."

"I am well aware. All of you are capable, but the order calls for lady Genevieve."

D'emile had been processing the statement, rubbing at her knuckles before looking to Rosalind, "Me!?" She exclaimed, surprised, almost to the point of pure shock.

"That is what the report states, yes. You are to leave first thing tomorrow."

"Understood ma'am!"

"Now, for an update on the food shortage... the conflict has led to the cut-off of our main trade routes for grain and -."

"Rosalind!" A voice screamed from behind, startling her.

A man dashed through the door and collapsed, hair drenched in sweat, his chest rising furiously.

Guards rushed in after him and grabbed at his arms to raise him, "Apologies ma'am!" he dropped back down to his knees.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.

Geoffritte placed an arm in front of Rosalind, sword drawn, and created a wide birth around the man, hysterically gasping for air.

"My name... is Ortho... I am... a messenger." He coughed between breaths.

"A messenger for who?!" Cossick and Emlin drew closer, weary.

He looked up through glistening sweat, tears, "There has been a Massacre at Alding, Obille, and the witnesses have been murdered... and lady Esandolyn is missing."

"What?" Cossick lowered his sword.

Rosalind had gone pale, "Lady Esandolyn...? Missing? Obille? That's over sixty people..." She muttered, jumping through her thoughts.

D'emile hurried to her side and took her by the arm tentatively, pulling out a seat from the table.

She led her to sit, which she did, holding her hand to her temple.

Like a statement repeated on ears that have heard it before, a desperate voice screamed, "Rosalind!"

This time, it came from the common entrance. Frantic steps could be heard descending and then the thumps of stumbles.

The door burst open, and another man hobbled in. Shaking off his dazed head, he burst into a run until he was pulled violently to the floor by the cape around his neck.

Hallett pressed the cold steal tip to the man's hot neck, under which he could feel his pulse galloping.

"Who are you!?"

The man let out a cry and pushed the blade off, rolling into a standing position, "The Queen!" He managed to get out before he was tackled to the floor again.

"Rowan!" Geoffritte barked.

The pressure was eased of the man's neck, only for his own hands to wrap around it and tend to his red skin.

"The Queen!" He sputtered and coughed, "Queen Joan has been kidnapped!"

● Blood Orange

● III - Hall of Adelaide.

"Goodbye, Lysander."

Every crack in the cobble and every stone rode over by the old grown white oak spokes of the coach plucked him from a restless daze.

"Almost there, sir Cossick!" The coachman yelled through the thin walls.

He looked to the seat before him, where Esandolyn had sat, anxious and beside herself, not even an hour earlier.

It had been a grueling week, the sleep gnawed at the strings that had been keeping his body afloat.

Like a puppet whose thread could fray and snap at the slightest of tugs, he sat there limp and hung.

Not a moment had passed where his mind hadn't gazed on Esandolyn's face or touched up on the worries he had supposedly tucked away.

He wished so dearly that he might fall asleep, that the troubles that pestered him, or rather the troubles he chose to pester, would leave him be.

The coach swayed to a halt, and his door was opened for him by a guard whose reflective metal sheen brought cossicks hand to his eyes.

"Thank you."

The guard replied with a formal salute, his open hand on his sternum followed by a bow, which Cossick absentmindedly mimicked, though his own was a half-hearted one.

The staired entrance to Wilrife Castle, which always felt a few steps too long, extended up to a mossy stone base that the structure of the castle itself rested on, as though it was a neat display piece atop a podium.

Curtain walls as tall as five men extended from the base and acted as corridors, or walkways level to the heightened floor that led to surrounding areas on the hilltop land.

Up the steps and to the eastern corridor, down the stone brick floors and under the complex wood joinery of the black tiled rooves was his intention, but his plan was foiled at the sound of murmering voices.

Be it staff, guards, or even members of the public, he wished to avoid interaction, maybe from a deep rooted desire to self isolate or possibly worse, a self inferred concern of being incapable of interacting in a high enough manner due to his tired state.

He favored its flat flooring and cool shade as well as the fond memories of sunsets on the balustrades over a bustling kingdom, but with streamlined travel came the company of others, and he was in no mood to dabble in the small talk of whoever might cross his path.

Fortunately for him, there was a gap between the eastward corridor and his destination, a patch of forested land that he could cut through.

He walked some ways onto the corridor to the spot where the monotony of supporting log columns was broken up by a staircase that led down to a platform and door in the center of the wall.

He descended and ignored the entryway, peering over the edge where he threw his satchel, and then himself onto a patch of soft grass below.

He landed, braced, and then diverted the stress into a roll. He groaned as he rubbed at his pauldrons, wishing he had removed them beforehand.

He trudged through a barely defined foot path lined with overgrown shrubbery, thorns, and creepers that took every attempt to latch on.

A grassy field drenched in the shade thrown by the castle's tall spires, where sharpened blades of grass lapped at his legs and left behind soft dew stains from the morning's frost at every step.

Grasshoppers leaped from perch to rest, and birds swooped from high to low to catch them, flicking brilliant droplets of water all around.

To a stream teeming with the life of tadpoles and frogs alike, then over the flowing water where he stumbled and knocked a bush that blew a cloud of gnats into the air.

He was no stranger to the field. The path of trodden, yellowed grass was his own work, and the familiar landmarks were known only to him.

Eventually, the clear green and flat lands became murky and rough, at the edge of the forest the last of the shade brushed against the shadows of the trees and the slowly warming day shined down through the leaves.

His path had been effaced by hard ground. The gnarled roots were not as forgiving to his footsteps as the flat plains before.

He leaned on the rough bark of trees, and more than once, he stood still and looked back to see if he where he had come from was where he was meant to have gone.

He caught sight of the walls through a break in the trees and made his way steadily to them, he walked around to the side where he spotted the rooves of buildings peeking over those of the corridors, birds perched in morse on the crests and filled the air with a dissonance.

To the front of the rectangle area, he arrived at an arched, wagon wide entranceway that opened to the end of a beaten path where soldiers and Knights would march, their horses close behind.

The armory gardens were quiet. Only a few guards walked in and out of the buildings, half dressed, laughing about something unheard, changing shifts, he figured.

A storage for all armor and weapons of those that served the kingdom and castle, it was too large a space to be so empty, an abandoned village square is what it had become.

To see a place that was once bustling reduced to only a few men was a strange sight, an almost uncomfortable sign of the days and what they meant.

Underneath the footsteps of guards patrolling the walls, he stood, and far ahead, a moonlit, midnight black, was pulled into the shade of one of the buildings, grabbing his attention.

***********************************************

"Hello, Aesper."

He rubbed his hand over her sleek, oil like fur, flashes of white bands rippled over her muscles as she raised and lowered her legs in place.

"Yeah, greet the horse first. It's not like I've ever done anythin' for ya." The voice emerged from a sleek black helmet, a red plume shot from the back like the tail of a proud pheasant.

"Hello, Geoffritte." He raised his hand in an attempt to pat his shoulder as he did the horse's.

"Don't you dare."

The armor the man wore was dark, spiked and bulky in a way that conveyed strength instead of size, colored in an obsidian gloss both void of all hues and shining a deep purple in patches illuminated by the sun.

He removed the helmet and took a deep breath in. His hair was just as dark, slicked back and glistening with sweat, coiled in tight curls that fell just above his shoulders and strands that drooped at the sides of his head.

His face had shadowed features, too, bold eyebrows, deep set eyes, and a strong nose above his joined mustache and beard.

"How has life as a farmboy been?" Cossick asked.

Geoffritte threw his helmet at him, maybe with more force than he intended, or maybe with just the right amount.

He caught it either way and laughed it off, chucking it back with a gentle underarm.

"It's been shit!" He took Aesper by the reigns and led her to some posts beside an armory building, surrounded by hay and a trough of stagnant water.

Cossick watched as he removed the plated gauntlet off of his left hand and placed it in a carrier bag on Aesper before reaching into the water to scoop the grime and debris from the surface, flicking it to the ground with a sickening splat.

"There ya go, baby."

Aesper drank gratefully, gulping down large amounts at once.

"I stare at grain all day and watch cows an' sheep like a glorified herder!"

He whipped the reigns around the post, taking the loose end with his other hand to fasten a tight knot.

"There're wars bein' fought an' I'm sat lookin' at some stupid tall rock in a stupid field!"

"But," He simply shrugged, "No use pissin' on about my worth, I am where I'm supposed to be, the Queen knows what she's doin' so I'll show those sheep a herder they've never seen before."

"But you'll still complain about it?"

"Aye, I'll still complain about it." He led the way around the corner from the building they had been behind.

Their footsteps went from muted crunches to solid taps as they transitioned from grass to the central square.

There were seven buildings arranged around it, connected by paths branching off of the main.

Double story brick built structures plastered in a sun baked yellow tinge quoined with white sandstone blocks and braced by crossed beams surrounded them.

Massive windows cut through the walls and turned them into hollow boxes instead of solid bricks blocks.

At the centre, a large vase with blooming handles overflowed to its lip, then spat out a stream of twinkling water into a weathered basin below.

The disturbance shifted the waters, where bronze coins caught the sun through the ripples above them, turning the waves into a liquid mirror.

He limped to the rim and kneeled, scooping a handful of water and splashing his face.

He spat the remainder of the now salty liquid from his lips and produced a rag tucked away at his neck to clean the excess.

"You look bad, Geoffritte."

"Aye, I'm tired. Things are takin' more effort than they used to these days." He chuckled softly. His eyes seemed to be watching everything and nothing at once.

"You should share your duties. There's no need to do them alone."

"Maybe." He said.

It was not a reply of elation or of thoughtfulness. It was quiet, and it sounded almost like a weight had been considered.

He heaved himself up to his feet again, dusting off his knee guards, "Ya look worse, boy." Whatever it was that cornered him in his mind had let him be, "have you been sleepin'?"

"Wherever I can."

"Ya ought to sleep wherever you can't as well then, ya look like shit." He walked away before Cossick could reply, away from the fountain and up the steps to one of the buildings.

"I'm not as washed up as you, I don't need a full nights rest just to get out of bed." He retorted and closed the door behind himself and Geoffritte.

The corner of his mouth crinkled up to form crows feet at his eyes, "I'll shove this helm right up yer arse, ya know I will."

They walked down a carpeted hallway, past the towering windows that absorbed the light of the day and repelled it outward in a golden bath drenching the walls.

"Isolde's trial. It was today, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was."

Geoffrite ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, "I would have come back sooner. I wish I'd seen her off for it."

"I'm sure she understands."

"I'll apologize personally if she makes it out of there."

"You don't think she'll make it out?" Cossick paused in the middle of the hallway, but Geoffritte continued on.

"I doubt it. Ya know, I bet it didn't even last ten minutes," he laughed, shaking his head, "It doesn't even matter who judges or seconds. The whole thing was one-sided from the get-go."

They came to a large set of doors, vines creeping in the direction of the wood's grain, slithering up golden embossing and looping around a pair of knight's helm.

The seam split the slabs in two and revealed the way through parted gates to an arrangement of twelve armored stands.

"It was Balic that oversaw the trial."

He smirked slyly. "So you took my advice, eh? Breaking into somebody's home is a bad deed, ya know." The smile faded quickly, and his shoulder came into contact with the wall. "Yeah, I don't think it'll go well in that case."

Cossick nodded in agreement. He walked over to an armor stand that had a helmet as the only flesh that framed its wooden skeleton.

"Looks like Rowan is already here." He gestured at the sword on the fifth armor stand.

"Aye, first thing I saw, I can't avoid him now." He exhaled with a shake of his head, "he's going to make fun of me, I guarantee it."

Cossick huffed a short laugh, "I'd bet on it."

Unclipping the buckle on the sheath's belt, he slid it around the waist of his stand and secured it tightly, fiddling with the position of the hilt at its side.

"Maybe she'll be okay." Cossick said, voicing his wonderings.

"It's free money. Anybody else who'd done the same thing'd be locked up or killed as soon as the match hit the kindle, but she's a knight see, she's got ties to the royalty and that royalty isn't here to fight back."

Cossick examined the armor stand beside his, the one that Esandolyn's blue jeweled sword hung on, wondering if she had been here earlier that day.

If she had looked at the same stands, what she might have felt in this room surrounded by the shells of the warriors that were meant to be by her side.

"So you agree that they framed her for money?"

"I don't know if they were lookin' to frame her specifically. Any one of us could've done just fine, but yeah."

"Something is wrong, Goeffritte. I don't mean the setup, I don't mean the corruption. Something feels wrong."

"Aye, I know what ya mean boy, the skies are boilin', off the bones we have rend the flesh of the earth."

"What?" He looked up concerned, only to see Geoffritte examining his own blade, sliding his fingers across the shadowed steel, perturbed, eyes under duress, gazing on the almost blinding white armor contained by the stand marked with a one.

"Have you been drinking, Geoffritte?"

"Lysander..."

"Hm?"

"I was once told of a man who fought the heavens with hands bare and bloodied, filled with rage at divinity's impertinence."

He must have appeared confused, Geoffritte only stared back, and a light in his dark eyes refused to fade.

"Yer seething, boy." He walked forward and held out his blade as an extension of his arm through which the tip was thrust into the center of his chest.

"There's a lake of fire burnin' in here."

Cossick attempted to push the sword from him with the palm of his hand, but it didn't budge, Goeffritte only pushed harder, and he stumbled a step back.

"I don't know what's happenin', but whatever it is, it's coming," He looked to the floor, "It's coming, and we can't stop it."

"Stop what, Geoffritte?" Cossick stepped back further, allowing the blade to fall, hovering above the floor just before it made impact.

An expression unknown to Geoffritte and unknown to Cossick, too, crept its way into the fine edges of his skin and with his voice low and husked he spoke; "If an inferno is to a blaze what death is to the white knight, may none tarnish your flame."

"Geoffritte, what is this about?" He was wary, one hand slightly raised, tucked behind his turned waist and hovering above his hanging sword while his other hand stretched before him as a ward to keep Geoffritte at bay.

Outside the window, a loud noise sounded, startling the pair whose sight lingered on the bars behind which clouds roamed an open sky.

"You need not worry, boy, just hallucinatin' is all."

Cossick had listened to his words, and he did so earnestly, for they were words from a man who chose not to speak of anything other than what he wished.

Through his heightened senses and the pounding in his ears, he heard the sword slide into its leather casing and by the time he broke from his frozen state, Geoffritte had already place his sword on his stand and was now out of the room and halfway down the hall.

***********************************************

To the castle and through its doors, at a corner where the surfaces were decorated with cobwebs and dust made doilies.

In a watch tower on the western side was a hatch, and beneath it, a staircase overlapped around a stone support column.

Sconces flicked out their embers with a sputter, but even their floating light became null in the void of their spiraling descension.

A beam of torch light could be seen at the end of the stairs, and human shaped silhouettes moved about before they could be heard.

The dark opened into a cavernous hall, and stale wind appeared to blow through the doorway, causing the flames on the wall to falter.

The ceiling could not be seen, from the nothingness a chain appeared to form and on it, many rings of steal inside and below each other hanged and held candles.

On the walls, in open sections spaced by banners sized from the floor to the apparent ceiling, woven and entwined with the images of many a noble heir, twelve shields borrowed the light with their reflective rims, two in a row and six in a column.

The space was endless, with room for hundreds more, not even the left wall had been filled with kings and Queens and the shields of their holy knights.

At the central point of it all, with grand chairs surrounding its edgless ends was the round table of the Queen.

Represented like the face of a time piece, but one of a single hour extra, wherein each seat was indicative of a digit, starting from the thirteenth farthest from the door and moving forward to the sixth at the front.

"Apologies, everyone," Geoffritte bowed his head through the ajar door and made his way around the right side of the table, tapping the shoulder of knight adorned in a crimson armor.

The blood-soaked rust of its sheen gave off a faint glow that made even his eyes appear to be a deep red.

"Don't worry, Rosalind isn't here either." The blonde haired man answered. He sat at the clock's position of five, his legs shifted sideways off his chair, chin raised and resting on his hand propped on the table at his elbow.

"Good afternoon, Geoffritte." A woman's voice emerged from across the dimmed way, her light blonde hair barely visible.

"Hello there, Miss Emlin." He smiled.

"Good afternoon, Rowan, Lyla," cossick followed behind, nodding at the other two, to which they replied with mumbled greetings.

He took his place at the eighth seat to the right of Emlin, who placed a warm hand on his, flashing a comforting smile, a silent acknowledgment, and an attempt at consoling him.

Geoffritte pulled out his chair two down from where the hand of the thirteenth hour would point and beside him, at the first seat of the table, on a white cloth that had been draped over the chair, an old cloak sat folded in solitude, its body missing.

Its hem had grown old and frayed, it's once lustrous exterior had been dulled by time and dust, once a glorious and pristine white. He rubbed his hand over a sunken pocket in the middle, wiping away at a layer of dirt.

"This meeting is cause for concern. I think something is wrong." Emlin said. She fidgeted at a strap on her wrist and removed the now untied glove from her hand.

Hallet leaned into the curved rails of his chairs backing, "Of course it is. This can only be about the war."

"It might be of the Queen." Geoffritte stated.

Metal tapping could be heard echoing from a distance, as it grew louder it grew closer too, and quicker still until; "Hello everyone, I hope I'm not late!"

She gingerly opened the door, which groaned at the slightest of touches, then closed it behind her while wincing at every screech.

She stood before the table and bowed, two thin strands of hair fell free from behind her ears and swung into position, pointing at the floor, one strand longer than the other.

Her face was thin and tapered off into a sharp jawline, just as her eyes did, sat beneath crested brows.

When rested, her top lip would be raised slightly beneath a button nose, and a white flash from her teeth could be seen peeking from behind.

Her armor was faceted at points where embellishments accented the silver plating, cut gems of a citrine hue fixed to their settings.

"You're just in time, Miss D'emile." Geoffrite reassured.

"Hello, Gen." Cossick smiled as she walked up to him. Her hand lingered for a moment on Esandolyn's seat before she moved on past Emlin, to the right of which she sat and shared a few soft words.

"What held you up?"

"Well," she said breathlessly, "There was a robbery in town, and the thief drew a weapon, I accidentally broke his nose and had to deal with the town police." She stated matter-of-factly.

Cossick just now noticed the small droplets of water still on her hand and a faint bruise forming on her knuckles.

"How have you been, Mister Geoffritte? I haven't seen you in a while." She asked.

"Oh, I'm always well dear, thank ya for asking."

"Had enough of watching that stone pole yet?" Hallett chimed in, snickering.

"Just wait until you get yer own, Rowan, we'll see who finds it funny then."

From a sudden entrance revealed only once it had opened, a well-dressed woman with an aura of nobility tied to the sturdiness of her posture and wound through the tight coiled hair that bloomed from the back of her head entered the room.

"Greetings, Knights." She saluted with a hand on her chest, bowing deeply.

The room roared with the scraping of wood against stone as the knights stood to reciprocate the greeting in wordless respect.

She remained standing, clasping her hands at the waist of her floor lenth gown. The colors were difficult to differentiate, but there was a clear pattern of intricate lace trimmings at every layer, flowing loops and dangling jewels at the ends of her sleeves.

"Thank you all for attending under such short circumstances, but times are dire. Let us all join in prayer and begin."

The knights unsheathed their blades and drew them forth over the table's top, their non-dominant hands over their hearts, and their swords joined by their steel.

She drew a breath through her pencil thin lips and pressed their leaden tips to the stale air, "To our Queen's order we serve, and to our lord, we bind our ties. Loyal only to those who share the great name of leader and for none shall we prosper or lust. We join our hands to our blood and we join our blades to our brotherhood, for as many we are one and as one we act as many, to pledge and to serve with the utmost of bravery and chivalry in the face of all that is evil and tainted. Amen."

"Amen." They said in unison, sheathing and seating themselves once more.

"Before all else," she took a scroll out from a fold in her gown and unrolled it, "We have an urgent letter from our queen regarding the war taking place in Landol."

"I qoute," She paused before continuing with a breath 'During the dead of night, a raid was launched on our camp and in the midst of the battle, lady Aurabelle Hallet and sir Catalea Fesidea, who were in charge of protecting me, were injured in battle.' "

Gasps sounded, and Hallet sat up suddenly.

For a second, the room flashed red, "Is she okay?" His tone was drenched with worry.

The room had come to a stand still, not even the clusters of wax candles dared disturb their shock with a burning wick.

"Yes," Rosalind assured him, contuining to read, 'Both were wounded by a type of weapon we have yet to come across, a mobile weapon that uses a combustible powder, similar to those used in cannons, to shoot a small projectile strong enough to pierce flesh. Their vitals are steady.' "

Geoffritte had taken to tapping his fingers against his thigh, his mouth moved as if he was chewing cud.

"Why did she think sending the weakest of us to a war was a good idea?" Hallet spat through a clenched jaw, "I'm leaving for Landol immediately." He stood and retrieved his helm from the floor.

Cossick and Emlin watched him closely. They made no moves to react, but their fingers were tensed, twitching in preparation to grab at their swords.

Genevieve had already stood, both hands planted to the table, eyes steadfastly set on his.

"Sir Hallet, sit." Rosalinds voice boomed in the chamber, an absolute order that forced him to stand in place, slowly lowering himself.

"The Queen has requested that we do not act. The knights currently in the kingdom are to remain and attend to their tasks. Am I understood?"

"... Yes, ma'am." He answered, fury aimed at the tables top in an almost boiling rage.

"Thank you."

She turned her attention back to the scroll, folding it away, "We are burdened by the speed of horseback travel, so we can only hope and pray that everything is still okay, but for now, we act as though nothing has happened."

She, too, was worried, and it was clear from the way she spoke.

Her intention was not to hide it. There was no shame in being concerned, only shame in not obeying her orders. she visibly swallowed it down and cleared her throat of the remains.

"Now, a newer development. A mysterious third obelisk has appeared in the northern mountain village of Eischdall." She turned her attention toward Goeffritte, "How is the situation regarding the obelisk at Monteg farm?"

"It's been quiet, ma'am, not a cause for concern."

She nodded as if it was expected news, "Due to the nature of the obelisk in Landol, we can only assume this one will follow suit, you are to return today and continue monitoring its position after we conclude this meeting.

"Aye, ma'am."

Emlin's voice chimed through at the end of his sentence, "May I volunteer to take the lead on this one?"

"Your motivation is appreciated, Lyla, but the Queen has specifically requested that Lady Genevieve D'emile take charge of Eischdall's obeslisk."

"Are you sure ma'am? I am more than capable of handling this task."

"I am well aware. All of you are capable, but the order calls for lady Genevieve."

D'emile had been processing the statement, rubbing at her knuckles before looking to Rosalind, "Me!?" She exclaimed, surprised, almost to the point of pure shock.

"That is what the report states, yes. You are to leave first thing tomorrow."

"Understood ma'am!"

"Now, for an update on the food shortage... the conflict has led to the cut-off of our main trade routes for grain and -."

"Rosalind!" A voice screamed from behind, startling her.

A man dashed through the door and collapsed, hair drenched in sweat, his chest rising furiously.

Guards rushed in after him and grabbed at his arms to raise him, "Apologies ma'am!" he dropped back down to his knees.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.

Geoffritte placed an arm in front of Rosalind, sword drawn, and created a wide birth around the man, hysterically gasping for air.

"My name... is Ortho... I am... a messenger." He coughed between breaths.

"A messenger for who?!" Cossick and Emlin drew closer, weary.

He looked up through glistening sweat, tears, "There has been a Massacre at Alding, Obille, and the witnesses have been murdered... and lady Esandolyn is missing."

"What?" Cossick lowered his sword.

Rosalind had gone pale, "Lady Esandolyn...? Missing? Obille? That's over sixty people..." She muttered, jumping through her thoughts.

D'emile hurried to her side and took her by the arm tentatively, pulling out a seat from the table.

She led her to sit, which she did, holding her hand to her temple.

Like a statement repeated on ears that have heard it before, a desperate voice screamed, "Rosalind!"

This time, it came from the common entrance. Frantic steps could be heard descending and then the thumps of stumbles.

The door burst open, and another man hobbled in. Shaking off his dazed head, he burst into a run until he was pulled violently to the floor by the cape around his neck.

Hallett pressed the cold steal tip to the man's hot neck, under which he could feel his pulse galloping.

"Who are you!?"

The man let out a cry and pushed the blade off, rolling into a standing position, "The Queen!" He managed to get out before he was tackled to the floor again.

"Rowan!" Geoffritte barked.

The pressure was eased of the man's neck, only for his own hands to wrap around it and tend to his red skin.

"The Queen!" He sputtered and coughed, "Queen Joan has been kidnapped!"

● Blood Orange

• IV - Overture

It spoke to her in an ancient tongue.

Not a word could she identify nor a sound could she hear dancing at the openings of her torn off ears.

It was an all-encompassing drone of tones, a sound like the gaping maw of a beast grinding its teeth against the brimstone of an umbral body.

Her mind thought in flashes, ones that burned into her eyes, creeped to the edges of her vision, breaking her sight, breaking into the constellations of her weaved memories.

Bowed syllables rumbled through a resounding hum. It spoke through its mouth and from it befell an emotion akin to aching dread.

Her bones dried beneath the wet of her flesh, her skin shriveled, dismantled under a lecherous ooze, eternally mortal against the rage of sanctity withered

She let out a sound guttural and primal, forced to crawl on her belly and eviscerate her consumed sins in a trail of innards, themselves consumed by torment.

It spoke to her in an ancient tongue, and through divinity unbeknownst to the fruits of her mother's womb, she understood.

"Yes." She said.

"Yes." The beast heard to its askings.

"Yes." It understood.

A demiurge of forgotten chaos, ineffable in its existence, understanding of ends and of nothingness, knowledgeable about what there is not to be known, accountable for all that isn't, and all that may never be or has not yet become.

"Yes."

***********************************************

She awoke to closed eyes, like a cadaver put to rest, but unlike one, she sucked the air into her rising chest and leeched at the saliva dried to the roof of her mouth.

Her heart beat to an irregular rhythm, not a fast pace but not a slow one, either. It galloped, stumbled, and caught its footing again before racing off into her body.

A cool breeze blew in and brushed at her wet skin, pooled in her sweat, waves of heat rolled from her head to her feet.

She allowed herself to see, eyes fluttering open.

A rough ceiling dangled above her head. It appeared to be cobbled from sheets of metal, bolted, screwed and hammered haphazard and with haste, a night sky of corroded stars.

Through unlocking her senses, the surroundings of her body became clear, her head rested on a pillow, and by the way it scratched at her neck, she knew it to be down.

Her body felt eerily light, she raised her arm and no sounds of tin clanging made its way to her.

She propped herself up on her elbow, almost too weak to bear the load, and just barely missed scraping her head on the rust above her.

Staring down at her body, over which she wore her fleece undergarments, she confirmed her armored weights burdened her no longer.

From hazy peripherals, she caught regular gaps in her vision, a bookcase cut in three by the iron bars that surrounded her.

She pleaded for her mind to think, to process and understand but it was numb even to her own inputs, a fuzziness coated her, it pulsed to life in the tips of her fingers when she moved, needles stabbing into her skin.

Beneath her resting body, a red carpet provided cushioning as well as a covering for the floor. To her left, a soft outline of a door's seam and to her right, nothing more than a wall of iron.

Now that her eyes could see, she found herself in a room of marble and stonemasoned pillars.

The walls were a dull cream, the zones of the floor that were uncarpeted were a white streaked reflection of the chandeliers twinkling above them, and the ceiling was intricately carved with blooming flowers that appeared to weed through battlements and clubs.

Shelves upon shelves of books various and varied plastered the walls, embedded into nooks at intervals between which portraits of oil painted men and drab scenes hanged and glared over low backed seats.

Her feet faced an open window, curtains draped half closed, and through the gaps of golden tassels, she glimpsed a young night.

Behind her, she felt a strong wind blow in the wake of a material scourge, shutters banging against their bars.

Falling back into her feathered head rest, she sank into the white cotton. Her breathing was controlled, but her fear ran wild.

To the side of her head, the door opened silently, making itself known by forcing the pressure in the room to drop as it shut.

Someone taller than the roof of her cage, taller than it allowed her to see through the corners of her vision, walked in calmly, with dress shoes rapping against the marble floors.

"Good afternoon, Isolde. How are you feeling?"

She tensed, her fingernails digging into the carpeted floor. Her pulse sounded from within her throat, one she couldn't suppress even as she swallowed dryly.

"I have not drugged you, and you are not tied up. Perhaps you're shaken, understandably so if you are, but you should be alright, so let us speak."

She forced her head to turn and look directly up towards the disembodied voice.

The dread wished for her not to, but she ignored it and at the end of her rotation she saw a man in a three piece suit, the very one who sat in the official stands, the one who brought Obille to his death.

"My name is Alistair Strauss."

His skin was pale, almost white, but his hight set cheeks were a healthy rose.

He wore a pair of thin spectacles above a hawked nose and below barely visible brows of a blonde as light as his complexion, an almost delicate combination of features that made him appear faint

His short hair reflected shining circle patches as bright as the whites of his dark eyes.

The collar beneath his silken coat had been spilled red, and when he unbuttoned it to drape it over the hook on the door, she could see the grey of his waist coat bore the same stains.

"I do apologize for my attire. It is rather off-putting to the eyes. You can surely imagine how disgusting it is to wear, but suits aren't easy to come by around these parts."

He walked over to the window behind her and peered through it. His every move was being followed dutifully, without rest in the form of blinking.

She guessed that they were likely elevated from the way he looked over and down before shutting the window.

"I don't want any wildlife getting in." He announced to nobody in particular.

There was something uncanny about him, something unsettling that she frantically searched for.

His unfazed face, unsmiling, unaffected, the way he spoke, walked, it was the farthest possible act from malice, evil, or anger, but her hackles raised when his eyes fell to her, a siren blared in the back of her mind and her body wished to flee but her muscles locked.

"It must feel inhumane to be in a cage, but I've done what I can to make it feel less so."

He half bent over and picked up a book from a low table. He made a thoughtful face before placing it back, "To what sick bastard did this chamber belong?" He mused, "That cage was here before I arrived, you know?"

To the front of the thin bar columns, he made his way, cut off from the torso so that she could only watch as his legs walked in front of her.

"I was not the one that undressed you, if you were wondering."

The points of his boots turned away from her, and suddenly, the cage creaked under a weight.

He crossed one leg over the other, and his suspended foot shook to a regular rhythm.

"I am waiting for a few associates of mine to return, in the meantime..." She heard the sound of a sparking flint and then a faint sizzle, followed by a poignant grey smoke so heavy that it fell to the floor.

"Please, do allow me to ramble." He said bluntly, voice slightly muffled.

A deep quiet followed, one neither captor nor prisoner had any desire to break, but the crackling puffs inhaled through his cigarette did not hold the same concerns.

"I imagine it's the gruesome sight of so many deceased that has you silent. For all its worth, my intention was not to murder Obille."

"Why did you do it?" She just barely whispered.

"He broke our deal. He was never meant to call for your execution, but there is no sum of money greater than a larger sum of money, I suppose. It's unfortunate that Balic had amassed more wealth than my sponsor's generous funding."

While the smell that emanated off a freshly lain corpse had just barely been forgotten by her senses memories, the sight of the bodies ripped to shreds and mangled had not yet become dull.

"Have you ever heard the story of a woman named Eyisbe?"

Her silence was followed by a sigh and then a gentle rapping on the steel over her head.

"N-no."

"Well," He pulled the red tip of his cigarette closer to his lips, "It's a short one. We've got time."

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

"Eyisbe was a peculiar girl who appeared in a small village one day.

She was filthy, spoke in tongues, had no family nor possessions, and not as much as a single cloth to cover her skin.

Despite this, the village and its people came to love her dearly and accepted her as one of their own.

The men could not resist her, and neither could the women. Even the animals of the forest took a strange liking to her.

When she came of age, the list of those that wished to wed her had grown longer than a river.

On one rainy day in particular, they found her alone in the forest, speaking to the trees, using their fallen leaves to cover the body of an injured deer.

The villagers couldn't believe what they had witnessed.

The trees shed their leaves to her whim, and the deer, still alive, did not flee from her.

She garnered the attention of one and all, from villages afar and even to beasts that man had feared for ages.

She committed miracles unthought to the minds of the villagers, things they could have never imagined.

From fruitless trees, a full harvest would bear, and from the lifeless soil, grains like golden rods would grow to the sky.

Soon, a young man named Jeles would grow jealous of the attention.

He was unable to see the appeal the others did, and he spread false rumors to the other young men in the village.

On the night of her twentieth birthday, they invited her to a barn in the woods.

From the rafters, they hanged her by her neck, and they stripped her from head to toe.

They had their way with her, screaming unheard by the village and its people.

The boy, Eles, took a rusted knife and thrust it between her legs.

They filled a cup with the virgin blood that poured from her thighs, and they shared it together."

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

He finished speaking, and Esandolyn was grateful. Her stomach had twisted into a knot that painfully unwound itself.

The tone of his voice and the words he spoke were not synonymous. They drove an icy stake into the base of her neck.

"It was said that Eyisbe was the personification of nature, our mother, a way of saying, by the hands of man, nothing is sacred."

There was a gentle knock at the door, a triplet pulse followed by a polite enquiring voice, "Mister Strauss, may I enter?"

"Yes, you may enter."

A sharply dressed man, as slender as the curl of his forked coattails entered the room, his one hand grasped at the door handle, and his other balanced a silver tray topped with a fine glass tea set.

He hurriedly set it down on the table and, with no time wasted, set two fingers atop the tea pot's lid and poured a rich liquid into two bulbed cups.

"How many sugars do you take, Miss Esandolyn?" His bushy mustache, curled at its tips, jumped up and down as his lips moved.

She mouthed the words he spoke to repeat them to see if she had understood them correctly.

"I will leave you with the sugar so you can take as much as you please."

He gently raised the saucer and cup into the air and handed it the man that sat above her, who replied with a polite, "Thank you, Rosenthal."

"Always a pleasure, Mister Strauss." He set down a cup in front of her as well, along with a bowl of heaped sugar in which a small spoon drowned.

"My purpose in telling you that story, heaven forbid you're thinking to yourself 'goodness, what an odd fellow this Alistair is,' was an admittedly feeble attempt at an explanation."

The steel groaned, relieved to be free from the weight as his boots returned to the carpet.

"I don't believe killing to be sin, nor I do believe lying, thievery, greed or lust to be blasphemous deeds."

He took a sip of his tea instead of a breath between words.

"A sin is an offense to divinity, a complete transgression against the laws set up by our lord." He paused while turned away from her, his hand clasped at the small of his back.

"The day mankind slaughtered a God was the day we committed our first true sin. It was the day our creators left us."

A sinking feeling had fallen on the net of her beating chest and brought it down to the base of her stomach.

"Rosenthal, please wait outside for Rawsthorne to arrive."

"Of course." He moved to the exit and bowed once before letting himself out, slinking through a thin gap.

He turned to her, and his face had not lost its effect on her instincts.

"You must have many questions, so ask away. I'll answer what I can, I mean to be nothing but honest with you."

"Where have you taken the queen?" She had been itching to ask and jumped at the opportunity now that it arose.

In the time it would take a hummingbird to flap its wings exactly once, his face rippled with an expression of surprise, then the waters stilled, and his calm demeanor returned.

He smiled, but only with his mouth, the flesh of his cheeks pushed his eyes to close, but they remained fixed on her. "So it's true, after all. I must say I'm relieved."

She felt that she had made a mistake, and with just a few more thoughts, she swore softly to herself for being so stupid for allowing the situation to muddy her logic.

"I won't tell you where she is."

"Then tell me what I'm doing here, why did you take me?"

Whether she shook from rage or from fear, a combination, perhaps, she did not know, but her words were still sharp.

"You are very special, one of a kind in the truest sense. To some others, you would be a clairvoyant, a soothsayer, a..." He gestured to the air, searching for a word through half closed eyes, "... A prognosticator, perhaps, if you want to be fanciful."

"And what am I to you?"

He smiled with raised brows, "Exactly right, you are."

Dropping himself onto the arm of a low backed cushioned bench upholstered in a velvet red, he set the cup and saucer to balance on his crossed legs.

"To me, you are a prophet."

"Wh-What? What does that mean?"

"Definitions can be so pedantic. Let's not get lost in detail. All those words mean the same thing, but "prophet" has the connotation of someone chosen to be a voice for the voiceless."

"A voice? What am I a voice for?"

"To figure out the answer to that question is precisely why I need you."

"Why does it have to be me? Why can't it be someone else, a different prophet? Leave me out of this!" A sliver of rage broke through into her words.

"Who else could it be but you, Isolde. There has only ever been one prophet at a time since the age of divinity, passed down through descendants...chosen at their death... it matters not, you're the only one, its a terrible unluck and certainly nothing personal."

She stared at the brown water of the still tea. She could just barely see her eyes over the rim, and she felt the same as her reflection, that she too might sink deep into something that would swallow her whole.

"Then why kill all of those people just to get to me?"

"It's upsetting, I know, but it's not in vein. I'm only willing to do what's necessary to accomplish this. While I was not planning on it, we're conveniently ahead of schedule." A voice sickeningly pleased rang out from the rim of the cup pressed to his lips.

"How many have you killed?"

He looked into her eyes, studying them, studying her face, so much so that it felt as though he had stared right through them, into her mind and soul.

"How many do you see, Isolde?"

"How many...?" She asked, brows furrowed, concerned and confused.

Any excitement etched in his face slowly faded back to his regular neutrality.

"Don't worry, it is still early. But back to the root of your question, we simply need the bodies."

"Wha-"

"Mister Strauss," Rosenthal interrupted through the door, "Rawsthorne has arrived. She says the preparations have been made, and we can leave at your earliest convenience."

"Ah, perfect timing! We'll, I assume since you knew of the Queen's kidnapping," He said to isolde, "you would have known of this too, and I assume you left behind an indication of sorts."

She remained silent, and so did he, watching her as she watched him in return.

"Someone you know made an appearance today, funnily enough, though it was unrelated. These obelisks are making quiet the splash amongst you knightly figures." He smiled slyly.

She perked up at the mention of someone she might know, "What did he look like?!"

"She, actually. Sorry to disappoint, but dark hair, small build, yellow gems in the armor she wore, she may fetch quiet a hefty sum..." He said thoughtfully.

"Gen...?" She said quietly, confusion on her face.

He heaved himself off from the seat with a groan and placed his still steaming tea aside, "Well, we have to be off Isolde. It was lovely to officially make your acquaintance, I am terribly sorry that you can not bathe or get a proper change of clothes beforehand, but I will give you a pair of shoes before we leave."

With that, he walked behind her to an area blocked out from her vision.

She heard the rattling of chains and the friction of them being pulled taught accompanied by the grinding of old gears.

With a shudder, the cage lifted from the floor, leaving behind railed dents in the carpet.

Rosenthal was waiting for her once it rose completely, arms neatly tucked behind his back and a pleasant expression on his weathered face.

He gently took her by the arms and guided her to her feet, making sure not to hurt her.

"That's it, Miss Esandolyn..."

She thought to struggle, thought to fend against the two men knowing she would emerge relatively unscathed, she was trained after all, but her hopes were shattered under his vice like grip.

Unnaturaly strong, he pressed her flesh to to her bone, and to her skin, he brought the cold point of a knife that whispered persuasive threats that warned her to stay put.

Two more people entered the room, dressed as though they were attending a cabaret, blacks and whites in cottons and silks.

They swarmed her, tightly holding on to her arms and clothes, dragging her by chains made of her own limbs.

"Let us be off, Isolde."