“They should not attend. Not at least until we solve the blight spreading across the city.” Hours passed since his children entered his office one after another. Though Terrianis expected many of them contending his decision to participate in the present decade’s Gladiatorial Games, he ignored all their concerns. A venom brewed within him for their lack of belief in his powers, and for seeing them as fools. He knew very well, history may not repeat itself, but rhymes often as the songs of bards. Knew the Shadow ceased not with the failure of the Harrowing.
People once more feared not letting their deepest thoughts form into words, let the sparks in their souls renew the flames they choked out a dozen times already. Unknowingly aided by Dusk, who he had no doubt shall seize this moment, unveil its ambitions and renew its claim upon the promised land. War now seemed not so distant, yet they were woefully behind in preparations.
“It is true they shall mingle amongst our people, but tell me Drussaev.” Sussuovar’s honey smooth voice ceased for a moment as his dark, listless eyes looked at Terrianis, and in the seldomness of the moment, smiled. “Do you no longer believe, fear, respect the power of our father, our Elhyrissiar?” A smile he found mundane, yet glazed with certainty of his hidden knowledge gathered throughout the years. Though he still loved each of them in his own ways, at that moment Sussovar was the pillar which held the last semblance of his sanity.
Out of every single child of his who stood, straining their muscles into perfect, respectful stillness, Sussuovar achieved the most since the Harrowing. He gathered sufficient information through his agents within the reforming New Dawn, including the new presence with which the elusive leader walked about, hiding in the shadow’s dimmer around him. About the a mysterious aevhe with eyes almost as red as the assassin’s hired to end their line, and the pale orkh whose identity, past was just as clouded as Mirayroth’s.
Though he still failed in finding the stolen scrolls, nor about the location where the leaders gathered. These evaded the ears and eyes of their agents, frustrated Terrianis greatly. But could not fault Sussuovar for it. No doubt their enemy provided tunnels within the Folds of Reality, where traversing strayed out of even their perception. All things possible, because he chose patience when the Harrowing presented the perfect opportunity to cleanse the city of two evils. Now one vanished, the other lingered and festered. Despite all of that, despite the continuous haunts, Terrianis’s resolve have not wavered, he knew triumph still awaited beyond the gilded gates.
Their opening was only a matter of time, all remained is the firm push ahead. A push that manifested in the Gladiatorial Games.
“I hold no doubt in the power of our father, our Elhyrissiar. I fear more for the citizens who shall attend. I am sure our enemy plans to involve them.” Drussaev spoke, the sole son of his who shown care towards the plebeian in his office.
A fact that soothed him in regards of Albrion who simply leant against pane of the window, staring darkly onto the floor. What he contemplated, Terrianis cared little, he was simply glad Albrion ceased his naivety and wished Drussaev would followed in his example, especially after he assumed the role of the Legatius, leading the First Legion clad in the colors of Dawn.
“As much as it saddens me, we can at best just lessen the toll cleansing the city of its filth.” Angura spoke up next, sitting calmly in the chair near his desk. A voluminous robe flowed down his lean figure; the overlapping folds formed into waves of white, foamy rims thanks to the decorative seaming. His black dreadlocks unbound, cascaded down framing his gaunt head, the tautening golden beads around each reflected a soft, gilded light upon his dishonestly sorrowful countenance.
Drussaev curled his fists, his fingers croaked loudly whilst a little of his vibrant blood trickled down from his lower lips as he held back the words which clearly wished to pour forth. Proving again his lack of tact, his shortcomings as a politician. Terrianis wondered if his ways got inherited from his mistress-mother.
“We shall do our best to protect the small folk, we promise you this my dear Drussaev.” All eyes moved onto Terrianis as he arose suddenly from his chair, wishing to cease on the talks. A sigh of acceptance parted from Drussaev’s lips bowing his head in a meager gratitude. Then turned towards Albrion who egressed from his long pondering, offering a reassuring touch upon his brother’s shoulder, showing the pommel of his vampiric blade. Suspicions lingered still towards Albrion in Terrianis as he did not relent in relinquishing that awful blade, failed on the progress of learning more where the cultists took the Prismatic Lord, but thanked him for easing Drussaev.
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“How could you say that, standing on the mound of thousands my dear brother.” Terrianis froze, hearing Umbreniel’s words echo in her ears. Something lacking temperature all together tickled his sharp ears. Something like breath, yet not quite. An imitation bringing forth the lurking dread in Terrianis.
First, he opened his lips partial, preparing to banish the haunt. The more he pondered, the more he forgot. The more Terrianis roamed the libraries of his mind, the less tomes, grimoires he spotted. The more he was aware a nightmare came in the light of dawn, the more genuine the words seemed. Their hollowness faded, as did the memories of a future full of adversity. A future without the owner of the voice. But the aching vanished with the doubts he held moments ago, as the vernal winds kissed his cheeks, the festive sounds across the streets of Luth-Astaril’s first district upon the mountains reached his ears. Streets where the buildings still donned the scaffoldings around themselves, whilst at other angles shown what laid beneath and or within.
In height, Terrianis shrunk back greatly, the prismatic scales he born with gleamed brilliant, hidden under veils of multiple, lower magnitude spells affecting the perception of others, not himself nor Umbreniel. A prudent tunic hugged his form, making him itchy all over his torso, its color quite bland, under it breeches flown loosely, less irritating to wear. Umbreniel appeared much younger as she stood besides her, watching excitedly with faux azure eyes as the mummers sauntered in dramatic, theatrical manners bordering on the needlessly ridiculous, guiding paper and cloth dragons above their heads, hands wrapped about the long sticks. Dragons of all the Seven Houses.
He watched and raked his brain, what elicited the kind rebuke of his beloved sister. No matter how hard he tried, the long-uttered words seemed getting further and further as he touched upon them. It was a small thing all he could deduce. “Just look at their faces.” She pointed whilst he ruminated deeply, recalling only the regret of his own foolishness for saying it to her. “This should be the dream of our people, the dream of the Elhyrissiar. There is enough light in this world, where we should guide them not, but walk abreast of them.”
Even now, hearing the words echoing through the Folds of Time, Terrianis could not help but watch her bright countenance, drink in the words which formed his ever-lasting love for her and later Oyotarimel who trailed the North and the Seas, whose long crimson hair he still dreamt often and his heart still ached for her loss as much as it ached still for Umbreniel. He wondered if they were of the same soul, though he never asked the age of the young eastern princeipstir nor her servitors who served her since her birth.
“Truths lie naked in the brilliance of Dawn and Day, brilliance some are blinded to. Sister.” Terrianis repeated the words of their austere father. Words that formed thinly veiled contempt in Umbreniel’s faux countenance.
“I am not so sure of that.” She answered barely above a whisper. Still the sourness of her words poked at his being like poisoned daggers, yet the lock of her cold, supple hand remained as taut whilst the mummers babbled in the streets. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.” Terrianis’s hand listened not to his will, released Umbreniel who suddenly discovered something of interest within the thicket of people on their side. A little, drossy thing he never learned about, other than Umbreniel it meant to rebuke the oft repeated words of Primuinis.
For the first time in his near-century, Terrianis experienced the grueling passage of time, knew when seconds felt like small eternities as the bright colored mummers, artisans flaunting their goods marched before him. A fool he felt like, once the waiting became unbearable, a fool whose heart pounded against his sturdy chest once the pink and verdant green tinted daylight dimmed, painting the shadows upon the leering faces portentous. Eyes pointed above his head, focused on the festive show, when Terrianis glared at them. But once his eyes drawn, trying to scry through their thickness, he felt their empty gazes bringing the chill of visceral terror rippling across his being.
The feeling never left him on his journey through the manifold kindred forming a luxuriant jungle. Orkhin stood erect and firm, arkhaine collars graven into their flesh; Sylvan-Kin with flowery or leafy skin and bark growing on their limbs, on their cheeks, outlining their lips and eyes in bold shades; Humans either dusky or fair, old or young, handsome or haggard; dwarves of rough, disheveled looks or as magnificent as his own kindred who uncommonly mingled with the rest and demikins ranging from the aquatic merkiins to the beasts of the land and skies, whom the Seven never fully endowed with their schemes for a perfect mortal vessel. All different starkly from each other, all united in impeding his way from finding Umbreniel whose absence given him the greatest distress.
“How foolish were you, for letting her go.” He whispered, bushwhacking what seemed an endlessly growing jungle, but then noticed the end at last. Beyond the wall of kindred, a dark alley stretched long and wide, within he spotted what he feared, what froze him into utter impotence. A small group of ruffians pressuring a dagger against Umbreniel’s throat, a hand muffled her cries for help, wetted by her tears streaming down her cheeks.
