Quest Shattered Cycle

[Alses]

As they drew closer, the auras of the place came into sharper, more detailed focus, whisperings of light and life and intimate joy – the brush of phantom fingers, caressing her face and breasts and body with light and wondering touch – all poisoned by a creeping, weeping miasma of grief and shadowy sorrow. It touched and strummed and thrummed and played on her red-raw heartstrings, dancing through her aura until she began to mirror it, feeling tears start to roll into her eyes and her vision – her true, physical vision – start to blur.

“Prizes are immaterial,” Alses murmured, slightly coldly, defensive, fighting against the rising tide of sadness that was not entirely her own, a beating wave of it that washed, desolate, through the otherwise bright and cheery home. And it was a home, that much was certain – probably the strange lady's, if her evident familiarity was anything to go by. “Reasons and causes are more pressing, before more people tumble off the city. Or are pushed.”

She flinched at the buzzsaw of wounded words that lashed out, serrated red-and-black in the aurist's world, an involuntary whip that wounded on the mental plane rather than the physical. She tried to be charitable; it was probably just the result of that deep, abiding unhappiness that sucked and suppurated in the aura – and thus in the mind – of Illia, but that didn't mean it didn't cut. Ethaefal had thin skins, on occasion.

“Only whilst Syna shines in the sky,” she replied quietly, instead. “At the setting of the sun, when the last ray of sunlight fades, we'll be forced into a mortal sack of flesh again, a half-ruined thing that shouldn't be on Mizahar at all.” Too quick, too clipped – there was her own personal pain, sharp as shattered glass, forcing its way through her usual armour. There was another of her kind close by – Ayda – and that continual grating presence was only doubled by the fading impressions of the Lethaefal who'd dwelled here too, the twofold reason for the thinning of her defences and the weakening of the serene mien a celestial Ethaefal wore like a mask and imperial cloak. She made an effort to return to urbanity, though her success was dubious at best, her voice still a little clipped, her tone a little sharp.

“But, since I am, and since there are wonders even here, I wish to know who or what seeks to return us to Lhex – and perhaps the Goldenlands – against our will. One of our number tumbling from the peaks was unfortunate. Two? Unnerving.”

Alses had to look away from Illia's slight, distracted figure at the mention of Lena and her love – the bright tsunami of ardent love and loss crested in foaming pink and brown, rushing outwards as though to embrace the whole world and then, just as quickly, pulling back, falling apart, being swallowed, greedily, hungrily, by the gray and black holes in Illia's mind that suckled on her every thought. Another flinch – the image struck an unsettling chord in her brain, that of the death of her master in Zeltiva, at the hands of a Voiding ritual gone horribly wrong, his body mangled and worried by haywire portals that were no respecter of persons. This...this looked as though it could so easily shape itself into the mental equivalent, a realisation which sent a nauseating shockwave through every fibre of her being.

Thankfully, as she bit her lip so hard it bled – sluggish bronze, and stinking of sweetness on the point of turning – to contain her rising gorge, the ghost-lit panoramas of the aurist's perception receded, faded, the faint shadows of physical objects rising and darkening to prominence once more as the overlay of glittering skeinwork paled into insignificance in a matter of a chime or so.

Her hands had bunched the rich crimson fabric of her dress, she realised with a start – with an effort, she relaxed them from the claws and absently patted the rumpled material into some semblance of order. It was only when Illia's awed question reached her ears that she looked, once more, directly at the Kelvic.

She couldn't help her eyes filling with a certain amount of pity as she looked upon the girl – although it was perhaps not for the reasons that might have been expected – the recent death of a lover and the sickly feeling of a mind focused on loss almost to the point of madness, seeking escape in an activity – any activity. That was why, surely, she'd been gardening, anything to stop the shrieking roar of thought and escape the cosy bower of lovers' memories the home had been.

Every Ethaefal had been there, at some point, though – loss of that magnitude, and far greater, was par for the course, to a certain extent, although never pleasant.

No, it was the revelation of her Kelvic nature that provoked the greatest reaction from Alses. Flicker-lives, even by the standards of mortals, Kelvics burned brightly and died fast. A handful of decades, at the very most, and often not even that, before Lhex demanded their presence and Dira cut quick the skein of their life. A total and unsettling contrast to the endless spool of existence an Ethaefal had, no rush, no hurry, plenty of time to sit and watch the world go by without worrying endlessly about being one step closer to Dira's cold embrace.

How did the Kelvic stand it? And, more to the point, how had Lena, her Lethaefal lover, stood it, knowing that, in the proverbial blink of an eye, all the cosy warmth and love which echoed and re-echoed from the walls and furniture all around would be ash and memories?

A thought struck – perhaps she hadn't, perhaps this one was just that, a suicide, unable to reconcile eternity with brevity. 'But then,' Alses quizzed herself, at the speed of thought, 'Why isn't that evident here, under the recent loss? Why can't we feel a deeper distress, a lengthier worry, a festering pain?'

Perhaps she was getting tired – but she'd only just started to use her powers, her reserves were in rude health, as a quick check confirmed. This was getting her nowhere – she pulled back, just a bit: no sense in wasting djed, or in being careless.

'Question, Alse,' part of her brain prompted, insistently. 'We've been asked a question. An answer is polite. Remember?'

Alses cast a glance sideways, at the silent, uncomfortable-looking figure of her Synaborn compatriot. He looked to be on the verge of flight, deeply unnerved by everything, and – if he was anything like her – by the presence of another Ethaefal. Still, he was here. For now.

“For the moment,” she allowed, in reply to Illia's question. “We do not like one another's company, it's true – old memories, you understand, still fresh and raw as though they were made but a bell, a chime ago.” A weak smile. “The lot of the Ethaefal. That said, it can be...dealt with, borne, at least for a little while,” she said, with difficulty – Alses and Ayda hadn't exactly had a lengthy dialogue on the way to Lena's house, after all “If the need is great – and we consider the deaths of two of our undying kind reason enough.”

A pause, enough to let that sink in, and in that pause a thought, a memory from poor Arture and how he'd described the vultures, circling and worrying at him before plunging in for the kill, drifted to the top of her mind. “If we might ask...did you notice anyone – or anything – unusual around your garden and home? Odd presences, people, movement when and where there shouldn't have been any?” She grinned, suddenly.

“We suppose everyone who's badgered you before us asked much the same questions. On that basis, therefore: Is there anything you've perhaps thought, in hindsight, you should have mentioned to your previous callers, but didn't?” It sounded a little accusative, hanging in the air like that, which was decidedly not her intention, so she hurriedly added: “For whatever reason,” in what she hoped were mollifying tones. “Fatigue, anger, sorrow.” The last came out almost as a whisper, an inexplicable lump in her throat doing its level best to choke her words. A great deal rode on tone and expression, Alses was learning, and Illia was on a knife-edge; a misplaced word, even a misplaced inflection, might ruin the whole tenuous affair. Alses hoped – fervently – she hadn't made yet another faux pas in her questioning – there was so much still to learn about even the simplest of conversations, and still more about something as...as fraught, as charged, as this.

[Lu Gavima]

Lu simply stood by and watched the scene unfold before him. His attention was first on the woman who named herself Illia, whom he nodded to in regards to the hail. This daughter of Syna seemed to identify more with the woman, her interrogation style a thing to learn from. he was more accustomed to a harsh and more stern route when it came to questioning, but in this case, it made little sense to push this possible witness.

Her pointed note of two separate incidents was indeed troubling. While the Ethaefal tended to carry a sadness with them, Lu could not recall any being so lost that they threw themselves off of the peaks. He did have questions, but it seemed like a lost cause to badger this person, whatever a Kelvic was. It seemed like a familiar term but Lu was unsure of what it meant. They were short lived, apparently, but he saw no reason to dig. Instead, his eyes examined the house itself. It seemed very homey and inviting, which made the Shinya doubt that any shady dealings had occurred inside. the crime scene, if there was one, was outside after all.

His mind returning to the conversation between Alses and Illia, he heard the mention of Ayda and had nearly forgotten that the quiet Ethaefal had been there. So much silence seemed suspicious, but again, it would be too convenient for the Ethaefal to be part of the problem. Lu would keep his eye on Ayda, however. Alses had asked the important questions. Unusual people or activity, as he was sure the responding Shinya had covered. Perhaps her style would prevail in finding new clues. He still felt as if there would be more answers around the outside of the house. More than that, perhaps the lack of his uniform, which Illia had no doubt seen plenty of, would bring more answers.

"I think I will have a look around outside, if that is alright with you, Illia. I am sorry for your loss." Lu stepped to the door, which had remained slightly open and passed through its threshold. he pulled the door closed, leaving it ajar and remaining close should he be needed. His vigil had two distinct purposes. One, he wanted to insure that there was no one interested in the new and clandestine investigation. It was always a possibility that those who committed a crime could return to see what was going on. The second and more important factor for Lu was to watch for Shinya patrols. As he had considered in the Plaza, his superiors could easily dispatch guardsmen to the area to investigate the investigation. He couldn't have that.

[Elysium]

The words ‘undying kind’ evoked an imperceptible wince in Illia, stabs of resentment surfacing and fading away. ”It’s good you’ll have so much time for consideration,” she said, clearly embittered. ”You may actually learn tact, as your endless years roll by.” Yet just as it was said, she was plagued by regret. This last piece of feeling seemed too much for the woman to bear, and just like too many sweets in a bowl, everything came tumbling out. Illia turned in silence to face the glorious Ethaefal with tears openly streaming. ”I can’t… I’m sorry.” Choking back an earnest sob, she sat… Head in her hands. ”Please… Give me just a tick.” The feeling of her heartbeat and its many sanguine arms rose up through her skull and drowned away her grief. Meditation. The sound of her breath shuddered in and out between chafed lips. Back and forth. Inhale, exhale. This repetition, the sounds of her mortality, brought her a strange sort of peace. The lack of thought allowed her to continue living, continue moving forward even when her heart was stuck in place. ”Go on, Mr. Gavima.” Mopping her eyes she rose, leaving the guests alone in the house. To the intrepid aurist, digging beyond this loss seemed nearly insurmountable. Yet in the resulting silence, the walls suddenly sang a song of dedication and hope. It seemed Illia’s presence had simply diminished the other half of the tale. In her absence, Lena’s emotions left deep marks upon the place. Her love was written loudly on every surface of the house in large bold letters. Lena, an Ethaefal willing to give up her immortality for the brief, sublime taste of true love. Reckless, stubborn, happy. Yet despair approached, a dark sense of foreboding… Concentrated, as if from a direct source and one that drew closer, at that. In the form of a book. Illia re-entered in almost complete silence, holding a frayed journal in her hands. ”This,” she began, handing the mass of papers to Alses gingerly, ”is what I did not show them.” She couldn’t explain why, but the presence of other Ethaefal seemed right somehow. Alses in her unintentional arrogance reminded her so much of Lena when they’d first met… Perhaps the two might have even been friends, in the right circumstances. She brought Illia hope. Continuing to dry her eyes, she explained. ”I didn’t trust this with anyone else…” Panic and desperation roiled off the object. ”This was her journal. Read the last entry, please…” She turned the page. The letters practically screamed off the page, almost too much for Alses to bear. ‘PLEASE HELP. Illia, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry my love. I don’t have much –ime,’ The words seemed partially obscured – by tears, perhaps? There were blots all over the page, black as the ink. ’There is someone following me. I have been – rking on – solve – disappearances. People are dying and it’s made to look like an… Please save the Ethaefal. One for day, one for night, I think they’re after Tal- and –sel… I have seen flashes of their aura… Red and brown, BEWARE. Once you meet their eyes, your will is not your own. They are – gerous, someone’s hireling no doubt. It’s too late for -, I can feel them everyday now. It’s the same as all the others…’ The message slowly devolved into incoherency. Illia looked at Alses desperately. Meanwhile, there wasn’t much to find outside of the dwelling. The bushes rustled lightly in the breeze, as if tousled by a paternal hand. Everything seemed at peace – aside of course, from their newly acquired follower… The same strange aura was out there, just as described. But only an Aurist could detect such a thing, as this person took great pains to stay concealed.

[Alses]

Ah. Tact. That ever-elusive siren she tried – generally in vain, it had to be admitted – to capture. She was, perhaps, getting better at the intricacies of conversation, but there were so many pitfalls – not all of them relating to words, she was learning; body language, expression, inflexion and much else seemed to play a great role – that it seemed impossible to avoid all of them.

Her feeble apology hung forlornly in the air as Illia all-but fled from her presence, but there was no time to dwell on that, not with the walls suddenly bursting into life, singing a symphony of love and life as though a dampening veil had been lifted – and in a way, it had. The shroud of grief that mantled Illia had been pressed in moaning skeins against the walls, a burden that had obscured the deeper memories all around, and now that she'd gone – only to another room, admittedly; her gray, depressed aura still sucking at an aurist's senses – Alses was all-but blasted with the older impressions.

Love, fierce and passionate, roared and sang to any and all with the senses to hear it, a wild thrumming rhythm that positively demanded one follow it, get swept up in its insistent call and damn the world as you danced. A smile touched Alses' face, distant and listening with arcane senses, but beauty was soon marred by a storm-purple and bruised-black shimmer, a blackly throbbing point that twisted everything around it. On the mental landscape, to Alses it appeared rather akin to a storm, a boiling charivari of roiling thunderheads, building up rage and voltage and hanging fire like the Sword of Damocles.

Foreboding, that was the word people tended to use for the feeling, the sense of great forces directed to uneasy intent or for the sensation of events starting to turn rotten. Alses was already turning when Illia returned, eyeing the poisoned blackness oozing and dripping from otherwise-innocuous paper and leather of a small book cradled in her hands.

The grieving Kelvic seemed to have regained her equilibrium, restored from the apparently-tactless nature of Alses' questioning – although as she drew closer it was evident this wasn't entirely true; Illia was still wiping away tears that stubbornly kept reforming at the corners of her eyes and tracking down her face in tickling rivulets.

There was more than a hint of sniffle, too, in her voice – but Alses was at least canny enough to know that pointing this fact out would not be advisable. Besides, there were more important concerns – and key among them was not flinging the book as far away from herself as possible when Illia pressed it into her hands, eyes red-rimmed and sore, voice still hoarse.

Alses didn't need her confirmation to know it was a journal; memories uncurled from it in moaning strands – underneath the fear, terror and desperation of more recent times, that was. As it touched her flesh the creeping foulness slid over her skin – she couldn't help the convulsive shudder that started in her fingertips and rolled inexolerably over the rest of her flesh.

She had to force herself to look, to struggle against her own learned instincts, to keep a stranglehold on her powers and to focus exclusively on the shallow physical world – insofar as that was possible, anyway.

As she read the tear-splotched message, her fingertips pressed into the paper until they were a bloodless white. “Red and yellow, red and yellow, always red and yellow. Not again. Not after this.”

Fine tremors were chasing one another across her skin as muscles creaked against the restraining framework of bone. Carefully, she folded Illia's hands close back around the journal, fighting the urge to run for the sink and a lot of soap. The fury and the sadness helped a lot, in truth.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice trembling - whether with rage or sadness it was impossible to tell. “We don't need to tell you to keep it safe.” She paused, struggling with the words. “If I should ever find myself in this terrible mess, we would hope to carry ourselves with even half your love's grace. I know it might not help much, but I know what to look for.” Two testaments, two sets of dying words, one written analytically, detached, the other spattered with tears at the knowledge of death drawing near from inside her brain. It couldn't be a coincidence.

“They won't – can't – hide from my Sight. I'll see them – whoever they are – brought to the judgement of the stars, this we promise by the infinite energies that sustain me. There's no place for murderous shadows here.” She rose and swept a deep bow to Illia – actions were always easier than words, after all – preparing to leave, to inform Lu about all she'd learned and then to hunt. If that was the right word, of course.

Already, she was thinking, planning. The killer had doubtless thought themselves clever indeed; no blood on their hands, no rich stuff-of-life fusing dying and living djed together in the final instants, no crimson-limned shout in the auristic aether broadcasting 'murder' for any aurist to see, loud and clear. Nonetheless, they'd become so focused on their deadly work their aura had frozen, for want of a better word, at least when they were on the hunt. Red and yellow, stinking of blood and chilling the ambient currents they passed through, the same impression recorded by two separate accounts, linked by tragedy. Arture and Lena, hopefully the only two who would fall.

[Elysium]

Reckless hope and fury flooded her eyes. ”It was murder, then.” She’d known it all along. ”Lena had always been so steady… I caught her in the morning one day, suddenly agitated. The whole table was littered with papers. She kept rambling on about magic and some man… Some summoner, I think he was.” Overwhelmed, she nodded to Alses’ bow. ”Please,” she urged, fresh tears beginning to pool. ”Find them and make them pay.’ The hard, bitter edge of hatred punched each word. - The observer hissed. He’d long taken notice of the enterprising little detectives, most especially the Synaborn named Alses. Dusk Tower had taken care to shield against him at each point of entry – clever, but not unbeatable. Ald’gare thought himself so shrewd. The old fool would get his due – they all would. But for now, the damned aurist had his scent. There was only one course left and it’d risk exposing it all. He could wait no longer. Slowly he stole out toward the pair, hoping to draw them onto the scent. Too close and they’d attack. Very carefully he moved away, through the city, toward the heart and soul of Lhavit, the Zintia. - ”She what?” Chiona nearly choked on her tea. ”Father, you can’t be serious! How long have you let this go on?” Ald’gare relaxed opposite her, dark eyes filled with amusement. He bore his age well, a robust seventy-two and still just as handsome as he was in his youth. ”Since late Winter, perhaps longer. Shara from Bharani had me notified shortly after their first meeting and since then, she’s kept me informed. Seems a certain someone is feeling dissatisfied with their lot in life.” Lady Dusk was garbed in a rose gown, gloriously beautiful, her mane of dark hair cascading over one shoulder in lazy curls. She spluttered with rage. ”My student. My prodigy, and you let her waltz right into a lion’s den! She is an aurist, Father! An intellectual! Why on earth would you not tell me? And further, why didn’t Shara tell me?!” Her tirade was now in full swing. ”She could have been killed like all the rest! She is mine! My prodigy!” Her voice shot up a few octaves. ”Now dear, don’t have a fit. You do realize she can handle herself.” Chuckling, he nursed his cup. ”Plus, I found her first.” ”Fit? Fit?!” Just as she had as a child, she banged her foot on the floor, sending the silver tray between them rattling. ”You’re going to give me fits, alright.” He shook his head. ”Still a brat. When you inherit the Tower, I hope you show more delicacy than this.” He was answered with a colorful string of expletives. ”I had the place shielded. Her little henchmen couldn’t find his way in. That gave them something to think on. I have a few people tailing her, just in case things go south. Just trust me, Chiona. Alses never fails to impress.”

[Alses]

Alses' grin was cold and showed teeth. “With pleasure,” she replied. “Syna and Leth and all who loved Lena and Arture surely demand it – and even if they don't, the safety and serenity of our home does.”

As she reached the door, she half-turned with a faintly melancholy smile on her face, voice soft and low. “Courage, Illia. Take care, hmm?”

The garden was pleasant, drenched in sunlight and almost pathologically-perfect – the result, surely, of Illia's relentless gardening, anything to keep away thought. It was easy enough to find Lu, leant up against the lee of the house and mostly-obscured from casual view by a miniature fadeong's extravagant display. His current position was a good one, she noticed; able to watch the approach and the doors without being surprised from behind, and the faint contrails of his aura, the disturbed eddying of the ambient currents, told her he'd walked carefully all around the place more than once, alert for anything unusual.

“An edifying chat,” she announced heavily and without preamble, eyes dark and troubled, nervous. “If a morbid one. The same person who murdered Arture Synaborn in Winter killed Lena, that much is certain. Red and yellow in an aurist's sight, an impression trail wide as an ox-cart and cold as ice, the same for both of them. We believe they're a mage - or mages, actually, now we think of it - of some sort, too; Illia said Lena mentioned something about a summoner one day, when all of this first began, and there was a warning in her journal too – don't look into their eyes.”

A sigh. “We lost the trail once before, seeing it melt into the city, but we've grown more skilled since last I tried, and besides this is fresh and new, there won't have been time for it to dissipate and grow confused.”

Alses took a long, calming breath, settling herself in comfortably beside the Shinya. The air was cool as it flowed over her open lips, between the barriers of her teeth and sluiced down into the secret darkness that kept her alive, filling and emptying in a regular, unconscious rhythm. Thump-thump-thump-thump, there went her heart, its rhythm faster than usual but still regular, still dependable, a useful focal springboard to bring order from the chaos of her thoughts and open the way to her hidden soul and centre, a bright nova garlanded with lakes of liquid light for her delight.

Delight, that was the usual reason for her auristics, to glory in the world - so long as one was careful, careful, always careful! Look too long, look too much, and just as the Sun would blind the unprepared the deeper mysteries of the world would do the same, and much else besides.

Not today, though - there was a much more serious use at hand. The susurrus of a whispering wind winding through the bushes and grasses of the garden caught at her ears - an effort of will saw the pounding roar of her heart and her bronze blood redouble in volume, the shushing sound dying away as she focused more deeply, pushing away sensations - the rock beneath her rear, for one, prickling through her clothes, the itch on the back of her left hand, the fly buzzing curiously around the bright flare of her crown-of-horns, dazzled and confused, and much else besides. It took time and effort - mental, rather than physical, but bolstered by her focus, calmed and centred from the whirling maelstrom of emotions that she'd emerged from, the power came docilely to her command.

Alses looked around with more than normal senses, now, twisting thick skeins of djed out from the plentiful reserves held tight around her bright core and channelling them almost effortlessly through the broad conduits to her eyes, her mouth, her ears, her skin, allowing them to play and feed off one another, a beautiful synergy that echoed and re-echoed through the fabric of her body before bursting out from the physical confines in a thousand thousand weaving tendrils of numinous intent, each one hunting and sifting through the warp and weft of the ambient djed of the world, looking for the flaws and the disturbances, the clues and telltale signs even the best of camouflage couldn't hide.

It didn't take long to find, a shout in the aurist's world, a curling rip, almost, in the normally-serene impression of Lhavit, stinking of rich red blood and stained with...was that greed? Perhaps – the tendrils of crimson, cargoed with life-on-the-brink-of-death, the colour just on the edge of turning, like old blood rotting where it had splattered, were wound tight over the more ephemeral flashes of yellow – that part of it her Sight interpreted differently to the records the others had made. Alses, with her all-senses approach to the discipline, sensed it more as a sinister thrum skipping between light and sound, the edges of the notes curling off and shedding a mustard-yellow glow that was hard to pin down, hard to capture and examine, especially in the middle of the mass of blood, past and present and hungered-for in the future.

The coldness, though, the ice of determined revenge, that was there all right, sending ripples of gooseflesh chasing across her fire-opal skin and shivers right to her bone, as though she were being caressed with ice, leaching the bright warmth out of her soul. She exhaled, and was surprised not to see it puff out in clouds of dragonsbreath, before logical thought reminded her this was springtime and the middle of the day: any wintry coldness she felt was an impression burnt by an individual's passing, nothing physically tangible.

She shook it off with yet another convulsive shiver, shock warring with determination and fear inside her brain; the trail was close, so very close, and so fresh she could almost taste the physical features, see through the hazework of impressions, sense sweat on skin, listen to the clothes' fabrics hum their quiet histories in her ear and experience emotions, such as they were, washing over her.

“I have it! The trail, the impression of our killer as they move through the world - it's right here,” she hissed. “Right here, so close and so fresh we could follow it even if we were a novice, surely – did you not see anything, Protector? For it to be so clear, so visible, not muddied by the ambient currents and the bustle of the city, our killer had to have been right here, only a few chimes ago at most.”

She nodded towards the largest and grandest of the peaks, ringed with rainbow bridges and glowing like an earthbound star, even in the daytime. “The trail is heading down Sartu,” she murmured, the distance of an aurist's far-reaching Sight returning to her features and slackening their expression as she checked. Alses glanced at Lu, all corded muscle and hawkish, intelligent eyes, perpetually poised for action and always drinking in the world around him. She was torn between action and prudence, the two fighting inside her, but this was surely more his domain than hers, now - and then there was movement, a flicker of it, a touch, just at the edge of her normal field of view but well within that afforded by her power - and the diminishing figure screamed of red and yellow and coldness, the impressions of his aura rolling off in stinking waves, battering against the delicate ambient and her senses both.

Subtle as a brick; how had he evaded detection for so long?

"That's him!" Her voice was low and urgent, strangulated from a high shriek. “Should we follow? Now?”

[Elysium]

Following would prove to be the easy part. As the killer moved further into the city, they moved slowly, leaving a trail along the way. It wound across the peaks and down side alleys, nerve-wracking areas of desertion. Yet it never doubled back, never disappeared. They moved steadily toward the epicenter, the place of final confrontation. Up she went, step by step, until the reality was apparent. Alses was being led to Koten Temple. The door was left ajar. Within she'd find no Shinya attendants, no priests or priestesses roaming about. The whole atmosphere was rife with tension. Fingers of cold grasped at the heart, touched by an aura so completely devoid of love it chilled even the ambient djed. The whole atrium was colder than a catacomb, dimly lit by the smoking candles, wicks burning ponderously still. In the center of the main dais stood the Anchorite Hayani. She made no move to turn and face the intruders. ”So you have come.” Her voice was monotonous, lacking true inflection save for the tiniest hint of distaste. ”It is good to truly meet you, little cat.” Slowly she turned, robes rustling softly. It was almost as if she were eternally frozen and expressionless, her colorless eyes glittering, eyelashes adorned with what almost looked to be freshly fallen snow. Her entire countenance was graced with it, sparkling in the cool light. Two translucent horns, so reminiscent of the Okomo, pointed sharply up toward the sky. ”The little stray cat that became too curious. She leaned up, to glimpse her reflection in a ceramic jug. But she leaned too far and fell in. Tell me, Alses.” She took a step. ”What happens to little cats when there is no one to hear their cries? They scream, they yowl… And then.” She showed her teeth. ”They drown.” She’d been collecting a tiny ball of Res, which then bolted forward in the form of a harmless jet of water, streaking past her shoulder harmlessly. It was a game. She laughed, a heartless sound. ”Not just yet, but how I love to see you afraid. Do you not realize how long I’ve waited for this? It is divine mandate that Lhavit is to be mine. It always has been.” She moved down the stairs further, stiff and unfeeling. ”You hope to leave here. But you will never live to breath in the sunshine again. I despise you and all other Synaborn. You who so resemble Talora in your ripe, radiant beauty.” Step by step. ”Women who win the love of other Lethaefal, of princes and kings. But I – I was made to sit by Zintila’s side. I was chosen by Syna and Leth, the best of all their children.” “And yet I was made to be the fool. I brought wealth to this city. I brought opulence, the likes of which will never be brought by the hands of those cloying, senseless fools.“ Her voice finally trembled, thick with outrage. ”Talora disowned me. Aysel spurned my advances. They stripped me bare and sterile, so here I stand. Alone in my Cathedral of Ice, my temple to nothing.” But she smiled, a sickening expression. ”You will beg for you life in the end. And I will laugh as I tear you apart. But no one will come. No one will know. Your Shinya is gone and we are alone.” She gestured expansively. An invisible hand seemed to shoot forth, fingers tightening around Alses’ supple throat. It began to crush with impunity, pressing the wind from her esophagus all at once. ”Die!” she cried. ”I don’t think so!” Someone cried, though it was through the impending haze of blackness. It was a familiar voice, comforting, yet so very far away. A tongue of flame lashed out, licking at the outline of her assailant. The invisible hand fell away, allowing her to breathe once more.

[Alses]

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The careful, cautious pursuit took most of the long afternoon, the distant tracking of an apprently-endless trail through the glittering buildings of the peaks. Up tier and down tier she'd trailed and tracked – thankful for her background as a courier that ensured she knew a plethora of shortcuts through the shining that aura reeking of murderous thoughts and coldness. Time and again, it darted into blind alleys and cul-de-sacs: perfect places for ambushes, making her slow to a snail's pace and examine every flickering shadow and change minutely, her senses honed to razor-edges as she inched forward, only to breathe out a sigh of relief that her quarry had merely paused here – perhaps to catch their breath – and then moved on, the chill-burned trail through the city leading her onwards, ever onwards.

Even the grandly monumental expanse of the Surya Plaza didn't slow her down; there were crowds, yes, but one look at her as she glided across the skyglass flags, blazing like a bloody star as the light of the setting sun lanced across the city, and said crowds parted for one of the Forty-Eight about their business without any quibble. In any case, the foul aura of Arture and Lena's killer had raged and fulminated in her senses for bell upon bell - it was getting close to twilight, now – and it was still so strong, beating on her senses so much that Alses, or at least that little part of her with nothing better to do than think idly, was privately sure she'd have been able to follow it even as a novice.

Koten Temple, looming vast and imposing before her in the sunset, gave her considerable pause for thought. Indecision gripped her on the rainbowed skyglass steps, seeing her rocking, shocked, on the grand causeway that led up through its colonnaded portico to the vast entryway.

'A member of Zintila's priesthood?' she thought anxiously, face lit with rainbowed coruscation from the very stones of the vast edifice, imbued with Zintila's power to glow the brightest of all the buildings in all the city – even her own Tower, the Tuwele, didn't shimmer as brightly as the Temple itself. Alses, it had to be admitted, was confused and somewhat frightened by the treacherously-insistent thought of a snake in the ranks of the priesthood that served Zintila and the city. The Constellation were the ultimate zealots of the celestial city, in direct service to the Starry Queen – they couldn't have a viper in the nest, could they?'No, no, it can't be, she'd reassured herself – it was probably a ruse, a trick, something to throw her off the scent.

And then she remembered her own words to Sel'ira and Shara in Winter, about the smoke-and-mirrors position of the Ethaefal. A bad apple could crop up even in the most exalted of groups – why not the Constellation?

Brow furrowed, Alses' unwanted, unwelcome thoughts treacherously continued: 'Mind, if it was a member of the Constellation, then someone has to find out who – and perhaps what their next plans are, too.'

Alas, that 'someone' was her and her alone, even with the sky empurpled by the approaching twilight and despite her own tiredness, having tracked the perpetrator through most of the city.

In some ways, the fast-approaching Change would be a good thing – no-one, including her quarry, would associate her ugly mortal chain with the shining Ethaefal, surely, if they'd even noticed her following, and the many atria and hallways of the Temple, her thinking ran, would offer so many places to hide the hated Change. On the other hand, she'd be stuck in her mortal chain.

No choice, really – who knew when she'd get another chance?

Flitting across the threshold just as the Change took her, she thought she'd been clever – as the last of the golden lights vanished and left her in the detested (but, this time, useful as the most perfect disguise possible) mortal seeming – and she thought she was prepared..

Such was not to be, however. Even though she took care to step cautiously, in the superb acoustics of the grand atrium of Koten Temple, her footsteps boomed on the skyglass. They were all the more prominent for the desertion: in the deathly-quiet entrance hall, most unusually, there was nary an acolyte to be seen, nor even the reassuring but unassuming presence of a guardsman on duty, protecting the holy places of the city.

The grand atrium of the Temple, impressive as only something with the full resources of an entire city lavished on it could be - a space spangled with rainbow light and bedecked with silken banners – was completely and utterly deserted, something that set alarm bells ringing in the back of Alses' mind. Frigid, too, an icy coldness that was far more than just a physical chill, despite the candles glowing all around and the shimmering, warmth-exuding skyglass. In the middle of it all, as Alses peered cautiously around, reeking of wounded pride and a love that had turned to ice and ashes, was the Anchorite herself, the assured centrepiece and source of everything that had cooled and chilled the chamber, even overcoming the divine warmth of the skyglass with her power.

This was not the slightly-melancholic figure who had always seemed to play second fiddle to Talora and Aysel - when Hayani appeared at all, that was, her role having been reduced to a figurehead and her continued existence a warning. No, this was a much more malevolent manifestation, a truer exposure of her mind and soul, even if the priestess' beauty was undimmed, still gut-wrenching to see. The exquisitely-attired Anchorite, glittering like fresh-fallen snow with her horns two spires of ice and the whole of her as pitiless as winter, exuded death and coldness, an icy resolve that matched her arctic appearance and, indeed, Alses' own skin, gliding across the acres of floor with predatory intent.

Silk whispered in her wake as she approached, her smile was cruel, her eyes bright with the prospect of imminent redress for something.

'Syna preserve us,' the tiny, rational core of Alses whispered, bright and clear over the confused cacophony of the rest of her mind that had erupted as soon as the Anchorite began to speak, her tones lazily measured, monotonous and tinted, oh so very slightly tinted, with a soupçon of emotion. 'She's gone potty. Anchorite Hayani's as mad as Sahgal! What is she talking about? Cats? Drowning? We're Konti, we can't dro-'

Alses' thought was cut off and she flinched as a sudden jet of crystal-clear, icy cold water shot over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the chill of its passage on her skin and taste the water on her gills. Where had that come from?

The unwelcome answer whispered itself in the vaults of her mind – 'Reimancy' – even as, with a fine disregard for discretion being the better part of valour, Alses opened her mouth to point out that, on the contrary, Lhavit wasn't the Anchorite's – Lhavit was Zintila's. And Syna's. And Leth's. And Tanroa's. It belonged to every citizen who'd ever lived here, every traveller who'd passed through the crystal gates and marvelled. It's a city, it's not something any one person can own.

The words died a-borning in her throat, though, as the Anchorite ranted on – still in that eerie, creepy monotone as she sailed down the majestic double sweep of stairs that led to the higher, more rarefied floors.

“You're-” she didn't get any further; the viperish Anchorite lashed out with yet another form of magic – Projection, this she knew. Cruelly, Alses could see its approach in her Sight, feel the intent gathering in the poisoned aura of Zintila's former champion, but the assault was too fast for her to duck or dodge and sought her delicate neck unerringly, squeezing cruelly tight, pinching shut that vital pathway even as she struggled helplessly, lifted effortlessly off her feet.

'Yes! Yes! Whatever you want, please, just make it stop,' Alses thought wildly as the phantom hand clamped cruelly tight around her throat, leaving her hanging and helplessly fighting for air, hands scrabbling uselessly at nothing. There was just nothing to grab onto, nothing she could do to free herself.

'Even though you've gone completely mad, I'll beg for my life if we can get just another breath!' The thought shocked whatever was left of the normal, conscious Alses – life was addictive, it seemed, and the thought of returning to the cycle an unpleasant one.

Fuzzily, even as consciousness began to desert her to the pounding roar of her heart fluttering dangerously in her breast and her lungs bursting with the effort of futilely trying to draw in life-sustaining air, her brain raced as it had seldom raced before, senses wide open to the world and drawing in every single detail, even though her sight began to blotch and darken, drawing absolutely everything in and charging through halls of memories from lives past and present to find something, anything that might be relevant.

Suddenly, blessedly, just as her world had narrowed to a few pinpricks of light in the darkness, her head ringing to the mournful sound of drowned bells, there was sudden release – her airway gaped wide, freed of the cruel pressure and Alses gasped hoarsely, collapsed in a heap on the floor, sweet air rushing down to fill the secret darkness inside her, to kick-start her fluttering heart and to galvanise all those bodily processes that had begun to stutter and fail in its absence.

Still sucking down greedy gulps of suddenly-plentiful air, vision still teary and blurred, Alses looked around frantically, trying to find who – or what – had saved her, from whence that bursting flash of heat had come and, most crucially – where the mad Anchorite was.

'Where are you? Where are you?' she thought frantically, struggling to get upright even as her air-starved muscles screamed at the punishment. 'Where can I escape to? Where can I get sanctuary? Who saved me?'
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[Elysium]

The shape was familiar to her, distinctly masculine. As her vision began to clear, she’d recognize him almost immediately. It was the violinist from the Philharmonic of all things. Aoru. He was conjuring Res freely, hurling fireballs at the incense Hayani who was unable to fire back, interrupted in the midst of projection. Another phantom blow struck, this time blunt force knocking the boy to the side just before he was plowed over by what looked to be… An Okomo? The murderous intent seethed in its aura, so much that the beautiful iridescence of its horns were streaked blood red, marbled with unholy brown. There it was – the colors that predominated his essence. Both appendages stabbed into Aoru’s body, blood flinging across the skyglass floor. But before he could even react, a great snarl erupted from behind Alses’ crumpled form. The wolf stalked forward, bearing fur the color of midnight. It was no average wolf either, but one of massive proportion, as large as a Rashkari - maybe larger. Those molten gold eyes seem to recognize the Ethaefal and the beast passed her by, muscles rippling before the strike. Hayani saw it and screamed, but too late – for the gargantuan closed within chimes, teeth encircling her windpipe. The sounds the followed were sickening. The sound of wet, tearing flesh, blows raining down upon the creature from projected fists… But even the power of magic could not stave off the brutal assault. Meanwhile, the Okomo flung it's prey forth, turning back to defend the Anchorite. It let out a scream, a bloodcurdling din that echoed in the great hallway. Aoru’s body was limp for a moment before he struggled to his feet. ”Gods,” he said, spitting out his own blood. There was a great cavern just below his heart, so deep that one could see the flickering blue lights of the lanterns from the other side. The Okomo slammed heavily into the wolf and in a flash of light, what started an Okomo was instead, a man. He tore at the beast, still screaming. Aoru staggered over to Alses, grinning. ”Hey Sela,” he said before he dropped to his knees. ”It isn’t so bad, is it?” He peered down and recoiled immediately. ”Forget I asked.” And then he passed out. ”That’s enough!” Before the melee could go any further, a voice so great as to rock the whole temple, rang out. It was deep and sexless. The fighters froze and in the midst of the doorway stood Ald’gare Dusk, flanked by Aysel, the earthbound form of Talora and none other than Zintila herself. ”I will have no further bloodshed in my Temple.”

[Alses]

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The violence was stunning and sudden, the serenity of the normally-tranquil atrium shattered by the hungry roar of flames as they were conjured and splashed against immune skyglass and by Hayani's mingled cry of rage and pain.

With the Anchorite's attention diverted to the new assault – much more pressing than a defenceless aurist – Alses was able to struggle to her knees at least, teeth gritted against the pain of the effort shrieking from starved muscles.

Her eyes unerringly sought the fight, the cold star of the Anchorite matched against a much more ordinary figure, one whose silhouette, whose movements were familiar, somehow. Memories of the Azure Festival tickled her brain, and of a dashing violinist with a wicked tongue who'd performed opposite her and needled at Lili A'realia...what had his name been? It began with A, didn't it?

No time to think of that now. Hayani's robes were smoking from several near-misses; Aoru and the Anchorite seemed evenly matched, if only by dint of the continual barrage of fireballs disrupting Hayani's concentration, but Alses knew that it couldn't last: a mortal musician matched against half a millennium's worth of experience and training was a foregone conclusion. Without help, anyway – Alses railed and cursed at herself, her own weakness, even as she cast about desperately. There had to be something nearby that could serve as a weapon, something – anything - she could use to help somehow, to bludgeon the madwoman into submission and unconsciousness with, if she could just stand up, could just overcome the air-starved weakness in every part of her body that Hayani's merciless assault had left her with.

She cursed the twilight and the Change, a foul litany in her head – a few chimes earlier and the Blessing would still have been within her grasp, the true-blue flare that would have taken away the pain and weakness in an instant, but now that Syna's energies had left the world for another night it was all she could do to kneel and watch whatever happened helplessly, praying fervently to every deity she knew – Syna, Zintila, Leth, Tanroa, whichever came into her head – that her saviour would be triumphant.

Despite her prayers, though, the scales tipped against Aoru as a whirling dervish of unholy brown and corrupted red blood streaked across the flame-scorched floor, crashing into him – no, impaling him and then tossing him contemptuously aside in a spray of vermilion blood.

She might have called out, she might not have – events were rapidly becoming surreal – and as an aurist, her threshold capacity for surreal was perhaps greater than most. There was a vast wolf, oddly familiar, snarling and growling and charging straight for the smugly victorious Anchorite, whose grin turned to a horrified scream as the beast snapped at her throat and whose charge bowled her over. Powerful projection magic battered and bruised the enormous creature's sides, but it was too large to be blasted aside, too close for reimancy. Five hundred years of experience came to Hayani's rescue once more, though – the conflict was brutal, all the more so as Aoru's bloodied attacker turned back to defend the Anchorite.

Alses watched, helplessly, unable to do anything, even to call out – her voice had been crushed down to a hoarse and reedy whisper. Aoru staggered over to her; some deep-set instinct saw her try to rise, to help him somehow; the two of them tumbled back to the hard skyglass floor together, bright blood spilling from his wounds.

Alses' gorge rose as the coppery stink of fresh blood and at the sight of Aoru's grievous wounds – the Okomo horns had gouged two great holes clear through his chest, and torrents of bright red arterial blood pumped out from broken vessels with every contraction of a fluttering heart, the organ sickeningly visible in the ceiling of the cavern torn through his torso.

“Gods above,” she breathed, eyes locked to Aoru's chest – or where his chest should have been. By rights, the stench and the sickening sight of someone's innards pulped and torn out so close should have made her world sway and have her scrambling away as quickly as she could, but all she felt was a sort of dulled numbness. Later on, she'd have classified it as shock, perfect and pure, overriding almost everything. There was wetness on her cheeks, tumbling tears she made no attempt to stop, and her hands were sticky with his blood. Her clothes, too, were stained with ever-increasing amounts of it as more and more life fluid pulsed out, and fragments of shattered bone scraped under her trembling fingers as she ineffectually gave what scant comfort she could to a now-unconscious man who'd stepped in to save her with no thought for his own safety and now lay dying in her lap.

“We need a healer,” she whispered, voice choked and reedy. She tried again, barely registering the eminent quartet now present in the Temple, grateful in a distant, unimportant way that the fighting had ceased. “We need a healer,” she said again, stronger this time, her voice carrying further than her own ears. “One of Rak'keli's own.”

Another neuron fired through the shock and mounting revulsion; unconsciously, she clutched Aoru a little closer to her, as though proximity could be any sort of shield. “And where's the Anchorite?”

Vengeance wasn't in Alses' heart, not yet - she was just afraid the madwoman might still be at large somewhere, might still try and kill.
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