Closed A Lost Soul [Ink]

[Keene Ward]

Winds swirled around him, the rain a curtain only feet away that kept its distance as the voice spoke once more. It was different, colder. Even in his state of emotional distress, Keene could not bring himself to interrupt at the god's inability to save Boswell. He knew it to be true and that no amount of bartering would change things, yet the words still fell upon his heart like shard of ice, digging into battered muscle with freezing pain. Yet the winds continued, unperturbed by Keene's tears, his pain, or his struggles. It demanded of him a task, a payment, for the act it was about to commit. Keene listened, the voice strong and wild like the winds that swept around them. He looked at Boswell, his grey eyes boring into the dark, bloody mess of Boswell's face. He extended a hand towards him, but the gesture was not returned. There was a disappointment, a betrayal, that met his gaze. It cut through Keene deeper than any wound that could have been given him so far. His hand fell back to his side as the wind rushed around him, lifting him from the ground and gently pulling him away from the broken figure of the hunter.

An arc of blazing light descended from the firmament, the rain instantly whipping around the comparatively puny frame. Keene watched with wide eyes, his voice rising into a hoarse scream as the lightning moved to envelop Boswell's body. The man's lips moved, blood streaming from the recesses, but his disfigurement made it impossible to tell what he whispered with his last breath into the raging winds before the purplish glow enveloped him. The crack of the lightning and brilliant blaze of its light forced Keene to avert his eyes, pulling a scraped and weary arm up to cover his face from the blinding heat. He did not see the other two streaks of light zigzag down from the rolling clouds above to finish what the first had started, but when he lowered his arm, there was nothing but an empty plot of scorched ground with nothing remaining but a small drift of smoke. Blinking, the streaks of the light he had managed to catch before he'd shut his eyes still obstructed his vision as the winds dissipated and let him hit the ground with a heavy splash.

The small eye of the storm was once more still, silent. Keene sat in the puddle, his body limp and eyes staring. Words failed him, and the only images in his mind that offered any sort of understanding to the events that had just transpired was a time, long ago, when he'd almost been struck by the same bold of electrical fury. It had narrowly missed him, but the fall from the tree had left him bedridden for an unbearably long time. He wondered if it had hurt, if the lightning had killed Boswell quickly or if he had suffered. The rage that had burned within him had vanished with the disappearance of Boswell, replaced with a strange, hollow chill as his gaze remained fixed upon the spot where the storm had removed his friend from the world forever. Forever. It was a strange, impossible concept. By the very temporal nature of humans, it was something they could not understand, and Keene was no exception.

As the rain once again swirled around him, the wind tossing it like small, weightless toys in every direction, Keene gradually rose to his feet. He could feel the dull throb of his wonded knuckles, the sting of where he'd cut open his palms, and the gentle itch that served as the reminder of the uncountable scrapes and bruises on the backs of his calves. They did not, however, bother him. They felt distant, removed from his current state of being. His injuries were of the past, much like Boswell, and only the strange sound of his beating heart and pulsing veins could be heard by him as the storm raged on around him. He took a small step forward, then another, and another until he stood above the spot were Boswell had died, where he had failed to free him of his misery. He swayed against the force of the winds, his body shifting to each side, his hair whipping in every direction, but his eyes remained affixed on the center of the burned mark. Kneeling down, Keene placed a hand over the still warm earth, the tears having stopped their journey some time after the lightning had faded and the thunder had rolled away. "Neither are souls mine to save." He blinked, pulling the hand back towards him where he stayed for a few tick, his weight pressing his knees into the muddy ground. "Mercy..." The word was muttered under his breath like a curse. Keene spit over towards his left, the very taste of the verbalized idea filling his mouth with rotten taste. As he rose to his feet, he turned to face where the wind ran strongest.

The noise of the storm had not abated, nor had it truly lessened in any way, but to Keene, the raining whirl of winds felt distant, separated by the strange, grey vignette that placed itself between himself and the world. It was almost as if he were watching himself gauge the pressure of the wind, finding there it flowed with the most urgency and letting the current take him. As his feet splashed through the rising tide, Keene's mind was surprisingly empty. His thoughts had quieted, replaced with a few, select words that echoed in the unnaturally empty caverns of his mind. I can give the mercy you cannot. Three others. Sate your rage. As he walked, the wind pressed against his back, Keene's lips broke out into a grin that failed to meet his eyes. A small chuckle escaped from between the unnatural curve of his mouth before his shoulder shook with silent laughter. The god, or whatever creature he had just consorted with, had told him to sate his anger, to destroy the abominations that had suffered in much the same way as his friend. Yet, there was no rage left to sate; only the strange emptiness of his own failure was left.

Perhaps, somewhere within him, there still burned the overwhelming fire, but for the time being his body had numbed, his senses dulled, even his thoughts had abated. He now traveled onward, no destination in mind, as he let the winds guide him. Whether the entity had any hand in the path that spread out before him on the invisible current of the gusts, Keene had no idea, nor did he care. The rain splashed against his skin, dripped off of it only to be replaced by twice that which first hit and thrice again. His laughter came easily, bubbling up from within him, as if all the years he'd spent stoic were finally catching up to him. He was so pathetic he could not even control it, nor did he even feel the need to. He had failed, utterly and wholly. There was nothing that could redeem him now, no petty task of elimination bestowed upon him by a disembodied power nor valiant act of self-giving kindness could ever change that which he was, that which he had not become but had been all along. He had fooled himself into thinking he was strong, allowed his mind to grow fat and impotent. It had cost him what pride he had never known he'd possessed, and that, in and of itself, was a pompous foolishness he was now able to see quite clearly. The pedestal he had placed himself upon without even realizing it had been snatched from under him, and he yet still fell, plummeting towards the ground he wondered if he had ever once set foot upon.

Thought was the first to return to him, and Keene utilized it fully. As he walked, his pace slow and oblivious to the world around him, his eyes twitched back and fourth as memories flashed through his thoughts like the lightning. Each held significance: a failure, a reminder of his uselessness. The more he saw, remembered, the more he felt. The more he felt, the more he felt the hate rekindled. He let it burn, allowing it the fuel it had been deprived of for so long, stoking it into a blaze as his pace quickened and the fall of his boots became more and more forceful. The waters of the prairie spread out before him, and his body moved across them, sending cascades of grey and dismal liquid in all directions as he passed. The laughter had long since given way to the bright, shimmering glean of his eyes, the blaze of hatred burning bright in the grey tinted reflection of the sky and the earth. He had lost a pride he'd yet to acknowledge. He had discovered a lie in his humbleness. He had embraced a rage that had burned from the beginning of his conception.

When the shadows shifted before him, Keene immediately stopped, res dripping from his fingers like the rain, pooling at his feet. Without hesitating, he flung the liquid forward, his hands twisting the shape the myriad of strands of res into wicked looking spears as they hurtled towards the direction of movement, transmuting into ice with a snap of his fingers. He was beyond reason. He had found a transcendence in madness that brought him a strange balance of peace and absolute loathing of both himself and the world his hated being was forced to partake of. There was little that could stop him until his rage had run its course, but if there was one thing beyond death that was right for the job, it was certainly the displeasure of a god. Keene, however, was not concerned with the possibility of failure of the god's request, for there was nothing he would not do to fulfill it. It was a debt owed, and one he could never repay no matter the tests and trials he was subjected to. Until the day he died, his life was bound to the storm, and it was a fact he accepted without a second thought.

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[Ink]

The lightning strikes drew attention from across the prairie. Although Zulrav’s strikes had more power than any reimancer could ever manage, Reimancers were able to create lightning. The three strikes looked decidedly like a distress signal. Well worn leather beat against the ground in all out sprint. Even breathing from years of survival on Sahova and swift feet brought the rugged man to Keene’s location. The display of reimancy went unnoted although the other initiate saw it. There was skill to judging when to approach wizards, it was a crash course lost on Keene whose job was to ensure solitude not safety.

When the gruff voice finally interrupted, it was even and steady but held an air of command. “Keene, what’s all this?” The scene that fell before Darin, one of the prairie initiates, looked entirely too chaotic. It appeared as though, for whatever Keene had come to the prairie chasing an abomination, but none should have escaped from the testing grounds. The storm didn’t help, the gravity it gave to Keene’s actions made him seem disparate. Carefully the initiate stepped up and placed a firm hand on the reimancer’s shoulder. He smelled of oil, wood smoke, and a handful of leaf-hidden soil. There were many things about the morpher that inspired comfort, but those who had seen him in action knew it was the social-face of a very dangerous coin.

He wore his scarred armor like a badge, his single vambrace ensconcing his right arm, the one he touched Keene with. “Come on boy, step away from it. Tell me what’s gone on here. Is there an enemy?” Though he was drenched in the deluge and his armor moved less smoothly for it, he was no less battle ready. Among the elements and monsters was the place of the Warden, and no initiate was closer to the title than Darin.
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[Keene Ward]

The shadow had been nothing more than that: a shadow. The ice passed through the downpour harmlessly, disappearing into the gathering darkness. Keene stood and stared off into the distance where his spell had been swallow up, his jaw clenched tight as the rain dripped down around the tightened muscles. His hands stung from where he had cut them, the blood having begun to clot. The wind whipped at his back, his front, his sides, the direction lost the moment he had stopped. Having no idea which way to go, Keene simply remained inert. The island itself was not overly large. He was certain it would not be longer than several seasons before he or the other initiates found and destroyed the alchemical failures, but the inevitabilty was hardly comforting. If anything, it was infuriorating. There was no redemption to be found in retribution taken into the hands of others, yet there was also little to be gained if he himself did it. Each of the creatures, for that was what he had decided to call them, had been people at one point. They had had lives, purposes... friends. Now, however, they had to be destroyed. He would give them the mercy he could not give Boswell. It was hardly an even trade, but it was one he would make none the less. If the winds did not want to help him, he would do it himself.

When the sound of a voice reached his ears, for a moment, he thought it the storm once more. The hand on his shoulder, however, was far from the ethereal embrace of the airy entity, and Keene responded quickly. Twisting, he threw res out from his fingertips, flicking the water and the bluish liquid from them, letting it hover in the air like quivering beads that defied the flow of the precipitation. The sight that greeted him, however, was so far from his expectations he could do little but stare uncomprehendingly at the other initiate before shakingly drawing the res back in through the exposed skin of his arms. The man before him, Darin, was dressed for combat; his professionalism in his particular field of expertise seemed odd but not so much that Keene's aggression was quickly - if not with a great deal of effort - pushed aside for the time being. Taking in a few, shaky breaths, Keene replied to the man's questions. "An enemy. No." He paused, his eyes focusing on the drops of rain that swirled about between them, deepening his frown with their wild journey. "I have been... Tasked."

There was an authority to Darin's voice, once that was reminiscent of Atziri's own tone she employed when particularly serious. He respected the morpher, much more than Kinapak - though both were impressive magic users in their own right -, but the storm had spoken to him, and him alone. He had zero rules of etiquette that directly pertained to the particular situation in which one was commanded to rid the world of a particular breed of monsters by a disembodied voice of terrible primordial strength and subsequently faced with what was, for the most part, another in a superior position of affluence using a line of interrogation that may or may not have dire consequences should lies be told. He was not, however lying in anyway. The abominations were not enemies. If anything, they were friends. The though shot a sharp pang through his heart, slightly increasing the rate of his shaking that had just started to still. Staring at Darin's concerned face, however, began to sway Keene's opinions.

He had zero hope of finding the creatures on his own without the help of the storm. There had been the push at his back that had led him to the spot the two now stood, some short distance from the Forest of Thorns in what was, essentially, the firm edge of Darin's domain. If anyone - the storm aside, as it was not particularly a "one", rather something more along a "many" - were able to locate the others, it was the Prairie initiates. He wasn't thinking clearly, and his initial flow of consciousness was far to muddied to be of much use to him at the moment, especially regarding the initial assumptions and perceptions. Letting out a sharp, frustrated lungful of air, Keene shook his head, clenching his hands to send the pain of the recently closed cuts running a jagged line up his forearms. "Not an enemy, no. But there are pe-" He stopped himself, a small bubble working its way into his throat. He swallowed, pushing it downwards before letting himself continue. His breakdown had been wild enough to send shock waves through his entire psychology; returning to his prior cognitive functioning - at least in the sense of a facade - was going to take more time than a handful of chimes walking in one direction being battered by a sentient storm.

"There are creatures that have escaped from the labs." His voice was hoarse from the screaming, and his typically smooth, chilled manner of speech was lost behind the wavering timbre of his current state. "They are-" He swallowed again, letting his clenched hands relax some as he ran a hand through his sopping hair. "They aren't dangerous; at least, I don't think they are." Boswell had been rather passive, but there had been extenuating circumstances that certainly called for it. What the others were like, Keene couldn't say. He supposed it didn't particularly matter, as he had resolved to dispatch them the moment they were spotted. He wasn't sure how it would affect him if they were to speak to him, and he wasn't set on finding out. So, for all intents and purposes, the experiments were benign and had to be destroyed. He was absolutely certain it was something Darin would understand, though he was much less confident in his own delivery of the situation. In the long run, he wasn't sure if he wanted Darin to be suspicious of him, but in that moment, he merely required Darin's help to achieve his goals. He would deal with the repercussions of his actions or inactions later, if he was able to do so.

"I can't find them." The words sounded incredibly juvenile to him the moment they left his lips. They were childlike, whining. He was so pitiable, there was little room for anything but contempt of himself in his mind. He tried again, raising his burning grey eyes to meet with Darin's. "Will you help me?" The request for help was followed by information taken from Boswell's explanation. Keene had already clearly recognized he was far too weak to do anything on his own. He would grow stronger; he would rise to a position of power from which he could control his life in a way that he was currently unable to do. For the time being, however, his detestable weakness had to be embraced. Darin's help was necessary, and Keene wondered if the storm had thought the same. Even nature doubts me as I doubt myself. "They are creatures of earth and stone, alchemical failures in the pursuit of invulnerability." Keene grit his teeth, Boswell's words ringing in his ears, eliciting muted feelings that had ravaged his emotional being well past the breaking point only a short while ago. Gathering himself, he spoke through clenched teeth, forcing the words until he finished with a more manageable diction. "I found... One. There are three more. They smell of rotting soil." The last bit was added for tracking. He knew enough about the magic of morphing, thanks to Kinapak's demonstrations during the fire in the fall, to know that form as well as abilities could be altered to suit the situation. The scent of the creatures they were seeking was, by far, the most efficient way to find them. It was certainly better than wandering around aimlessly - though he supposed even that hadn't quite been the case, as he had been following the guidance of the winds.

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[Ink]

Darin nodded solmenly. “I see.” Was all he said, acceptance and commitment in two words. The morpher could see now, Keene was not the mage gone mad but the catalyst for something more. Every time the two had met, Darin had seen a stark and withdrawn intiate, like a pup who’d been taken from his litter too soon. It didn’t matter now, whether Keene was aware of it or not he had a new pack. The Wardens and their initiates did not always agree but they always stood together when it counted. It truly was us versus them, for the few pulsers with power on the island of the walking dead.

Hefting his pack from his back, the morpher placed it against the rock outcropping though he stayed back from the obvious scorch marks. His armor came off quickly, evidence of his years donning and removing it. Beneath his warden’s battle garb, he wore simple linen trousers and tunic; clean and simple. Those quickly made it into his backpack. Darin, lean and muscular, had a number of scars over his body. Bright scraps of flesh against sun-darkened skin. From one moment to the next, the man was there and then the hound dog.

Rusty red with a black saddle. Darin shook his head sending the floppy ears and extra skin twisting around his muzzle. Stretching his back legs out the hound dog jumped forward, nose to the earth. One way to find the the other abominations was to track back their scent. If they were kin that had crossed paths. The rain was a problem but unless a trail directly into the blood hills, the prairie grasses and shrubs would offer some hint.

Beneath the soot and death the hound found the magically twisted scent of Boswell. If it had been a true dog not a morpher or kelvic there might not have been intelligence to say this scent was the target. The russet canine tromped forward his nose low but off the ground. Involuntarily his tail wagged. Darin began to lead the way through the mottled grassland and back towards the forest of Thorns. Before they reached the forest edge, Boswel’s trail indeed intersected with another’s. This other being smelled equally elemental, but the specific element alluded the morpher. Switching to this new path, he led Keene into the woods.

There sheltered by the monstrous trees, was a more obvious path of broken branches and blood. Darin had no doubts this path was correct, but he worried with this much blood other predators might be stalking the transmuted human as well.
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[Keene Ward]

Darin spoke two words, two strangely comforting words that fell against Keene's ears in a gesture far more soothing than anything else he could have done. He felt his shoulders loosen some, the pressure that squeezed his heart abated enough to beat again. He had an ally, and a powerful one at that. The winds had died down some, though the rain continued its never-ending descent. The emotions that had twisted themselves around him still clung to his djed like a disease, but for the time being he felt able enough to press against them, to subdue them. His shaking stilled, his body coming more under his control as the anxiety faded a considerable amount. Whether the winds had brought him Darin or the man had come of his own volition mattered little. He was there, and Keene was glad for it. There was a strength about the other initiate that Keene allowed himself to lean on. He was not so foolish to think he wasn't severely weakened by his emotional state. It was rare for him to get worked up about anything, and the extent to which he had lost himself was much more than he should have been able to handle. In truth, the only thing that kept him standing now was a combination of Darin's silent reassurance and the regret that filled him from the inside out.

He stood and watched as Darin disrobed. For a moment there was a tinge of surprise in his grey eyes before he realized the magic of morphing did not extend to one's clothes. Kinapak had been nude for almost the entirety of the time they'd spent fighting the fire. It stood to reason that Darin didn't want to be impeded by his clothes, and he was quick at their removal. The leathers slide off in several fluid motions, followed by the simple garb beneath. Keene's eyes traced the myriad of scars that ran the length of the man's entire body as he stuffed his belongings into his pack. There was a slight rippled in his skin, and then his frame shrunk and twisted into that of a hound dog in a matter of ticks. The dog, Darin, shook his head, stretching out his new limbs and testing the environment with his nose. Keene moved forward then, gathering up the other initiate's pack while the dog trotted over to where Boswell had once been and began his investigation. The rain that bounced off of the solid leather bag on Keene's back filled his ears with their sound, giving him a moment of blissful thoughtlessness until the dog started off towards the forest.

Keene fell in line behind Darin, the pack considerably heavier than he had anticipated. He kept his mouth shut as the rain ran down his face, masking the few tears that still seemed to trickle from the corners of his eyes. He wanted the night to be over. He wanted to be in the cavern, to be with Atziri. He wanted to go back and stop the damnable nuit from ever laying hands on Boswell. He wanted to- Darin had stopped a few feet from the forest, snuffling against the ground, snorting out the water his nose managed to inhale. With a short hesitation, the dog headed directly towards the forest. Keene squeezed his hands into fists, the dull pain from the cuts on the heels of his palms forcing his attention on the moment at hand. As they entered, there was a definitive path of broken brush and bloody trail that most certainly was their mark. The rain ran patchy beneath the spiny canopy, too uneven to completely erase the sanguine leavings of whatever had come before them. Darin continued onwards, undaunted by the murky, hostile environment of the Forest of Thorns. The bushes that had not been beaten down caught and scraped at Keene's legs, but the scratches went unnoticed as he peered into the gathering darkness in search of anything resembling a humanoid.

Many thoughts streaked their way across his consciousness. The most frequent was that of the possibility that the creature ahead of them was a piteous as Boswell. If that were the case, Keene resolved he'd had to kill it. It was a far throw from atonement, but he owed Boswell that much - and the storm as well. With Darin leading the way, Keene had little doubt that if he faltered, the morpher would not. That fact meant he would have to react quickly and without hesitation, lest his small amount of retribution be stolen from him. He could not blame Darin either, it was simply a matter of his own weakness. As they progressed, Keene gazed ever more intently ahead, his frown deepening as the patchy light that snaked its way through the rain filled air only partially illuminated the area before them. Darin suddenly stopped, a halt that nearly knocked Keene off balance as he moved to do the same. Ahead, there was a figure, a definitive shadow that stood hunched beside the straight silhouettes of the trees. Keene placed a steady hand at the neck of the dog, signaling that Darin remain still for the moment. In his other hand he pooled a sizable amount of res.

With a fluid twist of his wrist and a thrust of his arm, the res launched forward, breaking into a handful of smaller spears. As they hurtled toward the form, the shadow shifted, darting forward. Keene's focus didn't falter. He swing his arm outward, willing the spikes to shift in their path to realign with the movement of the feeling creature. With a snap of his fingers, the spears became a cool, whitish ice that sliced through the underbrush. Two collided with the creature, eliciting a howl of pain. The remaining stuck in trees and the ground around. Feeling a chill creep up his left arm - the right having lost feeling some time before he could remember -, Keene lumbered forward, the weight of the backpack slowing him, but its presence completely forgotten. Whatever it was he had hit thrashed in the bushes ahead of them, a wailing cry of pain splitting through the heavy air, muffled by the roar of the thunder above.

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[Ink]

The creature howled. As the two initiates drew near it became clear it had indeed been one like Boswell, only different. This one was a woman, her eyes swam in madness. What had once been organic spheres were now water, hardly constrained in her skull. When she moved to fast they dripped out onto her cheek. Her howls descended into a mewling cries, struck though she was by the two icey spears.

Her vicious attack had abated immediately and she hobbled back into the crook of gnarled roots. Her hair drenched was a mass of blonde tendrils,” Whhy?!” She screamed through the blood slowly filling her airways. If Keene dissipated the spears now it would end her in earnest.

She took a deep gurgling breath and her eyes filled with water, once again seeing. Although what she was seeing was not Keene or Darin. “No, do not take me! No, Please! I beg you my daughter needs--” her voice escalated into an unintelligable screams intermediate with horrible drowning gasps. Blood drooled and frothed from her mouth.

Darin made no move towards the abomination, Keene had the lead. If he wanted information now was his one and only chance before the woman’s soul was freed of its mortal vessel. Or if he wanted no tidbits, Darin would still lead him forward towards the next. One of the two might be less immediately violent. The initiate had seen a number of terrible experiments by the Nuit set free upon the testing grounds. These ones were particularly horrific not just because of their malformities but because they were a reminder of the place of Pulsers upon the island. Everything the Wardens stood in spite of, but could just as easily become if they betrayed the council or drew the interest of the wrong Master.
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[Keene Ward]

As Keene approached the woman, he found that instead of the dreaded tear at his heart like Boswell had given him, there was a only a hollow coldness as he gazed down into the literally watery eyes that stared blindly about. She had writhed her way into a nook created by roots, shuddering from the pain of both her mind and her body. The spears protruded from her shaking body: one off center of the middle of her abdomen, the other an awkward jab through her ribcage. The punctures were fatal, but as they were, they kept her blood, for the most part, within her. She screamed, and the sound hit his ears like white noise. His grey eyes stared unfeeling at the mess before him, the worries of what he would do if he met another abomination fading away. She spoke of her daughter, of her fear, of her pain. None of what she said took any hold upon him. His preparation and worry had been for naught, as Boswell's death had been his ultimate shame, the woman was nothing. His eyes took on a dull sheen as he stared down at her, his frown playing at the corners of his lips.

Her screaming increased in volume as she fell into unintelligible rantings. Keene drew nearer to her, his movements forcing her to push up against the thorns of the tree, puncturing her already bloody flesh with the woody protrusions. Her screams escalated, the water dripping from her eyes as she flailed half-heartedly, the spears restricting much of her movements. With a firm hand, Keene gripped the woman's leg. She kicked at him, the blood and spit flying from her lips as she protested. Tightening his grip, Keene forced her leg into stillness, and with it fell her cries until they became little more than the whimpers of a dying woman. When he spoke, the calmness of his voice was surprising even to him. It flowed with the natural fluidity that he usually employed. He found he was much calmer staring into the terrified, bloodied face of that which he had been dreading than at any point that entire night. "What was his name." It was a demand. The words passed from his lips with an authoritative lilt, the urgency present but masked by the cold tone of voice. Her whimpering paused as her blind eyes stared at him, his own warped reflection swimming in the strange, watery sockets.

"Y-you sound like him... C-calculating... C-co-"

Keene squeezed her leg, digging his fingers into her flesh. The crushing force elicited another string of whimpers. She was dying, and Keene needed information. If he was comparable to the nuit, so be it, but he needed the man's name. He needed to put a face to the atrocity that had befallen Boswell. What he could do with the information, Keene didn't know, but if he knew, there was a chance he could do something. As the woman was now, she didn't have long to live, even with the spears keeping her from bleeding out. He didn't have time for her senseless drivel. Keene could feel Darin behind him, watching him. He wasn't sure what the other initiate thought of what he was doing; he wasn't sure what he thought of what he was doing. It was something that had to be done, and the chilled emptiness he felt inside that had filled him the moment his panicked eyes had set themselves on the broken woman had given him the ability to do just that. Letting his grip loosen some, Keene asked again. His voice was cold, unfeeling. "What was his name."

The woman paused, staring at him. Her attention did not waver for a moment as her lips moved, the blood dripping from them like some grotesque fountain. With the Wizard's name in hand, Keene stood up. He stared at her, his eyes for a moment flashing with a hint of something deep and dark. Drawing out a handful of res, Keene leveled his hand with face. "Djas nader roza-chat." The res exploded from his hand, twisting into wicked blades that snapped into icy razors, slicing through the woman's face and neck. Blood splattered the roots behind her as her body fell limp, the spears shifting as the corpse slumped to the ground. The icy blades had lodged themselves into the roots and trunk, their sharpness cutting deep wounds into the tree. Keene took a moment to stare down at the carnage, the chill in his fingertips reaching all the way to his heart - or was it the reverse? The bits of the woman's face remained, scattered on the ground like mismatched strips of fabric. In a low, nearly inaduible whisper over the rush of the rain and the sizzle as it hit the trees and ground, Keene muttered, "Djas alas-nader kasai-pechit." It had been a long while since he had used the ancient tongue to cast or chant, but it had seemed appropriate.

Turning from the lifeless corpse, Keene nodded at Darin and the pair headed even deeper into the forest. In his coldness, Keene had found resolved. His footsteps fell steady behind the padding of the dog before him. His eyes stared ahead, alert and searching. The time for his weakness had passed. He had discovered it, suffered for it, and now he was to change it. Whatever repercussions awaited him, he would push through. He had wavered in his convictions twice, and twice he had been dealt mortal blows that had nearly claimed his soul. Now, he refused a third. He would fulfill his side of the bargain with the disembodied voice. He would strike down the failures of the alchemist. He would begin his atonement for his own failures. Revenge was not something that he was capable of. He was upset, or he had been, but he was not so foolish as to think he could act against the undead wizards of the island. No, revenge was not an option to him. Instead, he would steel himself. He would grow stronger, smarter, faster, until he possessed the abilities to destroy what should be destroyed and protect that which should be protected. A shiver ran down his spine at the realization, but it carried with it a gravity far beyond anything he had yet experienced. The island had claimed him.

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[Ink]

Darin lead them in a circle before turning them back, back on the dead woman’s own trail. The thorns scrapped at the hound’s coat, leaving a score along his rump but the initiate didn’t stop. He led Keen back out of the forest and to the point where he had branched from Boswell’s scent to the woman’s. At this crossroad of scents, the hound whined. It was an odd noise from the competent woodsman, but it was all he had to describe what he found to Keene.

There was a third scent, he had initially missed it. Rather than following this one directly for Keene, her rose his muzzle and pointed, his tail flying straight back. The hound faced the first Canyon of the bloodhills. His fur plastered against his sides mingled sweat and rain. Darin was no coward but he was no reimancer either. The res that leaked across the plain was all but invisible to the hound which tracked a scent. In a burst of flame it struck his side. The woodsman dodged left throwing his canine body against the ground.

Behind them, from the woods came the third monsterosity. It was a man, whose every follicle of hair burned like an unending wick. Where it touched his skin, he burnt like parchment. Boswell had been earth but this man’s body burnt under the weight of the horrible experiment. Voices, disembodied and unsouled spoke in the madman's mind. They all screamed to murder and burn. The tops of his ears bubbled and boiled, the flesh weeping against the fire’s lick.


He exuded more res, his an oily substance slicked over his palms.With air and fire a rippling ball of flame flew through the intervening space towards Keene. This abomination would not take a spear of lightning or ice so easily as his kin.

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[Keene Ward]

Darin led them back out of the woods. Whatever trail he had been following had ended at the feet of the now departed woman. The scrapes and scratches solicited by the spines of the trees spared neither man nor hound, and the warm rush of the tropical storm only served to further remind Keene exactly how many uncountable wounds he had accrued in the last couple chimes. As they broke out from the forest once more, the rain still fell in a translucent wall, obstructing their vision beyond anything a about a foot or more. As Darin pawed his way back toward where they had come, he let out a whine. Keene frowned down at the other initiate, not well versed in the speech of canines. He followed where the dog pointed with his noise, an indication that it led into the Bloodhills, a place beyond Darin's jurisdiction. Nodding, Keene motioned to move onwards, starting to remove the pack from his back in order to let Darin reclaim his belongings.

As he looked down at the hairy beast, there was a strange, dark liquid that seemed to move on its own. Before he could alert the initiate to the formation of res beneath his feet, it erupted in flame as Keene let out a sharp shout of danger. Darin's years as an initiate were not spent for naught. He threw himself from the flame, avoiding what could have been a deadly spell, and landed heavily on his side. Flicking his attention back towards where the res had come from, there stood a blazing pyre of screaming flesh. How the two of them had missed the brazier of madness, Keene had zero idea and didn't spend much time dwelling on it. He was hardly able to take in any details at all before the man launched a wild burst of flame towards him, propelled by a blast of transmuted air. Wasting no time, Keene threw both arms to his upper right, res flying from his fingertips as he drew the rain, water, and whatever other liquids responded to his bluish res before jerking his hands back down towards the ground. A wall of water pulled itself from the surrounding air, the rain's haphazard directions culminating on the focal point of his defensive shield of water. As the flames hit, Keene continued drawing in the water around him.

Steam exploded from the watery barrier, the heat passing through the liquid and slamming into Keene's face with a blistering acidity. The ground at his feet was completely dried, all the water that had pooled in a three meter radius had been pulled into the watery spell. Peering through the murky, transparent wall before him, Keene could see the man was preparing to attack again by the wild, uncontrolled movements that seemed all the more exaggerated by the twisted shadows his flames cast. Pulling his hands even with his chest, arms bent, Keene took a deep breath before shoving his hands forward. The water responded, a bulge in the side closest to him as he drew it back before it exploded like a geyser. The aim may not have been perfect, but the width was large enough that accuracy was of little concern. Keene force the res forward, the speed of the water far surpassing the rate at which the rain fell. Keeping his eyes on his target, Keene hissed at Darin as the rain that had been pulled into his spell had already been replaced by a new deluge. "Darin. Are you alright?" The amount of res he'd extruded had been minimal, as there was plenty of his required element to make use of. The spell had been less about destroying his opponent and more to give him a short break to make sure the other initiate was alright, and to see how the other creature would respond.

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[Ink]

Darin barked and staggered to his feet. Parts of his fur was singed black and still smoking. He staggered his first few steps but eventually his paws scored the earth with confidence. Drawing next to the other initiate the hound’s hackles rose.

Behind the man of fire and rage another figure hide within his shadow. The combatants mirrored one another. Keene and the hound, the transmuted fire and a tiny ethereal frame. The fourth entity was no taller than four feet and its limbs sickeningly thin, the telltale signs of a short life confined to Sahova. Her hair was an ephemeral white-blonde and wafted gently on a breeze of its own, regardless of the impacts and blows of the combat.

The man drew back and pitched another flaming projectile at the duo which sizzled against Keene’s shield of water. With it came an echoing voice, fighting the barrier between anguish and madness. “You will not have us fiends!. We will not be your toys, you will not murder us too!” His lucidity fleeting in between his attacks and babbling.The smaller one hid behind his legs, burning or not, it was clear who she taught the monsters were.

Darin Brushed against Keene’s leg. These were the abominations sought by the Mt. Merlus initiate and the morpher would take no lead. Although his scruff itched for combat, his human mind was beginning to reevaluate it may soon be time to call in Riyanna or Atziri. If these two proved too strong for Keene and Darin to triumph he would seek one of the great guardians of the testing ground.


Small murmurs whispered across the wind between fiery impacts. “Please don’t” came a coo, “I don’t want to die.” The voice was female without doubt and lacked refine annunciation, either never having been taught or with an untrained palate. “I’m scared!” The voice rose into a wail and the winds went from breezes at the reimancer’s command to razor winds, tearing against the watery shield with every screeching cry. No doubt this was the abomination that had managed to draw the storm God's attention to the entire matter.
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