Bloodstained (open)

[Kefziel]

…And he came carrying the shattered lyre, and wearing the blue robes of a king, looking through eyes like holes torn in a screen. Out of his sleep, from time to time, from between half open lips, escaped the bewildered words which try to tell the tale of his bright night and his wing-shadowed day.

The charcoal print of the dagger’s outline would almost certainly leave a scar on the seared flesh of his palms, Kefziel silently contemplated as his ice cold eyes tried to take in the full reality of what had happened to him. Slumped in the rotting corner of a timber hut, its log roof slanted and broken, the lone monument to an empty settlement destroyed by his own hand, the Second Child couldn’t even feel the rare, tender Fallien rain pound his pale, bloodstained cheeks from the sheer hopelessness that had overcome him as he awoke to the aftermath of his failure.

The rainwater was leaking furiously through the vast holes in the cabin roof, mixing in with the mud floor to create pools of liquid clay that were swallowing up the feet of the dejected human centimetre by centimetre, but Kefziel didn’t react. It was as if his nerve endings had been destroyed in the events of yesterday, as if he couldn’t feel a thing. No emotion, no remorse. He felt not even hatred as he rose to his feet, observing the motionless, entrail-smothered corpses around his bare feet float on the surface of the small pool of bloodied water gathering inside the crumbling house. There were seven of them: three children, four adults, all lying there face down in the filth where they belonged. Some of them were missing limbs. Some of them were missing faces. Even as the bodies had screamed their last calls for help, Kefziel had taken utter delight in their deaths, tearing their bodies apart, revelling in pure ecstasy as their bones snapped in half like broken pencils, jumping up and down in the mud like a child, grinning with a maniacal zeal only achievable by lunatics. It was as if his mind had left his body, observing every last gory moment in full three dimensional angles, appreciating the tense moment before death where the life fades from one’s eyes with the utmost intensity. It was a feeling almost tangible, as if he could taste their demise, gorging on their pain and suffering.

But like most temporary pleasures, the feeling had left and all that remained was the cold shell, a void left by this ultimate rejection. Kefziel slowly trudged through the opening of the hut, not even bothering to step over the mother as his foot went straight through her skull, the blood smothered fragments of skull shattering with the force. He couldn’t summon the strength to care for cosmetics as he pulled his foot free from the biological wreckage and continued outside, staring down at the burnt skin on his palms as a further trail of blood and gore superseded his steps.

“Hate…I hate you…” He mumbled to himself in a cowed tone, trying in vain to wipe the seared lines from his palms in the rain, despite some part of his brain registering that those marks were likely to be permanent. As he tried more furiously to wash his palms of the scars, Kefziel refused to realise that these were markings he would never be rid of.

“YOU! HATE YOU!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, pounding the distorted image of his face in the reflecting pool of water with both fists, driving them into the ground violently again and again. He knelt in the empty, clay covered square of the timber settlement alone, his temperament exploding with spikes of maliciousness and rage that he could no longer control. He was supposed to be among the creatures ruling this planet. He was supposed to be the epitome of perfection. Why could he not wield the Dagger of Celest? Why had the gods taken his power from him?

He felt weak, and sick. As the remnants of his temper eventually faded to black, Kefziel could barely even lift his fists from the silky, slush like clay to wipe away a constant stream of tears running from his cold eyes. A heave rippled through his body as the boy vomited violently, the horrible beige texture splattering into a bloodsoaked puddle nearby accompanying the terrible shivers of illness.

It wasn’t long before Kefziel, with his weak frame and powerless arms, collapsed entirely into the ground face first, splatters of his own vomit outlining his cheeks and blood smeared over his eyes.

[Osato]

Fallien, of all places…

Sighing, the mercenary took another drag from the elegant hose. Cool, invigorating smoke filled his lungs till he could hold his breath no longer. When he came to the point of no longer able to inhale he took the elegant wooden bit from his mouth and placed a finger over the hole, as he had been instructed. Very slowly he allowed a bit of the smoke to seep from his mouth. Thin tendrils of smooth, grayish smoke danced and swirled upwards.

“Very good,” one of the men at the table said as he clapped Osato across the back. He had been in the desert lands of Fallien for only a week, but a small addiction to the popular hookah dens had quickly set in. The others at the table passed the second of the two hose hookah as Osato passed his own hose. The social smoking atmosphere was comforting and unnervingly relaxing. “Very good. Next time you get it we will try shapes.”

The broken common of the man, Sklir, was filled with assurance and confidence. Osato knew otherwise though. He had barely mustered a single smoke ring, much less any other shapes. The others at the table were diligent in their attempts, always putting forth something as opposed to nothing like the mercenary. However, they were nothing compared to the den’s owner and the expert smokers of the palace. Osato had been amazed at the shapes and depth they had put into each little puff of smoke, but his flesh had felt abuzz as well signifying a use of minor magic.
The mercenary brushed a gloved hand through his dark violet hair before responding. “Sklir, if I ever get the simple circle down I’ll be happy. Shapes? We should save those for when I’ve been around quite a while…”

Sklir and the others, including one of the two inhaling, laughed at Osato. The one inhaling cursed him in the desert tongue through a broad smile… passing the hose for his failures as well. Quickly the mercenary joined in, raising his mug of whatever it was they were drinking, and drank up.

But the laughter was cut short, rather quickly too.

The door of the den flew aside, allowing the blazing sun of the desert to pierce into the near pure darkness of the hookah den. Osato, like all the others, winced and looked away from the door. After smoking for what seemed like hours in the darkness the sudden light of reality was quite a shock. But, like the others as well, the young sell-sword looked at the doorway despite the daggers of pain lancing through his eyes.
“Brothers,” the man called in the Fallien tongue. That was about all the young man got of the obvious plea. When he had finished, and Sklir and the others began to stand, Osato followed suit.

“What is happening?” Osato asked. “Why are you going? What did that man want?”

“There has been trouble. Something has been attacked, a house or village, in the desert and he pleas for us to assist him in finding the culprit. The souls of our brothers are tormented with their gruesome death, they cry for help and we go to help them.” Sklir responded, his tone serious but also remorseful. “Come Osato, we can always use help. And it will be a good way to see more of the desert.”

Osato sighed. More of the desert? As if seeing one piece wasn’t like seeing all of it already? But he strapped on his sword and followed the others out of the doorway. Overhead the sky was being eaten, piece by piece, by the heavy, looming clouds. It looked like rain, something that the young boy had not seen yet. As he followed the others out of the small village, he watched as people began pulling small buckets and bowls, cups and pitchers from their houses and placing them along the sides of the street. Camels began to move also, towards lower ground.

~*~*~*~

Rain fell from the sky in droves. The downpour was more like a torrent, or flash flood at first. Osato had feared for them all, wondering if the soaked ground would act like quicksand and suck them down. But nothing bad had occurred in their short trip. By the time the small party got there the rain had pooled and formed a mix of bloody and muddy puddles.

“By Jya,” Sklir said as he shifted two small, glass daggers from his sash. “What has happened here?”

Osato was already moving away. The scene was by no means appealing to the sell-sword, but it was also not the worst he had seen in his time. It seemed to be a family and either friends or slaves, slaughtered and destroyed. The rain ran many of the prints that could have been potentially used for tracking, but it also uncovered all the exposed wounds on the people.

“A dagger,” the boy mumbled to himself as he traced a wound. It was not a deep cut, nor a particularly long slash. The blade was much too thin to be any regular sword, and used in a way that no fencer (or wielder of a rapier) would attack. “All this with a dagger?”

He shifted on his leather boots, the tips of the blackened steel gaiters digging into the soft sand. As he moved slowly among the bodies he looked over each, like the others were doing. That was, however, until he came upon one that was moving ever so slightly.

“He’s breathing,” Osato whispered in shock. Without hesitation he gently began evaluating the casualty. He seemed to be perfectly fine, unharmed by the blade. Perhaps it had been a magical attack on him, something internal, the mercenary could not figure it out. “Hey,” he muttered as he moved the man onto his back, tilting his head away from the heavy rain. “Wake up, hey… are you ok?”

((Heh, It’s been quite a while since I’ve actually rped. Apologies for any slip ups I may have written, and hopefully the minor bunnying is fine…))

[Xalstad]

The room was pure. There was no color except for the blood dried around Kefziel’s mouth. This was the way that the Jackal preferred it. The walls were white. His trench coat was white. Only his long jet black hair contrasted the image. The Jackal kneeled next to Kefziel’s fallen body, waiting patiently for the man to wake up.

Finally Kefziel stirred. The Jackal waited a moment and then spoke. “Hello there,” he said. Despite any reaction from Kefziel, the Jackal stood to his feet and continued. “Don’t be alarmed, Kefziel Pheos Ouroboros, nothing can harm you here.” The Jackal pulled a tissue from the air and then held it out to his new acquaintance. “You should wipe yourself off. You’re bleeding.”

Then the Jackal looked at Kefziel for a long moment, almost as if he was reading the man’s mind. “Who am I? Why am I here?” the Jackal finally broke his silence as if assuming that is what the man would be thinking. “That’s not nearly as relevant as who you are or why you are here.” The Jackal turned his back to Kefziel and looked down. When he spoke it seemed as though he was reading a book. “To say you were driven by hatred would not only be trite, but it would also be incorrect. There is something else,” the Jackal paused. “I don’t know what it is,” he contended. “You don’t dream about it.”

“But you do dream about that?” The Jackal pointed his hand to the left. On the ground was a dagger, but not any ordinary dagger. It was the Dagger of Celest. It too was in its natural color and contrasted the room. The Jackal walked over to the dagger and picked it up. He held it for a moment and finally turned to face Kefziel. “What’s so special about it?” The Jackal began flipping it into the air and catching it. It began to glow.

He stopped tossing the dagger when it was glowing brightly. “If you want it so badly, then why don’t you just have it?” The Jackal took gave the dagger one last look and then underhand tossed it to the stunned Kefziel. “In this world anything is possible. If you will it, that is.”

(I believe Kefziel will find the minor bunnying of his history to be approved. If you have any objections, let me know and I will edit the post accordingly. Ranger, if you're on a time crunch you can be the one to "wake up" Kefziel once I'm finished)

[Kefziel]

Everything was a blur. There was only pure white, an endless, colourless spectrum of which he appeared the focal point. The ground, the walls, the floor all felt like cold air, yet appeared solidified and tangible as Kefziel pressed his cold fingers into the dreamlike substance around him, sitting upright. Then, as the words of the Jackal drifted in and out of his mind like a surreal river of dialogue, in what seemed an age, the phantom-esque form of the fabled Dagger of Celest fell to his side purposefully.

“What is this….madness?”

The words, though not spoken through his half parted lips, were Kefziel’s own, reflected in the light of his dreams and made reality by this strange world. Was he dreaming? Was this a further taunt of the gods, mocking him by throwing a manifestation of his failure to his feet, begging him to pick it up once more to be drained of his strength again, to be assaulted?

If this was a dream, Kefziel could not understand how. He could feel the pit of his stomach turning upside down, his heart racing as it pumped blood to his fragile mind, the cool surroundings on the tips of his nerves and heard the words of this mysterious, white coated figure as reality would have them. Everything seemed so real here.

As he slowly put one bloodied foot in front of the other, Kefziel paced towards the discarded dagger, almost drooling at the mouth. He lusted for it. He obsessed for its power, its gift. It was as if the dagger itself was seducing him, pulling him towards its naked body, ready to take him into a whole world of erotica that he could only dream of. He could feel his loins stirring into a feeling he had never felt before…

Suddenly, as soon as his scarred fingers wrapped tenderly around the shaft of the sacred artefact to embrace it, it was all gone. White snapped instantly into black, the cool sensation of the scenery turned into the hammering of the Fallien rain upon his smeared face, the large droplets of water pounding his skin and forming forked rivers down his forehead and over his eyes. Kefziel felt the moist, shifting clay underneath his shoulders and every wheezing breath he let out from his body caused him a measure of pain he could not understand. As each sense finally kicked back into life, he opened his eyes slowly and greeted the sky with a scowl. There, where the gods were busy mocking him for his weakness was where he had been. But now there was a new face, a living one.

His blue eyes seemed full of life, full of spirit. His deeply violet hair was disgusting. Kefziel hated it. He loathed it all. It was as if he had been given a taste of the dagger’s power only to be disturbed from the omen to awaken to the face of another fool, sent by the gods to rub his nose further into the dirt from whence he came. He hated them all. Gritting his teeth in rage, he grabbed the shirt of his new acquaintance and dragged him down just enough to bring Kefziel’s lips and the warrior’s ears level.

“Get…out of…my…sight…”

[Osato]

“What do you have there?” Turk, another of the men, asked over the mercenaries shoulder. Osato turned towards the man, looking at him for half a second before responding. What he saw was an emotionless void. The expression on the man’s face was blank, not of terror or rage. Odd, the sell-sword thought, to have so lackadaisical an expression in the face of such carnage, especially because it was the deaths of fellow countrymen. Whatever moved these people to fits of rage must have been something dire indeed. Osato silently prayed, to whatever god may be listening, that he never found himself on the bad side of a man of Fallien. “Is he alive?”

Osato returned his gaze to the man on the ground. He brushed aside some sand from his cheeks, letting the falling rain cleanse his face and blood-red hair. “He’s breathing at least. I’m not sure if there is anything particularly wrong with him other than that. He seems fine, just unconscious. But I don’t see a wound on him anywhere.”

“Take care of him then,” Sklir said as he passed by, his eyes as blank as the others. The man was somewhat impressive, in an odd sort of way. He had two sides that Osato had found. One was the first side that he had befriended. It was a side that enjoyed laughter, fun, and mocking the poor boy for his outfit. It was a side that all could get along with, a side that possessed a heart so full of joy that it was almost contagious. The other side was different though, and it seemed that all the men of Fallien could snap effortlessly from one to the other.

“We don’t need another to die here,” he finished. The other side was terse, quiet, and held a deadly grace. It was one of unbridled rage precariously restrained by a mere thread of thought. To break that thread could be potentially fatal for any who found themselves on the wrong end of the rage. Osato felt the tension between all the men present, felt the calm of them as well. Both sides were traits that the mercenary longed for. Both sides possessed the true spirit of a warrior that the young sell-sword truly desired.

“Understood,” Osato said as he turned from the passing Sklir. He looked over his shoulder and the figure of Turk had also taken his leave. They were walking amongst the dead, some squatting over them, and mumbling something in their native tongue. The boy could not understand it, but didn’t care to either. Laments for the dead were personal things, things that were meant only for the lamenter and the deceased.

“Bloody hell!”

Osato jumped away. The unconscious man’s words had been a surprise, to say the least. The sell-sword had not expected him to wake, and so full of malice either. His voice was surprisingly docile, but had an undercurrent of malice that spoke volumes more than the selected words. “He’s awake,” Osato said as the others looked towards him, “He’s definitely awake and far from happy.”

“What happened here?” Sklir’s voice was trembling, barely restraining the passion and anger that he held beneath the surface. The man’s tough hand pushed the mercenary away like he was a child, despite weighing more than the desert native. Osato took the action with a grain of salt. He brushed off the sandy handprint from his clothes, what little it did made him feel a little better at least, and let the falling rain wash his clothes from the other marks of slush-like mud. “Speak! What happened here? What have you to do with all of this?”