Old dogs, new tricks. [closed]

[Storm Veritas]

The world had frozen around Storm Veritas, and his universe ebbed and flowed in a sinusoidal wave of the impossibly fast and eternally slow. The image of Shinsou falling stopped the wizard in his tracks, blood spilling from the mouth of his one dear friend as though he was already dead. A flood of emotions and images came in waves.

Guilt for the thousands killed in Radasanth.

Helplessness surrounding the moment.

Guilt for his ignorance – a metal bullet had sailed past him, into the soft flesh of his last dependable friend.

Hate.

There were things he could compartmentalize; elements that would have to wait for more existential second-guessing. For now, it was his to serve two masters; one which had him tend to Shinsou, another to seek justice for him. In a moment he was by his friends side, instantly extracting the metal round from the Telgradian’s chest with a magnetic pull of his left hand, grasping the crimson soaked round as those same fingertips cauterized the wound. Vaan Osiris wouldn’t notice the maneuver, as he was going into shock. With no exit wound where his right arm was wrapped beneath him, no blood or wetness accumulating.

“Fuck Shinsou, hang on. Who did this? Did you see him?”

Based on how Shinsou was standing, the electromancer could triangulate a guess from where the bullet came. The round had come past Storm from the left, his ten oclock as he was facing the wheat stand. A glance in that direction yielded nothing but bedlam, as the white noise around them began to distill down into discrete sounds. He listened briefly to the shrieking of women, the raucous yell of both angry and elated men, the frenzied rush of onlookers fleeing the scene. Before him, the pleading whispers of the handsome salesman coupled with his open, apologetic hands.

To hell with him. He knows more.

With a flick of his fingers, Storm had summoned the metal spool of baling wire upon the table, pulling at it violently from ten feet away. A cobra, the wire raced around the feet of the shocked salesmen, knocking his ankles as they bound his feet in less than a second. Twisting itself into a taut knot, the wire was broken with a snap of the magician, and a second coil wasted no time in binding the man’s wrists.

“Stay put. Try and free yourself and I swear by the FUCKING GODS I will flash-fry you where you lie.”

Desperation. Shinsou was staring off now, looking for answers.

“Doctor! Get the doctor!” People were moving in on him now, familiar faces that he couldn’t name in the heat of his wrath. They were desperate to help, but approached as the mouse, removing the splinter from the lion’s paw. One threatening gesture was death, and the tradesmen knew it.

Shinsou was growing pale, blood steeping from his mouth and eyes dilating. The on-the-spot first aid Veritas had applied was proving unsuccessful, for all his time learning from Karuka in the jungles of Dheathain, he had likely cauterized the skin over ruptured organs. It was a lesson in futility.

Stay with me. Don’t you die, too.

In moments Storm had released his grip about his friend, watching as the young man was hoisted atop a stretcher. Now it was the eyes of the older wizard, paled with time and pain, which were as the falcon’s; peering atop every roof for dust or commotion. Someone had seen this. Someone would know the identity of the attacker.

How did we both miss this? How did we not sniff this out?

The group of men and women carrying Shinsou were marching into a large, white Stucco building, with well-sealed glass windows and a red cross above the door, painted squarely and cleanly in neatly cut pine. With the slight salesmen flipped over his shoulder like a prize buck, Storm walked with them, the once legendary adventurer now just more heavy feet in the crowd.

For all of the travels the tandem had shared, they had earned a sense of entitlement; a belief that they were in fact invincible. Dealing death, and cheating death themselves enough time had spoiled the two, an overconfidence which they now repaid in spades. They had walked into the trap, confident fools feeling themselves invincible. For his brazen idiocy, Storm Veritas felt hopeless to walk alone in the world.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

How can this be?

You’re dead. I watched you die.

Are you alive? Are you real?

Why?

Why?

Why?!

I loved you.

“Why are you here?”

The question finally came in spoken form, but never represented the one million different thought processes Shinsou had run in under five seconds. She shouldn’t be here. She was long dead, so it was clear that he was either under the influence of some sort of hallucinogenic spell, or experiencing a vision. Sadly, a brief glance about offered no path back to reality; only a dreamscape of his past.

“What are your hands for?”

The silky voice slipped through the shadows of the valley as Rhovani’s alabaster form turned to face him.

Shinsou groaned.

“I don’t have time for riddles, Rhovani. I-“

“What-are-your-hands-for?” She interrupted, her voice seeming to shake the sands of their new surroundings. For some reason, the question battered the Telgradian. The riddle clearly held some deeper meaning, but repeated attempts to recall any sort of connection to the question and him failed. Suffocating tendrils lifted from his vision and receded from his lungs as he breathed in stale must and ancient history. Then, a pang. A tiny fragment of a thought in his mind sparked to life and muscle memory kicked in.

“To build the world around us.”

“And what is your heart for?”

For a moment, the scenery faded. Shinsou could swear that, over him, loomed three slight figures clad in white and mottled with blood. The one on the right glowered at Shinsou, bristling with energy as his hands touched the wound in his chest. Pain wracked him again all of a sudden as the main figure worked and the other two regarded him with little more than mild interest. Before long, everything was suddenly sucked back into the Telgradian dreamscape again and his body returned to its numb state. What was that just now? The flickering of reality? The rancid musk of this place returned, accompanying a chill in the air. Hard rock dug into his feet, clawing at his heels.

“To shape the world we built,” he muttered. “What is all this about?”

“But there is another part to that haiku, isn’t there Shinsou?”Rhovani replied. The hint of a wry smile played about her lips.

“For fuck’s sake,” The Telgradian swore, this time not bothering to keep his temper in check. The roots of the valley reverberated in tune with his rage. Loose dirt and ash sprinkled upon his upturned, furrowed brow. “What is my sword for?. I don’t have the answer to that one, so, now what?”

“Now, Shinsou Vaan Osiris, you understand.”

“I understand what?”

Rhovani outstretched her hands and suddenly manifested a perfect copy of Enpera, Shinsou’s blade. The movement gave her a sweet scent of dark magic and the tantalising hint of the ruins that he had once walked as home. “That you don’t understand anything at all. The world you built with your hands, and shaped with your heart, is such a fragile thing. It needs a suitable lynchpin to hold it together. A sword pointed at the hearts of friends is no lynchpin at all. That is a feeble foundation for your world; your Brotherhood.”

Shinsou’s face hardened. His voice stabbed at her through the dim motes of floating dust. “You’re referring to Philomel van der Aart?”

Rhovani sighed, and turned to smile, white teeth gleaming.

“She is your world now, Shinsou.”

The Telgradian straightened as painful shards of rock continued to dig into his feet.

“Don’t patronise me with stupid suggestions like that,” Shinsou’s glare smouldered like embers. His fingers twitched. “She turned on me. Storm Veritas is the only person I can trust. What do you want?”

“For the moment?” Her smile revealed little. “Nothing.”