#novalign

There was not a soul in sight save for the two. Not a chirping bird or woodland creature prancing about. In that outcast dimension, only Avallac’h and Aaravos seemed to exist. As a matter of fact, it rather surprised the former that he’d materialised in the place in a non-spectral form… Its reality was different than his own, distorted like a jagged mirror’s reflection. At once he was convinced that destiny had brought them together, but did not share his thoughts out loud, as the reason why remained yet unknown to him.

“Eager, are we?” A rare sidelong curl of his lips could be seen, complimenting the elf’s features quite nicely. “I’m afraid the portal which shall take us directly back to my homeland needs first to spawn, and then be stabilised. And that, according to my estimations, shan’t be happening until three days from now.”

Meaning Aaravos had three days of Avallac’h’s company before they set off. Most went mad after the first.

Should he have been offered more wine, the elf would simply place a hand on top of his cup and shake his head. Humans were the ones who overindulged… as well as a number of elves he knew but would not be naming.

Digits intertwined on top of the table and crystalline eyes met the very peculiar set of light gold on top of dark sclera. The flickering stars dotted on Aaravos’ skin still a mystery Avallac’h couldn’t help but ponder about— was it just the way his body was constituted, or could it have been a whole other universe altogether being reflected on his form?

“Tell me more about yourself.” Avallac’h’s words sounded far more like an invitation than a request. The thirst for knowledge naught but characteristic of elven sages.

It's been a loveless year, I'm a man of three fears;                                                integrity, faith and crocodile tears. //Independent Lord Viren invoked by TURTLE.||

                                                          So look me in the eyes, tell me what you see,                                                                                                            Perfect paradise t e a r i n g at the s e a m s.                                                                               //Independent Aaravos loved by LILY.||

       More than anything – more than the ache of battle, the strain of this long slog through Xadia, the uphill struggle that is protecting the new life that’s being made out of this strange and fascinating world – Gren feels the weight of his sword at his hip. 

      It’s not new. He’d carried one in his younger years – he’s carried one since Harrow’s death shook the foundations of Katolis and the only life he’d ever known. He carried one at the Breach, he’d gotten one back when he’d finally found Opeli and Corvus – he’d used it at the onslaught at what he now knows is the Storm Spire, and he will again, if he has to. Those were the vows he had made to the Standing Battalion and for Amaya: to give his life and all he has for his country and his people. 

       And even if his country is unfamiliar and new, Gren has never been one to deal in shades of the most intimate grey. He knows what he must do, and whom he must do it for. 

       Even now, the juxtaposition is so much that he can hardly fathom it – the voice that had been so steady and constant in the dungeons below the Castle, the timbre and then, eventually, the face he’d come to regard with gratitude – with hope and camaraderie – all of that familiarity and friendship at the center of this – this destruction. Gren’s jaw locks as he regards Aaravos, gaze burning, fingers curled against his palms. If the mention of cowardice were still enough to burrow under his skin and settle against his insecurities, Gren would not deserve the trust he’s been given by the General, by the boys, by everyone he has spent years fighting beside. 

       ❛ If we must fight, then I will fight, ❜ he says, even and focused, kindled by his unwavering belief. Without hesitation, Gren deftly slides his blade from its sheath with all the practiced ease that any lieutenant worth their salt should have. And then he slams the tip into the soft ground at his feet, more trusting than defiant. ❛ But I won’t give up on you just yet. ❜ 

                     “     you   have  my  company   through   every  twist  &  turn   ,   I  have  no  intentions  on  leaving  your  side   -   though  ,  there  is  a  chance  I  will  be  forced  away  ,  into  a  place  between space  and  time  ,  a  place  where  I will simply  exist .  a  dark void  ,  one  that  not  even  myself  can  stop   but  can  only  prepare  .   “        

nothing but the truth escapes  the philosopher’s softened tiers as he gently runs over them with his tongue , wetting them once more -  attempting to get rid of any dryness but this only proves to make it worse in the long run .    “   I  will   enjoy   your  company   for  as  long  as  I  can   ,   relishing  in  the  very  beauty  known   as   yourself  .    “        it’s  no  surprise  he  thinks  a  being  like  the  latter  is  beautiful  ,  thinned brows  furrow  as  Lucilius continuously jots  down  quick notes  in  sleek ,  beauteous handwriting  that  holds  the  most  delicate  of  curves  -   no skydweller can  read  this  ,  in  fact  the  language  is  as  ancient  as  the  stars  themselves  .   

                  “    to  be  created …  “     he  pauses  ,  for  once  the  star-dweller  is  having  trouble  with  his  words  before  looking  towards  the  side  .    “   I am   nothing  but  a  clone  ,   there  is  a  void  within  me  that  i  yearn  to  fill  yet …  I  cannot  .   “     it   might  start  to make  sense  with the  connections  over  his  own creation   ;  Lucifer .    “    something  about  me   ;  nay  ,  everything  is  broken  .   one  single  form  ,   the  sun  ,  warmth  ,  the  dawn ,  the bringer  of  light  .  this  man  is  known  as  Lucio  .  I  was  created  to be the perfect image of  him ,  to be exactly like him  ,  yet . . I  am everything but  -  where he is the dawn ,  I am the dusk ,  he  brings the sun ,  I bring the night .   He cherishes  the thought of  his  creator ;  GOD ,  the  skydwellers ,  I  do not .  “   

with good reason   -   (  in his opinion and point of view that is .  )   “    the  skydwellers ,   they worship  anything  that  shows   a  faint  glint  of  hope  ,  they  put  everything  into religious  belief’s   ,  they forsake themselves all for a    ‘ GOD ‘ .    The only way to defy god is to blot out what he painted upon this canvas – to return his creation to nothingness.  “

#my city now

This wasn’t where he belonged, yet he could not escape.

He simply stood dumbly, head whipping side to side as white-knuckled fingers grasped the crossbow in a death grip. He’d lost countless arrows to shaking hands and blurred vision, and all he could do now was hold it up as a mockery of a shield because he wasn’t a fighter. 

This was a mistake. He never should have left...never should have been a soldier...

It was too late now. 

Marcos gasped as he was knocked off balance. He collapsed onto a mound of- he didn’t bother looking because he already knew. Instead he searched for the reason for his sudden loss of balance. The wind was steady, no one was particularly close. 

Only a line of elves, bows at the ready - arrows aimed to the sky. The feathers attached glinted in the moonlight, and ones already shot were buried into the ground around him. He watched the still-trembling shafts, brow furrowing as he spotted his own foot. It seemed far off - as if he were looking at someone else’s. 

Perhaps it was due to the arrow that had lodged itself in his shin - that couldn’t be his leg.

Then it all hit at once, and something akin to a strangled scream left him as he attempted to scramble backwards. But the arrow buried in his calf held steady, only ripping his pants and flesh alike as he gasped and grappled with the feathers.

Shaking hands managed to break the shaft, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull it out. Not when hot tears streamed down his face, and he was left with only blurry vision as the line of elves approached. 

The idea of playing dead went through his mind, but his consciousness had other plans, and he passed out within seconds.

       Things pass as quickly as the days had been slow not all that long ago. Gren emerges aboveground to greet the pale, thin light of predawn and very nearly collapses at the sight of it. But he is in the company of the Crownguard and the castle is alive with commotion and people and this is no time to unravel. He glances, for a moment, at his wrists in the light -- thin and shadowy bruises replacing what had been deep, violet marks. Unbloodied. Pressing two fingers against his pulse point, he draws a breath and plunges into the wake that treason leaves behind. 

       His first stop is with the council. Opeli’s rage is painted in the tense, locked lines of her expression, her posture, and he cannot begrudge her the righteous fury even if he cannot quite feel it in its entirety. The report he gives is brief, touching only on what is most important: Viren’s interception of the rescue mission, his interrogation of the elf, and his magic that was beyond anything that Gren had ever seen. Most of what he’d said behind closed doors were not things that he could hear, and for a moment the feeling flickers to life -- the bitter, acrid taste of failure. But for now it seems to be enough to round out the council’s understanding. 

       He offers to stay longer but it is at Opeli’s insistence -- couched gently, but almost as stalwart as the General can be -- that he attempt to tend to himself. So after assurance that word will be sent to the Breach, he heeds her -- finds that a room has been prepared, a bath readied, food. Gratitude sinks claws into his throat, almost enough to shake his composure -- but not quite. Even when the doors close behind him ( alone, but the window lets in daylight and that is more solace than he deserves ) he is perfunctory in taking care of what needs to be taken care of. Spends only a moment laughing gently at how he cannot keep his arms high enough to shave away the scruff that has collected across his jaw. 

       Sleep is a piecemeal thing, scattered and leaving him deciding that if it won’t come to him, he might as well get on with what needs to be done. Which -- seems to be the passage of more information. Waiting on word back from the border, a missive from Corvus and King Ezran ( and he is dizzy with relief ), the announcement that the pentarchy must also write back. Gren spends the next day relaying whatever he can -- and then, that night, finally speaks with the council about laying temporary claim to the affects Viren had left in his dungeon. 

       It does not occur to him to secret anything away -- this is the kingdom he has given his life to serve. These are people he has known for so long, and through so much, that he trusts their judgement as much as he hopes that they will trust his. It is -- beyond his ken, to explain the other magic he’d witnessed, beyond his belief that he was not the only prisoner housed below the castle. --- And that is how he finds himself revisiting the chamber himself once more, swallowing the terror that wants to settle against the length of his spine and under his breastbone, in order to transport the glassy, ornate mirror from its spot in its cell up to the chamber he’d taken. 

       It strikes him, for a moment, that he could feel foolish -- insisting he carry it himself, despite how his arms still will not lift very high. Seeing its surface as nothing but reflective all through the trip. But he chooses, instead, to complete what he’d set out to do, driven by the flickering desire to free anyone he can from the fate of imprisonment below the castle. And it sees him through to the end, setting the mirror beside the window in his room, gazing at it for a few long moments, then dropping unceremoniously to the bed to bow his head and rest it against his hand. 

       ❛ --- Gods, I hope this is the right thing to do. ❜ 

when people ignore the free will of a character or underlining bitterness / kindness / intentions for the sake of just having a cinnamon roll cookie-cutter of a character to fit alongside their white morality with no logicality or practicality behind it :’)