Eyes on Final Fantasy Forums > General > Writer's Corner > [s] Rightfully the Gods'

[Death By Moogles]

Yay, my first Rightfully the Gods' post! I'll be updating as much as I can.

Linkies:
Prologue - Of Legend.
Chapter 1 - Eyes
Chapter 2 - Duo (Coming soon)


Prologue – Of Legend.

The Great, Divine Justice wore armour more spectacular than the sun and oceans, only fit for the most legendary of heroes. So wonderful a sheen that smooth areas were as clear as a mirror, yet so rough and exotic that, had you not known the face behind the god-like helm, the fear you would experience would be overwhelming. However real this subconscious terror may have been, it lost its intimidation factor before it even came into existence. For this hero would harm no more than the evil creatures – and humans – that haunt the innocent souls of Albion. Not even the most experienced and skillful thieves and hobbes could swipe even a carrot within the same town as this legendary hero. The hero of the divine plate armour is no less than the most righteous of righteous, and would often pay for the carrots and other small items that were stolen around town, amongst donating all other properties to different towns and villages. Thus, because of the courage, skill, and virtue of this amazing soldier of Avo, they have come to be known as Justice, and often referred to as The Great – or Divine – Justice.

Justice sat leaning against the large window, staring into the mug clutched firmly in hand, and spoke casually with Yearn, the tavern-keeper, and founder of The West Shore.

“And just last week, we had six more heroes come through, all looking for you, of course.” Yearn was boasting. Ever since The Great Justice had donated the winnings of one particular ‘tournament’ of sorts, the tavern had been added onto, and was now the biggest inn in the west, thriving as a shop of all kinds. The West Shore, as it was called, was known especially well for its top-class ale, brewed by Yearn himself.

Yearn was a large man, rivaling most heroes in height and most definitely outweighing most heroes. He had to have been wider than he was tall, but as he was so nice, no one seemed to take notice to his size. His large mustache, long and wavy, curled up at the tips, like a trader’s. His jet black hair was slicked and extremely thick, always hidden under a large wooden hat. To count his chins would take longer than one lifetime, and to measure his body around in any direction would cause a fluster in any single person.

“Did you, now? And how much Gold did they squander in their drunkenness?” The Great Justice questioned in reply. There was really no interest in Justice’s mind, but the happiness of others was stayed there, a priority for Justice.

“Three of them didn’t drink! One of them was awfully generous with his gold, even before his first ale!” The Divine Justice took a swig from the ale clutched in the grips of a god. “He quite made up for the other three, not that I need their currency.” Yearn added.

“I should be off. The darkness’s nearly crept up on me.”

“Thanks again for dropping by. It’s always a pleasure to have you around, Justice.” Yearn admired, gazing up at Justice, who was effortlessly piping down the rest of the ale.

“I insist, the pleasure is mine!” Justice called back from the entrance of the inn. It was just before dark, and Justice still had one stop to make: Bowerstone Primary. The Great Justice stepped into the dimming light of the sun, godly helm stuck fast under-arm.

A light gust blew through the streets of Bowerstone, cooling Justice. The thought in the forefront of the day had been just that: the day. It was an anniversary of sorts. Just under half of a century ago, The Great Justice had been left alone in the world, with none other than the best friend anyone could hope to have. They had been together since as long as they could remember, and would do anything for each other. However, after their town had been destroyed in the most fowl way within reach of the human race, they were orphaned, and The Great Justice’s friend was driven insane by the thought of everything they knew being lost to them.

If only they hadn’t chosen the path that they did. If only they could’ve been saved.

But no, had anything happened any different than it had, the fates of them both would have been changed too drastic for The Divine Justice to handle thinking about. Often, the amazing hero kept these thoughts from lingering, as they were the only weakness that this hero possessed.

The climb up the hills of the newly built Bowerstone seemed longer than it was. Justice’s mind had wandered off into the corners of nothingness, remembering the sight as if it was yesterday; the fire, the broken shoulder, the screaming and snide comments of their pursuer. It was scarring to think of, and was wiped away at the call of the Bowestone Primary teacher, Ranger.

“Oh, hero!” Ranger called from the door of the Primary school. Bowestone Primary had only two rooms: a central room, full of chairs and a table that the children sat around, as well as Ranger’s desk and globe, and a room with a stage. Ranger was a full-hearted poet, and often had the children stand at the stage and act out scenes to learn their material better.

“Why hello there, old man!” Justice greeted, “Long time, no see!”

Ranger replied by dropping his hand tightly on the beautiful shoulder armour. “The children have been asking about you recently. They’ve been wondering when you’d bring another book for us, hero.”

Justice peered in at the younglings sitting in their chairs and spoke in a loud voice, “Well, I certainly don’t have a book this time!”

Cheers erupted from behind Ranger. The children recognized this as Justice’s way of exclaiming that he had a new book for them. As Justice and Ranger made their way to Ranger’s desk, Justice waved to the children, who enthusiastically flailed their arms back.

“How many hobbes have you slain this week, hero?”

“Oh yes, and how many balverines?”

“I’d bet a hundred hobbes and at least fifty balverines!”

“Don’t think so low of the hero! I’d bet five hundred and four hundred!”

“No way! That’s impossible!”

The children raged.

Justice sat down on the floor beside their table after handing the large, red book to Ranger. “Try a thousand each!” A large smile made its way across Justice’s face.

Wide, unending stares and open, awed mouths met the mighty hero’s words.

“How about a story, eh?” Justice said, breaking the silence.

Cheers erupted again.

“Hero, you do realize what this book is about, don’t you? Do you feel it appropriate?” Ranger questioned after reading the first few pages of the book.

“Of course! It’s such a wonderful read!” Justice answered.

“Well, if you say so.” Ranger gathered the children and walked up the short flight of stairs to the stage. Justice followed. Preparing to speak, Ranger cleared his throat, “Ahem. The rise and fall of the guild: Jack of Blades.” Ranger paused and looked into the faces of the children sitting around him on the stairs and floor.

“The decline of the Guild of Heroes began approximately two centuries ago, following the defeat of the traitor Maze and the legendary firing of the Guild by Jack of Blades. Though the mysterious Hero known only as Gladiator subdued Jack of Blades and banished him to the Void, Jack returned through the use of the Bronze Gates, one of the few permanent portals between Albion and the other realm. His subsequent incarnation as a monstrous dragon forced the Hero of Myth to reappear from his temporary obscurity to do battle with the beast. Though it is certain that Jack was defeated once again--the gigantic dragon's charred remains have been found in recent exploratory excavations--no trace of his mask, purported to be the vessel of his power, has been uncovered. Nor is there any evidence, in literature or otherwise, that the Hero was ever seen again after his last known battle. Many have speculated that he sacrificed his own life in order to stop the spread of darkness from the gates. Others contend that in defeating the Master of Shadow, he somehow took on the essence of Jack of Blades and persists in some form, whether corporeal or insubstantial, to this day. All that is known is that the disappearance of the Hero, who had become the greatest symbol of his Guild's power and influence, was yet one more blow to its stability. The Guild's organization collapsed shortly following the death due to old age of its Guildmaster fifteen years later. Allowed to fall into disrepair in the ensuing decades, it was purchased and restored by an anonymous benefactor at the beginning of the previous century in order to serve as a historical monument to the traditions and legacy of the Last Era.”

A silence persisted for a few moments before the children began to cheer and clap.

“My grands tell me stories of Jack of Blades! He used to eat children! But he’s dead now; the Hero of Myth took him to his grave!”

“Jack of Blades wasn’t real! It was all just a story to scare young children! Or that’s what my mum says.”

“No, he’s real, and he aint dead! My dad’s seen him! He’s giant, I tells ya, giant! He always wears a mask and a red cloak! I tells ya, he’s real!”

“He was real, but the Hero of Myth killed him. Twice! Once as a dragon! The fiercest dragon you’d ever seen!”

The children raged again.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough from you! Off you go, it’ll be about time for supper now!” Ranger pacified.

The children filed out, still talking amongst themselves about Jack of Blades and the Hero of Myth.

“Thank you for dropping by, hero. It’s always wonderful to have you.” Ranger said, placing the book on his desk. Justice never accepted the books back; they were always considered donations to the school.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The pleasure is mine, Ranger.” Justice said, taking the final steps into the darkening outside world from the school.

Hope you like it!
Feedback is welcome.

EDIT: I got that little bit in the book from some forum post in some forum by some guy that I can't remember the name of.
x.x

[Jessweeee♪]

You're such an unbelievably good writer n.n


I can't wait until chapter one is out OOO:




...the only suggestion I have is that you put blank spaces between the paragraphs so it's easier for people to read :P

[Death By Moogles]

Chapter I – Eyes

Dusktown was beautiful, yes. But it could never be more beautiful than when the leaves browned and fell from the trees; a lovely sight, fitting for a wonderful day like this. Ah yes, days like these ones were what kept life going.

Vilem’s perch – a large boulder that protruded from the ground not but two meters in front of his house – was perfect for village gazing. He would often recede to his perch on days when life was particularly heavy. Recently, the weight of life had been bearing down on him more than he felt he could tolerate and he had started noticing things about Dusktown that he had never come upon before. The village itself was in the shape of a giant “O”, with many trails and paths winding under the Fall-bitten trees, around areas of great forestry, and back into to the central “O” or separate, smaller “O” areas. The kids of the village called these ‘wrap-arounds’. The central wrap-around was simply called “Town Square”. Although it did vaguely resemble a square if you looked at it through squinted eyes at night, as Vilem often did, he often wondered why and how it came to be called Town Square.

Sitting atop his perch, he also noticed that there was a hidden guard post he’d never noticed, just down an alley behind the armour shop. So those were the guards who lit and doused the candles at each intersection every night and morning!

He sat there in his perch simply to do his best to find Gladia’s favourite spot. She’d told him many times that she loved going there to be alone when life got rough, but refused to tell him where it was. His perch was a perfect place to spy on the village, hoping to spot some sign of an area as wonderful as Gladia’s favourite spot.

That’s what he had set out to do today. It was just night time now, and he had noticed just moments before, a small pathway that disappeared into the Duskwood; a mysterious pathway that he had never traversed down before. As a matter of fact, he’d never even noticed the trail before a few breaths ago. He’d have just enough time to check it out before he’d be pulled inside by his father or mother to eat. As much as he loved to eat, it could always be out-weighed by his need to adventure. Oh, how he loved to adventure. He was lucky to be of the only family that ate as late as this.

Standing, Vilem went over in his head again what he thought the favourite spot would be like. His picture wasn’t clear, but he could make out a waterfall, lots of chickens, a scarecrow, and a large tree with roots perfect for playing hide and seek in; roots perfect for sleeping in. He set off now, perfectly content with his blurry daydream. Perhaps today would be the day that he foiled Gladia’s secrecy and learned where her favourite spot was.

His satisfaction abruptly turned to anticipation. He was finally going to find the secret spot, he was sure of it! He ran now, visualizing the look on Gladia’s face as he popped out of the roots the following day while she sat and stared into the waterfall, reading from one of the books she often carried around with her. It would be amazing! They would laugh together after her fright subsided. Before he knew it, he was standing on the pathway, panting, making his way slowly towards the branch that obviously had something to hide. His intense breathing muffled all sounds, as he tuned most things out. The birds sang, the crickets chirped, and even a dog could be heard off in the distance.

‘This is it’, he thought. ‘I’m finally going to find her favourite spot!’ Vilem slowly raised his hand to the branch that was strategically place before the passage and pulled it aside, making sure to stay quiet. Of course, his age was enough to ruin that for him. Naturally, eleven-year-old, panting little boys don’t have a very good time when it comes to stealth.

The screech was terrible. There was no way he could possibly hold it in.

The horror was unbearable. His youth held very little true terror, and definitely not enough to prepare him for this. In the smallest patch of space between trees he had ever seen, there sat Gladia, in a way he’d never seen her before. Her face was scarred, her eyes peeled back in a wide open, dead stare. Her hands were grasping her forehead tightly, blood trickling from where her fingernails and protruded into her scalp. Her entire face was glistening with tears of extreme panic. Her hair was cluttered in odd areas, and clumped uncomfortably affront her burning eyes, which were staring unstopping, directly in contact with his. The gaze was that of Skorm in his most horrific, triumphant moment. Her arms were scarred, her clothes tattered and torn in several rather immodest places, and her feet were covered in blood from her own veins.

The scream now echoed in his head, ringing his ears like giant bells.

The sight caught Vilem by surprise, and after shrieking deafeningly and doubling over, half-digested food poured its way from of his mouth. The taste made everything worse. His muscles tightened like cement, and his body was rendered useless. He wanted to run, but couldn’t move an inch more.

More lunch made its way up his throat.

“Vilem! Leave!” Gladia’s voice rang out in, not her casual, pleasing, soft voice, but a cracked and dry voice; the voice of a distressed hobbe, screamed horse and near the point of non-existance.

Vilem neither heard nor comprehended the meaning of the words that had drearily oozed their way from between Gladia’s lips.

Had the moments lasted as long as they seemed, Vilem and Gladia would have both grown older than life would allow. Vilem’s gasps drew out as long as the moments did, the paused holds in between the gasps even longer. It must have been years before Vilem tasted the blood from his lip. He was in shock, and hadn’t noticed his teeth bearing mercilessly on the lower rim of his mouth. It was not just bleeding. No… his bottom lip was gashed, the white of a sparkling bottom tooth protruding, gaping out at the halted world around them.

Gladia raised her hoarse voice as desperation brought her spirit to its knees, pleading Vilem, as she was now. “Vilem, please! Please leave! You can’t stay here!” As she moved, signs of self mutilation gawked up at Vilem. These wounds… all of these wounds…. They were her own.

Vilem’s consciousness returned as suddenly as it had left. Vilem then spoke in a high-pitched, yet hushed voice that seemed stolen of him, “What have you done to yourself, Gladia?”

Gladia’s eyes, as large as balvarines’ stared up at Vilem, “They’re coming. And they aren’t after our crops this time.”

Vilem’s shock was wearing off now. Mass horror quickly replaced it. He knew what she spoke of. And, as he could clearly comprehend the fate of them both had he not acted, he scooped her into his twig-like arms and turned, almost at the same time. Gladia’s long, straight, cinnamon brown hair made a cut through the air. Vilem’s small hat had fallen off now, and his hair hung in his face, just as dark as Gladia’s.

Vilem had screamed! Why was no one coming to investigate the source of the yelp he let out? Vilem took two steps towards the large branch, and he saw it; he heard it; he felt it; he smelled it.

Fire.

Vilem immediately charged through the bush, Gladia in hand. Vilem was weak and defenseless. His twigs could harm none other than the bugs on which he trod in his most bothered mood. Nonetheless, he would put himself into the heart of a tornado to save a loved one. Gladia knew this…. Perhaps even more so than Vilem’s own parents – and Vilem was very close to his parents. Gladia knew that Vilem would attempt to save the other villagers, and the entire time, she would sit idly by and fiddle her thumbs in his arms.

No. She had to do something…. And she did.

“You’re no hero, Vilem! Step back, before they see us!” Gladia had tears in her eyes. A piece of her wondered why her body had not caved under the weight of the stress yet.

Vilem replied quickly, with tears of his own strolling their way down his face as casually as a villager would stroll down a hill into town. “I am a hero, Gladia. I may not be big, or strong, but I am a hero. The villagers don’t stand a chance against them!”

Vilem’s reply didn’t surprise Gladia. She expected as much. “Vilem, by attempting to save the villagers, you will only cause more casualties. They have no chance, but we do. We’ll hide here, and go for the guard come morning. We’ll both be heroes and provide the village a bit of hope in the form of guards.” Gladia said, perhaps a little louder than she had intended.

“Then we’ll be heroes now, not come morning. Morning will promise death.” Vilem said, more tears making their way down his red face, sauntering down his rosy cheeks.

“Vilem, no! They’ll see us flee into the wood!” Gladia gasped.
“Gladia, I cannot let the villagers suffer while we sit and watch them burn!” His emotional state had him moaning at every word now, gasping for air after every sentence and even sometimes without speaking. Gladia simply nodded as Vilem stood erect.

Vilem knew clearly that the intruders carried with them bows of oak and twig arrows that would easily make their way through the two younglings; crossbows of steeled oak and Darksteel bolts that would more than likely find their target. This didn’t stop him. He found a hidden speed in himself as he raced past the rock and into the deeper Duskwood. He knew the leaves screamed as the weight of his stress was released on them, knew that the yelps of Gladia and his crying called more than tears, knew that they would have stalkers any moment now, but didn’t care. All he cared about was getting away from the suffering.

His father had explained to him well that, had the Lances and Lions attacked them, the onslaught would come just after dark, when most were sleeping, and that the largest, most evil, cruel, foul, intimidating, terrifying men would kill the villagers in their sleep just before setting the houses ablaze. His father had told him to do just as he did: run.

He could feel the blaze now. The fire that would be stinging his father’s flash at this very moment. His mother executed and cooked…. He could feel his own skin and muscle tearing from his flesh, his own bones turning to ash, his own body becoming one with his bed as if he too were there. He couldn’t stand the thought, but it haunted his very soul, and let nothing else intrude. No happy thought passed through his mind, nothing other than the unheard screams of the villagers that he was leaving behind; the villagers that would never see tomorrow.

Before he knew it, she had struck the ground. Was it odd that he would think of Gladia, pitifully falling head-first into the roots of a nearby oak under the circumstances that a pair of bolts had just made their way into his right shoulder? He felt the shoulder bone snap. Its screaming crack cried out to all in the immediate area. Gladia’s tears rang loud, but Vilem’s instincts led him not astray into the pity of himself and his pain. He had to get Gladia away from there. He could only thank Avo that the bolts had not come two inches to either side. To the left, he would’ve been rendered unable to breath, and would inevitably be the cause of Gladia and his own death. To the right, Gladia’s head would have taken the place of his shoulder blade, and he probably would have collapsed; waiting for death, as he would have nothing else to live for.

But no, the bolts chose him.

He snatched her up quickly, hardly regarding the pain that surged through his body, both from his shoulder and his newly-bitten lip.

“Ge’ back’ere, little ones! No’ off ta fetch more o’ the guard now, are we?” The cry of a Lances and Lions bandit came from behind them. His voice was large, booming and the most intimidating the two of them had ever heard, just as Vilem’s father had described it. His words were confirmation of the deaths of the Dusktown guards; that the guards from the village were no match for the bandits, as Vilem’s father had told him in private.

Vilem couldn’t stop to take a glance at his follower, he knew well enough from the distance of the call that the bandit was far away. Above all else, at that moment, he wanted the great distance to become even greater.

The pain was unbearable. Every few strides, Vilem would let out yet another scream of pain. His right arm limped, and sagged a few inches below his left, proving that his shoulder blade had indeed been broken in two. Gladia had closed her bloodshot eyes and covered them tightly with her hands. The bolts protruding from Vilem’s back was too much of a burden for her eyes to bear, and she openly wailed as they crashed through the wood.

------------------------

The vomit had not stopped. They felt that their organs would make their way up next.

Within ten meters of the wondrous, secure stone that they would soon keel over on, the bandit had taken a great amount of shots with his crossbow. Vilem had let himself fall full force onto Gladia, guarding her from the bolts, and causing a great “Oomph!” to break its way from her mouth. The bolts had narrowly missed both Gladia and Vilem. To their fortune, a guard was not but around three meters away, and saw the two bloody creatures fall into a pile of rubble, followed by the bolts, and rushed to dispatch the bandit instinctively. They watched in disquiet as the guard fought for their lives, as well as his own. Finally, the final blow was struck, the bandit’s skull crushed between the might of the guard’s sword and a large oak trunk. The guard had only suffered small scratches from being forced through sticker bushes and into branches.

“Alright there, young’ens?” The guard yelled, obviously concerned, as he sheathed his sword and trampled through the bushes at full stride to where they were laying. He quickly ushered them onto the stone, whistled for more guards, and turned to patrol the woods more.

He did it. He had made it all of the seven miles to the Guild, the most secure area in the west. And now he laid, Gladia by his side, throwing his insides into the street. Before he knew it, he was being restrained; he had forgotten the bolt in his back.

It was customary, as he was not grown, to be restrained during an operation of this magnitude. He didn’t care. His body was numb; unmoving; useless as of now. The shock had settled in. He couldn’t feel his flesh ripping even more as the bolt was taken from his back. The words of the doctor were muffled behind the cries of his heart. All he had ever known… gone.

“Mother. Father. Gone. They’re gone!” Vilem cried, slowly becoming aware of the mass amounts of people now crowding around Gladia and himself. Gladia was now wrapped in a large cloth, and was drinking some sort of tea. Vilem’s tea mug had smashed to the ground moments earlier when he thrust it away.

Wait. Mother. Father.

“Mother. Father!” Vilem screamed as he stood swiftly, pain surging through his torso. He collapsed under the weight of his pain. He felt muffled, like someone had placed a giant sack around him, guarding him from the outside world. His words were slurred, and all of those who were gathered knew not what he was saying. “You have to save them! Gone. What if. No. YOU MUST SAVE THEM! At Dusktown! Save them! Save Mother and Father! They’re not gone! Not yet! You can save them!”

Once again, he stood, only to fall painfully onto his side, weeping loudly.

“Child, calm yourself, and speak clear to me.” A small, elderly man with an extremely large, white beard sat down on the ground just between Vilem and Gladia. “Is your tea okay, m’dear?” he spoke to Gladia. Her answer came in the form of silence, silence that the elderly man understood, apparently. “I made it myself.”

Vilem became aware of the elderly man’s presence and gazed into his marvelous emerald eyes. They were eyes of understanding; eyes of love. They were eyes of care; eyes of knowledge. They were eyes of experience; eyes of grand judgment. They were eyes that Avo himself would voluntarily tend to chickens just for the chance to gaze into.

Vilem immediately felt comforted. The elderly man’s gaze had switched to him from Gladia now, and his very large, ring laden hand was sitting lightly on Vilem’s left shoulder. Vilem stared at the man for a few moments, only before becoming engulfed in pure curiosity. “You’re… you’re Willow… the guildmaster!” Vilem said in an astonished manner.

After a chuckle, the elderly man acknowledged their awed gazes, grabbing Gladia’s right shoulder and smiling deeply. His cracked, kind face wrinkled beyond all belief at his smile. Had he been any other than the wondrous Willow of the Northern Wastes, Vilem would be hurling his food again at such a sight. Willow’s forehead bore spots as signs of old age. His teeth were rotted and crooked. His left eye, lazy in the most major way, accompanied his right behind square spectacles, that were tinted a soft blue and glinted in the moonlight.

“Indeed. I am Willow, the guildmaster.” The old man confirmed.

“You were the one who - ” Gladia’s tongue made it’s way back to her mouth.

“Now, now, let’s not be going off on what I’ve done! Why are you here? What horrible event would have the two of you in such a manner?”

They hadn’t understood Vilem!

Vilem realized this, and spoke up at once, attempting again to jump to his feet, “In Dusktown! The Lances and Lions have attacked again, but this time they fulfilled their threat and slaughtered and burned the villagers! We hid! She saw again! You have to save -” Vilem was cut off by Willow’s finger making it’s way to his mouth.

“I want twenty elites to Dusktown, now.” Willow’s kind and caring voice grew to an amazing roar. The words exploded from his mouth like fire from the mouth of a dragon. Deep and demanding, it drew the attention of all in the area. Immediately, a score of guards clad in black rushed off through the forest at full stride. “That’s enough from you two.” He said to Vilem and Gladia, “I can understand what you’re going through right now. We can only pray to Avo that everything’s okay….” He finished, gazing up at the stars as if his very existence was melting into them, away from earth.

“Willow, is everything going to be - ” Vilem began after a few moments, feeling more and more comforted at each of Willow’s gentle words.

“You two need rest. I’ll have you to two beds myself. Feel comfortable staying as long as you will.”

The most dreadful had set in. Willow knew they were dead. Not a doubt in his mind led him to believe that there could be a chance that there were survivors. But how did these two escape? How could they have possibly survived an assault by the Lances and Lions? Could there be something more to all of this? He couldn’t suspect the children of being martyrs for the sake of the bandits, leading the guild into a trap. Of course, without the elites that had been sent out, the guild would be a bit more vulnerable, but no one would dare attack the guild, especially with Willow as guildmaster.

And the boy…. The bolts in his back…. The pain he must have been in…. How?

The long walk up the grounds, down and up the beautiful stone stairs, and into the dimly lit, empty room, seemed as long as the life of the earth itself. Vilem’s eyes were heavier than the heaviest amount of Blacksteel. They felt like Blacksteel too, tainted and evil. No matter how tightly Vilem shut them, he could still see the dying face of his once handsome father. Gladia had fallen asleep, and was now clutched tightly in Willow’s arms.

Vilem’s shoulder and upper arm, which had apparently been broken as well, were mended and splinted, providing a limited amount of comfort.

Willow placed Gladia in a small bed next to the largest bookshelf Vilem had ever seen. After tucking the quilt in neatly around her, he continued down the center of the ten-foot narrow room a few paces, stopping affront another bed, just the same size as the one Gladia rested in. Vilem followed within five inches of Willow’s step. He felt comfortable around Willow; secure.

Willow turned around, gazing down at Vilem. After lifting Vilem to be seated on the bed, he kneeled himself, leveling his eye to Vilem’s.

“Young one, you braved the danger of death today.” Willow began. Vilem’s lip curled and tears formed in his eyes again. “I don’t know how you did it. In any case, the boldness of your actions is immeasurable: you would suffer immense torment and agony just to save a loved one.”

“Vilem. Vilem is my name.”

“Vilem…. And the young miss?”

“Gladia.”

“Well, Gladia is very lucky to have a friend as wonderful as you, Vilem.” Willow praised with a wrinkled smile.

After a long pause, Vilem’s comfort rising with the aid of Willow’s eyes of wonder, Willow raised his hand to Vilem’s mouth and muttered a few words under his breath. Vilem could barely see a blue glow glisten up at him from the bottom of his vision. The pain in his lip was gone. “Ah, good as new…. It will scar, but the pain will subside.” Willow’s caring voice whispered.

Willow continued after a few moments of silence, his face growing grim, and his hand grasping Vilem’s shoulder again, “Vilem, I’ll have you understand that we will do everything that we can to save your village, Duskwood. However, I’ll also have you understand that there is only so much that we can do, as it is highly unlikely that the Lances and Lions would raid without vast casualty.” More tears found their way from Vilem’s eyes to his cheeks.

“They’ll… they’ll be okay.” Vilem’s cracked voice cried.

“Let us hope so, Vilem. Let us hope so.”

------------------------

“Willow, do you mean to tell me that that young boy ran the entire distance of the Duskwood with two Blacksteel bolts in his back and the weight of a young girl in his arms?” A dark man, built broader than an oak tree, wielding the voice of an angry god spoke, the air seeming to run from his mouth in fear.

His arms were giant, haphazard scraps of flesh breaking off in random areas. His muscles resembled boulders, hard and solid. His teeth were all capped in silver, save for his second top tooth on the left-hand side, and his eyes were as red as the blood of a balverine. His armour was rotten and spoiled, but built large enough to house and hold Hobbes in a group of five to seven. His helmet, now clutched in his enormous hands, was horned, and its bronze colour was spotted by many battles. His nose was small and round, his lips large and clumpy, his eyes small and beady, and his ears masked by a black jungle. Amongst his face, too, were random bits of flesh missing. His left cheek was bared of skin altogether, with only a slight stretch of tissue covering his cheekbone from the air of the world outside. He so closely resembled a rock troll that it was considered by many highly possible that there was rock troll blood running rampant through his veins. Hoode was his name.

“That twig of a youngling?” He enquired further Willow’s previous words: an overview of the situation with the bandits. “I saw him not two hours ago as you brought him through the halls to the upstairs beds. His… size! He was too little. There is no way! It is impossible! The burn of the Blacksteel would have brought me to my knees, cringing in pain and tearing like a beaten dog! How could such a young boy, small and twig-like as he is, even survive such an assault?” Hoode grew more and more questioning as his speech went on. The clouds that veiled his thoughts became thicker and thicker even more, as his inquisitions into the facts behind the situation grew. At this point, the table affront him made a cry as Hoode’s fist fell hard upon it with a heavy crack. His muscles were slightly swelling now, as it was very likely for him to subconsciously set off into a berserk-like state.

Willow, sitting calmly behind the table, grasping his chin with his left hand – his right fiddling with a large quill, tossing and turning it between neighbored fingers – was not surprised when the immensely large, bulky, oak table fell away, the great legs toppling under the weight of Hoode’s massive, fisted clout. The old man moved not, and sat still staring out of the giant window to his left, listening to the hoot of owls, muffled by distance.

Willow’s neck shifted to the right, the rest of his body gravely still, and looked seriously into Hoode’s ravaged face. “You must calm yourself, Hoode!” The two endured a long pause, staring into each other’s faces. Willow could see the confusion and growing anger in Hoode’s face. Hoode’s young life had been stolen by a mother bandit group of the Lances and Lions, and he could relate oh so well to what Vilem was feeling presently. “You’re right. He complained not about the sting of the Blacksteel that is present with every wound of his kind. He is very affectionate for the young girl, that is as obvious as the sky is blue. I suppose, in his fear for her life and the sudden positioning of himself in such a situation, he could have initiated a berserk-like state. His physical form was not hindered, however, and he possesses no scars or other signs of the pollution of Berserk. The taint of Blacksteel is such that it overwhelms your thoughts. He wouldn’t have even been able to speak af –“

“Willow, I wouldn’t have been able to force wind from my mouth other than to scream!”

“I know this as well as you do, Hoode.” Another pause lived for a few seconds. “I’m not sure what it is, but there is definitely more to all of this.”

“Oh, really? I wouldn’t have thought that in three lifetimes….”

“Quiet yourself, Hoode. You’re hindering my thinking.” Willow said in a calm voice. The old man stood, his large grey cloak, adorn with wonderful designs and jewels, made its way merrily to the floor from the bend of the chair. He let his hand leave go of his chin, still in deep thought. “I personally made my way to Dusktown.” Hoode looked from the floor, where his gaze had been drawn just moments before, to the back of Willow, who had turned away from him to look out of the even larger window directly behind his chair. “Every ruined home held at least one corpse. I am sorrowed to say that there were none among the living.”

Hoode seemed to whistle like a teakettle, alarming that he was so hot to the touch that your flesh would be taken away at contact. Any onlooker could swear to see bubbles from his boiling blood.

“We’ll take our elites after them then!” Hoode stood quickly, his cracked helm falling to the marble floor. The weight of its fall broke off yet another horn, and the sound it made screamed an echo throughout the halls of the stone tower. “They can’t stand against the masses of our guild! Let the older Heroes accompany the elites! I’ll go myself, in the front lines! We’ll extinguish them all, mercilessly, taking no prisoners. It’ll bring an end to their ravaging of the lands of Albion!” Hoode proclaimed, his feet stamped into the hard floor, fists clenched and shaking. Hoode, being the merciless drunk that he was, did not surprise Willow with this suggestion.

“We would lose many, Hoode, but that is but a minor issue compared to the one at forefront.”

“Has Skorm himself come from the bowels of the other world to claim our souls as his own, then?”

“No, Hoode, but this boy has an odd aura about him. His fate may very well be ours.”

Chapter 3 - Duo is on its way.

Also, can I have a mod edit the title to include the fact that it's a fanfic, I completely forgot about that x.x

[Jessweeee♪]

o_o

Wow. That was just awesome

[eiko guy]

i like it but the part about the girl looking weird with hair clumps confuseed the hell out of me.

[Death By Moogles]

Eiko Guy: If you're refering to why she looked all weird, you're not supposed to understand yet. There were a few references to why she was like that, but I haven't openly professed what caused it.

Jesswee: Thanks!