golden-mediocrity

[golden-mediocrity]

Just

He sat there, tinkering on his own arm as he didn't trust anyone else to fix him if he could do it himself, but then again, you'd need people in your vicinity to ask first, if you wanted to ask for help. They'd either need to be paid, or want to be there. And there wasn't anyone.

Ramsey used a small screwdriver to probe at one of the connectors inside the metal housing that was his forearm. The scale-like construction moved easier than it would have if created as meshed bands, or if it were just a little bit flexible, but this way, as it was made, was able to pass  almost perfectly, human bodily movement. There was so much time spent in his work to mimic the living... He wondered if he really tried... Passing something mechanical as life would indeed be a great feat of engineering... His mind wandered for a few brief heartbeats, even those were regulated at this point, with chemical drips from packs installed within his body.  How many parts of him were non-living? In a morbid moment, he wondered: "At what point would I cease to be considered a living being? Would I have to replace my brain and harness my consciousness in ones and zeros? Remove my digestive system and shun edible sustenance?"

"What if I replaced my  heart?" He spoke aloud, but it didn't even register to himself that he had said anything at all.  

That last one hung in his mind. What if he had replaced his heart? Would that be what stopped the feeling he had that punched him in the gut every single day of his "existence"? How no matter what, there was no one out there who wanted him? Sure, he had experienced romance, fluttering temporary love, fleeting feelings of passion in the moment, but as with all things, they ended, and usually abruptly. The broken boy soldier who always replaced his ruined parts with machinery, but he had yet to replace that thumping organ keeping time and counting down his literal presence in this life, no matter how many times it had been battered and beaten, and left bloody on the shores of disappointment and failure.

...and there it was. The sensors in his human parts, reporting to his human control center, the lowly sink in his stomach, the roiling pain that was loss and regret of all the things he could have done better, mistakes he should have stopped making, the things he left behind without a word because all his human parts could do is report pain, suffering, and a preparation to lose something else that could become an attachment of liability. He had wished so much that his mind could be rewritten, reprogram his thoughts to pause the worry and the doubts, so that he could stop the self-destructive preemptive strikes, to pull back the offensive that he launched at anyone who got too close to him, because at least that way he could control the battlefield. If you plan it well enough, you can make whatever you envision, and if you expect a complete decimation of yourself and anyone else around you, you'd never have to move beyond those oh-so obviously temporary moments of false joy, fake happiness. You could bypass it all and move directly to the crater where the shattered and ruined  pieces of your heart would be. And instead of replacing it, meticulously spending all of your time repairing it and putting it right back where it belonged.

Because what was the point of putting in a new part, when all that would happen would be its imminent destruction? Planned obsolescence for emotional protection? Ramsey thought for an indeterminate amount of time about all of it that had come to pass in his life. He hummed in discovery of a thought that he had been seeking for so long, The coding of his feeble human mind had been rolling about in his head, and then he said it aloud just so that he could hear it, feel it, and understand it as real. A quote he had heard from a writer he read from long ago, but always thought ridiculous and silly, because who would do such a thing? Now, it was a realization, a wisdom, a lesson learned.

"In a sense, I'm the one who ruined me. I did it myself."

[golden-mediocrity]

Dumplings

It had been a few moons since Mizu had visited Kugane proper, with the lights, the fireworks, the bustling traders from all over congregating in one space in the large city.  There was something nostalgic about it every time he would walk through the markets, the smell of the food, especially the tiny dumpling cart he and his sister would visit when they were allowed free time out of the monastery.  He closed his eyes and glimpsed a wistful memory before he steeled himself back to the towering presence he portrayed as he made his way to the repurposed building that had housed him in his youth.

The monastery had been home to Dai-ji masters for so long, but when his master Mizuhiro the Elder had passed on, he didn't feel it was his place to take up that mantle, and Kugane reclaimed the space, turning it into a Sekisegumi training facility. At least there were still students and masters inhabiting the place, but it was not filled with his own students, and that made him heave a long sigh to try and push off the burdens he felt not making different choices.

He had only been inside a handful of times before now, and entered it maybe once or twice. This time was no different, he stood outside the gates and remembered times long gone and huffed a silent laugh to himself for his feelings and smiled. Dumplings, that was what would make him feel better. That little cart had to be around here somewhere.

He found the little old grandmother who he thought was ageless, and timeless, she had been the same since he was a child, and over the last two decades, she was always there. She was magical to him, always remembered him and somehow knew when he would show up, dumplings ready in a bowl, mixed soy, chili, and wasabi sauce just how he liked it and a hot cup of sweet green tea. He took the stool as a seat at the corner of her cart. Even though it could move, it hadn't since he started coming here with Akai, and he would continue to visit every time he was in the city, every single time. This was home in Kugane.

[golden-mediocrity]

Harm

-Do no harm.- The words echoed in his mind as he stood there meticulously washing his hands over the basin. The red splatters stained the white porcelain as the water gushed forward over his massive hands, bits of grey matter stuck to the cuffs of his robes. -Do no harm-. He could hear himself reciting the oath as he received his licenses and diplomas. But that oath could never supersede the one he made as a child. The same oath that brought him here, to the now dead man behind him, slumped against the wall and leaking fluids from the crushed face with the dangling, one-eyed stare at the back of Jian’s head.

He scrubbed harder at the viscera that soaked his pale skin, the rag he found wasn’t working as well as the stiff brushes he used before surgery, the prickly scratchy sensation that not only cleaned his skin, but could remove a few dermal layers as he went. He wanted to be clean, to pull on the rubber gloves and not touch it anymore.  He had gone into research and biomedical studies because of what he had to do when possibly called on by the Moks in the middle of any random night.

It was always different, rarely the same.  What was constant was its randomness and unexpected deliveries. An operative would show up virtually anywhere and stare, making the gesture with their hand held just above their diaphragm, over their heart waiting for Jian to notice. His reaction was always the same. His body tensed up, but felt a calm deep inside his core, a wind up and get ready type of feeling, like a spring ready to release, a hammer cocked back on a revolver, a symbolic click of a mechanism put in its place before the trigger pull and strike.

This time, he had been at a flashy Monetarist party, a decadent and  wanton display of wealth, power, and depravity.  Jian was sitting on plush pillows as the belly dancing Xaela was gyrating in front of him, she seemed to linger for a while, perhaps she was attracted to him, maybe she knew he had money, but when he finally looked up and gave her his attention, he saw the hand rise slowly, forming into the familiar curve of fingers and once his eyes drifted up, caught the near ultra violet glow of her limbals, the momentary dead stare of seriousness relayed the brevity of the current situation and his future task. As he watched her dance, she communicated to him, unbeknownst to the others that sat drinking and carousing and watching her face, chest, and hips as opposed to what the Ura observed. With a sign language taught to him at an early age, she relayed the information: A hit. A raen samurai, who was seated on cushions across the room from him Jian could see the man, he didn’t look like a samurai, other than the sword that was propped up against the wall behind him. He was a fully participating party to the event, seemingly drunk, two Miqo women in his arms he jostled around and sat on his lap. He was a big man, not quite as tall as Jian, but he appeared to be respectively built under his robes. Jian felt like he was just a normal person, they would probably have sake and a chat about philosophy or training in combat. The latter was what he would know more about, soon enough.

The dancer relayed the message, wait for the Raen to get up and leave the room, then remove him by any means necessary from the premises, end his life. Dispose of the body. -Do no harm.- It echoed in his mind as soon as he read the signal. He inhaled slowly and his eyes rose to meet hers once again. His steely-eyed look conveyed understanding to the woman before he looked across the room at the target. When he went to see if the dancer was still there, she wasn’t. There weren’t any more or less dancers in the room, but the dark blue skinned Xaela was nowhere to be seen and he had the ticking of the clock in his mind, from the sinister programming built into him during his childhood.  Despite this urging to action, the massive xaela would bide his time. He drank his drinks, he laughed with the people around him, he watched the entertainment, and he watched the raen.  When the man got up from his seat, Jian felt his destiny.

After waiting a moment, Jian finished his drink and set the glass down on the small table in front of his cushioned seat, then pushed himself up and stood.  He meandered around the room, behind the seated guests and found himself walking through the same doorway as his target.  He felt all of his senses alert and open, his horns felt for vibrations to see if he could hear the man, his eyes peeled down the hallway looking for any movement. As there was nothing to be detected, Jian started to move to different spaces, eventually he found what he was looking for. A half-hummed, half-sung tune in Hingan, something about whisky and lost love:

You love whisky, right? Let's talk a little more A common talk With that I'm fine now

A whimsical horoscope Let us meet casually And made us open a bottle Which contained a faded love

You love whisky, right? This restaurant suits you, right? You forgot That we loved each other

The words came floating out of a restroom that was a little farther down the normal path than Jian expected.  As he turned the corner, he could see the man standing there, robes bunched up in front of him, the splattering sound of his urine hitting the back of the receptacle he was pissing in. There was a long sigh from the xaela as he knew this was probably where the man would cease to exist. He closed the door behind him, flipped the lock, and despite that impediment, the loud music and carousing could still be heard from all the way down the long hall and into the restroom.  With the resounding thud of the lock clicking into place, the man turned his attention behind him, the blank gaze of the xaela he found may not have been from a familiar face, but the man knew that look all the same. He dropped the robes that he  held  up, and slowly spun in place. From habit, he reached down, but found that his sword was missing from his belt, there was a slow blinking expression on his face when he realized it was still standing up against the wall where he was previously sitting.

The room was cramped, with stalls and urinals on one side, a basin on the other, maybe three or four fulms wide, about twenty fulms between the raen and Jian. The raen looked as if he were preparing for a confrontation, Jian's programming took over. -Do no harm...- It flashed in his head for a blink, but he lowered his head and a smile cut across his lips exposing fanged teeth just before he took a few slow steps toward the other man. The Ura hadn't brought his hands up he just walked toward the raen who was set in a wide horse stance, fists up and ready. Jian up-nodded the man, a challenge to go first.  Red eyes narrowing instead of jumping into action, a question surfaced first," What is this?" The voice of what Jian had expected to be a drunk one, was stunningly sober. There was no confusion in the question, just an inquiry of why it was going to happen.

With a shake of his head in the negative, he shrugged and replied, "You probably pissed off the wrong people. I don't know. I don't care. It's business." After that, the doctor had nothing else to say. His opponent  initiated first, as Jian had hoped for, reaching up and landing a shot across his jaw. The usually gentle giant's grin grew wider and brought his hands up. There was no feint, no subterfuge in his attacks, he just threw a straight punch at the man, which was blocked and deflected up, the return strike hit the xaela in the stomach, then was followed up with another punch, this time an upper cut aimed under his chin. With the strike to the gut, Jian absorbed the blow, and as the punch came, he leaned his head back, causing the samurai to miss entirely. He knocked the arm out of the way with an outward block and grappled the arm, wrapping it up in his own, a brutal downward headbutt crashed into the man's forehead and he turned his body to break the hold, freeing his arm and spinning away from the giant. He wasn't that much smaller than Jian in height, but the smith's physique was apparently a major advantage the xaela held over him.  He swept low with his foot, contacting Jian's ankle, before he swung the leg around and made contact on the side of the assassin's head, ringing the horn that the shin hammered into.  It caused Jiantai to stagger back, and seeing his opportunity, the raen released a flurry of punches, and kicks, making Jian bring his arms up in defense. But he was patient, waiting for the other man to slow and recovery from the energy expended. Jian felt the bruising on his ribs and forearms from the contact, he was punched in the nose and the ringing in his horn was still blaring in his head.  This wasn't supposed to go like this. It should have been over already, was he grappling with ethics or paying for something personally? He would push that thought from his mind.

Tired of being on the defensive, Jiantai stopped caring about getting hit and swung his  long, sturdy arms in wide arcs, tossing haymakers at the other man, contacting with the sides of his head and pounding into the ivory horns of his opponent.  But even as he did so, the other man slipped forward under the blows to get away from them, hiding inside the wide swinging range, bringing up a reverse elbow, followed up into another attempted knockout upper cut from a side facing position.

This time he was expecting something more than the elbow and moved his head back away from the attack, Jian reached for the wrist and wrapped his huge hand around the arm he had snatched out of the air, with his right hand he countered while also twisting so that the man's inner elbow was facing away from Jian, the open palmed strike went into the elbow with a sickening crunch, over extending it and destroying the joint, a yelp of excruciating pain was expelled from the raen's mouth, he knew his arm wasn't going to be much use any longer, and his left hand reached back behind him at his belt, pulling out a tanto blade that he used with a strike that landed in the lower part of Jian's abdomen, the flash of pain burned brightly in his vision, but he took it without a grunt or audible exhalation.  Even if there was all that noise out in the party, he still controlled himself enough to not sound an alarm on himself, but that would soon change.

His blue eyes turned icy in that instant, it had become more serious than he had anticipated it to be, and the rage welled up in him to boiling over. With a loud growl, a hammer fist was brought down on the other man's wrist a knife hand to his throat, but he still held onto the dagger, yanked it out and struck Jian again in the shoulder and he pulled down trying to use it to open up his attacker, but it was embedded in his upper rib-cage, stuck and as he tried, he wasn't able to pull it free this time. Wide-eyed, wild, and completely out of control, Jian looked to be a man crazed and driven by battle in this life or death situation, his right arm came around and wrapped up the raen's neck, spinning him so that the choke-hold was under his chin, the throat trapped between forearm and bicep.  Squeezing as hard as he could with just the one arm, it was still not enough, the raen stomped down on jian's foot, and he tried to get away from the hold, but as he attempted to push off, Jian reached out and grabbed him by the back of the head and used his own momentum to propel the man forward and bashed his head straight into the wall, shattering the porcelain tiles that decorated the room.  Still not going down, the samurai turned, face bloodied and torn open by bits of ceramic that had cut deeply on his face, a shout of war from the pale scale signaled yet another attack, and he reached up for Jians' throat with his one good appendage.  Jian replied in kind but used his hands to grip hard on the bone-colored horns.  He felt the surge of strength the other man exerted on his throat, there was a calming focus as he used his leverage to try and bring those horns together. Slavering at the mouth and breathing through clenched teeth, growling like a wild animal, he applied more and more pressure.

Red eyes went wide as they realized something. The sounds he heard were the small micro-fractures on his skull, which eventually turned into crumbling fissures. The last thing the man saw was the pure rage and anger that had been held back inside the gentle giant... What roiled inside Jian was years of regret, self doubt, and hatred for himself and his inability to control the things he wanted to, all forcued into his control on this. He could exact his will on the man in front of him, and with one final guttural roar, another sick crunch accompanied by spurts of blood and an explosion of viscera splat across his face, covering him in bone and brain along with so much red.  He had pushed so hard that the right side of the raen's face caved in, eyeball hanging out of one socket while the dead stare locked onto the still howling xaela.  When he realized the life had left his target, he dropped the dead body on the floor and stood above it, breathing through clamped jaw and exposed teeth, lips curled in a rictus grin, spittle dripping from his mouth, blood falling from his chin... -Do no harm.- It echoed in his horns again, reminding him of his other oath, the one he would never be able to keep.  As the animal left him and the doctor returned, he switched off the emotions, empathy, and worry.  He went into a robotic mode, one that would allow him to process the next steps to dispose of the body, clean himself up, and find a way out.

The dreamy haze was still in his vision, he knew when he was under the effects of his programming, he had been studying hypnosis, mental tricks used to plant actions and loyalty into young minds... Jian felt like he was watching himself from outside as his body finished washing itself off, and then turned to begin the work of body removal. There was blood everywhere and he knew it was going to be obvious something gruesome happened in here. The cold, robotic Jian made a few decisions in that moment, then he executed his plan. He lifted his head up from leaning on the edge of the large Hingan bath in the SEO spa room. He must have been in here for a long time, he could feel his fingers wrinkling up and he let out a long, groan of a sigh. His shoulder and stomach were aching painfully, looking down he could see it stitched up along with another neatly done sewing job on his lower abdomen. He felt his insides were aetherically healed, but the closure needed to be manual.  He was exhausted and in his auto-pilot state, must have had difficulties with channeling.  He tried to forget all of it, dumping the body down into the Goblet ravine, setting the janitor's closet on fire inside the restroom, and his healing and self stitching of himself back together again. All he could hear was the crunching of the man's skull over and over in his mind, and the constant repeating of his own voice during his oath, *"I will do no harm...*

[golden-mediocrity]

Ashes

*warning ritual suicide*

The dull cold of the snow was causing the feeling in his shins to go numb as Haiiro sat at the top of the mountain above the small town that bore his family name, clad in snow white and nearly blending in with his surroundings.  He was dazed and had difficulty with focusing his vision on the scene below.  An entire life built over forty years, stacked on that of the four-hundred that preceded it, destroyed in the matter of four hours. The men and women of the small castle town fought bravely, gave up everything they could, everything they were, their futures, their presents, their pasts... All for their lord, all for the honor of Akizuki. They had stood for hundreds of years, yet in recent times, they were experiencing a flourishing renaissance, complete with artistry, industry, and agriculture.  They had made peace with the spirit that inhabited the land, a deal had been forged between the Akizuki and Hajiro, the falcon kami, the first born son would be separated from the clan, live life as a hermit, and be the sworn protector of the land. In return, would be at the beckon call of the Kami and follow their orders when given.

Hearing the screams of the people below, Haiiro wept, salty tears streamed down his grim, stone-colored face.  He had everything set out before him, his ritual tanto, the empty cup of sake which was drained before he even sat down, and tossed to the side. He had failed, but it was not a failure of his own making. Haiiro was made to observe all of it, the senseless brutality, maiming, hearing the cries for help and the pleas for mercy.  Hajiro had forced him to stand at the top of the mountain, on the steps of the small shrine where they resided. The deal made with the trickster kami had been nothing but entertainment for Haijiro, to see people flourish, to see them build and thrive, then to watch them all fall down in complete decimation. Haiiro was not allowed to move a muscle, not like he would have done much difference anyway, even with the powers bestowed upon him. He was ordered to refrain from action, and merely become a bystander to watch the four hundred years of progress be toppled like a sandcastle under the boots of the Shogunate.

The soft sensation kissed the calloused flesh of his hand as he gripped the silken wrapped tsuka and he spun it in his grasp, the way he moved it was as if he had done it a thousand times before, lived in this moment for an eternity, not something to be feared, but a duty to be performed, to pay the ultimate price for cowardice and failure. He could have broken the compulsion, he could have tried, but he stood there, painfully still and unable to move, but did he strive hard enough? That moment had passed and he was now in this one, the final moments of his existence, that which would take him to the sweet embrace of oblivion and remove him from this cursed place.  His motion was slow as the polished, shining blade first cut through pure white cotton fabric, finding purchase now in his abdomen.  Pushed further still he could feel the dual sensation of the cold steel and hot blood meeting like the high tide waves pounding into the earth, his life crashing against that which would bring him death. The long eternal moment dragged on as he had finished his cut, the protracted line across the entirety of his lower torso, his body relaxed and he could feel the tension release, all the weight he had carried these forty years, all the trials he had been put through, up until these last few moments. He lost consciousness as he continued to sit there on his knees, the steam from his blood wafting up from the dyed and melting snow.  He heard the slowing beat of his heart, the rest of the cacophony drowned out by his barely lingering moments, the rhythm of his life drawing to a close....

It was silent after a few hours, no more clanging and clashing of metal, no more calls out for help, screams of mercy, even the crackling of the fires had died down.  Haiiro slowly opened his eyes, and felt an instant sensation of disgust and despair.  Had he failed even in this? Had he brought further dishonor to his family and his clan? He looked down, body and clothes still stained with blood, the wound miraculously healed, he could feel that beat of his heart hammering in his ears again, but with each pounding of his quickening pulse, memories faded from his mind. Who he was, where he had come from, who he loved, who he had lost, all of it left him, bleeding from his mind as his life had bled from the slash on his stomach.  Haiiro sobbed and screamed out as he could feel every single thing being torn from him, his entire life and all of his experiences, until all that remained was a man, with no memory, pitched over and sobbing over a ruined village he knew nothing about, being covered in a powder of snow and ashes.

[golden-mediocrity]

Channel

***Warning for self harm, violence, blood.***

The plush chair seemed to hug his form, something he had not been very accustomed to lately, the emptiness that had been consuming him from the inside was trying to fill it's own void.  Try as he might, the every-present pounding of his heart could be felt in his head and he attempted to isolate the sound's vibration in his horns, but it was no use. He channeled all he could of himself, his feelings, his emotions, his very soul into that point, desperately needing to silence the yelling of ten thousand voidsent screaming in discordant operatic melodies, giving a feeling of flesh rent from bone and tendon, but instead, applied to the inside of his mind unraveling his brain.

His blood boiled and he could feel the emptiness of the void overtaking every aspect of his senses. Mizuhiro struck out with clawed hands, and slashed at his own flesh along his chest and arms, causing rivulets of blood to follow in their destructive wake.  He could feel each and every ilm as they ripped through, he dug deep enough down to part muscle from vein, expose arteries that were normally hidden.  Even with as much pain and horror as it manifested in his mind, he still felt more in that moment, more than in recent memory.  The blinding white hot pain that pulsed in his vision, momentarily caused the screaming of the void to get washed out, the tinnitus in his horns rang out with every sawing cut and tear.  The hot drip-drip of blood tapping on the stone floor sounded like the second hand of the clock as the time of his life continued to tick on by.

There was no music, only the screams, but even with so many of them calling him home, he felt the thumping of a drum beat, the raising of another scream began to resonate separately and purposefully.  The wailing began to overtake the chorus of the rest, and it's familiarity haunted him, stabbed at his heart.  It was as if his entirety was spinning, round and round and over and over, causing his dizziness to increase.  He needed to know where it was coming from, this low guttural growl, harmonizing on it's own with itself, with a scraping blood-curdling shriek that echoed like a bat locating it's prey in the darkest of caverns, he could feel the hard pangs of hunger welling, driving him to feed, nothing was clear, his vision all a blur... He took one step, then another, and another, and on and on...

It didn't matter where he looked, walking along the nearly empty streets of the Goblet, but there were beacons out here, signalling for him, coaxing and calling him home, like the sirens of old, demanding sacrifice of ship and sanity, to crush them both on their rocky shores.  Mizu could feel the smashing of his will and rationality against the sharpest of objects, a slivered, shattered anvil, wrapped in barbed wire, ripping apart his lucidity and all reason... The rise of the chorus had matched his screaming now, pulling the ten thousand cacophonous voices into one, coordinated, identical song... The burst of white light had sprung forth in front of him, the beacon lit and answered, he bolted quick and dexterously to capture it in his arms, claws digging deep into it's flesh, along with his horns and teeth goring the entity of light, cutting it open and allowing him to feed freely on the pure fount of aether he had seized for himself.  

But in few, short moments later, the song ceased, the beacon fell dim and dull, along with everything that he had been conducting, the orchestra stopped, instruments clanged to the ground.  He crouched over the poor man, body now shriveled and desiccated, his aether fully removed so much that only a blood covered shell of what he had been remained.  There was another scream, a mortal one this time, one that shredded vocal chords and throat-flesh in a horrific display of regret and sorrow.  The Himaa dropped the corpse and stood above, tears streaming down his face along with the blood that trailed down his extremities, "No... no.... no......... no............," he continued to repeat over and over, his black-lit eyes glowed as they sought a way to escape.  He was flooded with self doubt and mortification at his actions, he had been past all of this, hadn't he? He had fallen asleep, something he had been doing more and more lately, and woke up as if from a nightmare that just didn't stop when his eyes opened, and revealed the fact that he had done this, he had let himself go, allowed his weaker nature to prevail...

He could not hold back the floodgates of pain and regret, but knew he needed to run, there was no explanation for what had happened other than the obvious, and he needed to distance himself from it as soon as humanly possible.  He picked up his feet, one after the other, faster and faster and finally until he found the end, he vaulted over the railing and down into the chasm, sliding with the rocks, and he prayed desperately he would not stop until he hit the abyss.

[golden-mediocrity]

Bolt

Clad in inky blues, the massive fighter stood with feet on opposite sides of his opponent's torso, Mizu's bare muscles bulged with intensity and rage.  Gloved fists balled up tightly, his bruised, and battered face was slashed with a rictus grin, wide eyes and a constant rumbling growl that roared with every exhale of labored breath while his own blood drooled down his chin, droplets landing in the sand.

It had been what felt like forever since he had felt the rush of the fight, the pure adrenaline fury that coursed invigoratingly through his veins, along with his Aether and void energy like a levin bolt striking a mountain of pure mythril. As he stood over the raen, who's face was bloodied, horn broken off, and eyes swollen almost shut, the xaela breathed hard through clenched teeth, almost slavering like a wild animal.  

The beast from the void, Khooson Zai, was the name Vozhu had come up with and the name that blared out from the crowd above.  It had been quiet in those moments of heated battle, but the silent focus in his mind was soon replaced by screams, cheers, boos, and jeers from all of those who had both won and lost money. In either case, the warrior didn't care, he wasn't here for the money, the fame, the pride, or the spoils that would come of it.  He came for the violence, he came to feel alive, he came for the blood.

Since the re-bonding, things had been different, and then after the aetherite accident, his body had changed even more. His skin more akin to small, fine snake scales, his larger ones somehow grew darker from onyx and gem-like to the deep midnight of the abyss, with swirls of void energy running through them during different moods. The eerie glow that was ever-present in his violet eyes darkened too, an almost black-light glimmer, revealing more of his Delphic lineage.  Unlike his sister's transformation, Mizuhiro's was not as advanced, nor was it against his will. The bargain struck between he and Vozhu was one that allowed them both to exist, but with he as the primary controller of their vessel, as changed and darkened as it was now.  Even still, it was a frightening display to see looking down into the fighting pit, and even more-so, looking up in bleary eyed defeat.  

[golden-mediocrity]

Cross

There was something similar in every single one of them, just as much as there were differences.  The massive mountain of a man had been holding onto the other's hand for what seemed like an eternity, but then in comparison to where his spirit had gone, a blink.  It wasn't easy, it never was, being there at the end for someone who had no one else show up for them, to bear the weight of disease and an eroding body, only for people to forget about and forsake you, leave you do find your final rest all alone. No one should have to bear that, but that's why he was there. Jian was ushering them to their afterlife.

Jian remained for another bell, holding the younger man's hand, having shown him a kindness he deserved yet, nobody that knew him showed up for. Jian understood the electrical chemistry that made up any person and their physiology. Death was like a deep sleep, things only drowning out once being all the way in was achieved. He hummed a baritone rumbling tune, an old Xaelic hymn sang and belted out at funerals, but kept low and comforting for the hyur.  He had come to the doctor in search of a cure, one that Jian was not able to find.  He found that there were often times he was unable to help anyone in the way they wanted it, but he was damned sure to be there when they needed it.  After the hyur's body started to cool, Jian set the hand down gently, still showing his patient's vessel all the respect it  was due, and stood above him staring down.  He cleared his throat and coughed a few times to ensure his own breathing was working as well as it could, and moved to pull the sheet over the dead man's face.

He lingered there for many moments, the short seconds turning into that eternity again, he closed his steely blue eyes and dropped his head, lips moving to utter prayers to the Dusk Mother and any diety that would see fit to listen.  The prayer was not a long one, and it was close to many he had uttered, but nowhere near that of the one he said for loved ones lost.  Ones that he wasn't able to be there for.  "May she light your path, my friend." The consolation was offered as the enormous, heavy hand of the mountain xaela benevolently pat the body's chest.

 Jian reached into his white coat lapel pocket, pulling out a silvery case where his cigarettes were kept, popped it open, pulled one out and set it on his lips.  A quick flick from a lighter soon followed and the crackling of paper and tabac whispered along with the ghosts in the room.  Jian spun around and found himself walking toward the door, through it, clunking his boots up the stairs and past the main lobby to the offices.  He ended up outside, a warm desert breeze greeting him as he stepped across the lawn.  Eventually, he stopped to stand at the stone wall that surrounded the building and leaned his burly frame against the overhang on the threshold to the street.  

He took a decent drag from the smoke, lifted his head and let his eyes relax, eyelids coming to a close over them.  He could see their faces, and with the vision, a tender curve of his lips cut crookedly on the side.  A sweet moment, ruined by tragic memory, his face soured as his head now dropped and hung from his shoulders. With the many different conversations he had with himself, hoping he could atone for his inabilities way back then, he continually found that he made himself answer to the spirit of the woman in his head, and the little girl that trailed behind.  But this is why I do this now. Because I couldn't do it for you when you needed me...  He tried to justify himself to her, but still more to his own shackles that bound him to his failures.  He had been off seeking reagents and ingredients for a possible cure for the ailment that had begun to ravage the lungs of his wife and daughter, a cave in to the unfinished caverns outside of Ura Uul.  His leg broken and the walls crumbled in, he was stuck there for days, days the two he loved the most didn't have time to give up.  Time wasted. Life wasted.

He inhaled the smoke again, this time it exited with a bellowing cough, the sound of a man who didn't need to be inhaling it.  If only they could have weathered it as he did, if only so many could have outlasted it... there was something he should have been able to do, something that  could have been done... The little voice stabbed at his heart from deep within his psyche, the pain that radiated from inside his chest. It was the sharp needle of survivor's guilt and not being able to bring medicine in time.  Had they not taken that extra rest on the way back, had they skipped their morning meal, had he just run home as soon as he found something else to try... None of those things were skipped and because of it, nothing could have been done. It all went as it was supposed to, the multitudes of choice whittled down to one point where there were no other options but to accept it. It was still something he could not do, he would never be able to stop thinking that if, if, if... if I could have just... just... just...

Even if the remedy he had devised didn't work, he still wished he could have been there, for either or for both, one had gone only a few hours before the first, he lamented the fact that his wife had to endure the pain of losing a child before she herself lost the battle to the illness.  He took another hit from the cigarette before he dropped it to the stones and smashed it out with his boot. A Xaelic whisper was sent into the wispy desert air that whipped across his horns, "I'm sorry, Qadan, Uulii. I should have at least been there to help you cross."

[golden-mediocrity]

In the Snow

Never did he think he would be here again.  A’ruun hated the snow with a heated, burning passion, and Garlemald was full of it.  He had been assigned to one of the Bozjan scouting squads, mostly because he knew the Eblan Rime. He had trained here, he had worked here, this had been a significant part of his life, it had even been his home in the barracks outside of the Tower Babil.  

They had been tracking a Garlean patrol that was making semi coherent patterns of movements, but every once in a while, they would peel off somewhere in a random direction.  Drawing on his years in the XIV legion, it wasn’t a tactic he was familiar with, but maybe they were doing it to maintain some element of surprise if they happened upon anyone else.  His guess was, they were tempered and lost, but they’d need to investigate further to find out.

There were three others with him, a Hrothgar named Vitally, an Elezen named Rothshance, and Willum, a middie.  All had seen a fair amount of combat, A’ru could see it in the way they moved, the light steps they took so that the snow would cover them quicker.  Roth had been assigned as his spotter, Willam the move ahead scout, and Vitty the Kitty, a name that A’ru didn’t say aloud, was pretty much orders and the oh shit brake if things hit the fan.  He carried a massive gun blade, ornately made, but definitely had seen its share of blood, bones, and bowels. A’ruun had admired it and even though he wanted to learn how to use it, had yet to work up the courage to ask Vitally.

The patrol kept on the move, not stopping for too long, Vitty sent Will up ahead to see if there was anything he could discern from them, make sense of their movements, anything and report back.  It had been an hour or so of them sitting in the snow, behind a hill, surrounded by nearly empty bushes. Roth had tried to keep a look out with his spotting scope, but the patrol had decided to move quickly away from where they had been when they sent Will up ahead, going out of sight behind some snowy foothills.

“He should have been back by now.  You know that’s not good,” Roth said, fear audible in his voice.  He constantly worried about the younger man who was only in his second year of fighting. The low bass growl came from Vitty, “He’s probably just being careful, there’s not a lot of cover between us and them. He’s a smart kid.”

A’ru took his long barreled rifle and looked through the scope, hoping for something in his reticle, anything of young Will.  It was getting dark and it had been way too long for Will not to have returned.  “We should get moving then, see if we can go wide that way, I think he would have probably hunkered down there if he got into trouble.” He pointed to a small copse of evergreens.  The other two just nodded and picked up their packs.  

The Garlean patrol was still nowhere to be seen, but they continued on quickly and as carefully as they could.  They weren’t concerned about boot prints or even the crunching sound that they made with each swift step through the snow.  It really didn’t matter when they heard gunfire from not far off.  They rounded a small rock formation, and caught a glimpse of the trees.  On the freshly fallen snow, there were pockmarks of green, black, and red.  The sight was exactly the one they didn’t want to see.  

Will had climbed up a tree, it seems, because there were hack marks along the trunk and a few branches pulled off, he was pressed up against it as two tempered soldiers had pulled him holding him there, trying to wrench his arms out of their sockets.  The horror came when they realized a third had been digging around in his stomach, removing his guts and entrails, slopping them down the front of him and to the no-longer virginal white snow.  He looked like he had been trying to scream in sheer pain and horror, but he no longer had the ability to while his life slowly drained from his face. 

The entire scene played out in a matter of seconds, but A’ru felt like time moved on slower than was possible.  He wasn’t quick enough to raise his long gun, but as soon as he did, he took the shot.  Fuck the rules of not killing tempered soldiers, his people weren’t worth the cost they were paying.  He took a single shot, misting the helmeted soldiers brains inside their container, and he watched as they dropped to the ground.  Vitty and Roth had already sprung into action, but were waylaid by more of the first legion’s lost souls.  A’ru dumped the sniper rifle and charged in, pulling his short sword free from his back, hacking, violently into one of the soldiers next to the tree.  As his opponent was pushed back, their helmet fell to the side. When they hit the ground, burning eyes stared at him maniacally, eyes that he knew.  Baatu had been close to him in the years after he was first conscripted into the Au Ri company. They had trained with one another, slept and ate next to each other, fought and were punished side by side.  

That man was gone, nowhere to be found in that monstrous husk any longer.  A’ru paused for a moment, and that moment was all not-Baatu needed to get the jump on him, causing A’ru to drop his blade into the fulm deep snow.  The Mankhad was pretty well wrapped up in whites and grays, fanged teeth sunk into the fabric at his neck, trying to get to his throat to rip and tear his head from his shoulders.  He felt himself fall backward as the other man snarled, bit, scraped, and kicked like an animal pouncing on its first meal in days.  A’ruun brought up his arms to try and shield himself from the attack.  He could hear the other tempered soldier now eviscerating what was left of Will, A’ruun prayed to Nhaama she had taken him before he could feel anything more.

As he tried to fight off Baatu, he grabbed the slavering Xaela by the jacket, positioned his knee in his gut and rolled backward flinging him off and behind him.  Rolling to his knees, he took out his dagger, he could see Vitty and Roth weren’t have an easy go at any of it as they were both outnumbered by ruthless, mindless zombies. Vitally had a few on him now, one latched to his body and fur, his coat having been removed in the melee, his body covered in blood matted hair.   Roth was screaming shrilly, covered with three or four of them, himself.  The snow around the elezen and the piled on tempered soldiers eventually seeped with a dark red, and the screams fell silent.  A’ru was only a few feet away from Will, or the remains of him, and he looked back on the soldier wildly feasting on him. He turned away from Baatu and jammed his dagger into the back of the black helmet.  The horns sticking out of that helmet made A’ru not want to know if he knew who he had just put down.

Loud, guttural roars and powder charged bangs were heard nearby, Vitally had his gunblade back in hand, fending off the four he had on top of him.  He called out to A’ruun.  “Get the fuck out of here, you pink bastard!” ‘That Pink Bastard’ was how he had always referred to A’ru, the bastard former Garlean soldier, turn coat, and now mercenary.  Eventually the name had some sentiment attached to it, and he wondered if this was the last time he’d hear it from that gruff, Hrothgar voice.  Baatu charged him, and woke him from his escape of reverie, anything to cope with the horrors of what was occurring all around him.  He sunk the dagger into the other man’s abdomen but the force at which Baatu tackled him, sent them both rolling like a snowball, into a rock.  The thud he felt as his back was pressed against it, jarred his entire body.  Baatu snatched at him, trying to pull off his scarves and his coat, now saturated in blood, it’s pristine, snow-white visage gone.  They wrestled for only a few moments before A’ruun could find the dagger sticking out of his former comrade in Garlean arms, he pulled it out and jammed it into the middle of his chest as the other man drooled saliva and blood all over his face.  A’ruun felt himself shuddering, crying as what life remained slowly left the eyes a blank window into the deep darkness of death and oblivion.  All he could do is stare into them before the body slumped against his and he could feel the entirety of dead weight pressing down on him.

The pain and sorrow he felt was greater than any wound he had ever suffered, in battle, training, even being captured and conscripted.  He looked off to his right and he could see the rest of the tempered strewn out around the Hrothgar, who was kneeling in the sanguine snow, his hand desperately grasping the hilt of the gun blade buried into the ground.  Heavily labored pants accompanied by rough coughs, wheezing, and groans.  The larger than life man who had been sent to protect all of them, fell over into a pile of blood and fur.  A’run rushed over to him, sliding in the snow.  He looked all over, there were deep cuts, gashes, exposed bone.  His evaluation was grim, he could see the man didn’t have long left, and he did the only thing he could. He reached down and held his clawed hand and brought him up to sitting with him, wrapping his other arm around the large cat man.  There were no more words that day, there were only the last faint, rasping breaths of the Hrothgar and the sounds of steaming blood on the snowy plain of the Eblan Rime.

[golden-mediocrity]

The last time.

There was a very audible clicking sound as he removed the knives from their scabbards up about an ilm before pushing them back down, one at a time.

-CLICK- He stood there in silence, other than the ticking seemingly in time with a watch or clock if there was one. He contemplated his last few weeks of existence. The hope that he felt, how it lifted him up...

-CLICK- The sun was coming up over the city of Kugane and Daichi was mounted atop the hostel building, standing like a gargoyle made from stone. In the distance he could hear the gulls cry, the sounds of little birds flying away from him, having just exited the nests under the rooftop eves.

-CLICK-The former bodyguard turned back asassin tried to map out his next steps. Usually it had been easier than this. Usually he would just find his yakuza family and pick up bounties. He closed his eyes as the scent wafted up and over the building, the cooks had begun their morning rituals and the smells from their stoves and fires tried to bring memories into his head.

-CLICK- He shook his head, not time for that, it's a weakness now... it always had been, and he had been lulled into believing something that just wasn't possible. He felt so stupid, arrogant that somehow his life could have some normalcy in it, a home, a place to settle down... a fami...

-CLICK- He inhaled deeply and blew it out through his nose, his eyes shut tightly. "No. Never again," he tried to console himself, as there was no one left to do it for him. His mother dead, tribe decimated before he was even born, few aqcuaintences that felt more like he was burdening than he had befriended, and his former lov..

-CLICK- ...charge and ward.

He had only been gone a week, and when he returned his keys no longer worked and his stuff was set down with the door man. He was still confused as to what had happened in the time he had been captured and tortured by the Adarkim that found him. She was all that got him though, the pale, sea green eyes….

-CLICK- All he wanted was to come home and find the comfort he had denied himself most of his life.

-CLICK- Now, he wasn't worthy of it. He fought the urge to climb up the walls and into the window, there was no use.

-CLICK- The note was very clear:

Daichi,

Your services are no longer required, you are released of your debt to Archon Miehaux and may seek other employment. Any and all requirements of you have been withdrawn and you may resume your normal business practices.

-Miehaux

-CLICK- He had wondered if he had gone too far, let himself feel too much, let her inside his heart, if it was because they had fallen... well, he fell, anyway. It made him try to plan out what he was going to do with his life now that he had re-evaluated himself and his life goals. He wasn't angry anymore, he didn't want to murder, kill, harm, just for the thrill of it. He just wanted what he thought he had, what he had been promised and then suddenly swiped away...

-CLICK- He closed his eyes again, the smudged face paint had run down his face, exposing more pale, white skin where black used to be. He could feel the softness, hear the essence of her breath, the wind blew along his chin and reminded him of her eyelashes fluttering against him as she blushed. His head tilted upward, and he felt like flying, he reached out for her as she started to pull away, blown by the wind away from him. He took a step, then another, he reached farther, then.....

It was almost sundown when he woke up, buried in the large trash bin, impaled by a broken chair, and a very large lump on his head. He laughed a single chuckle, for what else was he to do? Then the blinding pain came... He was going to have to find a healer, and soon...

[golden-mediocrity]

The First Time

The hard thumping of the blood running through his body crashing through his veins was louder than anything in that moment.  Everything had happened so quickly, and Mizu could barely understand the events as they were occurring.  His body moved almost without his will, the practiced motions like programmed clockwork pushing his densely muscled frame, propelling his fist upward into the Raen’s face.  He had been aiming for the other man’s jaw, attempting to strike him with a knockout blow.  Instead of what he had expected, there was a sickening crunch, the sound of broken cartilage, followed by the gush of hot lifeblood being exuded from his opponent’s face.  

His eyes had been closed as he struck, the sand that had been strewn across his face had yet to clear, whatever he could see when his eyes were open was blurry and translucent at best, as the tears tried to flush the contaminant out of his system.  The sound that reverberated through his dark, midnight shaded horns was one that he had never heard before, but it was one that had been described to him many times.  The thumping in his chest grew louder as his mind started to put it all together.  

A flash of guilt rang through his frame as if he were a gong being struck with a mallet.  As the vibration across his body began to slow, he heard the voice of his master and namesake. They were standing in the garden only weeks ago, up on a small bridge over the pond, overlooking the koi. *“Always, young Mizuhiro, look for ways to spare life.  We may practice arts of war, but there are many different ways to win a battle, more than using your fists and physical might.”*

He opened his eyes, the drops of tears were still working their way through the grit, but his vision was slightly more cleared. He could feel the warmth of the other man’s blood flowing down his fist, along his forearm and staining the sleeve of his silken robes.  The man’s eyes were half lidded now, and Mizu could barely make it out as the light left the stunned gaze, causing it to gloss over, the pupils dilating as they rolled back into the sockets.  Another sound of the gong hit him.

This flash brought him to the Steppe, he was out on a hunt with Akai and his father, they were following a small herd of mammoths.  The sun was low over the ground, casing the blood red streaks of Azim’s light across the sea of blades and over the large, wooly creatures.  The older man’s arm went up, his finger extended, instructing the children to witness what was about to happen.  “Watch.  See the tiger?  It slowly stalks its prey.  It is after that calf.  It will slink and slither almost like a snake in that grass until it can close the gap quickly and pounce its quarry.” His father had abandoned the hunt when the tiger had been spotted.  This was a lesson for the twins to learn, not a time to show their prowess.  The tiger did exactly as he had described.  It waited for the cow to move off, the bull to be further away and the calf nearly alone.  Within moments the tiger had negated the distance, dug its claws and fangs into the animal.  The raw bleating from the young beast was audible for only a moment before the jaw of the tiger clenched its throat and dragged it off into the tall grass and reeds. “There is sometimes artistry in barbarism, and the animals show us how good they are at what they do to survive.  But learn this lesson if you take anything away here: The tiger kills to live,  not merely for sport.  We do not kill for sport, we only take lives if we have to for survival or our family is in danger of death.” 

The clang of the gong was subsiding again, the man had crumpled to the ground his life  gone from his body.  Mizu blinked hard and tried to wipe his eyes clean but it did no good.  It was more than tears and sand, there was a sticky film of blood streaked across his light-violet skin, he could smell the scent of iron as it stained his flesh.  He had done what he had been instructed to do, what he had always trained for.  The Raen had accosted him drew a knife and attacked him.  The pain of a stab wound throbbed in his side as he dropped to one knee…   He did everything right.  Didn’t he?  

As his vision fully cleared he could see the caved in portion of the man’s face.  The strike he hit was not one for self defense, it had the full power of murder behind it.  He looked at his hands, still smeared with blood, he felt something crack on the inside, something he had not felt before.  Mizuhiro crouched over the man for what seemed like an eternity.  As he studied the bashed face of the other Au Ra, there was a third voice that called out to him.  One not from his past, nor one to offer up wisdom for him to cleanse his guilt.  He heard faint whispers, but couldn’t make out the words, only the tone.  He was left with a sense of doubt and foreboding.  He wasn’t sure what to do next, so he just sat there and stared back at the dead. 

[golden-mediocrity]

A Beautiful Sunrise

Daichi sat on the bank of the river, his hands soaked in blood, the remnants of lives that had chosen to be extinguished.  His uniform, as protected as it could be with chemicals to prevent staining, was also saturated in the vicera of the former Adarkim warriors he had dispatched only a few moments before.  He hadn’t wanted a conflict today, of all days, he had just wanted to remember her, to sit with her for as long as the Qestir would let him in that yurt.  A few measely hours…   but late was late all the same. She had passed in the night. He was called when her condition had worsened and even with all the effort he could muster, he was still not able to beat time. No one could, but she had for a while.

The hours dragged on as he sat kneeling beside her, cold lavender hand in his pale white ones, staring at her face, peaceful and quiet.  There was a scent of sage and incense that wafted about the space. Rituals performed, rites given, words and sentiment uttered and lost to the winds.  He had shed no tears, but his face paint was still smudged.  The glinting silver of his gaze studied her countenance, how fiery she had been, how full of life… she blazed brighter than any sun, and glowed more purely than even the moon herself.  The woman who had crawled through the muck, filth, and blood to birth him in the destroyed hovel that had once been her home.  The one who would never give up, the one who gave him and nurtured his own spark.  

There had been voices outside the tent, he could hear them loud and clear.  Even if it was Reunion, the Adarkim would have their quarry and their satisfaction.  No Avagnar could be suffered to live, and when he was done, he would walk outside the gates, and let them have their chance.  They were arguing with the silent ones, the fear was still there, a tinge of it in their voices no matter how hard they tried to hide it.  They knew of him, his reputation, the myth of the Ghost of the Avagnar, the Banshee in the night, the one they told witches tales to their children about.  His face broke for but a second before he placed his serious mask back on, and let her hand go for the last time. She was gone, the vessel was empty and all that was left was a husk.  Her spirit had been claimed by the Dusk Mother and she was home in the life stream once again.  Her death had been put off into old age, the very people from the tribe who had tried to take if from her were outside right now.  If death was what they wanted, death is what they would receive.

Daichi was no stranger to death, he had made a successful business of it.  Honed his skills against the westerners, the easterners and in every land between  There were a half dozen major political incidents that had no explanation, the pale specter that drifted in where none should be able to enter, dignitaries perished, priests wavered in their faith before choking on their lifeblood, none were safe from the man made of nothing who came from nowhere.

He turned to his right where a severed head had been laying on its side, blood spilling out from the neck, a fat tongue lolling out between bloodied teeth and lips.  He reached over to set it upright in the now rising sunlight.  Daichi positioned the head so that it could see the morning sun come as he watched it slowly float up from behind the mountains that surrounded the Steppe.  “One should be so lucky to witness a sunrise like this one, my friend”, he said with a cheerful tone, one not usual in his cadence of speech, a swathe of sarcasm slapped all over it. He leaned over while cupping his horn with his bloodied hand as if to hear the voices of the dead.  “What was that my cousin?  Indeed, the sky is very red.” He looked down to his hands, implements of death, the both of them.  He rubbed the rusty fluid between forefinger and thumb and grimaced.  He felt an immediate desire to be free of this filth. “I guess it’s true what they say about the red sun in the morning, it calls the dead of he damned to Azim.”  A wide smile slashed across his blood covered face as he snickered at the dozen dead that lay around him.

He sat there for a few moments and contemplated what to do next.  With a sigh, he pushed himself up using only his legs, he went from his seated position to standing and made his way down to the creek where he began to wash his hands.  As he watched the red flow off his skin and down stream, he hummed a lullaby his mother sang when he was a child. 

Nhaama can you hear me?

Protect me, your light upon my skin

The seekers are coming,

Keep safe my kith and kin.

Hide us in the darkest shadows,

Or we shall tremble in Azim’s light

Our time has come now

To blend, or flee, or fight.

Run brothers and sisters,

To cover of twilight and obscurity

Find your peace, love, life,

But none of these are for me.

With black blades in hand,

All the Horde will gather and see,

I walk with my kindred’s sundered souls.

So with Her they may rest free.

Bring them, bring them,

They will find as I lie in wait.

They may bring their numbers,

But it is I who brings their fate.

Fire in my heart,

At my back, the wailing Avagnar dead.

How shines the Sea of Blades in Moonlight,

Smeared in Adarkim red.

[golden-mediocrity]

Goodbyes and Farewells

Ulaan pushed the opening to the yurt open and walked back to where he had been staying with his sister for the last few weeks. The kids were all out playing, only his sister was there, darning socks while dinner boiled over the hearth.  He could smell the khorkhog stew wafting in the air as he moved though it. He looked around and started picking up things and was just lost. He knew she would get help, but it was going to be difficult on her own. 

“Ujin!  <I have to go away for a while.>” He just said openly, no time to mince words. He wasn’t sure when he would return, if ever. This could be the last time he saw any of his family ever again. He walked to the partition where his bed was situated, sat down on the feather down mattress, then rested his head in his hands.  

Ujin came into his area and rounded the wooden screen, poking her head around it.  “<Where are you going and for how long?>”her face was a mask of confusion and concern. She could see the consternation on his.  “<It’s going to be for a while, isn’t it…?>” Her body dropped some, and her tone sank. 

“<Yes. I will be living with the Jhungid until such time as they release me from what the Khatun has promised them. I will be able to visit, I think….>” His vision focused on an indeterminate spot off to his right as he thought about it.  “<I will not be here for you and the children. You will need to find additional help.>”

She came to sit by him on the bed and put her arm around his back. She leaned her head into him.  “<We will be fine, brother. We will be fine.>”

They spoke for a long time, making plans and ensuring the children would be accounted for. They had dinner before they sat around the fire pit, where Ulaan told stories of great heroes and how the village where they lived, Khoyor Gol came into being. They oohed and ahhhed, because this time he told it with a little bit of magic to emphasize certain parts. Sparks, flames, stone and pure red energy.  He gave them a flashy show that night.  Once story time was over, and they had performed their evening rituals and prayers, Ulaan helped his sister put them all to bed, he kissed every one of them on the head as he moved by each.  He rose and walked to the partition door to the children’s area, but stopped just before he exited.  

“<I will be gone to serve the Dusk Mother and Dalamud for a while, it may be some time before I return.  I love you all.>” Those kids had meant everything to him, and he treated them as if they were his own… the ones that were not lost and gone. He set them all on their paths as warriors, artisans, leaders and ugdans.  He had done all he could and felt like he was leaving them well prepared. He knew that if he did not go, they would not survive to see those paths.  The agreement was clear.  He went or they would have a fight similar to that of the Adarkim thumping at their door, but the Jhungid were stronger, smarter, and more organized.  It would not be a windmill of punches and screaming, it would have been a calculated assault, then slaughter of those who would not comply, and subjugation for those who were broken.  He would not see any more of his kin die needlessly.

He decided he would leave that night. There was no reason to wait, it only made gong that much more ominous. He packed up his weapons, some small projects he had been tinkering on and some clothing.  He gave his sister a prolonged hug and then walked out of the yurt. He called for his roc, Galyn and awaited her arrival.  

The giant bird was majestic, brightly orange colored, seemingly as if she were on fire in the dark, cloudless night.  She sparkled and flickered as if the stars had shot down to the ground.  The head of the beast was another matter entirely. A bony maw covered with saliva and two pitch black eyes were pointed at him as she landed with a few heavy beats of her wings.   He tied his belongings to the  makeshift saddle, then climbed into it. He whispered his command and they were off into the deep blue of the midnight Steppe sky. 

[golden-mediocrity]

Decisions

As he listlessly sat there, he took in his surroundings, the familiar office, the books stacked up on the floor, the sound of silence that echoed through the building.  There were only faint footsteps he heard from upstairs.  Melinoe was probably doing what she always did.  That ridiculous woman worked tirelessly for In-Ju.  Yash had hired her when she was on the streets of Ul'dah, gave her his apartment in the Sultana's and paid her way more than he ever should have, a waste.  Even then, it wasn't the money that kept her busting her ass, it was the kindness of a good leader. Someone who knew what they were doing... someone who cared about others.

There were mountains of paperwork strewn all over the desk, ashed out cigarettes, his large snifter full of Sharlayan brandy, maps, logs, ledgers, bills, mission reports.  This isn't how he had pictured this life, the one he dreamed of having when he could take it.  Sitting behind a desk, doing busywork for a company he had no business owning.  He wasn't stupid, but he wasn't cut out for this monotonous nonsense.  How he had ever thought that he should buy the place from the Iriq and the miqo... How he could use it to hide in plain sight...

He reached into his upper jacket pocket, pulled out  a half smashed pack of pre-rolled cigarettes, popped one out of the hole he had ripped in the side of the soft-pack, flipped it up and caught it between his lips.  He reached for the fueled lighter on his desk, clicked the top twice and watched the flame dance.  This little flame, did it live every time he lit it or was it a completely different life with each strike of the flint?  It danced for it's life on that worn, blackened wick, flickering as he breathed out and the air swelled around it like an invisible tide tossing a ship around at sea. Did it live?  It breathed air, just like he did, consumed fuel, just like he did, and was snuffed out, as one day this body would also be.  He heaved a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping the feeling of despondence pooling just above the heart, threatening to choke him, deny him of oxygen.  Just like that flame he could fulfill his purpose and be snuffed out at any time.  Did he even have a purpose anymore?  He could be brought low by emotion and feeling that he was still trying to come to grips with.  He wasn't even sure why he had them, much less how to control them most of the time.  They weren't supposed to stay with him, they were supposed to be extracted, with everything else that was removed.

There was a crackle of burning parchment and tabac as he inhaled through the stuffed paper stick, the smoke flew like a heated dragon blowing fire all the way down his throat and into his lungs.  He gripped the stick between his first and middle fingers, guided it away from his lips and blew the smoke out through halfway-pursed lips, the smoke billowing across the dominion of bureaucracy on the desk.  He leaned back in the uncomfortable captain's chair.  Yash had specifically purchased this for a reason.  It was so fucking uncomfortable, he never wanted to feel like he could stay behind a desk like this.  The pains it would make in your back and legs were reminders to never rest, never be a desk jockey, never find comfort in busywork. It was a reminder to get up, go out and take action.  He shifted in his seat, crossed an ankle over his knee.  He bounced his foot almost nervously.  Is this what it was like being mortal?  Living on this plane of existence?  Having to waste your time, documenting the droll everyday bullshit that you didn't really have to do to begin with?  Living as one of them wasn't what he wanted.  The fire, the passion, the fucking, the reckless drunken nights, the fighting, the ruthlessness in a pit... Those were the things he longed for ever since he was released from his prison.  But he ended up here.  Exactly like the other one would have. The highlights not nearly as abundant as he wanted them to be.  Keeping up appearances meant living the same absurd existence.  

He lazily brought the smoke back up to his purple lips, inhaled another long drag, expelled the smoke with puffed cheeks in an almost comical way.  Its not like this damage was worse than what Mizu was doing to his body, at least this was damage you couldn't see, damage on the inside.  Damage that was recalcitrant against living on this star.  An act of rebellion to live that would ultimately see you die.  Vhozu wondered if now he could die? He shrugged, dragged even more smoke, but this time he got rid of his through his nose, blowing it across his dark blue uniform.  His contemplation of existence was bothersome in itself.  He didn't even need to be in this body, so why stay in it?  The prison he had been bound to when he was created, meant to give it abilities that he no longer had?  The void had been absent from him ever since the other was extracted.  He had a single, frame bouncing laugh as he leaned to his right, resting his chin on his upward facing palm, his elbow propping him up on the armrest.  The smoke swirled around his hand as his expelled breath made that dance too.  

There was something he was missing in this life.  Even all the fire, passion, fucking, debauchery, and combat couldn't make him feel whole again.  He was barely different than Mizuhiro was.  He did the same fucking things, cared about the same fucking people, worried that the same shit was going to go wrong.  How much of this was him, and how much of Mizu was he now?  His other hand slowly floated to his brandy snifter, fingers split at the stem as they cradled it in his hand.  He swirled it around absentmindedly and watched the light bend as it touched the glass and then reflected off the top of the liquid.  He drank down the rest of the booze, a slight twinge of burn, the scent of flowers tickled his nose, the sweet taste of dried fruit danced across his tongue, and that almost clean aftertaste flooded his breathing.  He set the glass down and sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk now.  He dragged the last puff of smoke before smashing the butt into the ashtray with the others.  He was going to have to do something, even if it meant he was going to be shoved back into his prison.  The dark, dismal abyss that felt like eternity when he was packed in there.  Maybe this time HE could make the deal, maybe this time they could both be at the helm?  Maybe they could be bound as they should have been in the beginning?  

The split of his energy between the two of them left him somewhat weak, Voresh had probably seen to that, let him lay dormant in both of the twins as long as he wanted, then triggered his essence when HE felt like it.  He had been used, given an unspoken promise when he was created and then divided between the twins, in fact making two exact copies of himself, just half as strong as one would expect.  But he felt incomplete now, even with all the freedoms he had, the experiences he collected for himself now.  The dull thuds of fists to his face and body, the sheer thrill of feeling how he did in those to-the-death fighting pits.  That exhilaration of mortality trying to snuff out mortality.... The softness of arms wrapped around him, the feeling of the little deaths that accompanied such intimate times.  The act that would be used to create life, feeling much like it did to end life it at it's climax. The endorphins that flowed in those moments almost exactly the same in someone's final ones.  Was he willing to chance giving up his newfound ability to chart his own course?  To call his own shots and keep the electrifying experience of existence burning brightly within the furnace of his... was it a soul?  

Vhozu bounced Mizuhiro's head left and right to consider what it might be like to have that other fire burn along with his.  The one that cared more about the small things, the people in their life... Vhozu felt like he'd miss some of them if they expired, he'd gotten used to them.  That was it, mere familiarity, right?  The gifts given, the favors done with a small sense of accomplishment. Familiarity.. was almost like -family-. Drumming his fingers along the jawline of this body, he contemplated having his conscience back.  He wrinkled up his nose and sneered with a scratchy, disgusted groan.  In order to feel full again, he was going to have to retrieve the box.  But she surely would not just let him, the other fell-entity that had secreted the small auracite prison away, binding it in so many wards that even he wasn't able to pierce through the Mhachi magic.  It was decided then...  He was going to need to get Mizu back, but how was an entirely different matter.

"Fuck."

[golden-mediocrity]

Lifetimes and chapters.

Smoke drifted up from slightly parted, greenish lips, billowing into the air between the bed and the ceiling. Laying there was when he spent most of his time thinking, and fortunately, Shuud had lots of these moments in recent times. His other hand played idly with soft, snow white hair that spilled out over his chest and shoulder. At least this would be a pleasant memory, her grey skin pressed against his multicolored, tattooed flesh, her strong muscular arm draped across his harlequin-diamond marked chest.

He was maybe five cycles in the memory? The snow was heavy on the ground, smoke from a small fire hung in the air, like a low cloud weather system in the hut kept it where it was. The pressure in the air was obvious, another storm was coming. He was hungry, his body emaciated, belly distended. He would have probably been on deaths door if the “gypsies” hadn’t traveled through. His parents weren’t any better off than he was, the previous year’s drought had left foraging nearly impossible, goats were scarce and they had been separated from the rest of the Khatayin when they weren’t able to organize their travel. They were living on a near frozen tundra in the upper plains on the higher steppe of the mountains.

Shuudkhan’s father had made the decision to stay, thinking that the drought would signal a weak winter this year, he had learned from his mistake by losing his eldest son and youngest daughter to sickness and the freezing elements. Shuud was all they had left, he was weak and on his way to meet his siblings if they couldn’t figure a way out of their plight. When the small band of warriors arrived, they took pity on the dwindling family. They shared their food and drink, they gave blankets and furs, plenty for the rest of the winter… and in exchange, they asked for the child.

Over the next few years, Shuudkhan’s life barely improved. At least he was being fed, had somewhere to sleep, and he was being educated. But there were different types of education, one that would enlighten the soul, and another that would turn it black as oiled-tar, and just as toxic.

He took another drag of the cigarette, inhaled deeply, felt that familiar warmth and burn deep in his lungs, before he expelled another plume. He watched it for just a moment as he wondered about his parents. Had they survived that winter? He didn’t even know where they were anymore. He had tried to retrace the steps to find his childhood home, but he had been unlucky in that search. The Khatayin were not a very out in the open tribe, their encampments were camouflaged and hidden. He at least remembered that. One time he had tried to escape and find his way back home…

He hummed a sarcastic laugh, they had made sure he was tough, despite his many sicknesses and maladies. He had been skinny and bony, barely any fat on him, no matter how much he ate. The roughness came from the caning, and the isolation huts he had been banished to for misbehaving. When he tried to escape, he was left bloodied and tied up in a sweat tent. The heat of the hut was sweltering. It had stone walls, fire places built into each side that super heated the rock. A set of steam stones was placed in the middle of the room, there was a wooden bucket and metal ladle. He knew that ladle well, at least his body was familiar with the blunt end. A smart mouth and a fuck all attitude was what got him here. If only he could stop making jokes, but the clown was always present. It was better than dealing with the demon he felt he had inside.

She stirred slightly, her horn poked into his side, but he just snuggled in. He felt the taught muscles of her body gently pressed against him, one hand twirled around in that stark shocked, moon white hair, the other brought the smoke back to his lips, another inhale, the slight crackle of the paper and tabac burning in unison…

The pain was a bright white light that blinded him as the brand was pushed hard against the back of his neck. The shape of a kraken was emblazoned on his skin, just below the hairline. It had been his initiation to the crew, he had been adopted into the Haragin when he had been found on an island they frequented for stored supplies. An uncharted, unmapped tiny speck of sand in the middle of supposedly haunted waters. How he had washed up on that shore, they didn’t know, but he was only about ten or twelve cycles by then and they took him in. His body, while needing nourishment, looked as if it had been hammered and shaped into a machine. Good, strong lads were needed on those Corsair ships, every raid there were at least a few losses that needed replenishment. The brand was his first mark that signaled who he was going to be, at least the first visible mark he would get.

The last drag off the shoddily rolled smoke was pulled through his lips and he placed the small butt in the ashtray next to the bed. None of that mattered now. His past was exactly that, his past. His childhood, while not the best had prepared him for many horrors and pains that he didn’t think he would have survived otherwise. He had good moments in between the start of his life starving to the point of constant raiding. His hand drifted down, fingers dancing along the grey-blue curves, reminding him that even the hardest things had a tenderness to them.

He had fallen behind, again… and last time he was beaten within an ilm of his life, he was exhausted, the welts and lashes bleeding on his back, soaking through the black fabric clinging to his bloodied flesh. The large boy who was always up front, fell behind and picked Shuudkhan up by the upper part of his arms and set him on his feet. He grabbed Shuud by the face. “If you quit, they will kill you. Move…” there was no reason for him to do it, but he looked out for all of the younger, smaller kids. He wasn’t nice about it, but at least he did it. He seemed just as programmed as the rest of them, but he fit in more with the masters than the drones. Shuudkhan felt the push at his back, the squishing sound of blood between his skin and the fabric was audible. But the tall boy kept pushing him. “Fucking march.” Had he not come back for him, Shuud wasn’t sure anyone would have. He probably would have died in that desert.

He heaved a long sigh, as he brought his free hand up to cradle under his head. He watched as the smoke still swirled in the air, he listened to her breathing, he could hear the birds chirping at the rising sun. All of it led him here. All the pain, torture, trials, tests, all of it. Every single bit of it, led him to this one point that felt like it had been worth it. He turned his head to the side, placed a sweet kiss on that dove white crown of hers, he inhaled the sweetness of her essence before he laid his head back down and closed his eyes once more.

[golden-mediocrity]

If everything goes wrong……

There was no time. No gravity. No light where he was, only permanent night. There were bursts and flashes, hints and tiny revelations as to what went on, but there was never a lot of input, unless *he* wanted Mizuhiro to see it. Mizu was spinning in the blackness. The space with no stars. They were cruelly taken from him, the constellations, the celestial beauty he used to look up and lose himself gazing, thinking about the future he planned. All the mortal things he wanted to do in this life before he was pushed off to the next….

But even that was no longer possible. As long as he was tethered here against his will, stuck in an Aetherial box with a lock and no key. The nothing was stifling. Like an intense burning heat, but nonexistent, the desire to feel, even tortured, but nothing was felt here. Even with all the spinning he didn’t feel dizzy, the only thing he was left with was his memories and his despair. The sadness was all he was allowed to feel, at least that could keep him imaginatively warm, but was it?

It was then that *he* turned it on, the deluge of sensory overload, this was one of those moments he dreaded and would have instantly, happily returned back to that bland, in between life fueled only by his regret and heart ache, but Vozhu used this to add more to the bloody pig pile that Mizu had festering inside him. Like rotten fat and sinew, bloated from spending the day in a blistering summer sun, the wretched and foul miasma that would assault and attack any olfactory system which encountered it.

His eyes were fully plugged in now, he could see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. Unable to blink, even once to keep a second from his mind. He experienced the guilt of being able to feel now, even if it was at the other end of someone else’s suffering. The sensation of his limbs was invigorating, but he could see it, what it was intended for him to feel.

His claw was at her throat now, he could see the glistening tears running down her face, the poor girl had no idea what was happening. Her face a deep red, darker than it looked to normally be. He constricted her airway yet at the same time he siphoned her Aether out of her, Vozhu could have just taken it, killed her and be done with it, but he did this on purpose. He chose them with a particular function in mind. They always looked like those he loved, the ones he called family, the ones he fought alongside, to frightening detail, skin tones, horns, eyes. Even down to their imperfections and disabilities. He had killed hundreds by now. How long had it been? How many years, decades, had gone by as Vozhu punished Mizuhiro for trapping him inside his body and depriving him of sustenance for twelve years? How much longer would he be made to feel this over and over?

*”As long as I desire.”*

As the life slowly left her eyes, Mizu could hear in his head one of the constant questions.

*”Which sister was that?”* followed by the low crackle of his void-blighted laugh. *”Should we go pale this next time? I’m thinking blue? Which one should we enjoy together next?”*

Mizuhiro didn’t answer, there was no reason, the raw screams and internal suffering was already known. It was savored, tasted, consumed like a fine wine. There was absolutely nothing he could hide from Vozhu. And as he left the sight and sound on for a few more brief moments to burn yet another image into his memory, Mizu tried to hold on, that one day he would have his chance to get out, escape and end this.

*”But why stop and ruin all our fun? Blue it is…”* and in an instant nothing existed. There was no time. No gravity. No light where he was….only permanent night.

[golden-mediocrity]

Born with only the first name of Odsar, he entered the world with a scream. His lungs expelled the first war cry, signaling his arrival and warning all who may oppose him on The Azim Steppe.

Living in the nomadic Tumet tribe, he was raised by his father and mother in the usual Xaelic way, taught the ways of the warrior, with sword, spear, hand and mind. As he advanced in years, he eventually reached his trial day. In his small band of Tumet, there was a place that the tribe stayed where a very old and massive rattan tree sat in the middle of a large field. It was also used as a landmark for the tribes to navigate in case of harsh weather or clouds in the sky that obscured the stars. It was here that Odsar would be tested along with three others.

There were two females and one other male who had their time with Odsar. Each of them were blindfolded and had their hands bound behind them in knots that caused their hands to go numb. Stuck in both sides of the tops of their chest were hatchling yol talons, which were in turn tied to hempen twine ropes and then tied to large branches on the sacred tree. It was up to each of these potential Tumet warriors to pull these talons from their flesh however they could, pulling back, rolling over, any means necessary, then find the blade to cut their bonds, in order to then leave and catch up to the tribe in an unknown location. They would need to track them down find the Tumet Khan and show them that they had been marked as warriors.

Over the span of a few hours, one of the females had broken loose, bloodied and torn apart just under her collar bone, found the apparatus to cut her bonds, and took off the blindfold and laughed before she was on her way. The second and then the third had broken free and Odsar was left stranded alone, still connected. Through the entire ordeal, the pain was excruciating. When he had been left last, he had only been able to pull one of the talons from his chest. The other had been placed deeper than the first, his father wanted him to prove that he was as fit to be a warrior as anyone in the Tumet tribe.

After almost a full day of pulling, wrenching his body, yelling, kneeling and praying to Nhaama for mercy and her blessing, he was eventually able to break free. He could feel the warmth of his blood oozing down his chest and covering his body, his eyes still covered by the blindfold. He fell to the ground on his knees and he thanked Nhaama for her mercy. He rolled onto the ground finding a way to remove his blindfold so his eyes could see.

It was almost night and the sun was well behind the western mountains, signaling he was nearly out of time. Sitting back up and looking around , he found the sharpened rock he could use to cut his bindings, and did so quickly. Pushing himself up to his bare feet, he stumbled toward the sunset, and into the night.

The night was cold on this spring Steppe evening and Odsar knew he needed to hurry, willing every energy into his body to propel himself forward. Step by trudging step, ‘Sar kept moving by sheer will and determination. He couldn’t remember when he had lost consciousness. A full day in the sun, the shredding and tearing of flesh, nothing to eat or drink, and the blood loss all together with his grueling trek to the rendezvous with the tribe, assured everything that it was not a trip he would complete.

The taste of soil and musty earth was swabbed across his mouth, he slowly opened his eyes as he looked around the meadow where he had fallen. He pushed himself up with a stinging soreness trying to sit up, he ripped open one of the massive flesh wounds that had bled and been filled with earth where he lay for an indeterminate amount of time. All he knew was, it was daylight, not quite mid day, nor even mid morning with the dew still on the blades of grass he was in. How far had he wandered and which direction were also an unknown to him. His belly rumbled and his lips were parched, he took handfuls of grass and put them in his mouth to capture as much moisture as he could. His body would need it to heal.

As he continued to pick through the field and hydrate his needy body, he could hear a scream off in the distance. It sounded as if whoever had let out the shriek was fearful of something. Odsar didn’t want to get up, he was content with sitting on his knees, just breathing and existing… but he willed himself to his feet anyway. The were multiple voices now screaming out, desperately needing assistance. As he created over the small grassy hill, he could see there were three children, younger than he was the largest one, a girl, held out a long spear and was waving it around at a dangerously large tiger. The younger kids looked to be about ten, the oldest maybe twelve cycles and Odsar looked around to see if he could see any hunters.

With no one near to help, all he could find was a long obsidian bladed knife, wrapped with leather cord at one end, a wicked chipped blade at the other. Unarmed and severly under-equipped, he picked up the stonework weapon and slowly loped toward the gathering of children and ferocious beast. He was able to catch the eye of the brave young lady and he gave her a nod with widened eyes as if to tell her he was here to help and he could see. He motioned to her to make more noise and make herself look bigger, and that she did. Her cries of fear turned to brazen anger and insane bravery, she even advanced with spear on the large Othardian cat.

Odsar waited patiently, winding himself up like a spring action jack in the box and when the tiger lifted its paw to swing down pain onto the girl, he let loose and plunged himself into the fray. With gleaming obsidian flashing in the morning sunlight, he dove directly toward the ribcage of the massive beast and struck true, driving the long black blade into its lungs. The cries that had been from little children were soon replaced with a caterwauling of pain and torment. Odsar kept the blade held firmly in his hands and he used his whole body to twist it in further, causing a white, black and orange flash of color as it also spun, using its hind legs to catch him with deadly claws and push the red warrior off of it.

Odsar felt the burning pain sear through the flesh of his thigh and stomach, rending his whipcord muscle. Even though he had been wounded and flung far, his own strike would soon fell the foul beast. Tumbling backward, he eventually ended up in the dirt as he had when he first awoke that morning, sore, bleeding and a mouth full of dirt as the light he was able to see slowly diminished once more.

[golden-mediocrity]

almost...

It was mid-evening when it happened, during a deal he was making for an artifact that could track down voidsent, some rigged up mix of Allagan *magic* and Garlean Magitek.  He wasn't quite sure it would work, but he wanted to get it anyway, just in case it might help him find her, but it was she who found him this time. He had a feeling she always knew where he was, probably even watched him from the void.

The case was handed to Mizu and the gil had been moved between tomestones, and just when the deal was about to be fully completed, the device started screaming and buzzing from inside the briefcase, Mizuhiro could feel it jumping and dancing around in there. There was a whoosh of air as a long, wicked bladed spear grazed his horn and embedded itself into the chest of the hyur man in front of him, just like Mizu, he never saw it coming, it was like a bolt of shadow whirring through the wind with a resounding THUD. The blood ran down from the man's wounds, also some spewed out, exiting his mouth from the pooling where it had probably severed his esophagus.  His eyes went wide and he grasped onto the shaft trying desperately to pull it out, but he had no idea that it had fully gone through him, the elongated, black blade protruding from between his shoulder blades.  He was dead, he just needed to admit it.  He slumped down to his knees and then he fell the rest of the way, the light had left his eyes long before his head hit the floor.  There was an odd hissing sound as Mizu watched the man fade away, his aether being sucked into the weapon of the assailant.    

Wheeling around he spun to catch a glimpse at the assassin, but just as he did, he was taken down by something that clawed into his flesh through his clothes.  He could feel it digging into his chest and arm as he was tackled and rolled back with the momentum.  There were strikes and blows exchanged on the ground, pain welled up in his body from each damaging hit. He realized they were trying to hurt, but not kill and Mizu was trying to figure out why.  

They fought and warred and battled, after only a few seconds, he knew the red and black monstrosity was Akaisorah.  He could tell by the holds she tried to keep on him and the points at which she poked, punched and kneed at him.  There was a rasping voice that spoke to him after they separated, his foot launching her by the stomach up and over him, but with wings unfurled she was able to catch herself mid air and slowly set down on tip toes before resting the remainder of her weight on both feet. The laugh that came from her sounded like wood moving in a crackling bonfire.  The small ring of red was illuminated in her eyes.  "So... brother.  You've been looking for me?" She motioned to herself and her surroundings, "Well, here we are," she said with a mocking tone that quickly turned to impatient anger. "*What is it you want from me?*" The shrill shriek pierced through his black boned horn, but he barely winced.  This was a sound he heard every night, and in multiples, in droves, in armies of the void.  In his voidsickness dreams, the abyssal cacophony of a discordant chorus always with him, she was but one voice, even if she was the loudest.  

The vile hatred spewed forth from her lips like a cobra spitting venom across the small warehouse aimed directly to where he was laying.  He looked up and over himself, she was upside down to him, after having his attempt at tossing her away from him.  He rolled over slowly, then pressed himself upward and to his feet, dusting off his dark, midnight blue uniform, his eyes never left hers. Any other woman or man may have shit themselves being this close to a voidsent, especially one so imposing and so deadly.  The black flames danced around her eyes, and a pall of shadowy smoke slowly lifted up from her.  He was unsure of if she were truly here or merely an apparition taunting him and trying to make his mind break.

"I just want you to come home.  You don't have to do this, just come home... We can fix whatever this is. Aavaan is dying", he pleaded desperately, trying anything to get her to come back on her own. As he saw her like this, he was concerned that his statement may not hold true.  She had been taken by the void, she was more scale than skin, her legs and feet had changed to that of some kind of monstrous lizard or bird, clawed feet with sharp talons tip-tapped on the stone floor.  Her arms had been elongated, ending in claws similar to her feet.  He watched as she pulled the spear from the dead man's body, and she slung it over her shoulder as she stared at him with those dead void-burnt eyes.  Her hair was a mane of black, framing the scaled and almost beaked face.  He had to be able to bring her back... he just had to.  

The roaring hissing crack of her voice emanated from that malevolently corrupted body.  She was what Voresh made her to be, what he himself may turn out if he was not careful.  "Aavaan means nothing to me.  He may have made the deal, but he is not the one who sired us.  I could ask you, when *you* plan to come home... to *us*?" The question was thick with taunt, as if she knew he wasn't ready to come to the void.  

Mizuhiro was at his wits end.  Over a decade of searching for her and this was the one chance he had to talk, the one time he had her so close and able to do something about it.  He could feel the power inside him, rolling over between light and dark, the constant confluence of aether that raged within him, the thing he always held back.  He let them both flow freely then, he launched himself toward her, fists flying and connecting with her face and chest.  He felt his hands meet with hardened voidscale and he tried his hardest to knock her out.  But even before she had become voidbeast, this would not have been enough to take her down.  Even half his size then, she was a more formidable opponent than he could ever be. She was his superior in fighting skill, but he had tact and cunning she could never master, and he hoped his gambit would pay of in these quick moments.  

Flurries of blows came like storming hail from the dark blue sky, raining down on red clay.  She was knocked back as he pressed his offensive, dropping her vicious spear and bringing her arms up for defense.  Mizu's strikes were true, but her counterattack was brutal.  She spun around allowing his force to take him by her, which let her take those obsidian talons and rake them down his back, shredding his coat exposing sliced flesh.  He cried out in pain before he hit the wall with his hands, bounced off and tried to flip backward into her.  She was preternaturally fast and he knew he was outmatched.  She clutched him by the arm, swung him around and thumped him back into the wall.  He could feel tearing in his shoulder joint, the rip was a flash of white hot pain that seared up his arm, he used his aether to reduce as much of the pain and damage as he could.  

She hopped back and looked around for her spear but it was too far for her to try and go for without leaving herself open.  "I didn't come to kill you, Mizu... but if you don't stop, I will have no choice but to do so." The shrillness coupled with the crackling was enough to drive any normal person mad.  She moved up on him, gripping him by the throat, her raven dark talons threatening to pierce his scales and flesh.  She moved her face close to his, as a predatory animal toying with its prey, her hot breath steaming along his sweat slick features.  "I came to bring you to him... He wants you by his side.  You and I, left and right hands of the void. Captains of Voresh.  He's amassing a force, mounting an invasion, we could use you."

He wasn't afraid, even now he was sure she wouldn't kill him.  She had an opportunity to do so back in that frozen Coerthas cavern, but she just bashed his head against the ice, incapacitating him and made him watch her feed.  At her worst, he still held no fear of her.  But now he had her close and he had been preparing for this moment.  The guile and cunning outmatching the brute strength and force.  He clicked a button on his right glove, releasing a long needle like blade made from Auracite that clicked into place.  A wide, fang toothed grin slid across his lips as he turned his face, his eyes meeting hers.  "No.  Not today." He drove the fat needle into her belly, a deafening wail echoed through the warehouse and beyond.  He pierced her with a specially made blade he had crafted that could momentarily cut through pure voidsent, and he hoped that it would only incapacitate her. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him, keeping the contact between her flesh and the weapon.  

Threre was a change in her, the scales on her face seemed to pull back, what was a deep garnet flesh and skin combination gave way to her previous bright crimson, her eyes cleared and tears streamed down her face.  Her claws released from his throat, and she crumpled against him.  The softness of her voice sang of more peaceful and loving times. She wept with him.  "Mizu, I can't stop him. I'm losing my hold on myself.  Please... I can't... I need you to ki...", but that was when the music of her song stopped.  Another large tear in space-time was slashed through the air behind her and at least a dozen voidsent minions emerged from the rift, flying directly toward them.  A few of them ripped her from his grasp and pulled her off the white knife blade and her whole body went slack.  As they carried her off back to the void, a darkness enveloped Mizu and his fists were wrapped in dark and white energy.  His fists pounded through each enemy that threw itself at him, sending every one of them back to the oblivion of the abyss.  He tried to catch up but even more enemies were flung at him.  His own tears streamed down his face, his raging voice rang out in voidshriek.  He just needed to get to her... He was blanketed with them now, it took tens of them to hold him back, but he vanquished every single one.  

When the smoke of their destruction had dissipated, he was left alone in that warehouse, he fell to his knees, eyes still glowing, fists still wreathed in energy.  The void rip was gone, and so was she.  He allowed himself to fall to the floor, roll over and look up to the darkened rafters of that old dilapidated building.  "Almost, Mizu... Almost..." was all he said to himself with a long a heaving sigh of sadness and defeat.