Self-immolation was not pleasant.
The whole of him burned, though there was no pain. Had he been counted among the living, he surely would have filled the catacombs with unholy screams as the flames licked at his skin and the fire burned through his flesh. His death, it seemed, had at least spared him that agony... but there was yet something dark and deep that tugged at the very core of him, as though draining him of a sun's rest to leave him a mewling, pitiable husk of a man who thirsts even as he starves. The sensation was not pleasant. Self-immolation was not pleasant.
There was no fear on his part. He knew what to expect; after all, he'd devoted ample time to researching, testing, and refining this process. For what other reason would he have cast about in the void for a former comrade, only to chain her once found and drag her back, in spite of her shrieking protests, to the harsh reality that was unlife? He had bound Igluvijaq once more to a small corpse, as the Voice had once done, and from that experiment came the fruit of his efforts, proof that what he dared hope to bring to pass might, in fact, be possible. The irony, that once he had sought immortality and now he allowed himself to be consumed, was not lost on him.
Still, even as the last of the black ooze ignited, wrenching at him yet again, he could not help but meet the eyes of the two women who had made this possible. Highlanders both, one taller than the other. Green eyes and raven hair shared between them... and yet the first held a knife to the throat of the second. The shorter of the two was in tears, her lips moving as she recited an incantation that he could not hear save in his own thought, a leather-bound grimoire held open in her arms.
That was the last impression he had before the weight of the world left him once more and he felt the peaceful bliss of oblivion calling to him. That call, he would have answered... but immediately, he felt the world pulling him back, as if someone had wrapped arms and legs in chains and sought to lift him from the ocean in which he'd been submerged. There was another weight that settled onto his shoulders... but this was one tingled and surged and shivered and blazed.
"Adin," came a soft voice, and he couldn't help but wonder how he'd come to this. So far from the man he once was, he'd lost himself to the witchcraft and savagery he had once denounced.
"Adin..."
"Tengri."
The Auri male groaned as he reached up and pressed a hand the color of mocha against his temples. Eyes fluttered open, one green, one shockingly white. The Hourglass. He was back at the Hourglass, in their old room. The one that had been reserved for them while they'd sojourned to Vylbrand and back. His gaze shifted from the ceiling over to one side. Standing attentively beside the bed was a small Auri female of the same color and complexion, her eyes a match for his, her hair just as dark as his with the same tinge of green licking at the ends. She was fully dressed, and sunlight was intruding on his skin. Had he slept in late? That was unlike him.
"Forgehands is waiting for you, as requested," reported the woman. In her arms she held a bundle of clothes clearly meant for him, given the size. Behind her, his platemail awaited on its armor stand. "Our marks have yet to move, though the latest from the north suggests that they might make for the city soon."
He grunted as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs out over the side of the bed. "I will need you to keep an eye on our charge for me while I am gone, Sarangerel; I fear she may plead her case to Renatus in my absence."
His sister frowned at him as he stood and took the proffered garments from her. "Is this necessary? They are no match for the runt as they are. They weren't a match for us back when--"
"Immaterial," he snapped, only to meet her glare as she sat down on the bed in his place. He took a few short, deep breaths to calm his nerves as he pulled on his slops and shirt. "We should not dismiss a history of victories as flukes. If I can use them, I will."
Her small tail swished to and fro for a few moments. "And you are sure you do not wish me to accompany you?"
"I will not be away for long," he answered as he turned to the stand. "You have made your preferences clear. If this is where you find yourself best serving our cause, then it would be foolish of me to take you away again."
"Perhaps I shall attend the Grindstone in your place, then."
He frowned thoughtfully. "If you do so, I would have you speak with a few men in particular."
"Oh? Their names, brother dear?"
He smirked as he reached out and touched his armor before beginning the tedious process of preparing himself to bear its weight. "Turner. The champion of the tourney, as I recall, who bested your man. Him and one other."
"The Judge? The Arbiter?"
He shook his head. "You've seen him, same as I. He never did do away with that filthy disgusting habit of his."
He turned to her in time to catch a telling gleam in her eye and a grin full of teeth on her face. Tengri couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that.
"They call him Ki now, or so I hear," she informed him. "And his standards have not improved."
He chuckled and shook his head as he turned back to his preparations. Ortolf Forgehands had never been a patient man.
"I think you had better arrange a meeting, sister dear. For old times' sake."
The whole of him burned, though there was no pain. Had he been counted among the living, he surely would have filled the catacombs with unholy screams as the flames licked at his skin and the fire burned through his flesh. His death, it seemed, had at least spared him that agony... but there was yet something dark and deep that tugged at the very core of him, as though draining him of a sun's rest to leave him a mewling, pitiable husk of a man who thirsts even as he starves. The sensation was not pleasant. Self-immolation was not pleasant.
There was no fear on his part. He knew what to expect; after all, he'd devoted ample time to researching, testing, and refining this process. For what other reason would he have cast about in the void for a former comrade, only to chain her once found and drag her back, in spite of her shrieking protests, to the harsh reality that was unlife? He had bound Igluvijaq once more to a small corpse, as the Voice had once done, and from that experiment came the fruit of his efforts, proof that what he dared hope to bring to pass might, in fact, be possible. The irony, that once he had sought immortality and now he allowed himself to be consumed, was not lost on him.
Still, even as the last of the black ooze ignited, wrenching at him yet again, he could not help but meet the eyes of the two women who had made this possible. Highlanders both, one taller than the other. Green eyes and raven hair shared between them... and yet the first held a knife to the throat of the second. The shorter of the two was in tears, her lips moving as she recited an incantation that he could not hear save in his own thought, a leather-bound grimoire held open in her arms.
That was the last impression he had before the weight of the world left him once more and he felt the peaceful bliss of oblivion calling to him. That call, he would have answered... but immediately, he felt the world pulling him back, as if someone had wrapped arms and legs in chains and sought to lift him from the ocean in which he'd been submerged. There was another weight that settled onto his shoulders... but this was one tingled and surged and shivered and blazed.
"Adin," came a soft voice, and he couldn't help but wonder how he'd come to this. So far from the man he once was, he'd lost himself to the witchcraft and savagery he had once denounced.
"Adin..."
"Tengri."
The Auri male groaned as he reached up and pressed a hand the color of mocha against his temples. Eyes fluttered open, one green, one shockingly white. The Hourglass. He was back at the Hourglass, in their old room. The one that had been reserved for them while they'd sojourned to Vylbrand and back. His gaze shifted from the ceiling over to one side. Standing attentively beside the bed was a small Auri female of the same color and complexion, her eyes a match for his, her hair just as dark as his with the same tinge of green licking at the ends. She was fully dressed, and sunlight was intruding on his skin. Had he slept in late? That was unlike him.
"Forgehands is waiting for you, as requested," reported the woman. In her arms she held a bundle of clothes clearly meant for him, given the size. Behind her, his platemail awaited on its armor stand. "Our marks have yet to move, though the latest from the north suggests that they might make for the city soon."
He grunted as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs out over the side of the bed. "I will need you to keep an eye on our charge for me while I am gone, Sarangerel; I fear she may plead her case to Renatus in my absence."
His sister frowned at him as he stood and took the proffered garments from her. "Is this necessary? They are no match for the runt as they are. They weren't a match for us back when--"
"Immaterial," he snapped, only to meet her glare as she sat down on the bed in his place. He took a few short, deep breaths to calm his nerves as he pulled on his slops and shirt. "We should not dismiss a history of victories as flukes. If I can use them, I will."
Her small tail swished to and fro for a few moments. "And you are sure you do not wish me to accompany you?"
"I will not be away for long," he answered as he turned to the stand. "You have made your preferences clear. If this is where you find yourself best serving our cause, then it would be foolish of me to take you away again."
"Perhaps I shall attend the Grindstone in your place, then."
He frowned thoughtfully. "If you do so, I would have you speak with a few men in particular."
"Oh? Their names, brother dear?"
He smirked as he reached out and touched his armor before beginning the tedious process of preparing himself to bear its weight. "Turner. The champion of the tourney, as I recall, who bested your man. Him and one other."
"The Judge? The Arbiter?"
He shook his head. "You've seen him, same as I. He never did do away with that filthy disgusting habit of his."
He turned to her in time to catch a telling gleam in her eye and a grin full of teeth on her face. Tengri couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that.
"They call him Ki now, or so I hear," she informed him. "And his standards have not improved."
He chuckled and shook his head as he turned back to his preparations. Ortolf Forgehands had never been a patient man.
"I think you had better arrange a meeting, sister dear. For old times' sake."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
