"Hello."
Flashes. Red and blue and yellow and purple. Heat. Cold. Explosions. Eruptions. The crackle of thunder. Sparks. The smell of blood. The scent of flesh. Brimstone. Something ripping, cracking, flooding.
Searing flames, white hot tendrils, engulfing him, devouring him. His fist blazed like the sun. His brain cooked in his skull. Shaking, spasming, falling, collapsing. Knees now, on his knees, like some barbaric heathen. Something wanted in him. Somehow it was getting there. Someone was playing a dangerous game. Somehow they were winning.
This would not do.
"Welcome to my involuntary employ."
The whole of him rebelled at the very notion. Character, personality, ego, essence... call it what you will, but he wasn't about to subject himself to someone else's whims. He'd spent a lifetime doing so, and for what? To end up dead, then worse than dead, abhorred by his own people. Discarded. No, he'd had a vision, and seeing that dream realized required that he usher in a new future, that his plans come to fruition. That could not come to pass under the yoke of some mongrel pup.
I was once Adin Adonis. I am now Rotunda Crow. I will be Tengri Geneq.
There was beauty waiting for him, for them, for all of them. A flower. One that would bloom, one that would grow, one that would herald a new dawn. For now, though, that flower was yet budding, and that meant he was needed, even if that meant fleeing to his last and final refuge that he had gone to such lengths to prepare. There were too many dangers out there, too many threats to peace and prosperity, for him to succumb to this latest trial. One too many.
One which he and only he could vanquish, would vanquish.
"We should have a little chat."
NO.
He cursed the intrusion, threw himself against it, pounded and thundered and wailed and slammed and bellowed and shrieked. He lashed out in each and every way he could, inside and out. He screamed. He rallied. He twisted and writhed. He chanted his names to himself. He raised his fists and brought them down to crash onto the floorboards. His fingers splayed open for the slightest of moments.
The red-hot stone tumbled free, clattered against the wood as it fell and rolled beneath the window sill.
As swiftly as it had descended upon him, the presence was gone.
He panted as he swayed and shook on all fours, well aware that he was now drenched with sweat. For a long while, he could think of little else than to merely hold himself up off the floor. That'd he'd been assaulted within the confines of his very own private quarters...
...no.
I've been violated.
The rumble that began deep inside his chest grew into a growl as he pushed himself to his feet and staggered into the stool. A few moments more had him right again, and he stumbled forward a mere two paces to bend down and pluck the now-cool soulstone from where it had fallen. As he raised it up to the light with the same left hand which had clenched it tight not so long ago, he noticed something peculiar.
Not about the stone. About his hand.
His hand should have been badly burnt... and yet the only scar tissue to be found... the center of his palm was marked now. A circle with... no. A meteor, descending from the heavens. He'd been marked.
The growl grew into a roar of fury as he spun on the balls of his feet and chucked the little bauble across the room.
"GRIMSONG!"
Panting again. Sweating again. Profusely. Something creaked, and he glanced at the corner, at the bed. She was awake, half upright, propping herself up on those small, delicate hands, looking at him with concern.
He went to her then, sat on the edge of the bed, cooed to her, brushed her hair out of her face, held her cheek in one hand for her to nuzzle into. He did everything he could to reassure her. The gestures came naturally, instinctively, mindlessly, leaving him to ponder the near ruin of his plans. Clearly, he'd been betrayed. This latest delivery, this latest piece, had been rigged. Was he the intended recipient... or was it the intended target? He frowned.
Had he gotten what he needed, in those brief moments, in those flashes of memory, before the intrusion had severed the connection to the imprint of the soul? He thought he might have... but he couldn't be sure. Not yet, in any case. He would have to reflect, to meditate, to sift through it all.
He eyed Sarangerel and whispered.
"In the morn, you are to begin our search for the Kinslayer."
Flashes. Red and blue and yellow and purple. Heat. Cold. Explosions. Eruptions. The crackle of thunder. Sparks. The smell of blood. The scent of flesh. Brimstone. Something ripping, cracking, flooding.
Searing flames, white hot tendrils, engulfing him, devouring him. His fist blazed like the sun. His brain cooked in his skull. Shaking, spasming, falling, collapsing. Knees now, on his knees, like some barbaric heathen. Something wanted in him. Somehow it was getting there. Someone was playing a dangerous game. Somehow they were winning.
This would not do.
"Welcome to my involuntary employ."
The whole of him rebelled at the very notion. Character, personality, ego, essence... call it what you will, but he wasn't about to subject himself to someone else's whims. He'd spent a lifetime doing so, and for what? To end up dead, then worse than dead, abhorred by his own people. Discarded. No, he'd had a vision, and seeing that dream realized required that he usher in a new future, that his plans come to fruition. That could not come to pass under the yoke of some mongrel pup.
I was once Adin Adonis. I am now Rotunda Crow. I will be Tengri Geneq.
There was beauty waiting for him, for them, for all of them. A flower. One that would bloom, one that would grow, one that would herald a new dawn. For now, though, that flower was yet budding, and that meant he was needed, even if that meant fleeing to his last and final refuge that he had gone to such lengths to prepare. There were too many dangers out there, too many threats to peace and prosperity, for him to succumb to this latest trial. One too many.
One which he and only he could vanquish, would vanquish.
"We should have a little chat."
NO.
He cursed the intrusion, threw himself against it, pounded and thundered and wailed and slammed and bellowed and shrieked. He lashed out in each and every way he could, inside and out. He screamed. He rallied. He twisted and writhed. He chanted his names to himself. He raised his fists and brought them down to crash onto the floorboards. His fingers splayed open for the slightest of moments.
The red-hot stone tumbled free, clattered against the wood as it fell and rolled beneath the window sill.
As swiftly as it had descended upon him, the presence was gone.
He panted as he swayed and shook on all fours, well aware that he was now drenched with sweat. For a long while, he could think of little else than to merely hold himself up off the floor. That'd he'd been assaulted within the confines of his very own private quarters...
...no.
I've been violated.
The rumble that began deep inside his chest grew into a growl as he pushed himself to his feet and staggered into the stool. A few moments more had him right again, and he stumbled forward a mere two paces to bend down and pluck the now-cool soulstone from where it had fallen. As he raised it up to the light with the same left hand which had clenched it tight not so long ago, he noticed something peculiar.
Not about the stone. About his hand.
His hand should have been badly burnt... and yet the only scar tissue to be found... the center of his palm was marked now. A circle with... no. A meteor, descending from the heavens. He'd been marked.
The growl grew into a roar of fury as he spun on the balls of his feet and chucked the little bauble across the room.
"GRIMSONG!"
Panting again. Sweating again. Profusely. Something creaked, and he glanced at the corner, at the bed. She was awake, half upright, propping herself up on those small, delicate hands, looking at him with concern.
He went to her then, sat on the edge of the bed, cooed to her, brushed her hair out of her face, held her cheek in one hand for her to nuzzle into. He did everything he could to reassure her. The gestures came naturally, instinctively, mindlessly, leaving him to ponder the near ruin of his plans. Clearly, he'd been betrayed. This latest delivery, this latest piece, had been rigged. Was he the intended recipient... or was it the intended target? He frowned.
Had he gotten what he needed, in those brief moments, in those flashes of memory, before the intrusion had severed the connection to the imprint of the soul? He thought he might have... but he couldn't be sure. Not yet, in any case. He would have to reflect, to meditate, to sift through it all.
He eyed Sarangerel and whispered.
"In the morn, you are to begin our search for the Kinslayer."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
