The vindthurs made one final roar of pain before the edge of blued steel flashed once across the voidsent's throat. A crimson cascade sprayed from the wound with an instantaneous, guttural spurt, smearing the snow around the Xaela's feet in gore.
He let out an exhale and let the sword in his hands go slack, his lungs burning from the exertion and the sting of the Highlands' frigid air. Kasrjin's breathing came in onerous, heavy pants. He felt a layer of sweat coating his skin, cooled by the occasional sharp breeze that brought equal parts relief discomfort. The tip of his blade made a light crunch as it fell upon the snow, suddenly feeling too heavy to wield. His gauntlets trembled ever so slightly against the wrapped leather handle of the sword. As the ogre gurgled, its great mass toppled into the snow, and almost immediately the azure corpse of the voidsent began to be peppered by argent flakes that drifted from the sky.
Not far behind the Au Ra lay another dismembered ogre, its wounds scattering its form in a similar fashion. Kasrjin allowed his legs to go slack, and he took in controlled, measured breaths to restore his stamina from the extended battle. His sable hair, tied into a rough ponytail, was unkempt and tousled from the motion. A small trickle of blood crept down the corner of his lips from when a tail swing had caught the end of his jaw. He adjusted his position, laying the sword down beside him and sitting down in the snow that stuck to the black and gold tabard he wore over his Ishgardian armour, legs crossed and hands upon his knees.
Now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade away from him, the thoughts of combat had been replaced with the familiar sensations of isolation and...something else.
His hands still quivered in the gauntlets, and it was not because of the battle.
Kasrjin's hunt had brought him to the far corners of the Highlands, among the blasted field of a great conflict long past. The frozen corpses of knights and dragons were scattered amidst rubble and ordinance. Flags had stiffened, devoid of whatever glory they were meant to bring, fluttering forlornly in the snow. Weapons and cadavers alike had been claimed by the frost, abandoned atop the cliffs. Broken cannons lay crumbled, the heads and wings of greater dragons reaching skyward in an eternal roar. Maroon patterns caked the icy stone of the battlefield. Spears and arrows stood as monuments to the strife.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He could feel his breath waver with the exhale, and he did his best to ignore it.
A hand reached to one of the pouches in his belt, grasping the polished surface of the runestone. No warmth came.
After some time, Kasrjin could feel the air's chill begin to creep upon his heated skin, and he stood up and stepped over to the corpse of the ogre. He pulled a strap away from a small leather sheath that lay at his side, and pulled from it a steel hatchet he had recently purchased with his new funds. From another sheath he withdrew the tiger tooth knife, its edge and point still gleaming amidst the snow, and the Xaela set to work, solemnly swinging the hatchet to hack the horns off of his deceased foe.
A part of him hoped for the work to occupy the confines of his mind and drive away the demons of solitude. It was almost desperate for it, but every other swing brought a different face to mind, and another reminder...that he was not where he should be. Additional blood occasionally oozed from the wound as the hatchet bit deep into the ogre's leathery skin to reach the hardened horns. Kasrjin grew steadily aware of the increasing force with which the hatchet impacted against the horns. His fingers would tense and and relax in a frustrating dance, the strength behind the swings growing in equal measure to the ghosts of doubt and loneliness that ate away at his mind.
And then he felt it.
The Au Ra had raised the hatchet in the air when it froze. His heart seemed to pause in its beat, and though it was only for a single, instantaneous flash of brilliance, a myriad pattern of indescribable colours and tones rang in his ears and swept across his vision. The Correspondence was unmistakeable in its signature, and the abruptness of the pulse seemed to send Kasrjin into shock. It was undoubtedly familiar...but also not so. It was cold, and detached. Stiff and rigid. All at once, a reminder of what should have been, and a reminder of what could not be. It was a friendly warning and a hostile lesson and a bitter reprimand, all at once, crashing through his mind. His teeth grit together as the pulse shot past him and evaporated, as quickly as it had come.
The hatchet fell from his hands as he nearly collapsed off to his knees, the brass-coloured plates of his sabatons crashing into the snow. He allowed his breath to escape from him in unsteady, trembling rhythms. He ignored the brisk sensation of cold metal on his skin as his left hand held his head, covering his eyes, his lips shaking as an unnatural sounding laugh shivered its way out of his lungs. It spilled from him in uncontrolled waves. His right arm instinctively reached out to keep him from burying his face into the snow, burying himself in this foreign land so far removed from comfort and contentment. The bellowing that he forced out of his lungs shivered and shuddered, an expression of everything he had felt.
What he was looking for was present. Somewhere. Something to halt a regression. And yet that knowledge brought no relief.
So he laughed.
At fear and faith, he laughed.
At purpose and privilege, he laughed.
At duty and desire, he laughed.
A single, clear bead of his amusement fell and was claimed by the snow.
The silver wire fixed to his horn chimed. A familiar, feminine voice emitted softly from the pearl within its indentation.
"Khadai. I have something for you. If you are near Falcon's Nest, can you meet me there?"
It was the stern woman, Roen.
The Xaela recovered his composure remarkably quickly, his display of turmoil being placed beneath a glassy, placid expression of tranquillity with machine-like efficiency.
He stood from the snow, hand placed against the linkpearl fixture, Kasrjin's voice rumbling from his lungs where the unnatural laughter had been.
"Yes," was all he said.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He planted a foot firmly against the dead ogre's skull, and the hatchet was raised into the air once again.
He let out an exhale and let the sword in his hands go slack, his lungs burning from the exertion and the sting of the Highlands' frigid air. Kasrjin's breathing came in onerous, heavy pants. He felt a layer of sweat coating his skin, cooled by the occasional sharp breeze that brought equal parts relief discomfort. The tip of his blade made a light crunch as it fell upon the snow, suddenly feeling too heavy to wield. His gauntlets trembled ever so slightly against the wrapped leather handle of the sword. As the ogre gurgled, its great mass toppled into the snow, and almost immediately the azure corpse of the voidsent began to be peppered by argent flakes that drifted from the sky.
Not far behind the Au Ra lay another dismembered ogre, its wounds scattering its form in a similar fashion. Kasrjin allowed his legs to go slack, and he took in controlled, measured breaths to restore his stamina from the extended battle. His sable hair, tied into a rough ponytail, was unkempt and tousled from the motion. A small trickle of blood crept down the corner of his lips from when a tail swing had caught the end of his jaw. He adjusted his position, laying the sword down beside him and sitting down in the snow that stuck to the black and gold tabard he wore over his Ishgardian armour, legs crossed and hands upon his knees.
Now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade away from him, the thoughts of combat had been replaced with the familiar sensations of isolation and...something else.
His hands still quivered in the gauntlets, and it was not because of the battle.
Kasrjin's hunt had brought him to the far corners of the Highlands, among the blasted field of a great conflict long past. The frozen corpses of knights and dragons were scattered amidst rubble and ordinance. Flags had stiffened, devoid of whatever glory they were meant to bring, fluttering forlornly in the snow. Weapons and cadavers alike had been claimed by the frost, abandoned atop the cliffs. Broken cannons lay crumbled, the heads and wings of greater dragons reaching skyward in an eternal roar. Maroon patterns caked the icy stone of the battlefield. Spears and arrows stood as monuments to the strife.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He could feel his breath waver with the exhale, and he did his best to ignore it.
A hand reached to one of the pouches in his belt, grasping the polished surface of the runestone. No warmth came.
After some time, Kasrjin could feel the air's chill begin to creep upon his heated skin, and he stood up and stepped over to the corpse of the ogre. He pulled a strap away from a small leather sheath that lay at his side, and pulled from it a steel hatchet he had recently purchased with his new funds. From another sheath he withdrew the tiger tooth knife, its edge and point still gleaming amidst the snow, and the Xaela set to work, solemnly swinging the hatchet to hack the horns off of his deceased foe.
A part of him hoped for the work to occupy the confines of his mind and drive away the demons of solitude. It was almost desperate for it, but every other swing brought a different face to mind, and another reminder...that he was not where he should be. Additional blood occasionally oozed from the wound as the hatchet bit deep into the ogre's leathery skin to reach the hardened horns. Kasrjin grew steadily aware of the increasing force with which the hatchet impacted against the horns. His fingers would tense and and relax in a frustrating dance, the strength behind the swings growing in equal measure to the ghosts of doubt and loneliness that ate away at his mind.
And then he felt it.
The Au Ra had raised the hatchet in the air when it froze. His heart seemed to pause in its beat, and though it was only for a single, instantaneous flash of brilliance, a myriad pattern of indescribable colours and tones rang in his ears and swept across his vision. The Correspondence was unmistakeable in its signature, and the abruptness of the pulse seemed to send Kasrjin into shock. It was undoubtedly familiar...but also not so. It was cold, and detached. Stiff and rigid. All at once, a reminder of what should have been, and a reminder of what could not be. It was a friendly warning and a hostile lesson and a bitter reprimand, all at once, crashing through his mind. His teeth grit together as the pulse shot past him and evaporated, as quickly as it had come.
The hatchet fell from his hands as he nearly collapsed off to his knees, the brass-coloured plates of his sabatons crashing into the snow. He allowed his breath to escape from him in unsteady, trembling rhythms. He ignored the brisk sensation of cold metal on his skin as his left hand held his head, covering his eyes, his lips shaking as an unnatural sounding laugh shivered its way out of his lungs. It spilled from him in uncontrolled waves. His right arm instinctively reached out to keep him from burying his face into the snow, burying himself in this foreign land so far removed from comfort and contentment. The bellowing that he forced out of his lungs shivered and shuddered, an expression of everything he had felt.
What he was looking for was present. Somewhere. Something to halt a regression. And yet that knowledge brought no relief.
So he laughed.
At fear and faith, he laughed.
At purpose and privilege, he laughed.
At duty and desire, he laughed.
A single, clear bead of his amusement fell and was claimed by the snow.
The silver wire fixed to his horn chimed. A familiar, feminine voice emitted softly from the pearl within its indentation.
"Khadai. I have something for you. If you are near Falcon's Nest, can you meet me there?"
It was the stern woman, Roen.
The Xaela recovered his composure remarkably quickly, his display of turmoil being placed beneath a glassy, placid expression of tranquillity with machine-like efficiency.
He stood from the snow, hand placed against the linkpearl fixture, Kasrjin's voice rumbling from his lungs where the unnatural laughter had been.
"Yes," was all he said.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He planted a foot firmly against the dead ogre's skull, and the hatchet was raised into the air once again.
