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Post by Truthy on Mar 27, 2014 21:44:54 GMT
Damn them.. Damn those heroes who think to stop me... I will show them! By the time I am done with them I will see to it that they are quaking in their boots! And I know just how to do that...
A highly prized tactician? That worthless child of mine has done well to get himself so far. I will have much joy tearing apart all his achievements and watch as his bonds crumble for my sake. After all what other use is there for children than to honor their parents by becoming tools for them to use. And I will make sure he pays me in kind for daring to sire him.
His companions may prove to be problems but no matter. So long as I still have that feral drug and the means to make more it should work out well. That is if that damned child doesn't fail me again...
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Post by Truthy on Mar 27, 2014 21:45:14 GMT
The light was harsh against the pallid lids of the small sage. A horrible creak of wood and rusted iron still rang about the stone room, the resounding noise that had brought upon him the sudden flood of luminescence. The desire to curl away from the imposing brilliance coursed through him, but pain kept him in place.
The semblance of peace lasted for a few more minutes, the only sound being the continuous drip of blood. Long ago Soren had lost track of time. Counting the seconds became to tedious. In those brief periods of awareness in between the lapses in memory that could only be described by a loss of consciousness, he came to learn little more than the cocky taunts of his captors.
"You would think they would keep their ace better protected,"
"Those Mercenaries are such a carefree lot. Were they honestly celebrating at if they actually won? Don't they know our king is still alive and well as ever even if his mood is poor?"
"That's the great part. Due to all the festivities causing them to let their guard down, it was so easy to capture this sleeping little prince. From how they were drinking it is a wonder if they will be too hungover to notice he is even gone,"
A sigh escaped his lips as the tale-tell footsteps sounded on the crudely carved stairs. Two sets. Soft leather boots. Common make. Soren mentally recited as he moved to try to sit up. With each straighten of limbs, a cold and dull pain vibrated through him. That is what came from sleeping upon the icy stone, half-naked and bound in chains. Yet no matter how much he warned them of what could happen from the treatment, they seemed to care less.
Then again what should I expect from idiots who ever think to believe the king actually survived that. If they are thinking to scare me into submission with that knowledge they are sorely mistaken.
The flesh of his eyelids felt heavy as he struggled to open them, blinking back the radiance that poured into his crimson orbs. Then, with sudden ferocity, two hands were tearing him up off the ground. The world spun circles in his already distorted vision until at last a straggly face came into view.
"No dying on us, you hear? The king needs you alive for us to get our payment," The words came out from the man's foul-smell maw, causing Soren to skirt away or at least attempt to.
The hands tightened around him as a fist shot out of the corner of his eye, smashing him roughly in the side of the face. Bones grind in protest as their limits were tested and they threatened to break. Then, without a clue what was going to happen, he was falling, legs too weak to keep the magic user from crumpling to the ground.
"I-it wasn't what it looks like.." stammered the man who had been holding him before, the sound of his retreating footsteps obvious in Soren's dark-sharpened ears. Struggling to force his eyes open once more, he beheld a figure standing in the doorway, light framing him.
The heavy armored boots accentuated with gold, the blue robes, the velvet cape. Each was noticed in turn until at last, and almost regretfully, he beheld the figure's head. Bile rose in the youth's throat as the name of the person shot onto his lips faster than to ever be desired. It was then that Soren lost all doubt that the people who captured him were bluffing fools. For there, face to face with him, was king Ashnard himself.
The mad king watched the sage from down his nose, eyes taking calculated notes of every injury upon the boy. Ragged as Soren was, his injuries lacked any substance. Well all injuries save for the grievous slash through his side. His captors had taken care enough to bind it, but their first aid skill were lacking. The bandages were poorly done for make shift and every time they abused him the cut would rip open without being fixed. It was a miracle he had yet to bleed to death or so he had thought.
Fate must really hate me to let me live only to end up in a worst situation. The glum emotions were erased by unsuppressed apprehension when at last Ashnard opened his mouth, from which poured the vibrating tones of his voice.
"You were rougher than I expected. No matter. Get out. Your services are not needed anymore. And don't worry. A coach is waiting for you outside. You will find your payment there,"
Their mouths hung open with the sudden and obvious dismissed, but they held little care as they left, calling back thanks and praises to the monster they chose to deal business with. Soren watched them go, committing their faces and voices to memory. If he ever got out of this he would definitely see to it they regretted what they had done. That is, he would be sure they experienced even worse than he, well with Ike's permission of course, if even that.
"Hello... Soren, is it? What a pleasure to have you back in front of me after so many years," The king uttered when they were alone at last. His tone was a mild, almost pleasant thing. In it, it became apparent how, throughout everything he had done, he had managed to keep support. Each word rang with charisma and a kind of madness that only his eyes couldn't manage to conceal. That little thing encouraged Soren that he needed to proceed with caution even more so than usual. But even with that be said he allowed himself to indulge in a little bit of carefully-masked confusion that showed itself in a slight raise of one eyebrow.
"Aren't you curious what I mean? No questions? No reaction? Not even a retort? What a very disappointing child you are..." Ashnard continued to prattle on, even if only for the sake of hearing himself speak. At last in an unceremonious voice he added, "But I suppose that is all that can be expected from a descendant of that family. You hardly even show resemblance to me, even thought I have sired you myself. I suppose laguz blood truly flows thicker than boeric,"
"You don't mean to say-?" Even throughout all of that, Soren got the implications, which caused a stone to fall into his chest. True, the evil man could easily be lying, but what good would it do in this? Even blood would do nothing to bring him onto Ashnard's side.
What could he possibly planning?
Soren didn't have time to think because no sooner did he begin to speak was he interrupted by a twisted smile on the madman's lips. With words soft to the point of being sickly sweet, Ashnard spoke so softly it was a strain to hear what was said. But Soren did. And he wish he did.
For that treacherous whisper spoke of a secret almost too horrible to be true.
"Yes I am your father and it is time that you provide me with your service,"
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Post by Truthy on Mar 27, 2014 21:45:39 GMT
Soren's mouth hung a gap in astonishment and mingling rage at what Ashnard had just declared. Even if the blood-relatives part was true, the sage owed him nothing. He dare imply I am to thank him for being gracious enough to let me live after I was born!? How foolish! He must either be truly made or up to a more horrendous plan than I first suspected.
"So what? You want to ransom me? Use me as a spy? An assassin? You would have better luck just killing me. I'll never do what you want," Soren's monotone voice proclaimed. Yet despite the strength he struggled to imbue into those words, he couldn't help the shake that entered his voice from both the cold and weariness that tugged at his limbs. It didn't help that he was desperately trying to stand. Even if it wasn't much, he refused to gawk up at that man like a lowly piece of trash.
Even if you are...
Before Soren could even think to respond to that thought, a slow grating laughter began to circulate around the room. "Now that is what I expected. Cold and fiery. But even so, you don't have a choice. I can easily succeed without your consent,"
Before the Soren could so much as utter a single word in response, the man was charging forward with unexpected vigor. Instinct drove him to move, to dodge. But the chains were so heavy. They clanked awkwardly as he managed to side step. Adrenaline pumped, acting as the only thing to keep him safe at the moment. Even then that couldn't last forever.
Pain lurched into his side as the heavy metal slammed into his wound, throwing him back with the force. Blood began to well from the opening, leaking fierce crimson as Soren attempted to stand. He manage to straighten up just in time to avoid Ashnard next charge, but not without a price.
The second he landed upon his left leg, he wished he hadn't. With an awkward kind of pull, the muscles gave, sending him toppling upon the stone with little more than a gasp. That was when Ashnard struck.
No reaction could be given, because mere seconds after king was once more in motion a bottle touched Soren's open mouth, depositing its foul-tasting contents onto his tongue. Taking a deep, unintended swallow in his desire the breath, he was left choking as the bottle was pulled away. Pain racket up his ribs with each cough as he struggled to regain vital breath.
"Now now. I know you are eager to help, but don't drink all of it. We have no idea how it will affect you yet, even if it does have an affect. I guess I should be glad those men were careless with you. If you were in tip top shape this would have been far harder," chided Ashnard with something that could only be described as glee. Glee and sick anticipation.
"What did you give me...?" demanded Soren weakly between the rasping coughs, body raked by tremors of pain and exhaustion. He knew not what it was, but the ting of magic was obvious to him. Whatever it was, it had to be a potion or a magic drug of sorts. Of this, he was sure.
"The same thing I gave my last mount and your loving uncle, rather of a much stronger quality. With hope your laguz side will be as prominent in your powers as it is in your appearance,"
Soren managed to lift his head, eyes falling upon Ashnard with unwavering hatred. Teeth clenched, the tremors increased as a feeling akin to being lit a fire rushed throughout his body. Light began to pool inside him, erasing his wounds but bringing with it even more pain. Pain that continued to grow at an alarming rate. Pain that urged him into the fetal position. Pain that threatened to rend him in two.
There he laid panting and struggling to hold himself together as light continued to grow in brilliance as the magic took effect. Soren was dimly aware of Ashnard retreating to the stairwell but he himself was far too gone to even hope to move. The manacles shattered into many pieces and the stone cracked as he felt a deep rush of power thrashing from inside him.
Blood pulsed in his ears, each second feeling more cramped than the last. Jaws gritted, eyes squeezed tight. He felt as though he was in a too tight place, his skin itchy and uncomfortable. Sweat mingled with blood as the thrashing grew so violent one could mistake him for a fish that had been mercilessly thrown onto shore.
The pressure continued to build and build until Soren felt as though he was about to explode from the tension. Each surge racked his brain with mind-numbing throbs and caused each nerve seems to be super-charged, sending every movement to his head with excess sensitivity. Then, when unsure if he could take anymore of it, he shattered.
The last few moments were experienced as if he were watch from the outside. He studies himself in this timeless place. For seconds for years, Soren knew not. All that he could seem to focus on was the great shimmer that contorted his body, all beginning in the brand upon his forehead. With that all that was him; that long silky dark green hair, that pale skin, those ruby eyes. It all vanished. And he vanished too.
0000
With unbelievable force, Soren was torn asunder. Replacing him was a rapidly expanding black form pouring from where the child was and erasing all traces of the youth. All that was left of the sage was a few scraps of cloth and a final hoarse cry.
The form moved sluggishly at first, revealing its life. One eye opened, then another. Soon two fist-sized crimson orbs were gazing around the room. In the corner Ashnard grin smugly. He had guessed correctly. His gamble had paid off.
Upon seeing that smile, the beast gazed at itself as if noticing the difference for the first time. But rather than share his enthusiasm, a low mournful keen rose from it, carrying unimaginable horror and agony. And Ashnard simply smiled wider.
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Post by Truthy on Mar 27, 2014 21:45:59 GMT
"SOREN!? YOU IN THERE!?" Ike yelled, switching feet to keep warm in the cold Daein air. The chill was even greater in the early morning atmosphere biting into his skin. Again he questioned his clothing choice but he didn't care enough to pick out something else. Surely the tactician would have something to say about it, but well, until that time came he was more than content to do whatever he felt like, even if that meant freezing his butt off.
Once more Ike opened his mouth but then he thought better of it. If Soren hadn't answered yet then he wouldn't be answering at all any time soon. In retrospect the commander should have realized it before as well as the fact that the tiny sage wouldn't have taken kindly to the noise whatever the reason. But he had already caused a fuss so he misewell go on in, much like ripping off a band-aid in a painful spot fast before chickening out can be done.
Thrusting his chin up, Ike prepared himself to deal with whatever he got blasted at him as he threw aside the flap and, taking one last deep breath and shutting his eyes, shoved his large figure into the cramped opening.
But what greeted him was a much softer kind of breeze, like that of a draft. Despite the flow of air it was still musty and smelled heavily of parchment, ink, and burnt wax. Wood dust and ash danced around him, kicked up off the floor by his entrance. It was enough to make him sneeze, though he held it in for fear of knocking over one of the numerous paper stacks that he knew sat precariously around the room.
It was the lack of response to his intrusion that prompted him to open his azure eyes. And what Ike found before him was utter chaos. Papers where scattered about, torn apart and smugged by the moisture that had settled on the once crisp pages. The bed and it's adjoining table were little more than a pile of ashes, puffing out singed bits of loose leaf and other debris. Most shocking of all were the scuffs in the ground, lines showing the tell-tale signs of someone using a sword in a space far too confined for it.
Moving with a kind of care Ike was known to usually lack, he made his way to the rent in the tent-side. It was a single perfect line, big enough to come and go from alone and made with what appeared to be a dagger. Right next to the make-shift exit was a pool of blood turned brownish with age. Yet it was as fresh at the hand print in it.
Ike's legs bent beneath him as a morbid kind of curiosity drew him to look closer. Sure enough, stuffed in a barely noticeable fashion, was a hunk of tatter cloth that the blue-haired young man knew well enough. It was that of the robe his best-friend and right-hand-man.
Bile rose in Ike's throat as well as a desperate kind of excuse, one that not even he himself believed possible. The evidence was all there. Soren was gone and more than likely dead, both facts that profoundly disturbed him. True, they were only friends, but there was something disconcerting about lacking a presence that was always around you. It would be much like turning one day to find you no longer casted a shadow or your reflection no longer existed. And that alone was enough to drive him away with a stubborn kind of vigor.
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It was Titania who caught him in his mad dash. Her cherry hair swung after her as she jogged over upon calling his name. And by the grave look in her eyes, Ike knew she had an idea of what was going on.
Without a word her hand clasped around his and she was half dragging him to the large tent in the center of camp. That tent acted as the mess-hall and was, to no one's shock, filled with many blurry-eyed patrons. All mirth that was there the night before was replaced by the sullen silence of hangover's. A few moans echoed pitifully as Titania drew back the flap and thrust her way inside with Ike close behind.
A drop of pity ran through Ike as he stared upon his fellow mercenaries. He had drank himself, but did so sparingly for the commander needed to remain logical no matter the situation. Or at least that was what Soren had told him before the antisocial tactician grew annoyed with the merriment and retired for the night. Always was the moody youth leaving the parties early. Maybe it was the noise or maybe it was the people, but either way it always happened without fail. The sage would hide from his fellow mercenaries as though they had the plague.
I swear he can be so dense sometimes...Though the others are gruff if push came to shove they would no sooner give the shirt off their backs to stop another member from going hungry... Well maybe not Shinon...
"HAS ANYONE SEEN SOREN TODAY!?"
The shout startled Ike out of his thoughts and out of the corner of his eye he could see cringes all around the room as the silence was broken. Titania's voice continued to ring about for another for minutes following the initial shock before a grumbled reply echoed after it like the sigh of wood under strain from the wind. The answer was all the same. No one had seen him since last night. With no other reason to be there Ike murmured an apology and turned to leave. Behind him was the obvious sound of heavy metallic footsteps meaning Titania was following him.
Pausing, the blue-haired youth gazed back over his shoulder at the moaning crowd in the mess-hall, before allowing his eyes to fall on a certain tent. "Let's go to my tent,"
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"I see..." Titania allowed her words to drift thoughtfully as Ike drew his explanation to a close. He had opted to go first and the paladin didn't object to the arrangement. Silence enveloped the room as she pondered over the problem, eyes unfocused from all that was around her. The at last she stirred and released a deep breath.
"Soren isn't shy to disappearing, but it is rather strange that he would do so without telling anyone. That, coupled with the fact that he left his tent in such a condition means it wasn't of his own free will. But if that is the case, the question becomes where to proceed from here. Any paths will have gone cold by this time and even if they weren't, we aren't exactly prepared for a rescue mission..."
"But if he was kidnapped there has to be a reason..."
"I have a few guesses as to what that may be, the highest being ransom, but I do not know for sure," Titania answered, placing her palms flat on the table before adding, "All I know is Soren seemed to predict something like this would happen,"
"What makes you say that?" Ike turned from his pacing, something he began at the beginning of the conversation, to fix the entirety of his gaze on her.
With a clink of metal, Titania rose and pulled out a familiar black leather-bound book trimmed in gold. Clicking back the clasp, she revealed a flurry of pages covered in the elegant scrawl of its owner. Even without settling on anyone page it was obvious what the books contents were. They were many different battle plans.
"This was outside my tent this morning. Though it doesn't hold his name it is quite obviously something of his and under natural circumstances he would be caught dead before even hoping to leave a book in such a place," the scarlet haired warrior said. Her hands were gentle as she placed the book down on the table, treating it as though it were a priceless gem rather than a weighty log. At an affirmative nod from Ike, she flipped the pages until she came upon one marked with a crimson tassel of smudged blood.
There was only a single sentence on that page. Five words, blurred by the speed in which they were drawn in and the utensil in question. For upon that page was the most alarming sort of news, written in the same crude contents that marked the page from all the others.
"KING ASHNARD MIGHT BE ALIVE,"
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*in a toilet*