forum The Sinner's Bloodline

Started June 16, 2024 by Deleted user

tune

Edit topic

Hello! Thanks for visiting!
I'm going to be making posts here of snippets and things from a storyline in my head from like 2022. I'm trying to dip my toes back into writing. Feel free to follow along with me. I'm just trying to hop back in to creative writing. I'm just trying to throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks, it's by no means in chronological order.

Potential gore warning, other assorted trigger warnings relating to mental health and abuse

Yurul is host to various different species, all wildly different from each other, yet over time the planet developed the clasification of 'light' and 'dark' species. Light being creatures who were deemed to have the moral high ground based on nature alone, while dark being prone to unecessary wrongdoing. There are some cultures who take this label very seriously, and often there tends to be many civil disagreements as to the category any particular species fell in to.

Most often, people can agree to label Esokan as a dark species without much discussion, similar to many others who reside in the large desert of Pillax. Esokan are species quite complex. They have rich history and an even richer culture.

Kené Eoiali

Sarsönil (Sars) Eoiali

Belphadoa

Yurul, a planet with no shortage of magical beings and mystic arts, relies on an ancient hierarchy of lineages. Many families gain and fall out of power through planned marriages and business deals. Some families have done away with betrothals and worries about power, but the custom is a large part of all cultures in Yurul. The planet is divided into five regions: Pillax, Qéo, Varesia, Hykno, and Islilia.

Pillax is a desert wasteland, just sand for miles and miles. This region is inhabited by demons, cursed bloodlines, centaurs, dragons, Pillaxian ox, Esokan, and some specialized magic users. Most non-native creatures avoid the area, as it is easy to get lost in the endless dunes. Qéo is filled with dense rainforests and plants. Botanists flock to the region, and 36% of the planet's oxygen supply is produced from the forests there. Fae, fairies, elves, fauns, nymphs, sprites, ents, and other magical creatures inhabit the area. Varesia is the typical story book fantasy land with stone castles and quaint villages, but a handful of cities in the region are much more modernized with skyscrapers and huge electrical plants. Electrical sprites and other technical beings live in the large cities -along with some non-magic beings and magic users aspiring to start something for themselves- whereas most magic users, non-magic users, unicorns, healers, Elmards, witches and wizards, alchemists, house dwarves, and enchantresses live in the rest of the region. Hykno is filled with ice caverns and tunnels that burrow into the mountains. Along with some non-magic miners, golems, orcs, mountain dwarves, dragons, Cretians, some scientist's labs, and lesser ice beings reside in the region. Islilia is the oceans and scattered islands that cover the rest of the planet. Serpents, mermaids, sirens, kelpie, krakens, hippocampus, and pirates traverse these waters.

Kené Eoiali is the younger of two brothers from a substantial, feared family from the Pillax region. When a much more powerful family from a different region proposes a betrothal, the Eoiali family sends Kené and his older brother, Sars, to the other family to "feel out" the betrothal. The two brothers meet the potential bride, and Sars is automatically on the defensive. However, as they stay and get to know each other, the Sars and the potential bride grow to like each other much more than expected…

Esokan tribal system
Tribal roles
-Herders
-Water summoners
-Herbalist/medicinal
-Children/education
-Warriors/Fight masters
-Chieftan
-Ambassador
-Executioner

"Come on! Kené keep up!" Sarsönil Eoiali called down to his brother as he waited at the top of the dune. He didn't exactly care that his younger brother couldn't match his pace, only that he wanted to go farther, and he didn't want to get in trouble for his brother getting lost. This was the furthest they had ever gotten from the tribe, and Sarsönil was alive with the adventure. His parents sent him and his brother to go check on the herd, and even though Sarsönil didn't realize it was a task that wasn't expected to be completed by the eleven and five year old Esokan, he felt like an outlaw as he neglected his instructions in favor of this. The two boys had been wandering for quite a while now, and here was his reward.

A stone castle rose out of the sand like a hand reaching into the heavens. It was submerged in the sand- an untold story of the castle's architecture left to be explored. The visible stone was dark, unnaturally dark, especially in comparison to the deep red sands of Pillax that went on for miles. It only made the winding pillars and ominously open hatch more appealing to the naive little boys. "Kené! Look look look!" Sarsönil grabbed his brother's arm just before he crested the dune. The younger lit up at the sight.

"Let's go let's go let's go!" The boy giggled, his tired wobble turning into a run down the dune toward the submerged castle. Sarsönil wasn't too far behind. He didn't consider what his parents might think, both of their unsanctioned expoloration and their distance from the tribe. Afterall, they didn't have anything to worry about- Sarsönil had brought his father's dagger. It was lucky, or at least that was what the boy was convinced of.

It was only a matter of moments before the climbed to the castle's surface and peered down into the open hatchway that led into nothingness. A ladder that was much too big for the younger to climb down was all that stood between them and untold treasures. "I have an idea," Sarsönil started, seconds before scooping up his younger brother to latch on to his back. It was awkward and clunky for the small Esokan, but his papa carried him like this many times when he was young. He shifted, nearly falling over with his brother's weight on his back, before scrambling to get on the ladder. He reached his foot down, once then twice before moving one hand too, while the other supported the younger Esokan on his back. Sarsönil made his was awkwardly down one, two, three, and four more rungs, the light from the desert sun slowly becoming isolated to the hatch that was now above his head. He was climing into the abyss.

Into Death waiting with open arms.

His bare feet carefully found the next ladder rung, toes scraping against it. Odd. The other rungs were stone, a built in part of the castle, but this one was made of splintery wood. Sarsönil frowned as he gently put more weight on it. He moved his other foot down. Rocked on his toes a bit to tested the weight. "Sarsönil… it's really dark in here," Kené complained, tugging on his brother's shoulder. The movement was small, but it was enough to tip off the balance. Sarsönil felt his shoulder tilt back, and suddenly his fingers began to slip. His eyes widened, self preservation kicking in, and he used his other hand to sturdy himself. Leaving his brother to hold on for himself- something which the boy was not doing. The small weight was ripped off Sarsönil's back with a cry, and not even a breath later, there was a thud. Following by extreme wailing. Panic jolted through Sarsönil.

"Kené!" Sarsönil hopped off the ladder, earning himself a few splinters in his feet from the wooden rung. The ground was a bit farther than anticipated, and the action came at a price. "Ow…" He mumbled, brow furrowed in pain. He could understand why his brother was crying so much. He turned to face his brother, who was curled up and crying not a few feet away. Sarsönil, again, felt that panic jolt through him. There was blood. "Kené, it- it's going to be alright- uhhh- umm," Sarsönil's eyes began to well up with water. He didn't know what to do. They were far from home, too far from home for him to go get Mom. Where was Mom? She was always here for these kind of things. "I- I- I don't know what to do," The boy whispered, a sentence that was drowned out by his brother's cries of pain.

"Looks like you are in a predicament, youngling," A voice, cold and smooth as water drawn from the earth, came out of the shadows. Sarsönil tensed up, eyes wider than the full moon. He couldn't figure out where the voice came from- it sounded as if it was everywhere, but at the same time, entirely inside his head. "The little one seems to be injured. Quite badly, I mean, look at all that blood?" A dark chuckle. A sound that made Sarsönil's skin crawl. "I can help you… for a price." Sarsönil was about to shake his head, about to insist that he would go get Mom and things would be all better, but with a loud clang, terrifying, all the light from the hatch above was extinguished as it closed on its own accord. terroroverwhelmed Sarsönil. Terror, as he lost sight of his brother and all he could see was the inky blackness of nothingness. Terror, as a chill set in the room and he heard the shuffle of one footstep. Then two. "Come now boy, you are safe here with me," The voice echoed in his mind and the chamber. Unnnatural, cold, silky- this was very, very wrong.

Sarsönil couldn't hold in his tears just as the sand couldn't hold any water. "Pl-pl-please d-don't hurt- hurt- hic- K-Ken-" The rest of his words were left to incoherent blubberings as his legs buckled and he fell to the cold stone floor. What was he to do? Where was mom? Why was he here? Who was talking to him? Why-

Sarsönil was pulled out of the panic and terror that was trapping him within his mind as a candle was lit at the far end of the room. Then another. And another. The whole room sparked to life, wax candles against the stone walls and scattered on the floor. It was a triangular shaped room, with the ladder behind him on one wall, and the other two walls adorned with doorways leading to more darkness. At the point of the room, opposite to the ladder, was something like an altar. It was made of stone, decorated with many carvings and a large bowl -big enough to bath a small child- at the base. Behind the altar was a man in black robes. His chest was exposed to reveal tattoos, in the same style as the carvings on the altar. It looks to be depictions of stories, images of man and beast fighting, dying, and yet, living again. The man's skin was something Sarsönil had never seen before. It was a darker color, similar to Sarsönil himself, but at the top of his torso, it faded to a white that was paler than the clouds. His neck was thin, almost hollow looking, and his face- Sarsönil's eyes widened and the fear was instantly renewed. The skin was falling off, hanging along his face like a tattered cloth, to reveal patches of bone. This… this was a necromancer. Something even Esokan feared from time to time. Something that his mother told him to stay away from. As far away as possible.

Necromancers were magic users, but somewhere along the way they crossed a line that should not be crossed. They were rotten down to their souls, only a sliver of who they once were. Very few of them existed on Yurul, and the few that did were outlaws to many civilizations. Hence, many made their home in the deserted land of Pillax, if not in some underground market Varesia. They were beings to be feared, never to be reasoned with. Never to be intereacted with, according to his mother. "Boy, tell me," The necromancer said softly but not sweetly, "what are two Esokan boys doing so far from their tribe?" Not a question that Sarsönil was going to answer, the necromancer found after a few moments. It didn't seem to bother him all that much. The man shifted his robes as he pulled Kené into view- blood was dripping down the side of the crying boy's face. "Aw hush now, child," The necromancer added, and at Kené's continued crying, his face turned rageful and he spat out in an unworldly voice, "Somortem."

Sarsönil felt like the life was sucked out of him as his brother's small body went limp. It was as if his mind went white, something deep inside his blood awakening, a feeling stretching from the back of his neck to his fingers and toes. He couldn't form words, he couldn't even react-

"Don't worry, your friend is still alive," The necromancer said nonchalantly as he set the younger Esokan down on the table. The hot white feeling from the back of his neck slowed. The man glanced up at Sarsönil before flicking his wrist to gesture behind the older boy. "Fetch me the blood and emerald bottles, obedium." Sarsönil didn't have control over his body as he turned to face a roughly cut log shelf -the wooden 'ladder rung' that he had stepped on- and picked up a thin vial filled with a deep red color and a jar full of a metallic green material. His legs brought him, one painful and stiff step at a time, around the altar to the man's rotting feet. A maggot had made its home in one of them. Sarsönil's body betrayed him as he presented both liquids to the man. The necromancer smiled as he looked down at the boy. "You… you are a peculiar one. Not many try to resist my magic." He swiped until the two containers, leaving Sarsönil to stand and watch. He could see his brother laying on the table, blood crusting over his face. His eyes darted to the ladder- too far and too hard to climb quick enough to escape without trouble. That wasn't even factoring in the time and strength required to open the hatch at the top. His eyes travelled to the necromancer. While Sarsönil was looking for an escape plan, he had been talking. "…and a splattering of oxyoto juice, and he could dissolve in front of your very eyes- but we wouldn't want that, now would we? So I will do you a favor. I will save his life, he will just be a bit different." The necromancer crouched down, an unsettling crunch coming with the movement, so he was eye level with Sarsönil. "However, as I'm sure you may know, necromancers need a willing sacrifice to be able to reimbue the body of another with the life of old. So, all I need from you is-"

With a swift movement, Sarsönil gave in to what his blood wanted. He reached behind him to draw his father's dagger, shimmering in the candlelight, from his back- underneath the folds of his tunic. His instincts took hold of his movements and he slashed the dagger into the necromancer's throat. It was as if he'd done it a million times before- as if the weight of his ancestors guided not just his arm, but his torso, his wrist, his fingertips. He moved with the strength a mere boy should not have. Sarsönil. Sarsönil. We see you. Sarsönil. We know you. Sarsönil. We are you. Sarsönil. We are your brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. Sarsönil. We are your blood. Sarsönil. We are your fate. Sarsönil. We are- Sarsönil let out a scream so fierce that he never knew he was capable of.

The necromancer garbled, his remaining face filled with dying rage. He was trying to choke out words as his blood, black as night, splattered over Sarsönil. It got in his eyes, his mouth, his nose- it smelled like an ox that had been left to rot in the sun for days.

The necromancer garbled, his remaining face filled with dying rage. He was trying to choke out words as his blood, black as night, splattered over Sarsönil. It got in his eyes, his mouth, his nose- it smelled like an ox that had been left to rot in the sun for days. The necromancer's body jerked and twisted, convulsing as blood spilt on the floor beneath the altar. Sarsönil wobbled backwards, unable to find his voice, as he watched the body twist and crunch in supernatural ways. The skin seemed to melt off as the bones bent in on themselves, the black blood oozed and clotted instantly, and the organs seemed to pop and squish and seep out of the figure.

In his horror, Sarsönil was frozen. As the necromancers body went limp, all bits of sound seemed to disappear and the weight of the emptiness in the room pressed in on him. Sarsönil. We are here. Sarsönil. We are you. Sarsönil. You are us. Sarsönil. You are our blood. Sarsönil. Listen. Sarsönil. Feel. Sarsönil. Let us guide you. Sarsönil. Sarsönil. "Sarsönil!" The boy flinched at the appearance of light. He hadn't noticed the hatch had been opened, and there was already a figure jumping down. "Sarsönil, Sarsönil what happened? Sars-"

"Do not call me that name, woman!" The boy screeched, anger and fear and something deep within him swirling to the surface as he stared into the face of his mother with cold, rageful eyes. He hadn't realized his drew the knife towards her. She stared back at him, taken aback for a moment as she slowly absorbed the situation. The already rotting body on the floor. The knife in her child's hand. The smaller boy on the altar- His mother's face became devoid of emotion as she turned her attention back to her older boy. He didn't know how to handle what he was feeling, only that there seemed to be only one thing that could solve it. Blood. He needed to shed more blood. He needed to kill. He needed to follow what his body wanted him -screamed at him- to do.

She took a long, very controlled breath. "Boy," She started, focusing her attention on the wall behind him. Her voice was like ice. "Take a deep breath. Do not listen to it. You need to step back and rest now." She took another, very controlled breath. Sarsönil's body tensed and untensed. Sarsönil. She is wrong. Sarsönil. She is a killer. Sarsönil. You must- Sarsönil dropped the knife as if it had burned him. He looked down at his hands. They didn't feel like his own. It felt like a dream. None of this could be real, could it? He looked to his mother, and it was as if it was the first time he saw her.

"M-m-mom?" His voice wavered and his body began to shake. The woman's emotionless face turned into an expression that only a mother could have. She immediately scooped him up into her arms, away from the world, away from this. "Wh-what hap-happened to K-Kené?" He spoke into her shoulder, words barely forming. She shushed him gently, her arms clutching him tighter than she ever had before. She just held him. A minute passed by. She still held him. Another minute.

"Saraih?" A deep voice called from outside the hatch. Father. "Should I come?" Sarsönil peeked his head up to look towards the hatch, but his father was not in view. He squirmed, but his mother held him tighter.

"Nevique." She called back, pain coming from her voice, "don't." Very rarely did his mother tell his father to stay away. Sarsönil had yet to know what this meant. He squirmed again, and his mother loosened her hold on him enough to look at him. Her voice turned to cold again when she spoke, "Tell me what happened." The boy looked at his mother, fear edging its way back into his bones. Her eyes held care in them, but they also seemed empty. He squirmed again, but his mother's grip was tight.

"Saraih," His father again, voice filled with caution. "Send our boys back up to us now," It was a gentle but firm statement. Firm enough that his mother let go of him, and Sarsönil scrambled away. His feet led him towards the ladder, which he scrambled up while fear dashed at his heels. His hands were still shaking as he made it up to the sand- to his father's feet. And the feet of six others in their tribe. At the sight of the young one, two of their tribe immediately knelt down to tend to him, while his father took a step back. A moment went by, a pregnant silence growing between them all. "Where is Kené?" His voice was icy, the same iciness of his mother's. One of the other tribemembers murmured his father's name. Nevique didn't seem to hear it. "Where is my other boy?" He asked again, taking a large breath. "Where-"

"He's alive!" His mother's voice echoed out of the chamber beneath them. "He's alive!" Joy, relief, happiness, peace… all things that seemed to wash over the group. Everyone in the group but Sarsönil, who felt like his had a shadow of something hanging on his back now.

The necromancer garbled, his remaining face filled with dying rage. He was trying to choke out words as his blood, black as night, splattered over Sarsönil. It got in his eyes, his mouth, his nose- it smelled like an ox that had been left to rot in the sun for days. The necromancer's body jerked and twisted, convulsing as blood spilt on the floor beneath the altar. Sarsönil wobbled backwards, unable to find his voice, as he watched the body twist and crunch in supernatural ways. The skin seemed to melt off as the bones bent in on themselves, the black blood oozed and clotted instantly, and the organs seemed to pop and squish and seep out of the figure.

In his horror, Sarsönil was frozen. As the necromancer's body went limp, all bits of sound seemed to disappear and the weight of the emptiness in the room pressed in on him. Sarsönil. We are here. Sarsönil. We are you. Sarsönil. You are us. Sarsönil. You are our blood. Sarsönil. Listen. Sarsönil. Feel. Sarsönil. Let us guide you. Sarsönil. Sarsönil. The boy let out a horrid scream, not of fear but of anguish, as he fell to his knees. The weight of a thousand years pressed on his shoulders. His mind went in and out of focus. He felt different. He felt powerful.

Sarsönil's eyes moved towards his brother, who was still limp on the altar. He needed to kill him. He needed to kill him. It was the only thing that mattered right now. Sarsönil stepped forward, his mind and body lost to his ancestors. Sarsönil. Yes. Sarsönil- "Sars…" Kené mumbled, a pained groan coming out of him. The older boy stopped, suddenly regaining feeling in his hands that he didn't know he lost. He gasped, air filling his lungs like water filling his stomach. Life- it felt like living again. Kené. And then he was moving.

Sars scrambled up the side of the altar, using strength he didn't realize he ever had. Certainly not the strength an eleven-year-old should have. It felt as if he'd done this thousands of times. The boy grabbed his younger brother and slung him over his back, then dropped to the ground. He made his way to the ladder, using the shelves in the cabinet to pull himself up the rungs. With one hand holding his brother to his back and the other desperately clinging to each rung, his breath was steady but labored, his hands shakey but strong. Each step upwards was accompanied by the threat he wouldn't be able to catch the rung in time. Sars made it to the top of the ladder, the hatch being his only obstacle left. "It's gonna be okay Kené," Sars huffed, grunting as he pressed his head to the cold metal. He forced it open with the help of his shoulder, barely enough strength left to crawl up into the sand, let alone walk back to the tribe. He wobbled forward into the sand, bare feet sinking down, and then he lost his grip. His brother slipped off his back into the sand, and Sars quickly followed as his vision went dark and he passed out.

The stars were the only thing illuminating her violet eyes, yet she was as dazzling as ever. "What?" She asked with a glimmer of humor as she tilted her head to the side. Sars shared a small smile, which only caused her to lightly shove his shoulder. "What?" She repeated, her lips curling upward with a confused expression growing.

Sars cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He could tell she was on the edge of asking him again, so he finally let the words he had been thinking about leave his lips. "I am a firm believer in both freedom and clarity," Sars started, daring to look up at her face. Her curiosity was beginning to turn into concern. This was no longer a light hearted moment between the elf and the esokan. The man cleared his throat again. "So… so I want to be clear with you, I want you to be free to make a decision for yourself." The oh-so-stoic esokan was unnaturally shifty as he moved his weight from side to side. He took another deep breath. "I think you are incredible. I would like to pursue a deeper relationship with you, beyond just a personal guard or a friend." Sars looked into her eyes, her starlight eyes widening a fraction as she stared back at him.

She blinked. Tilted her head to the side. Opened her mouth to respond, closed it, opened it again, and-

An arrow whizzed between them, just a hair's width away from her nose. That was all it took for Sars to shoot up. He didn't even need to conciously pull up the suppressed anger that resided in the back of his head. Sarsönil. He went deathly still as his eyes scanned the darkness beyond them. A moment went by. Then another. Sarsönil. "Sars?" NAME's voice was barely above silent, but it fell on ears that were not listening. He was cued in to the surrounding wilderness. The breeze caressing the leaves, the faint hoot of an owl in the distance, the song of a cricket a stone's throw away… the snap of a twig. In one swift movement, Sars threw up a hand and water fell out of the ground like a downpour returning to the sky. The stream of water was like a viper, striking forwards until it met a man who stood a few yards away, holding a crossbow. The would-be assassin didn't have time to shout as the Sarsönil slowly dragged the water through the man's airways. It was as if he could feel the stranger's lungs, spreading the water to the edges of the organ. He could feel the man's body convulse, and he could hear the strangled, choking noises in the darkness. The sweet sound of the man dying was interrupted by another movement, so quiet it was almost indetectable. An arrow being set, coming from directly behind him. To the left of his princess.

He shot around, still maintaining the water in the other man's lungs, and launched at NAME. He saw her tense, he saw the terror in her eyes, he saw her try to move away- but it didn't stop him as he grabbed her and spun her behind his body. Not even a moment later, pain exploded in his shoulder. He took the pain in silence as he threw NAME to the ground for her protection. He didn't hear the shriek that she let out, as he was already moving passed her. The large-set male whose shape was barely distinguishable from the shadows around him. Sarsönil could extinguish this one like the other, who was already on the ground clawing at his throat, but he didn't want to. It was too painless. In just a few strides he was on top of an elf, who was now as white as paper, trembling with another arrow. Not that he could blame him. Anyone would think it to be a scary sight if a fabled 'demon assassin' stood in front of you, with knives that materialized as if from nowhere, and an arrow protruding from his shoulder. And a shit eating smile on his face. Sarsönil. This is prey.

Sars' heart hadn't lessening its pounding even as the sun came up. NAME hadn't said a word to him yet. He couldn't blame her. She had barely said a word to her father. Especially after his little declaration that put him in this situation.

NAME sat atop a horse which trotted before him, her long hair like a waterfall down her back, much more beautiful than the uncharacteristic laverdar dress she wore. It was embellished with gold lace to accent the tiara that sat upon her head. Every bit of a queen she was born to be, aside from the blood that was splattered at her collarbone and up her neck.

Sars followed behind on foot, an arrow still pocking out of his shoulder. It took everything in him to keep the itch for bloodshed at bay, each step accentuated by crippling pain. They didn't let him so much as change his clothing or wash his hands after the event that took place only a few hours ago. 'Make an example out of them', the elf king had said, 'let it spread by word of mouth; if anyone makes an attempt on my daughter, there won't be a body to bury'. And Sars was doing just that as he dragged two bodies behind him. One, the first assassin, was only left with a grey and asphixated face, jaggedly cut from the body with a dagger. The other… the head was only distinguishable by the bloodied ear and the hair that Sars was using to carry it, and the trail of shredded organs and skin hanging off it. Sarsönil. Obeying like a little puppet. Sars took a deep breath. He focused on the dawn, as red as the blood that clung to his skin like sand on a tanned hide. The town was just waking up, civilians beginning the usual bustle of small shops, forges, and bakeries. Foreign yet not unfamiliar smells tickled his nose above the metallic stench that coated him, the sound of a hound barking in the window as the only warning to the townspeople that something was array.

It killed him to see that I child saw him -and the two heads dangling from his good arm- first. A scream. A cry. A wail. Noises he was all too familiar with, usually accompanied with a different kind of horror.

NAME trode before him, strong like a tree in a windstorm. Every step she took, she wavered, but her face was forged into diplomatic dignity. Beautiful, yet tainted. Tainted by him, evident by the dark blood splattered across her alabaster cheeks. A queen, in every way and every right. It was a miracle she survived the feral man that walked behind her.

Dragging the remains of the second assassin behind him, a head that was only distinguishable by the bloodied ear and the hair that Sars was using to carry it; along with the trail of shredded organs and skin hanging off it. At the other hand, water bent at his fingertips, creating an invisible prison for the third part of their party. Water was intertwined and weaved in the man's chest, barely enough space for oxygen to make its way into his bloodstream. The elf was dangling between death's encompassing waves and life at a shore miles away. It was almost a shame that he would never make it to that shore. Almost. The other half of Sars delighted in the wait to wipe his prey's existence from this land and into the next.

It was a display- a warning for all the onlookers as they peered out their windows and through the crack of the door. Parents rushed their children inside. Travelling merchants pulled their wares to the edges of the street. The queen-to-be elf led their party slowly -tactically- through the town square, headed for the palace. She was calculating as every bit that she was traumatized.

As he walked back to the tents, Sars' tired feet sank against the sand like the weary traveler that he inherently was. The oxen had been settled for the night, all re-herded within the tribe's view to rest under the glimmering stars. They were such peaceful yet powerful creatures. Each one of their eight legs rippled with muscle that could kill a fully grown golem with one swift kick. Sars had never seen them attack someone, even in defense, in his entire life. Maybe that was what had drawn the esokans into sheperding the Pillaxian ox- the creatures could keep such innate power locked under their skin without struggle.

The tribe was quieting down for the night, the young esokans being put to bed and most families fastening their tents shut with leather rope that would weave between the oxen hide. All were at peace except Hannau, the tribe's water summoner, who was having a tense discussion with no one other than his mother. "Saraih," Hannau hissed, her eyes glowing with contempt, "I feel the ancestor's calling to me. My time is running out, and yet you sit here and cause the tribe to rely on me for their life force. Need I remind you, you have a son with the sacred power and you do nothing to-"

"That is enough." His mother's voice was always powerful, but it held a flavor of eeriness when paired with the quiet of the camp. "My first born is not yours to declare." Hannau opened her mouth to no doubt continue the argument, but then her eyes caught the approaching male. The first born in question bowed his head in greeting.

"Hannau," a look of guilt coated the female before he turned to his mother, "Chiftain, the ox have been tended to. Are there any other duties I need to attend to?"

The elves are highly impoverished and have an intense military regime. Most foreigners avoid the area, both out of disgust for the extreme poverty and out of safety. Not only are you subject to being caught in the crossfire of the rebellion warfare tactics, but there is extreme risk in dealing with their temperamental political leaders.

He was awoken to the sound of elven men speaking in the foreign language that had become somewhat familiar to him. He knew not what the words meant, but he could pick out some repeated ones. 'Ubos' was probably his favorite thus far- it seemed to draw some kind of meaning out of the elves, as it was the only one that had a bit of snap to it when they spoke it. Otherwise, their words were like a fast game of chess- calm and unrevealing.

He heard the clunk of the metal door lock being twisted out of place. So they had finally decided what to do with him. "Hands," A male voice, thick with an elven accent, as he felt the steel of a blade against the column of his throat. Sars said nothing as he held his palms facing upward, only bowing his head slightly into the bite of the blade. The cool metal sung to him like a temptress in the night. "You try kill, you die," The same male said as he felt thick metals cuffs slide against his wrists, and after the blade at his throat was removed, he was yanked to his feet. Judging by the broken language and less than gentle handling, this elf was not upper class. They would rather send the expendables to deal with the deadly esokan.

"My reputation precedes me," Sars drawled, his words slightly clipped when they put cuffs on his ankles. They weren't messing around. A gentle tug of his wrists revealed that all his limbs were connected by the same metal, tightly at that. There was barely enough give in the chain that he'd be able to walk. Wise.

A grunt was the only sound, deep and husky, from the same male as before. They were trying to keep secret how many of them there were, but he could garner an idea with a quick count of the shuffling of feet against the rock floor. At least five. Good. More to rip apart, Sarsönil. Sars bit the inside of his cheek so hard he thought it would bleed.

"You come here now. Respect," The male said, and the yank of his chains nearly caused him to fall. Moving. You can break the chains, Sarsönil. Sars dialed in to the shuffle of feet, letting his own go silent, as a way to hone his mind. Barely able to move freely with the metal allowing him very little give, he needed the focus as he was led out of the prisoner's keep and into the main halls of the palace. Light shown through the fabric over his eyes, but it was not enough to distinguish the individuals around him. That would come soon enough, as he heard the scuttle of more and more footsteps in the corners of his focus. Likely the help, given their shakey whispers as he passed.

The party proceeded through what he assumed to be a door or archway into a larger chamber, as the echoes in the room changed, before an abrupt stop. With a swift thwack, light pain splintering through his right leg, he was knocked to his knee with the flat side of a blade. He hissed, whipping his head in the direction of his attacker. The quick, hitched breath was all he needed to hear to confirm that they were scared of him. He felt the blade return to his throat, once again singing that siren song, as his blindfold was removed.

Light attacked his eyes for the first time in days, so bright that it felt blinding. Sars blinked, foggy vision slowly returning to him. Gold. Gold was the first thing to assault his vision. He was kneeling in front of a sanctuary for four thrones, each more golden and larger than the next. Four elves sat before him, each more golden and more beautiful than the next. And less clothed.

The first, in the smallest throne, sat a male no more that twenty years old. Very young for an elf, the male had an air of elegance surrounding him, accompanied by three small females of varying species that sat around his throne. He had deep navy eyes and golden hair- blond, but more shimmery. Likely an illusion, or a very expensive magic. Although he was sitting, it was evident that he was tall by his flawless golden torso, exposed, and long legs and arms, the last of which kept his perfectly groomed head propped up in a lazily amuzed expression. His only decency rested in the clothe that was wrapped loosely around his waist and over his shoulder, and the excess decended across his left leg and pooled around the throne's seat. An illigetimate child of the royal line, this male was likely to be Wormuhs.

The second, in a throne with more carvings and symbols, held a female elf with a stone face. She was clearly assessing him, sharp green eyes meeting his in a brutal stare down. Sars didn't back down. She looked older than the other male, but not by much. Still very young for an elf woman. If the male was gold, she was silver, even in her golden throne. Her lighter blonde hair was long, drooping into her lap like a weeping willow, also containing a bit of shimmering that was beginning to look more and more like very expensive magic by the minute. She was much paler, yet beautiful in a different way. Her complexion matched her sharp cheekbones and pointed nose, matched by silver metals that hung around her throat like a decorative collar. The theme continued downwards, her chest adorned with a silver warrior's breastplate and loose bangles along her arms. Her stomach was exposed, revealing multiple metal hoops digging into the skin around her belly button and silver ink imbued into her skin. 'Ora dorminae ubos', inscribed into her skin. A thin sheet of fabric covered below her waist, so thin it was nearly translucent, hugging the contour of her body so clearly that it made Sars keep his gazed fixed strictly upwards. How her body wasn't tired for carrying that much precious metal was beyond him. She was likely the next in the royal line, Belphadoa.

The third throne was more similar to the first, however it still continued the trend of larger quantities of gold. A male figure sat atop it, this one clearly old, even for an elf. Wearing a clothe similar to the female's that wrapped lazily around his waist, Sars kept his focus on the elve's slightly wrinkled face. He, too, had blond hair, this one without the shimmer, and eyes that were a sharp green like the female's. Paler skin as well. The father of Belphadoa, no doubt. Chiniro. This one had a bit of pudge on his stomach and limbs, a showing of his wealth and excess. He was likely selected by the royal line to be the sire of Belphadoa. When the male noticed Sars' extended gaze, rather than facing it, he turned his soft face to the female on his left.

The last. The queen mother. Her birth name was Noneyeh, but as the queen mother, she was only to be addressed by her title. Her body was very lightly veiled by golden beaded ropes, and it was clear she was much younger than Chiniro who sat beside her. Hair that fell all the way to the floor, like water dropping off a cliff, this woman had a different air around her. While the two young ones had some slight shimmer in their hair, this woman was fully golden. Golden skin, golden hair, even golden eyes. She had a golden tattoo adorning her chest, the same inscription as the other female. Similar to the youngest, she had a company of handsome men, these ones all elves, sitting at her feet, none of them taking their eyes off her. They looked enchanted, not even breaking their gaze to glance at Sars. He had been prepared for all of it- the glamour, the excess, the lust. He had not been prepared for the queen mother's round belly. She was with child.

"Ubos," The mother queen spoke, voice elegant yet thick. Deep, resonant tones that held a weight different from his own silky Pillaxian accent, "I see your people have answered our message." She stood up, a hand laying on her stomach as she took a step towards him. The golden beads adorning her body swayed with each step she took toward him, descending the sanctuary to stand directly in front of him, a little too close for Sars' comfort. The four males that sat around her throne looked significantly more alert, but they did not move from there posts. The mother queen noticed his attention and dipped her hand, golden nails and a large variety of golden jewelry, to grasp his chin. "Would you like to becomeone of my little pets?" The satisified smile on her lips began to make Sars feel ill.

"No," He said carefully, gentle with his tone as to avoid offense to the arrogance of the queen mother, "I am here with purpose, and I would like to complete that purpose. You holding me behind chains is a hindrance to that." Her satisfied smile turned to a sneer and she flicked his head downwards. With some quick elvish words and a few steps back to her throne, the five guards that surrounded him attended to his cuffs and chains. Sars noted that one of them did it with shakey hands. Good. As soon as the cuffs were off, the guards immediately backed up as Sars stood and stared down the retreating queen mother.

The queen mother flicked her hand to the others in the thrones, and both males stood up. A few elvish words were exchanging, and the males left the sanctuary to an archway left of the grandiose space, three females in tow. Ancestors save them. Belphadoa stood up and bowed to the queen mother, more elvish words being exchanged. Then she set her sharp green eyes on Sars. Ancestors save him. "Ubos," She spat as she descended from the sanctuary of thrones and passed him, "Follow." And that was that. A quick look at the five guards assigned to him revealed that they were not included in the command, and the queen mother appeared completely disinterested in his presence now, favoring the four barely dressed men who now stood to attend to her.

Sars turned, taking a few quick steps to regain the pace with the female walking ahead. They were leaving the glamorous walls of the throne room in favor of a smaller antechamber to the right wall. Columns, decorated with lustful imagery, complimented the walls as they approached a door without a handle. Enchanted, no doubt, as it slowly opened for the female without effort. A dark room was revealed, a large table in the center, with various maps pinned to the walls. There were two other doors, each without a handle like the one they entered through. Like the one that was now closing behind him, sealing him in with the sharp eyed woman who now wore a smirk on her thin lips.

As the queen mother's daughter, she was also in command of the elven armies. She would likely be in command of him during the job.

As the queen mother's daughter, she was also in command of the elven armies. She would likely be in command of him during the job. "An Eioali. You family name is well known across the continent," She drawled, her voice clearer than he expected for being a second language, as she stalked around the table. It was littered with a variety of papers, most in elvish, but some in a language he did not recognize. Sars noticed she paused to observe him. He cocked an eyebrow, inclining his head to her. Her smirk turned into a full grin, an expression tainted by the crazed look in her eye. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as she closed the distance between them. He could feel her breath against the skin of his cheek, and although they were nearly the same height, it felt as if she was towering over him as she grabbed his chin. Threat. His heart ticked up a pace, a slumbering rage yawning as it woke in his core. "You would be a beautiful jewel in my collection, ubos," She brushed her thumb over his lip. He bared his teeth, to which she poked at them, "Feisty little beasty, aren't you?" And just as fast as she appeared, she whisked away to the other side of the table to begin fishing through the documents. A heartbeat went by. Then another. The female didn't even seem to notice the tension in the room. You could kill her in an instant, Sarsönil. The female snatched three aged papers from the table. One swift movement and her pretty little head would be disconnected. She locked eyes with him, outright glee twinkling on her face as she returned to him, this time a healthy distance away. She should learn to respect the Eioali ancestors. Sars had to forcibly uncurl his fist.

"I am here for a job, so if you would be give me direction, the faster this can be done, the better," Sars said tightly, pursing his lips at the end of his sentence. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. In. Out. The killing was not for her. It could be, though.

With a small hop, Belphadoa sat on the table top, holding out the three documents as if she was looking at the hottest new magazine from Varesia. She glanced at him through her lashes, "Does the little Esokan need a time out?" Kill her, Sarsönil. "Is he getting all hot and bothered?" She curled her fingers in, gesturing him closer. His legs seemed to move on their own, getting in easy distance to strangle her. To tear her scalp off. Belphadoa put a finger on his sternum, that creepy smirk rising to her face again. He could cut her lips off, one at a time, and see how she smiled then.

A flick of the elf's wrist, and all of the sudden there was a knife in her hand, against his chest. The shadow inside him rose to the occasion, filling up all of his senses. It was like an ever-growing pit inside of him, swelling up beyond his control. Sarsönil. She did not know what she faced. Sarsönil. She pressed the knife in, the tip of the blade finding its way through the layers of his fabric as she whispered, "Come out, Eoiali." The sharp, piercing metal touching his skin, the blade so sharp that he felt it draw blood with little effort.

Big mistake little tree rat.

"Stop." A very firm command, a voice he barely recognized, came from Sars. "You are very aware who you are talking to. Stop," He said hoarsely, fixing his eyes to her feet that were hanging off the table. Sars was here for one job. Not to entertain pretentious royals, and not to garner the attention of the entirety of Yurul by slaughtering the next in line for the elven throne. Not to kill her.

He could barely feel his own limbs. He hadn't even realized that he had grabbed the blade with his bare hand, which was now biting through his skin with how sharp the knife was. Blood was beginning to drip from his palm to the layers of Pillaxian fabric. He wasn't confident in his ability to let go of the knife, even though it hurt him. It felt good, in a way. Tethering. A numb pain. A weakness against the weight that his blood carried. He would not be doing any killing today.

Without realizing it, the female gently pulled the knife out of his hand, set it on the table, and stood up. Sars took a comfortable step back, but her face had changed. No longer sharp and crazed- soft, inquisitive. "There you are," She whispered quietly before taking half a step back, no doubt getting stopped by the table, and held out the three papers to him. He took them from her slowly, caution in every movement. The papers- the first was an ancient text on Esokan culture. Anyone from Pillax would recognize it in an instant. "I hope you understand, I had to find where you limit was," The second two documents were foreign to him. One looked to be a historian's notes on mental disease. The other- a letter. "I have read many things about the Eioali family. I am glad to see that not all of them are true." At the bottom of the letter was a signature. Eioali. His ancestor. The letter… he immediately averted his eyes. Looked up to the mother queen's daughter, who was looking at him as if she was an entirely different person.

"Why?" He managed to speak, hand gripping tightly to the letter. He did not let himself feel the manipulation that the elven woman exerted on him. He did not want to fall into that pit again.

"We wanted to hire you for a complex job. This is not a hit and disappear situation," Belphadoa spoke gently, all too aware of the piece of paper she just handed him. "My mother is confident that you can do the assignment with ease. However, I am making it my personal responsibility to ensure that you do not receive the same fate as the man who helped us once before, and died under our care."

Sars looked at the letter. The suicide note.

"I would like to take the day to get to know you. I think that it is important that you cannot trust yourself, so you must trust me," The elf said, reaching up to his chin once again, not to control but to draw his gaze up to hers, "Sarsönil."

Sars flinched, taking an immediate step back out of her range. "Just Sars," He whispered, much less the mighty male he was known to be. Just a small boy with an even smaller brother, and blood all over his hands. He looked down at his hands, the one continuing to seep blood from where he had grabbed the knife, the other gripping the suicide note of his kin. "Please, if you could show me where I can retire for the rest of the day. I will not be going back to your cell." It was a firm statement from the ghost of the young man he was. He felt rattled in a way that he had not felt before. Back in the tribe, if the pains of the ancestors called, a controlled fight was adminstered one of by the tribe's fight masters. This… this female called them out of him with only her silver tongue, dismantled his handle on himself, and left him and all his weakness exposed.

"Of course, Sars," She spoke softly, as if she knew it. That she had peeled back layers to reveal the raging wind in his blood, and then simply left him broken apart. No one had ever gotten him like that before. As she silently moved around him, not taking the suicide note from his hand, and opened the door… he wondered if she knew how close she had come to death's sweet embrace.

Sars looked across the table to the stone-faced elf. “When?” He asked again, letting some of his impatience out with the word. The elf’s expression did not change, but instead he looked towards Belphadoa. Why were they always looking to her? Could they not use their own voices at least one damn time? It felt like every moment was politics with them.

“…we don’t know.”

“What?” Heat began to simmer in his bones. “You don’t know? You hired me for this without knowing when?” He stood up, and the male elf mirrored his movement. “My people-“

“Your people,” The male cut in, “have been well notified in advance.” Sars stiffened, and then he clocked that the male had his hand on the butt of his sword. Weak little coward elf.

“What do you mean?” Sars demanded, looking back and forth between the female and male. How had he not been informed of this plan? How could they expect him to continue without a clear objective, when his tribe could be needing him at any moment-

Belphadoa cut through his thoughts like a knife, “When you were hired, we discussed terms of prolonged engagement here. Your tribe is being compensated for each day you are here. Saraih said you didn't need to know until you were here." Sars bristled, his jaw clenched as he looked away from the two elves. Why did his mother not tell him? Now he was here, making demands and looking like a fool.

Her laugh was as bubbly as soda and as sweet as candy as she leaned against the marble, her beautiful body adorned in glimmering fabric from the farthest corners of Varesia. In traditional elven wear, it was loose and revealing, honoring her body like sacred art. "Ubos," She teased with a flutter of her hand, "you wouldn't even be able to handle it." Sars raised his eyebrows at her before pointedly glancing at the table. It was overflowing with spiced meats, artisan grains, and freshly picked delights from the castle gardens. A feast, for an elven holiday that he could not remember. He had just been instructed to be present, even though none of the elven nobles seemed to care besides a concerned glare every now and again. Even though he had been at the palace for a few months now, none seemed to forget the innate threat that his species carried with them.

"I think I could," He spoke cooly, but his heart danced at the challenge from the elf, "how about a bet?" Belphadoa's smile quickly turned sinister, and he could tell it was only the tip of her delight. She loved competition, even more than she loved catching him off guard. "If I hold my liquor, you tell me what Ubos means." The name she called him. The word that was inked across her beautifully sculpted stomach, the letters stretched the expanse of her skin like nectar drizzled across sweet fruit. Ora dorminae Ubos.

She must have noticed his gaze on her body because she swished her hips as she closed the distance between them. One thing he had come to find out while spending time with Belphadoa- elves did not hold the same regard for personal space as Esokans did. She rested a hand on his chest, and it was as if there was a spark even with his leather tunic blocking their touch. "And if you can't hold your spaiesha?" Spaiesha- the infamous elven liquor that was impossible to obtain. The elves guarded it closely; it was very rare for an non-elf to even drink a sip. It held a strong cultural stigma. Elves always claimed it was for the benefit of everyone else- that it was 'too strong' to be released to everyone's sipping pleasure, that the rest of Yurul was not capable of handling the liquid whose refinement was incredibly specific and impossibly secretive. It was said that only three elves across the entire land knew how to make it.

"There's no point in speaking it aloud, because it won't happen," Sars couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he flicked the tip of her nose with his finger and turned out of her immediate reach. Walking towards the table with all of the pleasantries, weaving through the nearly-naked bodies dripping with jewels. He heard a small cackle behind, his elven princess, before he felt her soft hand grabbing his upper arm to catch him at the table. He stopped to give her an expecting look, to which was responded with her pierced tongue sticking out at him. They were like children, yet for some reason, Sars didn't seem to care. With the sass of an angsty adolescent, she grabbed two golden goblets of the mythical liquid they called spaiesha and held one out to him with a slightly crazed smile. Childish, that was what she was. But maybe he was a little bit too, as he took it from her with a champion's smile- ignoring the rest of the elves that gave him sidelong glaances. Yes, they most definitely disaproved. Heck, they were probably offended. But the mother queen's daughter was the one giving him this precious drink and, nobles or not, if they raised any objection, they would be risking their status and wealth by speaking up about it.

"If," Belphadoa started, "Ubos can't hold his liquor," She took his free hand, pulling him out of the assorted flock of prissy tree rats back to the marble pillar that they had staked as their territory. She looked at him like a cat to prey, "Then I get to decide what your stake in the matter is when you are shitting-your-pants-drunk-out-of-your-mind. Deal?"

"No," He snapped back playfully, "You already have enough power over me, I am not walking into this blindly." He sniffed his drink without dropping eye contact from the female. The drink smelled like some kind of fruit, yet like nothing he'd ever had before. It was like a memory you couldn't put your finger on.

"Oh, so you're worried that you might get drunk, Ubos?" She raised his eyebrows at him, lifting her drink to take a sip of the silvery yet iridescent metallic liquid in the cup. Why was this so fun? Why hadn't he felt this light with someone since- since ever?

"No," The Esokan repeated, drawing a few drops of water from the nearest glass to flick in her face. Her face, so full of cunning and delight, immediately changed to surprise and offense. He very rarely used his power around her, and he waited for her to say something, but… "I think this is the first time I've left you speechless." She just stared at him for a moment before he saw pink dance across her cheeks. A blush. In the last three months he'd been here, Sars had never seen the queen mother's daughter blush. Satisfying- that's what this was. Oh so satisfying.

"Ubos," She muttered under her breath, and for the first time, evading his gaze. He found a new beautiful side of the prism that this woman was. "If you get drunk, you are sleeping in my room so I can make sure you don't fall out a window or something," She grumbled, shooting him a playfull glare that earned her another flick on the nose. She swatted his hand away, asking, "Deal?" Sars grinned, and she very quickly mirrored the expression.

"Deal," The Esokan said before indulging in the forbidden drink. The moment the liquor hit his tongue, he knew this would be an easy bet to win. It tasted not of liquor but of paradise. Smooth yet sweet, thick yet neat, he could see why the elves kept this drink to themselves. It tasted like heaven, notes of caramel and cream and sugar and a flavor that was just beyond his ability to place. Why wasn't this mass produced? Why was this not in every oasis, at every outpost selling luxuries for consumption? "Oh great mother," Sars felt as if the drink molded into him as it went down his throat, expanding in his chest and reaching out to the tips of his fingers and toes, "Bel, why haven't you shared this with me sooner?" He went in for another sip, feeling that same rush of flavors and pleasure unlike anything he'd ever experienced. As soon as the sip was down his throat he was already craving another. He took another sip.

"Cause I didn't want to see my hired-rebellion-destroyer wasted in the first month of his debriefing," She flicked his chest before drawing her finger up to his shoulder. He rolled his eyes, to which she shoved him. It felt like she pushed her hand through his shoulder. Was the drink enchanted? This was not normal alcohol like he had experienced before. Not the typical burn that led to a slight fuzzy feeling as the sun set into the horizon. "It's made from jeric, Sars. Your Pillax blood doesn't stand a chance," She taunted, and he scrunched his nose at her. Jeric? He had definitely heard of it before, but from where? He didn't take much time to mull it over before he was taking another sip of that sweet, sweet liquid. It made his whole body sing for more. He took another sip.

What was happening to him? He had only had a few sips, yet his glass was half way gone. The atmosphere seemed to change. What once was a glittering gold ballroom full of pretentious nobles became a beautifully colored masterpiece. Everyone seemed to be swaying- no, dancing. The feast was gone, replaced with a table of goblet no doubt holding the fine liquor he was taking another sip of already. Where had his companion gone? The princess-queen, the female who toyed with him like a cat with string? He took another sip.

There. Somehow, she had moved and was now dancing with a handsome male elf. The way the elves danced- it was like water. They flowed together, like reeds in the wind, entangling and detangling between every moment. There was no space between them, yet they moved like snakes, curling and weaving amongst each other. They were like a river, bending and flowing around each other like the expensive fabrics that they wore flowed around their perfect bodies. Sinfully beautiful faces were everywhere, shimmering like stars plucked from heaven. Shimmering like the goregous female in front of him. She pressed her body into his, at some point grabbing his hands and they began dancing. He was in the middle of a crowd. There was music playing. When had that started? Or had it always been playing? Where had Belphadoa gone? Who was this woman? Now, there was a different female. She was smiling at him, handing him another glass… when had he finished his drink? He took another sip.

The world seemed so colorful. Where was he? There was so many people here, so many hands on his body. He couldn't feel his fingers. It felt like he was breathing for the first time. Everything was so rich. So powerful. Sarsönil. "Sars," Her voice was like silk. Like a song bird dancing across a cloud. "Let's go somewhere more private," A voice in his ear. Her voice? Was that her hands tracing stars across his back? Sarsönil. Stop. The golden palace was like liquid, the halls going on endlessly. He was being tugged along by a female. Belphadoa. Yes. Her golden hair was framing her face. They were alone now. When had they left the party? They were in a room, dark yet sparkling like starlight. He took another sip.

"Are we in the night sky?" A male's voice- no, that was his own. He spoke. To who? To Belphadoa, the silver woman in front of him. Silver like a knife. "Bel…" He mumbled, his eyes falling closed for a moment. He felt her warmth, calm and sweet like a lullaby. He felt her lips, pressed against his like the embrace of the sun against the sky. She kissed him gently, sweetly, yet passionately and fiercely. She was pure starlight. Warmth flooded him, different from the fire in his bones. Different from the rage under his skin that he couldn't seem to find. There she was, beauty and grace and pleasure and passion. So bright, so colorful. What was happening? Sarsönil. He couldn't take another sip as he was swept away into unconsciousness like a weed tumbling across the sand.

His head pounded. Sars wasn't ready to open his eyes, instead favoring to curl further in to the warmth of the blankets as he slowly woke up. His whole body ached. His stomach- the male lurched upright and threw himself out of the bed before his stomach threw itself out of his body. The night's contents emptied out of him as he vomited uncontrollably, the liquid getting in his hair -no longer tied up, as it always was- and all over his hand and knees and he keeled over himself. Sars groaned. He felt disgusting. He dry heaved a few times before his body was finally convinced he was done.

"Sars?"

"Sars?" A sleepy feminine voice. It was enough to make his whole body seize up. What happened last night? He couldn't breathe. What did he do? He didn't dare look up, he didn't even get out of his own pile of vomit. "Sars… oh." He flinched at the warm hand that touched his shoulder. "Sars, come on, let's get you to the wash-"

"Stop." He could barely get the word out. He could barely breathe. He could barely think. His mind was racing through the events the led to this. Training with Bel. Then the holiday- feast or party or whatever it was. Bel- they had been having so much fun. He danced for hours. They danced together. Sarsönil. "Then what? What- what happened?" His voice was barely a whisper, barely even a breath. If they- if he- Sars couldn't live with himself. No. He couldn't. He needed to-

"Sars," Belphadoa's voice was firm, firm enough to pull him out of his own mind. "Relax. I brought you here to sleep it off. Come on, let's get you washed up," She said gently as she tugged on his shoulder- the only thing anchoring him from spiraling out of control. She tugged at him again, and this time it was enough for him to slowly move his aching body to get out of his own bile. His head still spun as he stood; Bel tucked herself beneath his arm and wrapped hers around his waist to help steady him. "There you go," She cooed, gently tugging him towards the washroom. He silently obeyed, fighting the nausea that swelled within him.

Belphadoa brought him to the wash tub, helping him down so he could prop himself up on the side as he sunk into the tub, clothes and all. The night's events echoed in his body, too fast and too blurry to understand or piece apart. He remembered the dancing -the beautiful, nearly sacred dancing- and the drink. The drink had tasted so good. He felt so light. He had felt so dettached from everything, from his bloodline. His curse. But there were so many gaps in his memory. How did he get here, if he did anything to Bel, if he crossed a line that should not be crossed… "What happened?" He asked again, unable to even look at the female.

"Nothing," The princess said, reaching over to grab his chin so he would look at her. "Sars, nothing happened. Calm down. You're panicking for nothing." Pretty little tree rat says 'nothing'. The discomfort must have shown on his face; she let go not a moment later and her face changed from concern to apathy. "I can't help you if you can't help yourself." And then she stood, turned on her heel, and walked away as if she had never been in bed with him in the first place.

Sars stayed there for a while. A long while. There was nothing but the thoughts in his head to accompany him.

Sars could barely here the voices around him. Some murmurs. Some screams. He felt numb as he sat atop the horse, silently thankful that the steed knew it's way through the city streets to the castle. He didn't even need to speak to the guardsmen- they knew who he was just by looking at him. The princess' pet Esokan. They could see him through the blood and carnage that covered his skin. The black char, the soot, the dried blood that soaked his hair. He didn't know what was worse: the fact he could still hear their wailing, or the fact that he didn't feel remorse for it.

He wanted to rip his skin off.

"-ars. Sars. Look at me. Look at me. Sars." A panicked voice. A familiar one, though. "Sars, can you hear me? Sars." His eyes, distant and void of emotion, drifted to the female who stood at the ground, packed between a few warriors acting as bodyguards. They were holding her back from getting in arm's reach of the horse he sat upon. He vaguely heard one of the men ask if he was stable, but the question flew past his mind as his eyes locked with the female's. Bel. A feeling, almost like a rope getting pulled tight, shot through his body. Uneasy, he slid off the horse and swayed once his feet hit the ground. Two of the bodyguards raised their short swords- magically enhanced, no doubt. They didn't mean anything to him. His hands were already covered in blood. What was two more? "Sars, stop, you need to stop," Her voice- it was like a tension cleaving through his innards.

All it took was one quick movement. They weren't even quick enough to see that he was striking. It was like a dance, a one-two step that brought him into their guard past the comfortable range of their swords, and another one-two that had him wrapping his fingers around the males' jugulars, clawing with an unnatural strength, and tearing out their throats in quick succession.

Sars did not feel the new blood that coated his right arm, that splattered against his face. He did not hear the shriek, nor the solid thunks of the two bodies hitting the ground. He heard the female's voice, "Stand down, stand down." Bel, again. That unease, tightening feeling inside. The white hot rage under his skin. The eerie quiet in his mind. Was this what it was like to die?

Without warning, his legs buckled beneath him and Sars lost consciousness. The last thing he saw was the elf princess murmuring her ancient magic to incapacitate him.

Sars awoke with a jolt. He would have shot off of the bed, except he was tied down by thick leather bands. And it wasn't a bed- it was a wooden board. He yanked at his limbs, panic in his bones as he felt the strength of his restraints. The unyielding power of taming a wild beast. The Esokan looked around frantically, slowly taking assessment of the situation. He was in a small room, no more than twenty feet across. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of grey stone, some dark brown and black stains in the corner. Like many of the enchanted rooms in the elves' home, the door was nowhere to be found. He grunted, yanking at his restraints again. They are evil, they deserve to die. The air felt thin and his restraints felt tight. He sent tendrils of magic into the unknown, searching for a drop of water the same way he search for water in the desert. Something was blocking him, most likely counter enchantments.

The room was quiet, Sars only hearing the sound of his own grunts and tugs against the leather bindings. The male couldn't breathe. He needed to get out.

Sars watched as Wormuhs admired the fire as the last of the sun's light hung low in the horizon. The two men were quiet for a moment, the light murmurings of the other Esokans filling the air.

After a moment, the elven prince opened his mouth, "Do you really believe there is something more?" The question made Sars look at the male- really look at him. The golden prince, molded to be aloof and prized by all the Qéo nobles, now sitting here with his people in the middle of Pillax. Asking a genuine question, evident by the smallest hint of concern in his navy eyes.

"I do," The male responded, turning his gaze to the fire. "I have to." He leaned into his power, seeking out a resevoir deep beneath the sands. There. He drew up a small drop of water, fighting against gravity and the pull of the sand. A small orb of water, the size of a marble, came to rise between his fingers. "I think I'd be dead if there wasn't a power bigger than myself, I just… don't know what it is yet." The elf gave a noncommittal shrug, then leaned over and flicked the water from between the male's fingers. It separated momentarily before getting sucked back into the orb shape by the unseen gravity of his magic.

The last little bit of light left the sky, and a smile curled onto Sars' face. The elf had no clue what he signed up for.

…

Wormuhs nearly jumped out of his leather woven seat when one of the females let out a shriek, similar to the holler monkeys that made the Qéo jungle their home. The fire rose to be a column in the sky, no doubt controlled by the fire-using Esokans that surrounded him. Heat washed over him -nearly too hot to breathe- and he felt a small drop of water land on his face as his companion flicked at him with a cocky grin. A smile he hadn't seen from the male when he was sharing a bed with his half-sister. "What… is this?" Wormuhs asked hesistantly, squinting his eyes at the heat of the fire. One of the women started to hum, following by another, and the atmosphere changed as the whole tribe. Sparks of the fire rose into the sky, with little flashes of orange light on the horizon, before the fire column shrank again and the Esokans were swaying -dancing?- with each other.

"This," Sars said softly, a twinkle in his eye as the women started to dance, "is true beauty." The Esokan stood up, glancing once more at the elf out of place, "Watch your hands. If you aren't respectiful, they won't hesitate to cut you." The male had the audacity to wink before he swaggered towards a female that met him halfway and their bodies turned into liquid together. She leaned in, he leaned back. She side stepped, he mirrored her. Her dance was fluid and strong, evident by the complete control of her every limb as she bended and twisted with her dance partner. The elf was mesmerized.

And then a female approached him. "Elf prince," She dipped her head slightly, but did not lower her eyes, "Would you like to join me?" The female, tall and muscular with shimmering bronze skin just like Sars, held out a weathered hand toward him. The female, not drooling over him but gracing him with her presence.

Wormuhs stalled.

"I know you do not know our dance, but that is okay, elf prince," The woman said gently, a twinkle in her eyes as she stared at him. The male stumbled to his feet, still at a lose for words as he nervously took her hand. She giggled, her laugh like a bubbling brook or the dancing of the leaves. Oh may the winds and the rain help him. She took his other hand, her body swaying, bobbing, and curving in ways he hadn't thought possible.

"You look as stiff as your jungle trees, golden boy," A taunting voice called from a few feet away, Sars shooting him another wink as he mimicked his dance partner's movements, "Learn to use your hips." Wormuhs had to bite his tongue to hold back a response telling the male that he knew how to use his hips quite well, but he wanted to be mindful of the woman who held his hands. Still, the taunt was enough to get him to try to loosen up, as he tried to sway in a way that copied the woman before him.

"My name is Eleseah," The female said, her humorous eyes noting the exchange between the two men, "I do not judge you, golden prince." The words were so sincere, so genuine- it nearly took his breath away. "Why did my kin bring you here?" She murmured softly, eyes dashing to his companion. Wormuhs couldn't quite decipher what the women's expression meant.

Nonetheless, Wormuhs turned on his typical princely charm. "I wanted to meet new people like you," He said, his words an echo of the life he was so accustomed to, as he slowly spun the women beneath his arm. Her lack of googly eyes was clue enough that his flirt didn't land right.

"Now tell me why he is here, tree rat," Her gentle tone became something much more intense and impatient than he was prepared for as she shot a quick glare at the back of Sars' head. A pit settled in the bottom of the elf's stomach. "The bad omen," Her whisper was like the sting of a bullet wasp, quick and with a punch.

They weren't welcome here, that much became obvious to the elf. But Sars didn't know- he was so insistent that every tribe was more than willing to host others… this was bad. Very bad. He needed to get to Sars.

The tightening grip of the female before him drew his mind out of the momentary panic. His mouth fumbled to make words, "We- we can leave now, if- if you wish it. We don't want to overstay our welcome."

Sars gripped the knife tighter, letting his anger show in his eyes as he leaned in closer to the sniveling bookeeper. The male spoke through gritted teeth, "Where do I find him?"

"I told you- I don't know!" The mole insisted, his eyes darting from Sars' face to his hand and back, but never at his eyes. "If- if you ask me- he doesn't even exist! I told you, it's more legend than reality!" Sars did not like that answer. Do it. Spill this man's blood. He is a liar.

Sars clenched the male's robes with his other fist, yanking him closer as he hissed, "You lie." He pressed the knife into the male's neck, surely slicing through some of his fur as the hint of blood filled Sars' nostrils. His blood was pounding, his senses heightened, and his wrist ready to move to take this mole's life-

"Sars!" The Esokan was yanked out of his anger, both mentally and physically, as Wormuhs grabbed his arms and hauled him off the bookeeper before he could sink the blade into the man's throat. Tree rat. Sars cursed at the elf, but the golden man didn't seem to care as he pushed the male aside. The mole man didn't hesitate to cower in the corner of his library, quite literally shaking as he began to cry. "What the heck is this? What are you doing?" Sars heard the words, but they remained unprocessed as he watched the mole man painfully weep, looking on at the two of them in terror. The Esokan didn't feel a hint of remorse… in fact, there was very little keeping him from taking the few steps left to finish the job. "-even listening to me? Sars?" The elf shook the male's arm, his grip tightening as if he sensed the deadly male's thoughts. Although Wormuhs had pulled him away, it wouldn't take much to overpower the elf, to cross the distance and take what was his to take.

And then the massive wooden door to the library opened, letting light enter to dance upon the spines of books, leap over bookshelves, and dust the mole man that was dissolving in the corner. Sars felt his muscles relax against Wormuhs' tightened grip, the air feeling clearer and his eyes regained focus that he hadn't known had been lost. "Ahuv," A rough voice entered the chamber as another male briskly walked in to the mole man's aid, "Peace, peace be with you, brother." With dark brown hair, a thick but well-kept beard, and a standard build, the male looked rather unremarkable. Until his gaze shifted to Sars. His eyes. Deep and sincere and focused and direct and meaningful. It felt as if the male could see through him, his stare piercing right into the Esokan's weary soul. "Sarsönil." Not a word filled with anguish and hate and death, but a gentle statement.

It had been many years since he had heard his name and didn't feel contempt attached to it. "Who- who are you?" He breathed, feeling unstable on his feet. Sars blinked, and the foreign yet familiar man crossed the distance between them. The male whispered something that didn't sound like a language that could be found on Yurul. Sars blinked again, the room blurring behind the stranger, and slowly began to tip. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

"Who," Wormuhs had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing, "are you?"

"My name is Adieg," The male spoke gently, not taking his eyes off the unconcious Esokan as he gently lowered the male's head to the floor. "I met Sarsönil when he was just a boy, I'm glad to see he is still alive." Wormuhs stiffened, his legs fighting him as he debated between trying to rescue his friend and keeping his distance, a few feet from the handsome stranger.

"His name is Sars," The elf ground out, glancing towards the corner to where the bookeeper was, but was now absent. Mole men were known for their cowardice, but Wormuhs couldn't entirely blame him after he had been inches from death's door in the form of a bronze reaper from Pillax. "And what did you do to him?" The elf's legs began to cooperate, intent to save his companion from whoever this brown-eyed Adieg was-

And he was met with a hand held up to stop him. "It's a restorative spell, meant to heal his mind," The male murmured something under his breath, tracing his finger's over Sars' temples, then tracing down his nose and over his lips and back again, "He hasn't had true rest in years." Sars' foreheard began to take on a gentle red glow, much like the coals of a fire.

"What are you?"

"I… It's complicated, but I can tease your ears if you'd let me take you to my home for Sarsönil to recover under my care."

PSA!!! In the small you're following this- my email attached to this account is being deleted soon. I will be transferring stuff from my account to my other email, I don't know if there is a way to just change the email, but more than likely I'm going to be copying and pasting this to a fresh thread with a fresh account. So be aware that may be happening soon.