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Chapter 12

The Exile

Twigs and foliage crackle loudly underneath the heavy hooves of the black stallion. The trees grow dense and the surroundings grow darker with every gallop, as the starry light above fails to permeate the towering branches of living shade. Signs of struggle leave a disarrayed trail of feathers and shredded bark.

Fresh footprints, one of them clearly a human's. Almost there…just a bit further ahead.

A flank of the ravenous birds of prey form up behind him, split from the pack. Two on his left, and two trailing behind, moving between the trees like the shadows of night. Coarse screeches call back and forth between the group of hunters, echoing varying pitches and alternating frequencies of each chirp and cry. They're coordinating; plotting their movement as they seemingly force the warhorse to sway to the right, guiding it to their advantage.

The menacing silhouettes move in closer, their eyes reflecting red in the breaks of starlight seeping through narrow spaces of the canopy of leaves above. Being aggressively spooked by the vicious shrills advancing further, the steed moves faster, but stops responding to the mercenary's directions.

"Come on, stay on course just a bit longer. The clearing ahead is just—"

A shrieking raptor charges in from the right, zipping unseen through the row of bushes they were pushed to.

Ephrial catches the glimpse of the hunting creature as it lunges toward him. "…Clever girl."

A set of razor talons tackles the stallion, sending the rider tumbling across the darkened forestry. Breaking itself free from the frenzy, the stallion kicks the assaulting predator, and runs off. The swordsman rolls with the ground and picks himself up, just in time to see the flanking two-legged creatures shift course into his direction. Deft boots begin speeding toward the brightened clearing ahead, as if running toward the light in a dark tunnel.

The wailing and hissing grows louder as they gain on him. There's no way he will be able to outrun the flightless avians of the dark. Then again, he didn't come this far by running away from fights.

With his hand firmly clasped over the glittering hilt, he runs forward. His eyes are fixed to the destination ahead, but his focus remains on the pursuing foes behind. There it is; the shrill screech that rings from their jagged beaks as they leap onto their target.

A twist of his foot, and he abruptly turns his body around. With it, a bisecting cut scorches through the raptor in mid-lunge. The fallen foe lands sloppily, and the other creatures maintain their charge, splitting to attack at three separate angles. Dodge to the left? Feint to the right? There's no room for hesitation, and he decides to take all three out of the equation at once. The ardent swordsman scrapes his blade along the leaf-covered ground behind himself, igniting a line of rapidly burgeoning fire.

Razor beaks hinge wide-open, hungry caws sprinting straight for him. Having only two legs makes for a predictable form of attack, and the swordsman makes good use of it. The raptors lurch in the air for him, and the mercenary-knight ducks underneath, rolling along the ground. The leaves and small twigs shake off of his tattered cape as he recovers to his feet, turning to the engaging creatures, now stumbling over each other to escape a pool of burning foliage.

His use of a destructive element is not without awareness to his surroundings. A neighboring tree begins to falter to a precision cut; an angle setting the descent of the tower of nature crashing over the heads of the burning avians. Using a stumbling raptor as a springboard, he jumps onto its back, propelling himself forward, and out of the way of the incoming trunk. The oak smashes into the trio of vicious birds, while smothering the flames to preserve the forest.

Echoes of screeches, each running a different pitch, frequency, and pattern, flood the darkened air, creating a loud warzone of beast against man…and woman.

There she is, just ahead. Feathered bodies of fallen birds of prey litter the ground beneath her feet. A broken blade carves through the advancing enemies like a knife through the main course of a holiday feast, that characteristic smolder of battle ever present in her eyes.

It's a scene of déjà vu for Ephrial, approaching as she fights with Noxian might embedded into the very fibers of her being. An incomplete blade rises, and a flash of green magic stops the circle of enemies in close proximity where they stand. An acrobatic flip into the air, and the warrior crashes her weapon on the frontmost foe, cleaving straight through it, and into the ground. A resulting shockwave tears at the earth around her, knocking the rest of the flightless birds off their feet. Strong, agile, ruthless…and dangerously outnumbered, an exiled soldier demonstrates her might.

Could she take on the remaining family of raptors by herself? Perhaps, perhaps not. However, the half-blooded swordsman did not embark this endeavor to find out. Headlong, he rushes to her side, the flames rising to the challenge.

He begins mowing down a cluster of enemies too distracted with the hopes of seizing an opening on the Noxian exile. The eruption of blindsided raptors catches the attention of the rest of the pack, as well as the glance of the infamous woman.

Fervorous strikes slice through the fiends, cutting an opening to the Exile's position. A distance is kept between the two, giving each other a copious amount of room to fight with their respective techniques. Such is the unspoken token of respect between two unacquainted warriors. Yet, these two are not completely unacquainted…

Ravenous vectors of death creep back and forth in the rear of their ranks, figuring which angle is best to charge in on. The onslaught of red-eyed monsters continues to throw themselves into charged blades of might.

Like a blender raging against the doomed contents within, the pair of sword-wielding travelers liquefy the rampaging beasts' offense. Stragglers dance between the surrounding layers of trees, angrily glaring at the two with their seemingly luminescent eyes.

A deafening wail, far larger than the others before it, shreds the air like cloth. The caws and cries of the remaining raptors fall silent, and look up in alert at the direction of the sound. The swordsmen keep their guard up, equally curious as to the sudden change in the ambience. A brief pause passes by, and the fowls disappear into the woods, scattering away.

Trampling and snapping of thick branches turn the heads of the warriors back to the origin of the disruption, and they watch as a gargantuan raptor emerges from the darkness. Something large dangles from its serrated beak; a familiar black horse swings like a ragdoll with every step the creature takes.

Roving talons stop at the bloody scene, gazing at the sea of its kin lying in ruin. Its eyes, as yellow-green as glowing fireflies, turn to the two with a cold stare. Its jaws release the slain mount, letting it drop to the grass as if forgetting about its meal completely.

Everything is different about this one…everything is wrong. Its feathers are ragged, ruffled in a way that seems as if the plumage is degrading off of its body. The saliva oozing from its mouth is a sickly, unnatural green. Not to mention the sheer size of the creature is a peculiar anomaly in its own, at least five times the size of the previous encounters.

It starts with a low hiss, speedily rising to a piercing squawk, and the beast lets out a rampage. It charges straight for them, its razor nails tearing up the earth with each step. Stampeding feet take it toward its closer target – Riven. She braces; her teeth clench and the gauntlet's grip tightens. Her eyes are lost in a different battle. They are direct, yet show conflict between survival instinct and instilled discipline. It's the same way as someone may stare down an inner demon, only this is no reflection of one's past. It's certain death, right here in the present, in the form of a corrupted creature.

She raises her broken blade, ready to meet the monster head on, the Noxian way. The razor beak unhinges into a bizarrely broad span, ready for a lightning-fast snap. A bolting streak of flames interrupts the raptor, knocking its head to the side, and altering its path to a stumbling near-miss with the runic blade.

"What was that…? That was way too direct of an approach…even for her," Ephrial comments in his mind.

The Exile shoots him a vexed, frustrated glare, and a shrill wailing calls their attention once more. As big as it is, it still has a massive disadvantage with being a tall, bipedal creature without arms.

With watchful eyes, Ephrial races to the raptor alongside Riven. As the distance between them and the raging beast shortens, they split, dividing its attention. Taking turns, they alternate cutting at the legs of the monster, and dodging its natural armory of razors. Swords, empowered by arcane spells, speedily chip away at the integrity of the creature's joints and stamina.

The irregular raptor falters to a knee, unable to support its own weight any longer. She takes it upon herself to deal the finishing blow, with exasperation in her strike. A decapitating slice silences the ear-splitting screams. That stillness takes the space for several moments, as the tension of the air appears to change.

"You're a hard woman to get ahold of… Are you okay…?" Ephrial says in between huffs, gradually regulating his breaths with Ionian disciplines.

That angry glare flashes again. "This was not your fight!"

"I see Noxian gratitude remains the same no matter who it is."

"If they defeated me in battle, they would deserve to win!" Her eyes retreat to the ground beneath her and close, the heavy gauntlet tensing. "Only the strong survive…!" her voice gives the most subtle of quivers, shaken by memories and regrets.

Ephrial pauses with a degree of perplexity. "Have you learned nothing all this time…? Don't even Noxian soldiers call in for reinforcements when things begin to waver? The League, too, demonstrates the futility of rushing all-out on your own."

"I didn't ask for reinforcements."

"I insisted."

"Who are you to insist yourself upon others!?" she looks at him with bitter disapproval.

"You really don't remember me, do you…? Hm…no matter. We did not exactly so much as exchange names when we had first met."

"I don't remember many of the faces in my travels. Most of them did not live long enough to leave a memory."

"Sounds like a tough journey, running away from so much," a genuinely sympathetic remark, one in contrast to his own travels in search of the lycan of Zaun.

"I'm not running away…! …I'm through running," a mixture of emotions streaming through her.

"I hope that doesn't mean throwing your life away, just because Noxus seems to think there is further honor to be found in death."

"What concern do you have over what happens to me?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked. However, I must hear it from your lips first... What is your intent with the League?"

"Why do you—"

"Humor me."

Her eyes turn to the sea of diseased raptors in a thoughtful pause. "…I once thought I fought for something. A vision; strength in its purest form. It was a lie."

"So where does that leave you?"

"…I have to get back to the Institute," she rises up straight, taking a step toward the West.

"Then I'm going with you."

"I don't need your help."

"With the growing number of members of the Institute after your head, I would beg to differ."

"What interest could you possibly have in my intentions?"

Ephrial takes a deep breath, gathering the unpleasant thoughts that would even the tone between the two.

"…Like you, I also fought for a vision. Though, the more I traveled, the more it began feeling like a delusion. All I really wanted was a place where my sister would be free to be herself, in peace. Noxian prejudice, and the hostility left by the old wars, rendered that virtually impossible."

"Why didn't you just take her to Demacia?"

"Demacia doesn't take kindly to Noxians, even if they are refugees."

"Noxians…? I thought you were fleeing from Noxus?" her curiosity becomes piqued.

"Yes, well…the city-state isn't exactly fond of our other half. We may have been born in Noxus, but we are no less Ionian to them."

"Ionian…?"

"Yeah… I'm a half-blood. If any others remain in this world, they'll only admit to being one or the other, suiting to their survival."

The tone in her voice takes a sullen shift. "The things I did in Ionia… Why would you want to help me?"

Ephrial pauses, meeting her gaze directly. "Tell you what… When you give me a direct response of your aim in all of this, I'll give you my reasons."

"You have more reasons to want to kill me than those whom you had mentioned. How am I to trust you, much less your interest in the state of Noxus?"

The mercenary-knight shrugs. "I thought five minutes ago was a pretty good start," reminding her of their surroundings, littered with fallen predators. "Besides, I have equal cause to not trust any Noxian, seeing as how they all want me dead."

"How can you be so sure I'm not among them?"

"Well, we haven't started killing each other yet," he smirks, attempting to lighten the tone.

Her hardened visage has softened over the course of their conversation, unwitting to her. Riven becomes silent with conflicting thoughts. Guilt, uncertainty, and longing for her long-lost comrades washes over her. She had spent much time alone, traveling aimlessly around Valoran, hoping to find a part of herself that she had lost. Even after moving into the Institute of War, she has remained fiercely independent. The mere thought of traveling with a man who claims to share her interests, while sharing a lineage with those often found at the business side of her weapon, does not sit well with her.

"Choose your own path!" she resolves with a sharp soldier's gaze.

"I take that as a firm 'no', then?"

Riven replies only with her silence, and begins on her way.

"Guess I'll just have to follow you."

"You're the stubborn type, aren't you," she turns around once more with an exasperated stomp on the ground, in reflection of her displeasure.

"Probably. It might explain why I've lived this long."

The Exile sighs. "…Do as you wish. Yet, understand this: I will not slow down for the likes of you."

"Of course. That wouldn't be very Noxian of you if you did, now would it?" A grin fades as a thought flashes across his mind. "Before we proceed, there is just one thing I need to do first."

"Already…?" a silvery, impatient eyebrow furrows.

She watches him curiously as he walks across to the site of the fallen warhorse. With a quick swipe of his blade, the remains catch flame, and the surrounding patch of foliage swiftly becomes a funeral pyre. Ephrial sheathes his blade, and then begins in the direction of the institute, walking past Riven.

"What was that for?" she asks, bewildered.

He stops, and a tactful seriousness finds its way in his voice again. "That's the Noxian custom for warriors that fall in battle, is it not? He ran from the fight, quite contrary to his nature. Yet, with a little coaxing, he returned to the field again, making all the difference. Horses are broken before they are used to serve…but it doesn't mean they are lost. They always know which direction they truly want to go."

The Exile looks at the mercenary-knight, not knowing quite how to measure him up. Swimming in a sea of uncertainties, she falls to the mentality of her training. As her drill sergeant taught her, there are many things going on in a battle, but you can only do one thing at a time. She focuses on her self-imposed mission, yet a familiar feeling tugs at her. Faint, but not entirely unwelcome.

It's been so long since she's had another sword at her side, rather than poised against her.