A Ragnarok On-Line Fan Fiction
"Falling for Hellish Eyes"
By Bloody Priestess
Summary: Assassin x Priestess. They couldn't be anymore different, yet that difference bonded them as childhood best friends but now the difference of their jobs and feuding guilds thwart the blooming fondness for one another.
Author's Notes: Greetings, guys! Sincerely speaking, I have no concrete reason for this chapters delay… but if you must know it was the combination of procrastination brought forth by balancing the demands of my SIMS (I'm playing SIMS2 by the way! ü) and of schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork! And now summer is here again (in the Philippines, our summer vacation spans from mid-March to early-June) but, being a graduating student it still isn't officially summer vacation—can you say 'graduation rites practice'? sigh
Firstly, I apologize with the inconvenience my 'CENTER' format brought upon you guys--I pray, this would be better. Although it practically took me forever to post this chapter, I'm happy you're all still here... unceasingly reviewing. My great, amany (if there's such a word) thank you's to all the beautiful people who reviewed!
As always, this is for the mighty Odin and for you guys!
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Chapter Five: Beneath the Dawning Light
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"How is he?" a rather throaty woman's voice inquired warily. The voice's owner stepped out the shadows and into the full-moon's light as it sprayed itself though Dooms Doors' fortress—Mesopotamia's windows. The brightly burning candles recreating the guise of freely flowing blood on her blood-red curls as she paced past them to where a lone white-and-red robed elderly man was astride, his Golden Mace at hand.
"Not too good, I'm afraid. He's sleeping as of this moment. The tonic I've given should alleviate him—however, that Militian Priestess's Lex Divina got him good." A salt and pepper haired High Priest with dark brown eyes answered the blood-red haired Rogue. He took her by the arm and purposely escorted her to the room's entry, "T'would be for the best if you head off, Lady Gavan. Leave the lad to recuperate. That war-happy chap we call guild master, Enid can instill his wrath after Bloodbath has done so."
Hela Gavan's pale-amber eyes followed the healer and High Priest, Clemintin Urnein's extended finger to Bloodbath's stature curled up and motionless upon the make-shift stretcher bed positioned in the far corner close to the 2-meter width, black marble fireplace of Mesopotamia's recovery wing. The Assassin Cross's back to them, his form bathed in moonlight and the glowing embers from the hearth.
"From what I've heard," the High Priest mused turning to the lady-Rogue as he absentmindedly stroked his long, graying beard, "if it weren't for you the lad yonder mayhap been among the fallen in Cyfton's today's afternoon's skirmish."
The thirty-one summers (or years) old Rogue chuckled inwardly so that she seem not too uncouth to the only sincerely well-mannered individual in the guild Dooms Doors at the elderly healer's choice of words.
The Assassin Cross's resting state perfunctorily rendered an atypical boyish charm which, Hela supposed Clemintin mistaken for an infantile attribute. Thinking to herself, she averred, "You're sadly mistaken, High Priest. There's nothing 'laddish' about Bloodbath." Outwardly, Hela simply raised either of her shoulders in an evasive manner. She didn't want another rumor circling around Mesopotamia about her and Bloodbath. Not good for my guise before Enid.
A low whimper of hurt caught the healer's attention and disrupted the atmosphere of noiseless recuperation. Clemintin politely excused himself and practically flew at light speed to be alongside a young hunter who was tossing uncomfortably on his bed space.
Hela sighed monotonously as the High Priest flipped his hand in a gesture of dismissal. She had no alternative but to take her leave. With a brief toss of her blood-red colored head she bid the healer adieu. She seethingly marched through the recovery rooms massive oak after tossing a heavy-lidded glance at Bloodbath's inert form.
It is pointless to vigil over someone who was sicker in sprit than in body. She mumbled. If that Sin Cross desires to stagger in self-loath, then it's his alone to endure! I see no point in deterring him—he makes his own decisions, for Odin's sake!
The Dooms Doors' Goddess of Death was eminent to be knowledgeable of every tidbit of information available about the guilds silver-haired Assassin Cross. Though the information was very, very, very, very poor in quantity, every one of them was guaranteed to be the best in quality. Quantity of such did not appease her—she needed to know everything about him! It infuriated her that she couldn't enforce her will on him. Knowledge was power to Hela.
No one has ever dared to challenge her whim—she knew all the right information about a person to make or break him or her. With the exception of this particular moon-silver haired young man whose name was still unknown though he has been with them for years now, so the guild had no choice but to call by his nom de plume 'Bloodbath'; was a great puzzle to her.
Her rule may not be unswervingly imposed on him but in certain occasions when she was certain he would contradict her orders he actually goes out of his way and do what was needed of him—she knew that he knew that she knew of the trouble she'd be in with Enid if he show opposition toward her. It was like—compassion… but hidden under the pretense of total indifference except for the money.
Bluntly speaking, she was moved as well as curious. She needed to understand how he thinks and why he acts as such. Hela Gavan was not use to such treatment—unsure of how to act in response, she needed to do the next best thing: intimidate the information out of him through the dirtiest trick in the book—seduction.
Ha! That'll be the day! She scoffed struggling to close the rooms thick and heavy wooden doors. I'm willing to bet that man has ice instead of blood coursing in his veins. He's beyond possible seduction—like some chastised saint, for Loki sake! An ice-blooded saint! Cold as his frost-white hair!
Blast it! Hela cursed under her breath, striding along Mesopotamia's elaborately decorated hallways (all pillaged, of course!) advancing to Doom Doors' guild masters' chambers. Until he decides to come out of his self-pity, her high-heeled steps became brisker as she expressed fumingly at not only to Bloodbath's remorseless no-share air but for her frustration to change his mind, I have no other alternative but to be contented with this poor excuse of a dossier…
"Bloodbath—real name: unknown; age: six and twenty winters (years); birthplace: unknown; hair: (duh!) moon-silver; eyes: (a BIG, duh!) dark, sinister indigo-blue; job: Assassin Cross (an even BIGGER, DUH!); place of origin prior to joining the guild: Morroc. Remark(s) on Bloodbath: 1. Reason of joining the guild is indistinct—be wary—although he professes to be in it for prestige and riches. 2. Notorious long before his enlistment into the guild—may not need guild after all—again, be wary. 3. Past is greatly left unto the unknown. 4. Secretive and mysterious as hell! 5. Strongly suggests (understand word as: demand) to be left alone. 6. He has a (based on rumors, false or fact—verify!) link with Izlude."
Great Loki, Hela prayed, pausing before a huge, floor length, wood-graved door recognized to be the entrance of Enid Juvse private realm, she distractedly began toying with a lock of her bloody-hued hair before continuing… Is this all you have to impart unto me? Oh great and crafty trickster, do not renounce this humble servant of yours—assist me to obtain what I dearly covet. All this I do not only for myself but for the greater acclaim of your grand plan for total mischief.
With her slender back leaned against the closed frames, she recomposed herself. Bracing herself for the verbal thrashing she would undoubtedly be given, she planted a coy, credible haughty grin on her lips and entered the chamber…
Inside, she not only will she offer her verbal explanations of why she was tardy but also orally exhibit them to the Doom Door's heartless guild master.
Thus veritable rationale why she needed her guise before Enid untarnished with rumors of her and Bloodbath. Regardless of her fondness for the Sin Cross—in a whole younger brother kind of way—she cannot overlook the fact that people have the tendency to assume—rather than to seek out the truth. So, to avoid undoing the mistakes of others—she had simply imposed obvious actions that prevent people from committing a mistake in the first place.
Hela began stripping out of her sinfully red bolero jacket with deliberate slowness for the hungry eyes peering unto her from the shadows cast by the bed's lavishly wide velvet canopies.
The lady-Rogue prided herself for being a smart chick—that is why ("DUH!") she became a Rogue. "All is fair in love and war!" Both figuratively and literally speaking…
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The emerging sun shined quite fairly this pristine morn. There was naught a dreary cloud upon Prontera City's sapphire-hued skies. Beyond this massive stone window atop one of the Cyfton Castles' highest towers, the Order of Cerberus' young guild master caught the guise of a good omen.
Or could it possibly be… I only wished it so?
Damon Chantal was still dressed in his full amour of silver-steel portions covered with bloodstains, his leather gauntleted hands positioned palms down unto the stone windowsill alongside his helm. It was but a few hours ago he bid his aunt and uncle adieu, thanking them and their guild members for coming to the assistance of the Cyfton Castle. Although he was sternly told by his aunt, Juniper to catch up some sleep after sending them off, Damon splurge the wee hours of the night sent instructions to the sentinels to keep a vigilant watch and underwent on a rampage all over the castle—searching for enemy spies lurking about (He found not one).
It was but an hour ago, when he was convinced by the Order of Cereberus' Iron Maiden, Mackenzie Ashencastle that he would be of no use if he remained up and about, catch ail whilst the enemy return and he would be far from capable to battle.
He was in the middle of determining the entirety of damage received by Cyfton during the siege, but the darn female persisted! Grudgingly nursing the impact of her words (he dare not acknowledge aloud), he headed for his room like a child of six by the five and twenty year old, brick-red haired, pale green eyed female Lord Knight, who practically enacted a role of an officious mother. Damon mounted up the winding, circular stone steps to his chambers—only to side step and enter his fathers (now that he was the guild master—this was his) study.
At a glance he looked like any other individual looking at the sun rise, but at the moment he was far from doing so… His mind was far from the task at hand…
Weary I may be sleep was naught but a reverie of impracticality. The scenes from the yester afternoon's siege fresh and vivid in his minds eye, Damon recollected it all. Every detail of the sights, the smells, the sounds, the taste and the sensations came alive—as if he was reliving the moment but this time around he was the spectator. Like an outsider looking in, he sees himself mounting on his Peco-Peco and charging into battle with his Poll Axe at hand.
Within minutes of the battle, he was smeared with his own and his adversary's blood, his weaponry flexed to and fro in attempt to flay the enemy, he was vaguely aware that he was expecting to see his father battling alongside him.
That was what striked him the most! What he saw—what he smelled—what he heard—what he tasted—what he felt—what he did… Everything I did yesterday was to impress a man I buried six feet under earlier that morn. He chuckled most unusually perceiving the satire he faced.
Sensing someone by the doorframe of his chamber, Damon tore his steel-blue eyes away the dawning panorama as it cast a strikingly orange luminance over the great city's numerous rooftops to the all-too-perfect porcelain features of the some six-and-twenty year old lady-Sage as she emerged. She filled his dreary room with a sense of sunshine and optimism… 'Twas what her very personality as well as her sunlit features rouse.
She curtsied, spilling her long, glossy, sunlight blond doll-curled tresses past those graceful sloping shoulders of hers. "My good wishes, your lordship, I am here to account the entirety of the damage upon the Cyfton and our braves both the injured and demised." Her greeting was warm and respectful despite the severity of news she apparently was about to convey unto him. That's Genesis Birdeen for you. Damon thought, Officially, hailed as the guilds 'Worn-out Page'. And unofficially, 'Miss Sunshine' for her sunny and optimistic temperament.
"Very well, Miss Birdeen, you have my attention. Do go on." Damon replied with much calm he could muster, and roughly forcing his mouth not to coil into a smile at the warm shot of pleasure that the sight of her unscathed brought upon his senses.
"It's most unbecoming for a gentleman (especially a Knight—what more a LORD KINGHT?) to smile—smirking is a must in intimidating an opponent—grinning is quite tolerable, on an occasion of superiority. But leave the act of smiling itself, to the blushing maidens and the bemused men." That was what he was told. And Damon Chantal always listened to what he had been told. It was how it has always been and so shall it be perpetually.
But such inept notions didn't stop Damon from thinking of Genesis Birdeen as a lovely sight, perhaps it was the way her sunlit hair mirrored dawn's rays or perhaps it was the way her nose crinkles slightly whenever she emphasis a point. Damon caught himself distracted… Like the norm or on every occasion Genesis was around—he was behaving like a witless youth! Coughing purposely, he sternly reprimanded himself and then apologetically asked Genesis–Gen to continue.
"First and for most, sir, I would apologize for barging into your rest time without as much an announcement."
"No harm had been done, Miss Birdeen."
"Oh? That's wonderful." Her light and femininely high tone grew solemn, "Well, your lordship, tasked am I by Miss Ashencastle to convey the record of the total damage upon the castle. According to Mackie—uh, I mean, Miss Ashencastle's findings there is to be major repairs on the southern walls of the castle. She suggests tha—huh?" She looked up when a feral laughter escaped Damon before he could restrain himself. "You laugh, sir, whatever for?"
"Are sure that the Iron Maiden—suggested?"
The blond curled Sage reddened as she hung her head in guiltiness, "Ah, well you see, your lordship, I took the liberty of paraphrasing for Mackie. She actually said—" She saw the dark expression on his face, "Oh sir! You must not detest her… She has this temperament to state things pitilessly but she truly means well… She is the most wonderful of friends, the most loyal of comrades…"
Damon grinned, liking the way this beautiful young woman was getting all flustered as she loyally protecting the honor of 'Mackie' Ashencastle. He wondered if she would get flustered if would walk over to her and brush that stray lock of hair away from her face, put his hands over her shoulders as he would straightforwardly assert that he care naught for that mean brick-red haired hag, she avowed in one way or another as her best friend.
Genesis was about to articulate more when unexpectedly a second physique manifested in the wake of her yet some degree was hidden in the shade shed by dawns light. The blonde Sage's almond-shaped, dark brown eyes warmed predictably at the vista of their guildmate the Jewel of Prayer—Adrienne Luex.
"My lord," The priestess addressed the raven-black haired Lord Knight, "Pray that you absolve me for interrupting your respite but…" Adrienne caught a panorama of the blond Sage. Her silver eyes lit with mischief. "Oh! And to you as well, Miss Birdeen, I have seemingly disrupted your discussions. Forgive me, but I was led to believe that his lordship has sent for me."
"You believed right. Come forward, priestess." The Lord Knight absent-mindedly strode over behind his desk, sat behind the massive wooden desk.
It was an unconscious gesticulation when ever he felt unsettled. He needed the fortitude of the authorative-looking desk as reinforcement to his state of mind. The young priestess mused. Her midnight blue hued head inclined in innate insentience of decorum, with the same fluid motion she rose from her bended knee and entered the chamber.
Electric-blue eyes grew humorless at the clearer sight of the priestess's unanimously-known graceful gait that was now minimized to a faintly wounded-limping pace.
His eyes flicker over to her fine sculpted, high cheekbones and noticed they were a bit more prominent owed to the lack of rest, along with that distinctive weariness in those stunningly silver-gray eyes that were partially hidden beneath beautifully arched thick, dark hued lashes.
His jaws were set in a rigid granite state whilst bathing in guilt and deem ineptness after stealing a glance at the blond Sage, she had the same prominence due to fatigue in the features he so adored, regardless of how subtle they were.
All were not but incapacitated. Several of his comrades lay in Cyfton's Grand Hall a vast majority of them seriously wounded from yesterday's endeavors to keep the castle. The Bringer of Tempests inwardly shuddered with rage. Others were dead because of him!
Damon knew there were others less lucky than he, that's why he trusted to be justly blameworthy. Carried upon those broad shoulders of his the very lives of his guild members for it is he who they regarded with their confidence and expectations.
"I pray that you're not badly injured from yesterday's siege." The priestess voice spoke up, blissfully interrupting his thoughts. Damon made a mental note to express gratitude her for the timely distraction. Adrienne done that intentionally, this Damon knew for a fact.
"I am quite well. Thank you for the kind inquisition, Miss Luex. But I deem you're not solely here in query of my wellbeing whist there are men battling to maintain their lives right beneath these very stone floorboards—that you and the rest of the healers are so desperately made every effort to restrengthen. Problems aloft, madam?"
Adrienne knew he meant not to be somewhat crude and distracted. Did he or did he not send for me? She further sensed the very same foreboding in Damon Chantal when his father lay wilted in his sickbed. She—as well as the others (especially those who grew alongside with him since that catastrophic monster-summoning in Payon some eleven years past and long prior to that) knew of the burden of responsibility and leadership that loomed over his raven-black head from his cradle.
A very understandable disposition he is in now, she thought sympathetically, he has every claim to be. Casting a fleeting look at Genesis in the corner of her eye, she bit back a telling smile. If you knew, Gen. Then you wouldn't have to restrain yourself from comforting him in his bereavement.
"Aye sir 'tis true, a problem is indeed about." Aid agreed. "The castles provisions—the potions and remedies, herbs, juices and other rations they will not last under inordinate demands, particularly from the wounded. The healers and alchemists have exhausted their all and they too are injured."
The Jewel of Prayer paused in effort to evoke the disheartened weeping of her comrades into her minds eye—she need not her own self-importance to reign over her many friends who were in worst shape than she and required her to convey their needs to the guild master. "Apologetic am I for the lack of ability to repress the situation. Our all, sir…" her firm tone of voice wavered unusually in guilt and meekness, "it isn't enough."
Damon nodded briskly, slightly embarrassed that he have not perceived the problem, not that of Adrienne's admission of ineptitude. Distracted, Chantal? Focus on the problem at hand, not on Gen, dammit!
The young Militia of Sungren, Order of Cerberus's guild master turned to them his voice unexpectedly brusque and methodical. Damon willed that his performance would mislead both young misses of his benevolent side when he nodded and addressed the blond lady-Sage, "Miss Birdeen. Comprehend that I want you to organize an able-bodied party of seven—including yourself and the Jewel of Prayer and visit the town's marketplace, purchase whatever we lack and need—provisions and armaments—for fear and heaven forbid we have to withstand another siege."
"I comprehend, sir." Genesis responded with that disarming smile of hers.
"That would be all… happy hunting, ladies." Another nod of his head exemplified his dismissal of the pair.
"Thank you, sir. We bid you a good day." The pair said, bowing in unison, and heading for the chamber's egress.
Damon didn't beam but his eyes lit up considerably at Gen's smile. He wouldn't have known what he subconsciously did, if he did not sensed Adrienne biting back one of her indecipherable smiles which often expressed her perceptive inference of one's true feelings. He was now inwardly dreading that he already conveyed what was already ample in meaning.
That knowing smile did not falter from the Jewel of Prayer's countenance—bewitched with what she thought of the lopsided emotions that held rein over him all though out this dialogue, he called her back. "Cease your haste, Miss Luex." Sighting of Genesis halting at an equal instant, he promptly voiced, "Organize that party of seven, Worn-Out Page. The Jewel will with you shortly."
"Aye, your lordship," the blond said slowly undertaking to keep the mar of the rushed dismissal out of her tone, "it shall be done." The use of one's epithet by anyone in Militia was considered very polite and to some extent soooo civil that it denoted that the one called so was to be prompted of their rank. Genesis left their company with her chin lifted and her eyes tetchy.
Groaning raucously, Damon dropped his dark head onto his folded arms on the massive desk, "What did I do to have driven that type reaction from the most cordial woman in the guild?"
"Sir Bringer of Tempests?" Adrienne asked in mock artlessness however she emphasized shrewdly, in knowing that he'd realize her meaning.
She wasn't mistaken in assuming so as he inquired. "I used her guild epithet?"
"You did, sir."
He had the sudden urge to throw his head against the cold stone walls of his chamber as reimbursement. Ostensibly, afraid to acknowledge that he was indeed going mad over a pretty face (not to mention the amiable character that went with it), he asked instead. "Was I too overt with my performance, Aid?"
Damon was apparently and finally coming off of his 'decorously impersonal' sedation… but a tad bit too late—She, on the other hand could see right through him while Gen couldn't. Adrienne giggled at his naivety when it came to charming Genesis Birdeen… and at Gen to Damon Chantal. So. That's what happens when emotions cloud your judgment. "On the contrary, Damon, you were especially compelling, I just about believe your spoken follies!"
"But you didn't." Damon pointed out, despairingly. "Whilst she got deluded."
"You could have returned the favor, Damon," The Jewel of Prayer suggested sternly. "She was more that such amid you. The least you could have accomplished for her was an attempt or rather—the act itself of being plain-spoken amid her."
When Damon failed to come up with a response of any sort, Adrienne reached over his leather gauntleted hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He was like an older brother to her and he treated her like a kid sister—she loved him for it. She didn't want him deprived of anything—as she wasn't deprived anything when she was adopted into his father's guild and his family unconditionally. Condition may not have been given nor were they expected to be returned, she wanted to do this for him. She owe it to his father, she loved her older 'brother'. "You don't have to be so hard on yourself by heeding my assessments. I am naught but a human being who like everyone self manages to do blunders."
"But," He griped as he was heartened that she took upon herself to be self-effacing just to make him feel better, "everyone esteem your profound assessments—of which transpire to be more than truthful."
"Human." Adrienne persisted calmly. "Reckon the reality 'tis only I who persist with such obtuse frivolity. Sir," she began her silver-gray eyes luminously solemn, "you should bring upon yourself to disallow me from speaking any more of my advices — seeing that they are taken so seriously, when they shouldn't be."
"Esteem, Aid." Damon repeated before avowing. "We esteem you for it and so we heed them." Then, he countered by holding up his free gauntleted hand and ultimately silencing her protest. "It is you who brought upon yourself to speak so openly that rouse us to be the same. As you call it, we're simply returning the favor."
The Bringer of Tempests grinned at the scowl of indifference that never failed to cross this particular priestess' countenance whenever imparted with a superfluous compliment. "I know that scowl, you disagree with me. Aye and I can distinguish it. You can be such an open book, you know?"
"I have no knowledge of what you are speaking of." The young priestess murmured her pretended naïveté.
"I meant to say, that you disagree with me simply because I am that exception. 'Tis I, who has not been that assertive to have spoken openly with what is in here." His leather gauntleted hand dropped down to his gleaming yet bloodstained silver chest plate.
Adrienne's silver gaze flew to his face but nonentity was said by her. He knows what I think of his procrastination in telling dear Gen of his feelings for her? I don't give too much acclaim for being that interpersonal.
"You appear astonished, madam." The guild master expressed in good humor, clearly amused with that outspoken expression chiseled upon her beautiful features.
I should stop wearing my heart in my darn sleeve. She cautioned herself severely. Pretty soon, Adrienne ol' girl, you'd begin to believe what you pretend to be. "I guess, even I can learn a thing or two, Damon."
"Learn?"
"Aye, learn. Learn that I ought to have more faith in other people." Adrienne laughed sheepishly, "There are some things that people do not need priestesses for."
"Nay Aid, do not suppose of it that way. You're rendering the notion that you're wholly ineffectual of helping another soul." Seeing her nothing but dubious, it was Damon's turn to take her slender hand into his; patting the back her hand in a brotherly fashion. "You proffer the all the possible pro's of having faith. People are now better off, because you undertake that for them—may it be upfront or wary—done or implied."
Touched—the Jewel of Prayer laughed deliberately, putting off the stinging of her eyes where tears threatened to spill. Her voice firm with charade of haughtiness, "You better know it, Damon. And as your adviser on the matter of Miss Birdeen I anticipate you to do something about Miss Worn-Out Page."
Damon gave her lopsided grin of his, "Did you or did you not advise me not to heed your advices?"
"Sir," Adrienne melodious tone hiked up imperiously as she raised a well-shaped eyebrow conspiringly. "Do you have proclivity to quarrel me with all that mocking? Oh, how ungentlemanly of you! Shame on you!"
"Now that we're breeched the topic on shame…" His tenor was serious, like the one's he used every time he was amongst his parchments of skirmish and battle stratagems. She understood him—Adrienne knows him better than does himself that he knew for certain. That is was the precise rationale why he esteemed her honest-to-goodness assessments. Whilst she was free to assume and do at her own pace of learning, he was taught what he was supposed to think and do, no questions asked. Damon admired the unbiased way she thought and perceived things, he needed that 'second opinion' to establish equilibrium of heart and psyche. "Shameful was I do have hid that from her, Aid?"
"Shameful, is such a severe word for it. But before I give you any advice, you must to promise to drop the act, do we have an accord?"
"We do now. I promise."
Adrienne beamed most becomingly, as she gushed "Finally! Okay, I feel that a simple enlightenment of what you think and feel for her will do wonders. Do not waste any opportunity that comes you way. However," she winked at him to emphasize what she merely implied, "do not go on and say that unexpectedly—it mayhap will alarm her. (Unlikely, she thought deviously, especially when she likes you more that she's willing to confess.) Suggestive, subtle, immense quantity but must be undertaken gradually. Pretty soon, she'll grasp your meaning."
His raven-black head bobbed to and fro in grave acquiescence indicating that he heeded her words. Grinning at the fact he was correct of knowing her to know him thoroughly, "You know me all too well, silver eyes."
"It has been quite a while since you used that nickname of mine." Adrienne mused inaudibly.
"Indeed." The young guild master whispered, wondering to himself what provoked him into using it after such along time. After a moment he pronounced, "Well, well… I guess we have dawdled long enough. Will the Worn-Out Pa—"
Adrienne purposely cleared her throat, giving him a didn't-you-just-promise-to-drop-the-act look.
"My apologies, I meant to say Genesi—"
"Damon!" She whipped, she wanted him to use her nickname Gen.
There was suppressed mirth in Damon deep, baritone tone. "You can be such a pain in the rear, Adrienne."
"Cease stalling! You're delaying me, of which by the way could infuriate her all the more! Remember the epithet?" Adrienne highlighted the reality that she was losing her patience. "That dented her obsequiousness of you, Damon. Apologize, all right?"
A raven black head nodded in acquiescence that he heeded her words. "I couldn't help myself. You're adorable when you get all flustered."
"And you're a big, sadistic tormentor ever since you were sixteen and I, thirteen."
Damon just laughed it off, "Were you or were you not in an urgency to depart?"
"I ought to dally and paint you as someone bad and evil for delaying me so long!!"
"Ahh," The raven haired eight and twenty year old young man drawled languidly. "Empty threats, madam."
Adrienne pouted childishly. "I know that. There is really no threatening you is there, Damon?" Shaking her dark head in resignation, she curtsied and strode swiftly as her limping pace would allow.
His steely blue eyes hurled themselves back to the dawning panorama and back to melancholy of his thoughts.
No matter what people did to brighten his state. It was often for naught.
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Strange things ensue whilst one dreams…
In dreaming, something often overlooked in wakefulness is put into the limelight of scrutiny. Every sight, smell, sound, taste, and sensation was heightened beyond the norm!
But no matter how much you strain to scrutinize, you are still powerless to change any of it. Whatever things that transpire in the past remain the same—and eternally mocking.
Bloodbath shifted in his cot, his slightly long silver mane glistering like the shapeless liquid beneath the full moon's light that penetrated the window's glass pane when he rolled unto his side, facing the dimly glowing embers in the hearth.
He sensed the stillness of the room—Good, he thought, sitting up. He wasn't ready to confront anyone especially when it was because of him the entire plan to cease Cyfton Castle failed. He unceremoniously flung the heavy comforters off his wonderfully lean yet well-built body unto the recovery wings stone flooring.
He strode past his sleeping guild mates with that unconscious predatory grace in every stride of his to the room's window. Zach perched a hip over the stone window still, eyes forward unto the starlit view of the barren Morrocan desert. The night was bitterly cold. Hottest at morn, coldest at night—the desert was as such since time immemorial.
I bet, in Prontera they don't have cold nights like this… he thought reflexively rubbing his shoulders for warmth, But right now, given the time difference, 'twould be dawning in Prontera…
The occupant of the cot nearest to him shifted in her sleep, so Bloodbath noticed. Her short burgundy hair was in slumbers wild disarray, sections of it plastered unto her tanned face with heavy beads of sweat. She would have been better-looking if not for that fresh scar close to her left temple, if not for that ugly bruise on her lower jaw, if not for that visually missing right arm hidden behind heavy layers of bloodstained bandages.
Bloodbath shuddered with guilt—if he had accomplished his mission of infiltrating Cyfton's Emperium room and destroy the darn symbol of the Militia of Sungren, Order of Cerberus's guild unity—this much mar wouldn't have happen unto this woman.
Dammit! He couldn't stand the ugly sight of what his failure ensued. Bloodbath pushed the glass-stained windows back and eased himself though it while gripping the windows stone hedge with a killer's death-grip, he started to climb up the castles dark-stoned exterior…
Astride Mesopotamia's black-hued terra coata tiled roof, he felt his body shivered faintly against the icy breeze that hit him. His weary body urged him to get some rest… But Zach never did find solace in sleeping—every time he shuts his eyes in hope to find some peace, like what the darn activity offered to the rest of the populace, it only offer him a recap of the blood he spilled—the cries he invoked—all the horrific things he had done in his toil to exist!
Zachary always pushed himself to the extreme until such time his body was too weary for thoughts to plague him. Such notions of 'anti-sleeping' were drawn from the habit of staying up late during his days as a simple, independent yet equally effective Assassin. His past conquests, he scoffed bitingly, didn't really matter at the moment…
His jaws were rigidly set, What mattered… his dark indigo-blue eyes veiled behind his closed eyelids, invoking the correct memory to his minds eye… are those silver eyes… those beautiful pair of silver eyes… And how they made me fail for the first time in my career as an Assassin Cross!
Bloodbath's clenched fist smashed unto the roofing tiles in resentment, I knew that was you by Cyfton's entrance—like I knew it was you long prior to when you threw off your cloak and presented yourself before King Tristan! Damn you, Luex! There wasn't even any recollection when those eyes of yours settled on me! They endowed me no consolation whatsoever, you dammed female!
His eyes shifted in contemplation, flickering over the full moon looming overhead before he turned away.
Zach's mind was already made up—he knew what needed to do… he knew the consequences that would ensue. But at the moment—those eyes tell him they were worth it…
You'll pay…
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"Pretty dove in a cage,
Solemn in all her rage.
A mask of innocence to calm winters,
'Tis a front that ne'er withers."
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End of Chapter Five
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Author's Notes: (sigh) For some reason the expression 'Duh' hasn't lost its appeal to the graduating students. It has been repeatedly used beyond tolerance not only during the graduation rites practices but in this chapter. I apologize for that, especially if you were riled (like my loyal manuscript reader—Miss X!).
Please keep the reviews coming, I pray I don't seem demanding when I appeal to you guys to be specific of my errors so that I may amend them and you do not have to reiterate yourself. Any suggestions, thoughts and ideas for this fanfic/story would be most esteemed. My utmost gratitude to any assistance you can offer me for this fanfics next chapter.
I would like to take this opportunity to tell Miss X that I didn't mean to leave the handwritten manuscript of this chapter (specifically of Zach's escape scene) in the school chapel during our practice! It's not my fault if those darn nuns (who conducted the practice) took it and (God knows) burn it for its content (and who could blame them? ehehe!)! I'm publicly announcing this fact in hope that Miss X would believe me if you guys do! You see, she shared some of her smart-ass retorts as I was writing the scene. Now that I lost that darn piece of paper—she loathes me! (I mean, is that even reason enough?) (frowns) Fine! So the scene's 'philosophizing' jibber jabbers (some of it hers) weren't fully harnessed to its literary/poetic perfection (so she says—not me!). Because, lets face it what I wrote was purely out of memory. UGH! Will somebody please knock some sense (in addition to a regularly functioning heart!) into this Chica Bonita…? (sighs exhaustedly) Ooooookay that does it, shoves Miss X away from computer monitor Get off, X! (snatches back the keyboard from X's clear/sparkly-nail-polished-talon-like grip) Waah, someone please strangle X while you're at it with your review!??
I impart unto you, readers the unstinted blessings from the almighty Odin! See y'all in the next chapter some time soon! My many, many, many thanks and ROk on!
Oh bite me, X.
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