04-10-2017, 12:59 PM
He watched carefully as her gaze seemed drawn to the skin in his lap. Her hand reached out, the fringes of her sleeves a seaweed of tattered lace, and gently traced the markings with her fingertips, as if hypnotized. It was only his words that drew her deep green eyes up to his. And she answered him, voice filled with pride echoing off the walls of the chamber.
And he felt a stirring deep within at that one single word, the one she struggled to find. War. War indeed. A vision shot through him. Kalki at the Kali Yuga. The Archangel Michael and his angels. The Rider of the White Horse. War. Holy War. A smile tinged his lips and his eyes were alight. The gods would not rise again. The Atharim, with an ironwood heart of Khylsty at its core, would stand as the guardians of mankind as they hadn't since the godwars.
Then she rose from the depths of her once fine dress and walked to pick up a bowl. She was queen here, the Eye of the Khylsty, her hair a haloed mass around her head. Her old and shredded finery seemed to hint at madness.
A bead of sweat trickled from his temple. He felt the pressure of air on his ears, the quiet almost palpable, pressing in around him, the stifling heat and moisture of the air making him feel clammy despite wearing just a robe with the hood down and chest open. He longed for the openness of the desert, the dry air that would blow at his ears and back, the vast vista laid out before him a contrast to the claustrophobic tunnels deep within the bowels of the earth.
Who would not be touched with madness living down here? Nor was the wildness off-putting. He'd been around men and women who had claimed communion with the divine.
He looked at the liquid. The smell was sharp and tangy, something he could almost taste in the back of his throat. He looked back up at her, looked into her eyes, listened to her words, the rhythm of her cadence. A smile played on her lips. Yes, he had met those who communed with the "divine" using pharmacology.
But in her case, it was real, a knowledge that came from outside this world.
The hairs on the back of his head bristled and was aware of the power that lay before him. The pressure of the quiet in the back of his mind had become a humming beyond words that was interrupted only by the footsteps of the robed man. It bothered him. He swung his icy gaze onto the man. "Leave us!" The man's eyes widened and then flicked to hers for a moment. Armande refused to look away or see whatever signal she might give. This was his command. The man met his gaze and then, after a moment, dropped it- not without anger- and then slipped back out into the halls, leaving the room quiet again.
He was aware of more sweat trickling down his temple, the quiet pressure pulsing around him. Before him sat Valeriya, bowl of liquid in her hands.
Finally, he spoke. "Radenyi." He frowned, looking from her, to the skin in his lap. He opened it so it covered both of their legs, the markings now clearly visible. He looked at the bowl, then at her again. His vision seemed fogged, now. The pressure and heat were pounding. And he thought he saw, reflected in the emerald or her eyes, a hidden flashing, in time with that in his head. The sharp tang of the thick liquid was redolent, now. It was all he could taste. Even as he looked at her, the image from the skin- the markings and lines- stretch out, became three dimensional and seemed to float in front of him.
It called to him. Knowledge called to him. War called to him. She called to him. His purpose. Their purpose. The future. Destiny.
He reached out a hand tentatively (tentatively? he wondered.) and touched her hand. It was warm despite the heat of the room, warmer. He asked, not as a penitent, not as leader. As himself. "See for me. Please." He nodded to her, a small smile on his lips. Watched. And waited to see what Destiny had set for him.
Edited by Regus, Apr 10 2017, 02:02 PM.
And he felt a stirring deep within at that one single word, the one she struggled to find. War. War indeed. A vision shot through him. Kalki at the Kali Yuga. The Archangel Michael and his angels. The Rider of the White Horse. War. Holy War. A smile tinged his lips and his eyes were alight. The gods would not rise again. The Atharim, with an ironwood heart of Khylsty at its core, would stand as the guardians of mankind as they hadn't since the godwars.
Then she rose from the depths of her once fine dress and walked to pick up a bowl. She was queen here, the Eye of the Khylsty, her hair a haloed mass around her head. Her old and shredded finery seemed to hint at madness.
A bead of sweat trickled from his temple. He felt the pressure of air on his ears, the quiet almost palpable, pressing in around him, the stifling heat and moisture of the air making him feel clammy despite wearing just a robe with the hood down and chest open. He longed for the openness of the desert, the dry air that would blow at his ears and back, the vast vista laid out before him a contrast to the claustrophobic tunnels deep within the bowels of the earth.
Who would not be touched with madness living down here? Nor was the wildness off-putting. He'd been around men and women who had claimed communion with the divine.
He looked at the liquid. The smell was sharp and tangy, something he could almost taste in the back of his throat. He looked back up at her, looked into her eyes, listened to her words, the rhythm of her cadence. A smile played on her lips. Yes, he had met those who communed with the "divine" using pharmacology.
But in her case, it was real, a knowledge that came from outside this world.
The hairs on the back of his head bristled and was aware of the power that lay before him. The pressure of the quiet in the back of his mind had become a humming beyond words that was interrupted only by the footsteps of the robed man. It bothered him. He swung his icy gaze onto the man. "Leave us!" The man's eyes widened and then flicked to hers for a moment. Armande refused to look away or see whatever signal she might give. This was his command. The man met his gaze and then, after a moment, dropped it- not without anger- and then slipped back out into the halls, leaving the room quiet again.
He was aware of more sweat trickling down his temple, the quiet pressure pulsing around him. Before him sat Valeriya, bowl of liquid in her hands.
Finally, he spoke. "Radenyi." He frowned, looking from her, to the skin in his lap. He opened it so it covered both of their legs, the markings now clearly visible. He looked at the bowl, then at her again. His vision seemed fogged, now. The pressure and heat were pounding. And he thought he saw, reflected in the emerald or her eyes, a hidden flashing, in time with that in his head. The sharp tang of the thick liquid was redolent, now. It was all he could taste. Even as he looked at her, the image from the skin- the markings and lines- stretch out, became three dimensional and seemed to float in front of him.
It called to him. Knowledge called to him. War called to him. She called to him. His purpose. Their purpose. The future. Destiny.
He reached out a hand tentatively (tentatively? he wondered.) and touched her hand. It was warm despite the heat of the room, warmer. He asked, not as a penitent, not as leader. As himself. "See for me. Please." He nodded to her, a small smile on his lips. Watched. And waited to see what Destiny had set for him.
Edited by Regus, Apr 10 2017, 02:02 PM.