Auwale is tossed into a boulder, smashing through the solidity, his beast sliding past with sparks flying off its visage. Unmoving, silent.
Auwale howls at this, spinning his spear, and takes to the sky. A single jump and he meets the roof, spike dragged back, armor clicking in place. A scream, and he hurls the weapon, splicing the air into the head of the metal-crowned demon. A ring rips through the vast cell, and ears go silent.
Yet, a chip falls from the head—the demon roars, rearing its blade at the hovering shaedoran. No counter, and he is buried in the earth. The sword rises and twirls, aiming for another cleave. That and Auwale perishes. It descends a black metal, writhe in flames. A reaper of souls. A culling of the living. Ah, that must not be so. Today, everybody lives.
And darkness swallows the world. A draping of Inky blackness.
Three lights burn alone.
One is of a giant red flame, another, of an earth interred white, and lastly. A figure stands, a halo of solid light brilliant behind him, spilling out like streams of queer water. Godly.
He sees the grey world as vast and mysterious, and it is shrouded by an inky veil of darkness. In reality, there is only night. Cast by his hands. Spectacular. How long has he been a veilCounsel? And for how long has he ever acted as one?
Hence, he strolls first, a slow step, becoming a run. A dash charged by the very wind. Whistling across the ears.
He roars: "To me, Auwale!"
And the earth trembles to his call. Auwale erupts from the land, stone fountaining off in tiny red-brown shards. He stands, spear in hand, radiant, tall. Merrin sides him, barely at the torso. But the man, he spares a glance, eyes clear like two pools of a crystal lake. And he is handsome. Ungoldly so. "You smell funny." He says, head tilting.
"I haven't bathed in days."
Skin like trapped light, majestic, lips a thin line, he asks, twirling the spear. "You are human?"
"Yes."
His eyes flicker with emotion, unknown. "It's been a long time since a human has fought beside me." He says, "I don't think any was powerful enough to do so. Not that you are. Explain again why you do this?"
"I am in debt," Merrin says, churning the wind, listening to its wails.
Auwale, however, looks away, bending, spear leveled atop his arms. "This prey is mine." He says, a sudden cold surging from his being. Dread. A predator in form.
Merrin shakes away. "I have given it over!"
And they dash as one—Auwale, flashing out like a blur of white light. A moment, he is over the creature of fire, spear poised. Merrin trails the earth, finds the chipped-off metal, grabs it, and groans at the heat. Not that it mattered, now he holds a weapon. But first. Suddenly, a handle of stone hardens at one end. That he holds, roars, and takes to the sky, wind-driven.
Today, he cuts down fire.
Today, he kills a legend!
Today he plays the early role!
And he is one with the darkness, streaming around the fiery mountain, gritted against its searing heat. Yet, radiance remains—a ring of brightness over his simple form. Not that any would see it as such. He knows what happens now—like the other witnesses, these ones now witness their miracle. How marvelous they would think him…Deific.
Merrin clears the distraction and falls into the Ashman dance of self. An old friend. And his legs part, and he twirls, dragging the wind as a spiraling vortex. It rises, a cyclone of brown and red. Spinning.
Auwale is inverted on the roof walls, bright hair slacking down from the porcelain skin. He seems a bug; a beautiful white bug, then he waves, and stone is torn out from the earth. A boulder, slamming into the Talemir, flaking embers of fire. A roar, and it swings its blade to the ceiling, cracking a hole. Auwale, however, is gone, stone dripping from the tear.
Merrin remains channeling.
Auwale is a flash of white, spanning around/over the titanic creature. A blur of motions—the beast swinging madly at the faultless wind.
Beneath it, the wind is a wheel, whirling. Sparks fly off, flame surging across the chamber. Merrin is a herald, reaper to the reaper. Death assurer. Within, he gasps for breath, air, a burning inferno…But…He rears both arms; the grey world is a calamitous sight. Air weaves a chaotic spin within that world; the dots are battered away, the symbols swallowed in its entropy.
Reality paints the event; stones churning in storms, dust trapped in gales. A tumult. And he is the master of its power—the marshal of the storms. And he roars. The air surges up, consuming the beast in a vortex of coiling wind. Its flames snaking into the hurricane. A pillar of whirling flame is born. Intense in its apotheosis. Auwale finds a path, coiling the glass spear around him, its light brightening with each spin. Then it is a bolt of brilliant white.
He bellows: "You are mine!"
And his spear strikes the tower of spinning flame; white in red, smashing through the Giant Talemir. A boom and the flame shatters into a tide of furious fire. Merrin turns, marshals air to his people; a web of wind, coating their fragile forms.
He is consumed!
Howling death flames across his skin. Flesh dried by the severity, the pain. He screams, odd that he could still do it. But he does. A mistake as the flame quickly spits into his throat, draining any remnant moisture. Burned within and externally. A wail frees itself from him as he curls over the earth.
This is the end. Froststone does nothing to this heat—nothing could. This is finality, and the reaper has come for him. Yet…despite the pain, the agony, there is strength. Sound pierces into awareness. His people, screaming safely within their clothes of wind. They call to him, wail to him, urge for him. Even now, they weep like children.
He must go to them!
But how?
The voice sounds like bliss. "Your smell is still rather strange to me."
And the pain is gone—the heat a distant echo pounding at an eternal wall. Somehow, vision returns, and a figure stands before him; Tall, clad in silvery-white armor like shards fitted in majestic harmony. He stands like a god, hair like trapped strands of solid light. Face aglow with a godly purity. He is brilliant. A force that stands against a wall of ending flames.
Behind him, the fire remains, battering on, but never expanding. A wall of man. Head tilts, spear slanting against his cheeks. "You smell like something I know."
Merrin tries to speak, but the words are clogged in the throat. Deprived of air and moisture. So he stares simply, unblinking.
Auwale snaps, and a creature forms from sparks of white. The alien beast of queer light, its feet pounding gleefully over the earth. And it stops, Auwale caressing its splendid mane. He asks, "Are you sure I haven't met you before?" Bobbing his head. "But humans are only strong with their integuments. I've never met one that can cast before. Or are you not a human? Perhaps some remnant of the Maya?"
His eyes search for something. "Not that either. But your force is certainly something. Dual-contained with the soulForce and mindForce. Interesting. Oravien is something similar…Maybe you are like him? An offspring, perhaps? I don't know." He sighs.
"This is confusing. Regardless, I think you should just about heal yourself."
Merrin blinks twice.
"You can't?" Auwale strokes the beast. "Shiyaya thinks I should help you. He says your smell is familiar to him, too. I wonder…" He shrugs. "Regardless, I must continue my hunt before returning. I think Auwale would want to learn more about you." He snaps, and the pain is further.
What?
Slowly, Merrin is shrouded by a layer of spiraling threads—unlike wind, these feel serene. A calming force. He tries to resist but is overwhelmed. My people. Auwale looms over, pets the beast once more, and vanishes. Yet a word lingers: "Sometime later."
And the flame is doused. In a moment, it is gone. The chamber remains battered but alive. Scorched, but existing. He, however, is encased in the white threads. Realization tells of a fortunate reason, so he quells the resistance. For a moment, he sees his people running towards him, wailing.
Good.
Their god still lives.
And he allows for the sweet darkness.
The theocracy, in an attempt to maintain sovereign power, created four outposts known as the diocese. Four, each at the cardinal points, ruled by one of the four comes—a comprehensive analysis of Eastorian culture.
Merrin awoke to a soft laugh, floating, the world grayed in an eerie hue. Above are the churning clouds of lightning and storm, that ever-present mountainous brittle gate, and the tiny winged dots, soaring across the heavens. It is the boy. The bird. And it is the one that laughs now.
Like a hammer to the heart, its snickers break into his awareness. Mocking.