Chapter Two

“The world as we know it is gone. The tide came from death itself and swallowed our land. Through the power of our mana and our inventions, we have lifted the last remnants of our countries in the darkening skies and within the blackened realm of the heavens, we shall survive. Rather if you have aligned with the creatures that have forsaken our lands, split apart from our hovelled society, or turn to the life of piracy, it is my hope that we as man, orc, elf, and all the god creatures survive the dark torrent. Now go home. Spend time with your loved ones. Tell them that everything is going to be okay, we will survive the oncoming darkness and bask within their shadow and thrive.”

-             King Broadrick Jalafay, the Oath Keeper of Kales. 

Kales was once the capital of a beautiful western continent known as Obis. When the old ones braced to the surface of oceans, a flood swallowed the land. Before the rising tides could fully overrun Kales and a handful of other cities, human and orc ingenuity created the stormbellows.  A stormbellow is a generator that is infused with rosmalt, mana, and a metal conduit that holds it all together. The machinery emulates the primary function of a gravitational pole. Once the resource and the magical properties mix evenly within the generator, everything around it floats. Thus, multiple stormbellows are used to rip a city from the land and float above the skies to avoid the end of the world flood. Kales is one of the cities that made it to the skyline… other cities were not so lucky. Now Kales floats above the carnage that is the surface. The city itself is huge; 257,674 square miles and nearly thirty million citizens and military personnel. The glory of Kales is the agriculture of the civilization. Using the floating ground and magic to grow their crops and using magic to grow life stock twice the size. Kales is also the trading hub of sky world, often setting up postal venues for other cities to trade with them.

Under the strict ruling of King Jalafay, a law was implemented during the first years of the new Kales. Food was at a low and everyone needed to cut back from how they used to live, including nobles. Everyone was limited to how much food they were able to have, how much they could buy, and how much food business owners could sell. This caused an uproar and springe out crimes like piracy, thief, and in some extreme cases, murder. Upon King Broadrick Jalafay’s death, the boy prince known as Rowen Jalafay has taken the reins of a kingdom. Under the boy’s rule, food has become less and less of an issue as magic and technology become more advanced, now it would seem that Kales is flourishing, however, the law is still in place and the people only have gotten more food depending on the status of the induvial, thus creating class warfare, the nobles, and monarchy versus everyone else. With the ongoing fight between the people and the law, neutral ground establishments are present throughout the floating city.

              Most of Kales is built with wood, timber, and stone but in the middle of the city is castle Ny’šep short for Ny' šepet teme. This behemoth of a structure is built on the foundations of stone and rosmalt. Thus throughout its joints, corners, and openings, the pink electric current streams through the material. Beyond the black gates of the castle are the nobels homes build from metals and stone. Just after that are the markets and businesses for the higher class. After that is.. everything else. From the casual working folk homes down to the slums and underbelly of the city. Within the darkest reaches of the down trident, and beneath the boots of the nobles and king rests an Inn called Spomin. Spomin is the last known business that still welcomes the harlots, criminals, and the poor but most importantly the very few pirates that remain in Kales, in this case, the one.

              The inn's master bedroom is the best place on offer, even though it looks like a run-down outhouse that has been robbed of its breadcrumbs. The full-size bedding has a wool blanket with holes between its threads. The fabric used is loosely strung together like the material was threaded and used on a novice level rather than an expert one. The pillows are just as bad as the bedding, their corners are not tied tightly enough so some of the fluffed feathers fall out and land on the cracked floorboards of the room. In the corner of the room is a desk of sorts with a chair. The desk has past patron's writings on it like someone stabbing a hunter's knife in the decaying wood and carved out runes and names but mostly just stab marks are present. The old withering chair is missing a leg but it still stands on the three. Sling on the back of the chair is a dark deer hide bag. The carry-on is open and its contents consist of a pistol. The metal-looking hand cannon looks hand-crafted but old and rustic. On the bridge of the gun is two metal prongs that stick up and on the wooden crafted handle is a symbol engraved within the base. The insignia is an empty skull with a bandana covering its pale cranium. Two thin rippers crossed at the base, though at the apex of the swords are snake heads stretching their tongues to the brink of madness. The one other thing in the bag besides personal belongings is a scroll. The parchment is wrapped in a dark cloth, the fabric has the hallowtailed insignia itched within the threads.

              The foundation of the full-size bed is made up of wood that is struggling to hold the weight of the three adults seemingly asleep. Like the chair, the frame of the cottage only has three pillars to hold up the structure. The far-right corner of the frame is missing the support which in return makes that area of the bed dip downward, more than it rightfully should. The far-right body moves and contorts like he is having a bad nightmare during the shuffle of his own imagination, he drops down on the floor beside him. The crack of the old withering floorboards surfaces with a loud and eerie thud. The human male shoots up and rubs the hem of his head. His skinny yet toned hand fills with his long blond and succulent hair. Though he has scars and bruises all across his well-endowed features he still looks unclassed like a prostitute. Brown orbs linger down on the bed, two women are sound asleep holding each other. The blond shrugs his shoulders and carefully sneaks over to the bed, stepping on the floor where there are no creeks to waken the others. After a few moments, he finally gets to the bag on the withering chair. The male looks back one more time just to be safe before his eyes meet the contents of the container hist mouth nearly drolls once he sees the clothed scroll. One of the woman's eyes opened as if smelling greed in the air triggered her to awake.

The blond's eyes gleam with a ray of hope once he picks up that scroll of the Wildlands as if all his problems are solved. The cracked mirror on the wall in front of the desk shows the reflection of Salavanta the green-eyed, redhead pirate he was going to steal from. Within the right hand and between the grips of her fingers is a gun that matches the same foundation as the one in the bag. Her thumb rubs the metal tip of the hammer as if appeasing the weapon that she held. With applied force, she drags that thumb done and cocks it back making a rather large clunking sound. The blond's shoulders jump up and he turns around with his hands up in a cowardly way. "I wasn't going to take anything!" The man's pleading voice tells more lies as evident from the scroll that drops to the ground forging a creaking sound that rings through the tense air. Jaded orbs lurk upon the man. Her eyes reap across his body in an in-depth examination. She notices everything his body does. The way his bones move under his skin. The way his shoulders jolt and how his skin crawls from the situation he finds himself in. Carefully the blond slowly steps back as if being cornered by an untamed beast but while he forges space between himself and the bed his eyes lurk on the barrel.

              The woman's tone of voice that reaches through the blond's vast mind can only be described as a drunken scot and a moody genius combined into one. "Do you know who I am? I've killed a thousand lads and not one of them tried to steal from me! Was the money for the fuck not good enough?" A quick switch of her thumb pad from the hammer lingers along with an embedded switch along the rim of the trigger. This trigger is switched and the cylinders within the weapon ignite like a pink lightning tempest contained in a small firearm. The coward's voice surfaces through the thick air once more. "Salavanta! I would never steal from you." The woman's eyes narrow down on the scroll that is on the floor. Once her gaze seeped away from the blond's he lunges forward as if trying to attack but his feet make a squeak. Just like that, her trigger finger frows restless and she fires. The sphere-shaped bullet slams into the man's right shoulder, shaping a small creator between his joints. Pink sparks of electricity render across the escort's body and surge through the foundations of his bones and flesh. The muscles stifle which in return forces their knees and elbows to tighten. Paralyzed, he falls to the ground drooling from his mouth which spills between the cracks of the floor.

              Salavanta gets up from the old, ragged bed and stretches her naked body with the gun still in hand. The way she is built is that of a goddess covered in ink like a black and white canvas masterly painted to resemble the portrait of divinity, rage, and absolution. Her back is a full ink carving itched within her skin. The image of such depicts a silhouette of a reaper but instead of bones and a skull, the shadow embraces a trunk from a squid with dark looming eyes. The tentacles from the sea creature wrap around a rotting, wooden scythe. Down at the base of the ink and along her ridged lower back is the name of her crew; Whispers of the Dark. The banner on which the name is imprinted drips with shaded black blood dripping from the corners and on the bottom. Among the rest of her well-crafted physique are multiple carvings on her skin covering all parts and limbs. The only thing not painted is her face, well-supplied breast, and her toned stomach. Those forearms fold under her breast and her forest eyes linger on the third body that is in the bed, another blond. This one is female and had a much smaller and frail body but a nice round bubbly ass to match their perky breast. The pirate laps her pierced tongue across watering wet lips. "Damn, how did I manage that gash?" Eyes narrow down to the stunned man. "And a meat muppet? What a night."

             

              The redhead walks over the petrified man like traveling over a large heap of trash. She sets down the weapon on the desk and looks inward through the bag, eyes wandering through the contents. Soon enough, her eyes gleam down on the wooden floor, and see the Wildland scroll. A scoff surface then a right dominant hand renders downward, picking it up and placing the parchment back from once it came. That ringing voice curves through her narrow throat once more. "Aye. Would be after that if I were some streetwalkers looking to make a coin. Speaking of the coin..." Salavanta pulls out the chair. Located under the desk is her set of clothes. She grabs a pair of old ragged black breeches. She slips them on, covering her toned ink legs but the tattoo on her lower stomach remains exposed. The symbol is a ring made up of three snakes eating the back ends of one another. The space in the middle is the Whisper's head insignia. Next, she slips on a pair of hard leather combat boots that tug her ankles perfectly, nearly skintight. Lastly, she pulls on a white long sleeve shirt slipping it on clothing her chest and upper stomach. Quickly, the left-hand jolts down in the front pocket of her pants. The hand jingles a small pouch of gold coins. Once the crook of her fingers feels the cloth, she pulls the bag from the socket. The heavy sac bounces in her hand for a few moments.

Eyes looking down at the blond man, she could see her grin reflect in his eyes. That unrefined pitch laps out again. "Paying your wife your half." She toses the bag of currency on the bed, landing right on the passed-out girl's bubbly rump. Both of her hands rummage through the bag once more. After a few moments, she pulls out two dualist holsters which she wraps around her waist. The holster and the black leather threads that hold them on each side of her thighs act like a belt that holds her pants up. She encases both of her pistoles, the one on the old desk and the one she pulls from the bag. She flings the bag over her shoulder so that the leather slaps down on her body. Salavanta lets out a exhale of annoyance rather than contentment. The sound of her combat boots surfaces once she begins to walk over to the door of the room. Along the nearly broken coat rack rest a long brown and gray leather trench coat. She pulls the coat off the henges and slides it on over her arms. A left-hand render in one of the front pockets of the coat. She feels around for a moment and then pulls out a cloth bandana. Salavanta pulls her long dark red locks back and uses the newfound fabric to keep her hair in place.

              With all her belongings in their rightful place, she gives the withering room one last smile before the door swings open at her demands then walks out into a hallway. Salavanta's room is the last one at the end of the pathway. The wooden floor beneath her feet is rather nice, not too fancy but enough to drag the attention of others compared to the wooden floors of the rooms. When she takes a step forward, the combat boots clamp down on the floor as if threatening the wooden foundation. As she travels down the hallway she can hear through the occupied rooms. The inn is known to have rather thin walls so obtaining information is not a problem for an outlaw like her. Still a little drunk, she passes by the first door. Her right palm hovers across the eyehole of the door for a brief moment. A male's vibrating voice rumbles through the oak wooden door. Though his pitch is stifled, Salavanta can hear every word. "No, no, no! I did not cheat on my wife!" She manages to pass the first door and lands her hand on the second, this time she pushes her hands to try and stabilize her standing. A female voice mixed with the rustic sound of an orc's accent surfaces at the other door. "You were quick. What? Never been with an orc before?" She pushes her hands to the next door, almost seeing the entrance of the hallway to the bar. "Yeah, the pirate king is supposedly in Kales. The reward is huge!" Finally, she enters the ground floor of the establishment.

              The inn is rather full during the mornings due to people checking out and paying for their night's stay. On the opposite end of the patrons, all manner of creatures pay in advance for the coming days and even weeks. Among the bar area rest a couple of tables and chairs. Along the walls are booths that are set up, The leather of the booths matches a scarlet color though the hue is diminished by dirt and filth that corrode the establishment. The tables are made of withering oak and stand in an unstabilized way like the foundation on which the tavern exists is crooked. Thus, while Salavanta forges forward down that hall and to the communal space, the floor crakes between the empty spaces of the wood. The green pair of eyes linger upon the patrons that are present. A few peasants wear dirty robes, flirty shirts, and rugged cloth pants. There are a few guards that wear thin metal knight suits. The breastplate is made from steel that is finely sliced to create a thinner-looking suit of armor. The legplates, sabatons, and gauntlets are all crafted in the same way; skin tight with little to no space between metal and flesh. At the bar is a seven-foot-tall orc. His body is huge and those toned brownish-green muscles can only be seen under his rugged white dress shirt and baggy brown trousers.

              Those strong muscle-bound arms pick up a glass and with a decently clean piece of cloth, he washes and rubs the fabric along with the innards of the mug all the way up to the rim. The orc's eyes narrow in front of him with only the broken-down bar separating him from the patrons and the pirate that approaches. An exhale bellows from his snout then he places the base of the flagon on a crack that splits some of the wood that makes up the counter. A grizzled voice surfaces from the orc's mighty throat and ushers through the stale air that he breathes in. "Same ole same ole eh? Sal?" The Pirate sits down on that wobbling stool step. She places a hand along the edges of the seat and pushes the wood downward so the seat stabilizes. Her hands are placed on the bar which extends. The fingernails are a pitch-black color like squid ink, though it's more smeared looking rather than filled or smashed. Along the surface of her palms are multiple knife scars that are sliced across her bones. Salavanta's voice surfaces while she gives the orc a harsh nod. "Aye, one glass of eclipse, the good stuff." The orc gives a sinister grin and then kneels. His right-hand grabs a shining blue bottle. "What's the good word around these parts, Gord?" The red-head asked while she waits.

              The hulking orc twists the cork of the bottle off. Fresh spring waterfall mixed with the absence of death and poison springs free from the bottle. The age of the scent makes Gord and Salavanta's noses wiggle. A clear yet sparkling blue liquid escapes from the bottle and pours into the glass that is beside the pirate. Gradually, Salavanta grips the glass by using the crook of her fingers to intertwine it with the material. Her hand lifts, in doing so brings the rim of the glass to her nose thus giving the freshly poured liquor a sniff which makes her nose tense up once more. As quickly as it came, the alcohol streams down her throat. Her frail gullet swallows every ounce of her drink. The glass is empty and with power, she slams the base of the cup back down on the bar while exhaling oxygen from her lungs sighing in contentment. More of that streaming blue yet clear spirit begins to flow once more in the redhead's drinking cup while Gord's rustic voice escapes his mighty throat. "Nothing graces us from the night. Your wanted ass is safe here." The pouring stops when the glass is filled. She slams the drink down again, letting out another sigh of contentment mixed with heroism. The resurfacing of Gord's voice lingers through her vast mind from what he says next. "A skyward pirate came in last night. Most likely another scoundrel, though Tegan escorted him to the cells."

              For a moment, Salvanta sits in silence, not out of shock but out of confusion like she is trying to remember that name she once heard before. A left-hand rise and an index finger scratch the side of her head, clearly in deep thought. Gord disappointingly shakes his head then speaks once more. "The leader of the king's Chosen." That same index finger snaps as if remembering who Tegan is. Her voice comes out less than confident. "Yes! I remember, the cult leader's right-hand man!" The redhead's index and pointer finger linger down to the hem of the glass. Her fingertips press down on the hard material. The pads on her appendages trace the circle rim while speaking in a much more serious tone as opposed to being forgetful. "What did the pour lad get?" The orc sits down on a stole located behind him, pushing his bodyweight downward harsh enough to stabilize the wood with the floor but not intense enough for the wooden seat to break beneath him. Gord lets out an uncomfortable exhale. "Jalafay's guards and the Chosen chalked it up to petty thievery. Though I find it extremely hard to believe that an escorted prisoner, by Tegan,  isn't connected to the rebels somehow." Gord refills the empty glass and even pours one for himself.

              Just then, both whores from Salavanta's room come running out past her. The blond male stops behind her and with a face of vengeance and hate, he speaks loud enough for everyone in the communal space to hear it. "Damn you bitch of pirates!" Both of them leave the establishment with nothing but the rags on their back and coin. Both of the guards sitting in a booth looked over at the situation while it passed. The female guard conjures a fading purple arcane-like magic through her right gauntlet. The metal palm rests on the left side of her guard's helm, right where the side of her mouth is covered. Her maw moves as if she is talking within the confines of her helmet, though the voice is muffled by the metal and sound. Gord watches the couple leave but then looks back at the pirate. "Fun night?" Gord says. Salavanta grips the glass and lifts it. She uses her long and wet tongue to lick the rim of the cup as if getting used to the taste and smell. Finally, she knocks the drink down and slams the glass back on the bar. A right hand covers her mouth while a cough manages to surge through her narrow throat followed by a raspy voice. "The damn meat stick is just made he got caught trying to snatch my shit. Here I thought gashes didn't make stupid decisions." The redhead lowers her hands back down on the bar. Both the orc and human share a small muffled laugh. Gord covers his mouth during the laugh and darts his orbs upward to see the guards. That rustic voice spews out, the vibrations seep through the empty spaces of his hands to simulate a low pitch. "Looks like the guards behind you are requesting backup. I would leave if I were you."

             

              The pirate gives a soft smirk. Her right index finger slowly taps the wooden surface of the bar, though the sound is muffled from the splint. "One more." She says. While Gord pours the last of the liquor he speaks in a worried voice. "Sal, you have to get out." The redhead drinks once more. Unlike before, she savors the liquor, keeping it within her maw for a solitary moment before swallowing hard. The depth and tone of her voice ring clearer than ever. "I could run, however, it will be a cold day in the seven circles before I let a fascist pig tell me how to live." Salavanta places the glass down. The smirk that once curved along her lips shifts to a warm and loving smile. The serious tone is replaced with a loving one. "Besides, there is a good chance this captured man is a pirate if they are connected with the rebels. It is my duty to cheek." Gord laughs a little while placing the empty bottle away in the trash. "How is someone as wanted as you going to get to the-," Gord thinks for a moment and his breath stifles but still manages to finish. "The cells..." 

              The wooden door to the tavern flings open. The rusty hinges that force the wood to splint and crack forge a rustic sound to seep through the air. The tone alone is enough for some of the patrons to turn heads other than Salavanta and Gord who remain to themselves as if waiting. A golden boot steps on the foundation. The metal of their armor is thin like the guards that watch from the booth but the yellow vibrant color that shines from the golden material makes him stand out. Around the skinny plate, legs are a loincloth that covers the metallic hips. The fabric is made from carefully threaded twain woven together to be wide enough to cover the pelvic region. The symbol itched in the small tabard depicts a triangle and within that shape are other rotated triangles. This is the insignia of the yellow king of Kales, the captain of the Chosen, Tega'Von. The sound of his sabatons echoes while he makes his way forward. The unstable floor manages to sit still during his travel from the decrypted door to the wobbling stool that is by Salavanta. The knight suit isn't heavy at all. The material is light thus there is no sound once he sits next to her. An annoyed exhale laps out of his breath. Gord gives a small smile that is genuine yet forced as if the muscles in his mouth are used to putting on a well-worthy show instead of expressing his individualism.

"Catch any of the rift rat, Tega'Von?" Gord's tone comes out soft yet not submissive enough to go unheard. Gradually, the knight guard slowly takes off his plated gauntlets, first pulling off the left one. His hand is clothed with fishnets that protect his carved runes that mesh with his bronze skin as if forged together. The fingernails are black like every one of his small appendages was smashed with a hammer rather than nail polish or ink. The right-encased metal gloves finally slip off. The hand is nearly identical in every way, even the shape of the charms carved in the flesh is the same, but something is different. Under the rough ridges of his hand is a swirling icon located on the bony palm. Triangles connected just like the small cloth that guards his hip region. The right hand is placed on the bar and the left-hand reaches up to the back of his helmet. A middle finger taps on the foundation. The folds of the metal head ware propel inward, folding the rustic helmet back into the armor from which it came from. Tegan's long brown hair drifts downward. The small, five o clock shadow already appears along his jawline. The left-hand slings through his greasy hair all while his right hand remains still and stagnates. A thick as mud voice forces through his throat. "You know I hate my birth name, call me Tegan. No need for those formalities." The man's eyes are black, almost matching the same hue as his fingernails. Shifting his gaze for the moment, he looks upon Salavanta, and then the guards in the back, then back to Gord. "Rift rat you say. Have the local street sirens been giving you trouble? The king and his Chosen take prostitution very seriously."

              For one small moment, Gord's eyes look over at Salavanta. The redhead sits there keeping to herself. Thought her free hand sits snuggly along with the handle of one of her pistoles. Those fingertips of hers slowly patted along the wooden splints of the handle. Tegan lifts his head like a dog would when smelling food in the air, though something else is coursing through his mind. Tap, Tap, Tap. His head lowers and his hypnotic gaze lingers back on the barkeeper. "I am not here for the scum. I'm off duty." Tegan says. Gord gives another fake smile but quickly pulls out a large bottle of swish; gross muddy liquor that has been diluted to just taste like dirt and poison. "Ah yes, the good stuff." Across the seat by Tegan, Salavanta scoffs. Tegan's ears nearly twitch from the sudden sound. Gord pours a glass of swish and sits it by the right hand of the guard. The left-hand grabs the cup and lifts it to his mouth. Tegan gives it a good smell before drinking it whole. Once the muddy-like texture drips into his throat, he slams the glass down and lets out an exhale of pain rather than content. "Taste like death but it gets you something drunk once it's in you." Gord lets out a small laugh all while he fills up another glass for him. Tegan looks over to Salavanta and gives a polite smile to her. "New to Kales?" She looks back at him but not before lifting her trigger fingers from the holster of her pistoles. "Aye, just passing through the golden city as the town folk says." Her voice comes out more pragmatic than before, however, the accent gives Tegan a sinister smile. The icon on the right palm begins to pulse. The triangles rotate slowly at first then become faster as time passes.

              The outline of each shape emanates from the black triangle. Normally there would be a reflection upon the wood, however, because of the placement of his palm, the spell is concealed. Tegan closes his eyelids for one moment and in that solitary beat of time, a purple ring forges around his pupil. The man's window of his soul finally opens. The mauve color is dim and hardly noticeable though, within the vision of the arcana path, the guard sees everything. Instead of texture and material like a full-fledged bar, stools, and booths he sees an outline of those structures, and between the joints and corners of those objects is a purple electric current streaming with a pulse of power. In place of humans and organic life is the outline of their vascular and nerve systems highlighted in the same trembling arcane webs of life. "I see you spent your days' training at the king's request. Tell me how much coin a boy king pays?" The alteration of sound comes out of Salavanta as if speaking in a robotic and secretive tongue. Though Tegan understands the disrespect pushed before him. A smile curve forges along his lips followed by a sly chuckle. That rustic and caring voice echoes from his throat. "My family has served the Jalafay house since time itself. We worked as advisors, bankers, masonries, military, and of course the king's spear. That type of loyalty doesn’t die. The devotion never yields. The king and the royal family could pay me nothing and id still fight by their sides, after all, what do we have in our lives other than oaths and our word?" Salavanta falls silent. The words vividly roam through her mind. Her concentration is broken by Tegan's voice. "What do you do for work, Miss?"

              While the redhead takes her time to think, the insignia on Tegan's palm begins to rotate backward. The purple electric outlines and textures begin to fall in reverse as if moving through the windows of time that is within the allotted space. Two purple electrical skeleton outlines rush backward and just pass the shoulders of Salavanta's energetic purple outline. The pale images of what he saw are that of the two whores that came running out of the pirate's room. The male one screeches outward before rushing back to the room as if he got caught red-handed by an unfeasible action. After he sees the purple bodies leave the room, a toned middle finger taps on the bar. The symbol that is carved within his palm stops spinning and the violet glow from his iris and hand dims until only darkness remains. Salavanta looks over to him and smiles giving a less than forthcoming answer, however the way her lips push the corners of her face and the muscle tension that show her dimples indicates the ever forging sweetness she is known for when she wanted to be. "Like I said before, just passing through, a tourist if you will." Tegan can see through that loving and warm mask she strapped to her face and ever so slowly, his goal would be destroying that façade. A simple question rushes from the question captain. "Where are you coming from?" The buccaneer in question thinks for a moment as if having trouble remembering the number of floating cities and countries there are. With a stern look, she responds. "Vason, from the west. My family is from there." Tegan takes another swig of the swish from the glass and then places it back on the origin from once it came. "Vason eh? It's been a long time since I've been over along those parts, they are still known for their catfish and frog legs?"  

              Salavanta is quick to answer but her words come at as a stutter rather than the collective thought she displayed. "Yes! They recently made a new pond with all sorts of fish." She lied. Of course, Tegan knew what she said is false since he has been to that city before. Vason is known for their red meats instead of fish and the number one place where the city imports are Kales. A wicked grin laps around Tegan's lips. The depths of his voice surged through his throat once again, though this time his words strike worry into Salavanta's bones. "Oh? Catfish, eh? My, it has been a long time then." Tegan lets out a soft and controlled laugh. The captain's hand grips the swish on the bar and tilts the last bit of it down his narrow throat. The man slams the cup down and those riving orbs implanted within the confines of his skull peer within the windows of Gord's soul. A serious pitch and tone forges from the foundation of his voice and propels outward. "It would be a shame if you were harboring pirates welling." There is a shock that runs down the orcish canvas of Gord's being. The information could cost him his place of business but even more devastating, his life. A sharp look from Gord soon latches on the pirate as if pleading to run or cause a scene. The bar keeps straightening up and gives a warm and friendly smile, pouring another round of swish into the empty glass by him.

              The orc's voice trembles with fear and anxiety. "There are no pirates here I'm afraid. After all, piracy would be unlawful, the only one left in Sky World is that King of Pirates and he isn't here." Tegan halts his hand forward as if saying to stop pouring, the glass is only half full, but Gord gives in to the demand and puts the bottle down. "The lone wolf crazy King of Pirates, here? I don’t think so. Besides mostly women have checked in today." The Chosen grips the base of the glass and lifts the hem to his nose, giving it a good smell before dripping the liquor down the mighty throat. He places the glass on the bar and then darts his eyes at the redhead. Salavanta grips the base of her gun, her finger itches for the trigger but even so that appendage is tamed. "That would be true, however, The Pirate King title can be anybody. Before the Rise, pirates created the name to protect themselves, assuming that the companies would be on the search for a man." The redhead unclasps her holster. "Even though, any good investigator would know that nearly all pirates are women escaping tradition." Salavanta draws on him, pulling that machinal pistole out and pointing it to his head. This causes her to turn so that her side is stitched with the counter. Through the corner of her eyes, she witnesses the guards in the booth stand at attention because of the situation. Calmly, Tegan drinks the rest of his swish and then turns to face the barrel of the gun, smirking. "Isn't that right Captain Salavanta, Pirate King of the Twelve? Though now I guess it's just the one." The grin on his face seems to grow wider, even his sharp white teeth sticking out can rival that of a shark. His voice darkens like a creature beneath a rising tide. "I have killed plenty of your captains, would you like to know which one gave you up?"

An unyielding rage reaches the pours of the redhead's skin. That trigger finger breaks away and reverts to being untamed, pulling down on the lever. The gun lights up with that pink electric current. Tegan's eyes light up from the current alone and he simply lets the bullet travel. The pellet drives forward with the flow of its energy but just before the small metal ball pierces through Tegan's facial structure, a small dark hole with a purple outline appears. The bullet travels through the darkness and then the small hole closes. The female guard by the booth propels her hand to the side. Slowly, the same black hole appears, and the bullet forges out of the darkness, hitting the nearby wooden wall, and splitting the bark in twain. Tegan gets up from the bar. Slowly, he grabs the gauntlets on the counter and places them on while he speaks. "And here I thought you were more professional." A small laugh clings to his throat while strapping on the last bit of inner leather. "Have to ask Sal, why come to my city?" The pirate puts away her gun, placing it back in the leather holster. In surrender, she holds up her hands and that is when the other guards draw their weapons. The female drawing a longsword that ignites the blade with the rosmalt energy. The male draws the same weapon. Normal guards didn’t have the training for much else. Tegan rests his finger links inside the breastplate's collar. The jade eyes of the Pirate King draw upon the look of Tegan and she simply says words that would echo through his mind until times end. "You wouldn’t get it." A look of shock takes over the Chosen's face for a moment but then responds. "I'm a pretty smart man, I may."

              The guards from the booth start to close in. The forest eyes of the redhead linger a quick look at them taking note of their paces, how many they did, how far, and noting the cracking wood beneath their metal feet. She turns her head to Tegan and lingers that gaze with his, like partners ready to dance on the stage of life. "You were built from something captain. By the underbelly of a hog that controls you." An angry look reaps across the Chosen's face. "We are built from broken parts, just wanting to live our own way." A small smile changes his face of anger. He pushes on the surface of a metal plate on the inside of his collar and the helmet forges into existence shard by shard-like ash coming together to make a plated hood that matches the color of his armor. Tegan's right-hand grabs at the hilt of his claymore. The weapon pulses with arcane energy. The runes carved into the metal glow that purple magic. The blade is like a guillotine sword. Two inches thick, six inches wide, and nearly four feet long. Tegan draws the weapon with one hand as if it's lighter than a feather. His voice comes out muffled from the metal helmet but still held the power that seems more like a reality rather than an idle threat. "You can live your way inside a cell." The guards come closer, and Tegan's blade is nearly at her neck even though there is a good distance between them. Salavanta closes her eyes and lets out an exhale, her warm breath fills and mixes with the air around them. Her mind wanders in deep thought while the guards place themselves around both sides of her, their hands about to grip each of her wrists.

              Like a black beast forged for death and decay, tentacles spout out of her back and hip as if Salavanta is a catalyst of a divine old one. Instead of propelling outward to swindle her foes, the extra appendages wrap around her frame. Four tentacles in total cling and hug her. One twist and turns around her right thigh. The suction cups indent within her skin as does the rest of the tendril. The same thing happens to her opposite leg. The wetness can be heard once the full length is snug tightly around her like a beast racing to the open arms of its mother. The last two wrap around each of her breasts, indenting her chest like a rope wrapped around a frail and narrow throat. Once the sea limbs are in place, the runes begin to emerge. This is the language of the old ones that smear all over Salavanta's skin like her body protects a fountain and the water wanted to be set free, but this is not water. Black ink drips from the pores of her skin and within a matter of seconds that voided liquid turns into runes. The charms look like they have been carved into her skin with a knife that has been dipped in darkness. They depict similar ones from the Wildlands, animalistic by nature. The eyelids lift open revealing the soul she harbors. The once bright forest iris has changed from a rich green to a plague and faints like the color of an infected verdant. Beneath those pupils are a string of black tendrils that wrap around the circumference of the eye, turning the conjunctival cells black. Tegan's eyes grow wide with both shock and utter disguise.

              "Get back! The fucking pirate is a sage!" Both guards jump back, though the woman guard on Salavanta's right side is pined between her and the bar, forcing her position to still be within the reach of the pirate whereas the male lands at a safe distance. Knowing what she faces, the metal knight stills her hand from the fearful shakes that grip her wrist. With all the might of Kales behind her, she uses both hands to swing a downward thrust upon the shoulder of the redhead. All could have been well if it were not for these inhumanly sage powers. During mid-thrust, the guard's body stops her face begins to sweat. Those defiled eyes of Salavanta linger its gaze on the girl that attacks her, only for a moment. The pirate's nose wiggles as if she can smell the weak will that plagues her actions, thus forcing a grin upon the Pirate King's face. A voice of a feminine demonic entity mixed with the rustic nature of her naturality surfaces. "Ah, a weak will, unmatured upon the sea stones of a wavering corps. I must give thanks to the willing anchor that docks me so." Right after the last word escapes Sal's lips, the male plunges his sword for the kill and the attack would have been devastating just moments before the sage's transformation. Flesh and metal meet and his sword is caught. The pirate's fingers feel the coldness of the steel as well as the heat from the laser blade that cooks her hand. The skin upon the foundation of her palm nearly boils but still, she keeps it still. The man tries to pull away with the sword but fails to do so. In one iron-clad grip, the king shatters the sword into two. The pieces go flying into the floors and walls, but the knight's helmet is not so lucky. Multiple shards stick through the material and pierce through his face, killing him on impact.          

"Heresy!" Tegan's eyes shift to the female guard with a distasteful look. The voice of his impending anger seethes through his throat. "Lillyona, get the orc out of her." Salavanta goes to grip the throat of Lillyona. The moment Tegan sees the swift arm thrust for the guardswoman's nape, The Chosen springs into action. With his powerful right hand, he swoops the giant sword in front of him and as the metal swings, the runes ignite and glow a light purple shine, nearly bright enough to cast a reflection upon a glass stain eye. A wave of arcane force pushes out of the metal forged weapon. The very fabric of the magical energy is enough to cause a whirling vortex of unstoppable motion like a lavender windstorm erupting from the man's action. The sharp winds tear away at the wooden floor and walls, scaring them beyond repair but that was nothing compared to the dirty windows shattering. It is every man for themselves once the casements erupt and break. The wave of power swings at Salavanta. To brace herself the pirate places both arms in front of her face forming an 'X' to protect her visage but parts of her cheeks slice open. Black blood reaps down her flesh and spills on the rotting wood beneath her. The gust is too great and the floor splits, soon enough the King of Pirates pushes back and flings through the hallway like being stuck within a wind tunnel.

                 The king's body slices along with the sharp winds and debris. Her face, throat, and skin experience the worst from the trivial force. Those eyes of hers look back and she sees a wooden wall about to make an impact with her flesh and blood. One of the four tentacles unlatches from her thigh and slithers out of her jacket. The suction sound mixes with the pressing wind, but in contact with the arcane, the tendril splits and slices open. Black ink mixes with the wave of force while the four new appendages form a flesh-like shield just above the top of her scarlet head, protecting her upon impact. Right when that makeshift barrier is formed, her body slams into the wall with the forceful wave. The wooden panel disburses into a pile of bark and chips of lumber. Salavanta arises from the pile of carnage. The once sea-originated appendage that glided around her thigh falls from her body along with the split ends. The dead limb molds into a mesh of gunk and then seeps into the cracks of a stone-ground alleyway. The scarlet's jaw is halfway open from being broken, a right hand is ripped, showing the boney wrist and lower palm. Both of her arms are broken and dangle once she stands with her tarnished open clothes. That heavy breath melds with the dense air out the outdoors. Grunts of pain soon follow. "Fuck me that hurts. Hurry up you damn gash!" A dark string of liquid courses through the lower layer of her mouth and the broken places of her jaw, pulling the bones together with a loud snap.

               The alley in which she finds herself in between two establishments, the tavern, and an animal tradesmen market. The once sliced wrist of her hand strings back together. The course of her flesh stitching rings through her ears like thin threads of a rag doll knitting in unison. Her broken bones snap back into place while those mutated eyes linger forward. The ally is long with torches along with the stone build of the animal hide market and old lamps along with the wooden tavern. An old man sits about midway from where Salavanta stands and the ending of the pathway. The oil lamps smell like mold mixed with insect carcasses indicating that they haven’t been changed for a long time. A drip of spoil oil falls from the foundation of the wooden torches and onto the stone ground right next to the older man. The elder wears a faint green robe with a brown, dirt cloth that wraps around his shoulder. In one of his shaking hands is a metal cup that bangs on the ground which makes a metal-on-stone vibration down the corridor to the bustling streets of the other markets. Through the reflection of the tainted oil, the beggar sees the sage. Quickly, he jumps to his feet. Both of his arms jet forward, protecting his face before his legs crack and give out. He falls to his knees and darts his eyes through the empty spaces of his fingers to peer through the monster that stands before him.

              "I'm sorry my God of Just and Virtue. Please, do not let this demon eat me!" The pirate narrows her eyes to the pleading man then tilts her head out of confusion. At the same moment, instinctively, the redhead pushes her feet on the ground and jets backward. She avoids the giant sword that flings right into the animal hide shop's wall. The weapon's tip is stuck in the wall but the blade pulses with that same arcane energy. An outline of purple appears which forces Salavanta to grip the hilt of her sword, drawing her thin ripper within her right hand. The outline burst with power and in a mere instant, Tegan forms as if he teleported a short distance using the runes on the sword as a conduit to do such. With a right hand, Tegan uses his fist to punch the face of the redhead, though she places her ripper in defiance. Once the metal gauntlet clings upon impact, that purple outline bursts from Tegan's armor, he teleports once more but this time in the proximity. To the left side, he appears and swiftly delivers a right punch to her stomach. Salavanta's head propels forward and some blood jolts out between the spaces of her teeth. The right chest tendril breaks away from her flesh and slithers out of her jacket. The sea appendage slams into the metal chest and launches Tegan in the air. 

The man lifts into the air, swinging upward a few hundred feet above the majestic city in which they occupied. The city itself is bustling with life. People from all walks of the world spend their time with the separate shops available. Among the city center of Kales rest the stone bulwark castle where the nobles and the current royal family resides. Beyond the city of Kales rest farmland and the outer forest, however, beyond that are the edges of the world called The Drop. The Drop is the rims of the floating terra firma. Each edge of Kales has its own stormbellow which simulates the gravitational force that makes the floating possible and with each active machine comes a foothold built by the kingdom. In the drift of air, Tegan moves his position as if he is grabbing onto the sword that sticks in the side of the building. The indented runes in his body glow that arcane-like color that seems to breathe life into his armaments. The man's eyes close and whispers surge through his rustic voice like the pitch and vibration are corrupted by the magic and knowledge that seethes through the confines of his inner thoughts. "Upon the wrath of the king, I sentence you for conspiring of the crown and coeluting with the dark ones. I am The Chosen, appointed by the king and my peers, my word is the law! What's say you?" The light from the eye sockets of his helmet glows purple and he twists like he is about to slash, but in that motion, his body dematerializes into the arcane.

              Salavanta stands and looks over to the end of the pathway only to notice the people still mining their own business. The old man peers through his fingers to see the redhead's face and out of fear he runs to the city screaming. "The monster! The hells, the gods! Someone save us!" She grips the sleeve of her jacket and pulls it off her frame, tossing it on the ground. The remaining tentacles spring free and slither like living senses. Those corrupted eyes of her peers to the sword placed on the wall and a state of shock ushers throughout her core. Within her striking range are Tegan with that giant sword in hand and a slashing motion. Just like what he sought to do, The Chosen slings his arcana blade at the sage with the sound of pulsing power and a yell of vigor. Any normal woman would have been split open like meat; however, she is a sage. One of the tendrils responds in kind during her shock and blocks the attack. Sea flesh and metal grind on one another like a sharp sword trying to slice through a barricaded wall. Soon enough, that sword forces its way in, and the tentacle slices into two. Black ink spills on Tegan's right side. The sea appendage detaches from the pirate king's back, the suction upon her flesh rotting away. With that, she can jolt backward, and with the help of her free tendrils, she climbs the animal hide build. The sea limbs stab into the wooden wall making their way up to the roof.

              Tegan looks for a moment watching her as a predator does with their prayer. The black ink that coats his right arm and some of the right side of his armor torso starts to boil like acid. He narrow's his eyes at the tendril on the ground and stabs it with his sword, sticking it in the ground. With his left hand, he plunges his gauntlet into the right arm or shoulder. The points of his finger link making a dent but then revealing through the shoulder itself making a screech on metal sound. He tears through the right side of his armor ripping it off and throwing it to the ground. Now his right side is bare, and the tarnished look that he was hiding beneath his uniform. His right arm rises, and his orbs narrow to the three glass-like capsules that are engraved into the innards of his arm. Each of their capsules is strung together by a metal cable. Two of these capsules are empty but the one at the very base of his bicep is a filled one. Purple liquid swishes back and forth. A right-hand grips the hilt of his sword, and he lets out an annoyed huff. "Four tries. You aren’t getting away today." He lifts his sword like it's nothing and throws it upward in the air, for a moment he stays still and within this brief reprieve, the purple fluid in the last container within his arm starts to disburse into nothing, and slowly Tegan's body shifts with the arcane. A soft tone escapes his throat. "One."

Tegan shifts back into reality with his hand gripping the hilt of his blade. A faint glow of purple envelopes within the incased suit of metal but his eyes never leave the fleeing pirate. Salavanta races across the rooftop of the animal hide building. The point of her sword trails along the wooden roof which makes a dreadful sound that surges through the stale air. The metal on bark reverberation catches the attention of the town folk. The comer attire of the people has fainted color robes unless they were selling out of a stall or market, those people wore shirts and pants with a cloth material that is loose on their bodies. The women wore the robes but some of the business owners wore casual dresses. Among men and women, there are also male and female orcs that shift their eyes to the scene unfolding. Though others rush through the common folk of Kales. A hand is full of knights race across the stone tabloids of the ground. The sabatons clacking with the rock mixes with the vibrations of the pirate's sword. The knights have the insignia of Kales carved in their metal chests. The four pairs of feet start to glow purple with the power of the arcane. The first knight presses down hard on the rocky ground and jolts upwarp. In midair, this town guard bucks his ankle and presses a right foot down on the air as if his boots collide with solid ground. The sentinel races up the cool air and wind, rushing to the rooftop to follow the chase. The other three watchmen chase after as well, rushing their emanating purple glow along with the air.

              The direction of Tegan's sword is aimed just beyond of the path which the redhead takes, the second building. The bank is the next building over and unlike most of the trading stalls and other stores that are made of wood and twain, the bank is forged from metal. Some windows and doors are mostly made from wood and stone, but the out layer of the money hovel is fully built upon steel. The Chosen launches his sword in the air, the light weight of the mystical weapon flies past the fleeing pirate like a projectile reaching its max speed. The sword stabs the rooftop of the bank and within the blink of an eye, Tegan burst from the air and grabs his sword. "That is far enough heathen!" The male swings his giant blade downward just above her shoulder. One of the two tentacles collides with the blade. The tendril wraps around the thick sharpened metal and pulls at the powerful weapon.  The strength of the sea appendage is no match for Tegan. A moment of tug of war passes before the last appendage swings at the Chosen himself which forces him to break away from his lifeline. The man jumps back to avoid the swing which in return seizes his grip on the sword. Tegan looks at Salavanta, eyes tremble while the wind blows in their direction but the motion of the arcane within the air catches his attention and he smirks under his helmet.

              "What are you going to do without ye overcompensating sword?" That tone of hers is snarkier than last time. Tegan's eyes fill with unyielding rage and torment. He charges forward and tries to delve a punch with his metal hand which forces the pirate to reflect his attack with the thin ripper, making sparks fly from their collisions. They trade blow after blow with the metal sword and the one gauntlet. Even though the exchanges are unrelenting, it's easy for the redhead to reflect and block the incoming attacks. She notices a pattern within his slamming, only attacking with the protected hand. Quickly, she tosses her weapon into the other hand and slams a downward thrust to his other side. Tegan must react faster than ever before. With his bare hand, he grabs the blade. His appendages and nails claw at the middle of the blade whereas his palm meats the sharpness of the weapon. The metal cuts through his hand but not hard enough to slice fully through. With her free hand, she reaches for her holster, pulls out her pistol, and aims it at the head of the Chosen. The pirate's thumb cocks back the trigger and that electric pink flow of energy envelopes the gun. "Sorry lad, not all of us were built with perfect parts." She has sympathy with her voice but that does not stop her from squeezing the trigger.

              The first nameless knight rushes behind the pirate. He draws a Silverite katana. The blade itself is runic-like. The shape of the weapon has been melded and bent to depict the runes used for the arcane. Once the blade is fully drawn, a sharp wave of power reaps through the air. The attack rips right through one of the tendrils on her right side, the same side as the trigger finger. The wave pushes through and meshes within the redhead's body without harming her. Finally, the unyielding wave slides through the pistole itself, slicing it in half before she could pull the trigger. Salavanta pulls her head to the right side of her and sees the person that destroyed her weapon. "Shit." She says underneath the foundation of her breath. Within that moment of her turning her head, the Chosen's body begins to shift back into the plan of magic. Once the outline of his body lays remnants of the arcane, a shock rises within those demon-like eyes of hers. Salavanta jolts forward and moves her body so she stares up however, it's too late. By the time her eyes leer on the blade, Tegan already has his hand on the hilt in midair. The man twists and turns his body with the sword in hand and rips it from the grasp of the tendril that incased it so. Black ink spills everywhere and coats Tegan's helm with the substances. The male is quick to get rid of his helmet to prevent his face from melting. The right hand plunges his sword into the metal rough so that he lands properly. The sound of his weapon scraping with the rooftop surfaces and as that sound fills everyone's ears, the other knights burst on the rooftop, surrounding the pirate king.

              The redhead stands among the metal knights. Her eyes wavier to the two in front of her, and while that look of horror remains upon her face, the mutation within her orbs slowly begins to drift away and dissipate like dust being thrown into the wind. Tegan leans on the hilt of his sword. Veins start to pop from his throat and his panting becomes heavy and erratic. Salavanta looks to the openings that she can think of but each time her purified green eyes jolt to a space of freedom she sees one of those knights with the insignia of the Chosen. There is nowhere to hide, and she cannot continue to run so she looks at the sickening look of Tegan who has regained their balance and upward motion with the help of the oversized sword. The pirate's spiteful look looms upon the sickening Tegan. She screeches like a wounded animal that is backed into a corner fighting upon the brink of death. "What's wrong Chosen? Can't kill me yourself, eh? Ye need your fucking cult to do it aye? And here I thought I meant a gentleman." Tegan darts his illuming orbs back at her. Parts of his ebony under cloth flow with the wind and his wrist shake like his nerves are in a constant flux of movement, a common sign among burn victims. The man leaves his sword stabbed in the rooftop and stands on his own two feet as if he is making a statement. He forces the shaking left hand to stop by flexing and focusing then with that still hand he presses and coils his right wrist. The palm wraps around the last filled canaster indented within his wrist.

              Salavanta looks at Tegan up and down as if examining him but while distracted, the other guards that are present begin to take off their right gauntlet. "Heh, you look more like a monster than I mate. All that phase shifting… how many times have you ripped apart your body for this boy king I wonder." Now, blood seeps from both corners of Tegan's mouth. The rim of his eye catches the droplet before the liquid could stain the metal roof. His blood has little pellets of purple within the stream like crystalized arcane is a part of his bloodstream. That mighty throat of his coughs, and he is quick to cover his mouth within his palm, but a fair amount of fluid coats that still palm. The right arm, the same one he used to cover and hide his illness dangles like his limb lost function. Blood from the hand spills upon the metal roof and drips. Tegan rests his left hand on his right shoulder to overhaul the pain but that was wishful thinking. After a few rapid breathes those dry lips start to move and that rustic, warrior heart of his combined with the pitch and tone of his unrelenting voice. "I was never going to kill you, however, I aimed to capture you."

              That right hand of Salavanta is quick to draw the other pistol from her holster and point it at the Chosen. Without a second thought, she pulls the trigger. The hammer of the gun pulls down and the pink electric current streams through the gun launching the ball pellet from the barrel of the weapon. The exposed arms of the other guards reveal a rune etched into their flesh. Each guard has a different rune. A boar, snake, flacon, horse, and the katana wielder bear a lotus. Before the bullet can land, a prison surrounds the redhead. The purple energy walls block the bullet from traveling any farther and on contact, the pellet turns to dust. A look of shock pours over her. Those green eyes look around. She notices that the stances of the guards take a square formation and the runes upon their wrists connect at each corner creating the four walls that sentence her to defeat. The pirate drops to her hands and knees like she just got her stomach punched. Both of her arms wrap around her lower torso, and he nails start to dig in the clothes she wears. Those beating eyes stare down on the metal roof making her confusing look reflect from the material. Damn! What the hell is this? It's like there is a boulder on my back! Tegan approaches the arcane prison, though he drags his feet while doing so. 

              The Chosen looks down upon the struggling pirate. His voice is much calmer and more regained from the pain and torment of inner injuries from phase shifting for the moment. " Five? Six, it was six years ago that I came across another sage. Ones that have combined their bodies with those creatures of heretics." Tegan spites out some more blood before giving his speech, though while he talks, Salavanta begins to lose focus, her eyesight dims, and the light that peers through her orbs isn’t quite as bright. "I killed her without a second thought. After I atone for my murder, I created this spell. Design for creatures that have forsaken their kind, their flesh, and blood. The pressure upon your shoulders is the weight of your sin… and the sensation of your mana burning to nothing." Salavanta looks up to face Tegan even though her sight is almost darkened. "Though my soldiers can't hold the prison for long… it will be more than enough time to watch you pass out." The king's hand rises just a little, though the pressure makes her limb shake. Those eyes seem to become darker. A demonic voice roams through her inner thoughts. The pitch and sound of a demon being submerged under a crashing tide plague her mind. "Ah, That man. I have no idea what he is saying but he doesn’t seem like he was born upon a wavering boon. I suppose, not everyone is built with broken parts. You have made this day interesting. I will remember you…"

The mystic distract of Kales is where one would go to find their herbs and liquid mana to forge potions and other assortments. The streets run with people and vendors selling charms and ingredients which makes the aroma that fills this section of the capital earthy. Though the point of interest is not the seemingly endless store clerks that sell their wares. The interests rest with an academy called The Occult. The Occult is the establishment in which younglings go to harness their knowledge of the arcane and balance their physical being with mana. Within those walls, an angry voice stirs one of a bitter old man that is both too harsh on their students and too lenient. "Now! What creatures have mana?" An older man with a rugged white beard and an eye patch stares down a total of twelve younglings. The students before him wear purple robes that cover most of their bodies but the white cloth shirt that expends outward just enough so that the collars pop with color and complexion that can rival any festive gathering. The apprentices sit at wooden tables, two to a table and six tables altogether, three on each side. A hand rises from one of the back tables, though the boy's hand trembles. The teacher jolts his eyes to the wrist that bears the hand. Along the questioning adolescent child's wrist are four purple jewels indented within his skin though one is black like the life of the rhombus-shaped stone has been sucked out. "Ah, Jahnier. Go ahead and answer."

              Jahnier gulps like he swallowed a bucket of sand but soon enough his young and submissive voice manages to ring through the large stony room. "All living things, to uh…some degree." The student gazes upon the old man's-tired orbs and after a few moments of the teacher's thoughts racing through his vast mindful thoughts and emotions, his voice clings to the air once more like a lion chasing prayer. "That is correct Jahnier. All living things have mana, it is the energy source that binds us together and forges are weapons to fight the darkness below." Jahnier places his hand down on the wooden table below. His baby blue eyes dart to his wrist while expanding his flesh upon the bark-like surface. A hollowed-out diamond regains its purple and luster color. The grin on the pupil's face turns into a smile of relief as if being satisfied with the seemly simple question. The younger boy that sits next to Jahnier looks upon his classmate's wrist and notices the purple color. This boy is new and a look of confusion waivers upon his face sense all his etchings are purple. The nameless boy nudges Jahnier as if trying to obtain the other's attention. The boy's lips start to whisper but his attention is snapped away before he could display his question. The mentor's hand crashes down on the podium which he stands behind. The podium tilts and jiggles from the force of the slam.

              "Peter! It is very rude to talk while your superior addresses you and your peers." Peter looms his eyes back down on the table before him and adjusts his attention to the surface as if trying to avoid eye contact with his teacher. His voice is soft and soothing to the touch. "Sorry Elder Prime." The withering man darts a sinful and yet angry look upon the little boy as if Peter haunted him so with the adolescent rudeness that he bestowed. Both hands grip on the podium, his fingers coiling around the wood which, in return, makes a tightening sound that stabs his ears. A pointer finger starts to tap on the surface and every time the pad of his appendage contacts the surface, he seems to become more annoyed and untamed. "Oh, my sweet Peter, tell me, what are runes mainly used for in accordance with spells?" The questions allude to Peter's mind for he is new to the class however, the look on Jahnier's face suggests that this is a tricky question. Jahnier knows that runes have not been covered yet which means Peter is on the end of a losing battle. Jahnier grits his teeth and stands at the attention of the Elder Prime. Remorsefully and regrettable, Jahnier's voice flows through the tense air like he is on the verge of spilling tears rather than telling a lie. "My mistake Elder Prime. It was I who was rude. I was just happy I got a question right." The Elder lets out a displeasing huff. "Unfortunate, Jahnier."

              Underneath the Elder's dark robe and upon his frail arm are assortments of those shaped diamond indents. Some are darkened and hallowed out while others are filled in with purple, but his entire limb is stained with these jewels. A looming glow erupts from one of the filled runes upon his arm. At the same moment, Jahnier's once blacken rune begins to glow in the same way. "I'm sorry!" Jahnier yelps in pain. His small body slams down on the wooden chair and his eyes tilt up to the stone ceiling. Veins that originate from his arms up to his forehead and throat begin to flex and tense up. Jahnier tries to yelp for help, but something is caught between his speech and the pain, shock. The swimming agony that envelopes his body is not forged by physical means, but by emotional ones. Jahnier's eyes roll to the back of his head like a demon is forcing some type of mind control though it is a mere mortal that control's the youth's mind. "This is what you have to look forward to if you try to overstep in my class." Peter looks at his brother in his arms. He gulps even though his maw runs dry. Peter has no words or idea of what is happening to him. Jahnier looks like he is experiencing a never-ending canal of torment, though the real torture stirs within his mind. The older classmate's jaw drops, and he lets out a noiseless scream for help. Memories flood through his mind as if he is experiencing one via a painful trance.       

              Jahnier, four years old and the only son of a husbandry family known as the Felton family sits on the floor of a farmhouse. The surface is made of tan oak that has been finished with a dark shine. The crackling fire warms the small living room. A young Jahnier looks at the fire. His pale blue eyes linger upon the sparking flame for a moment, reflecting, learning. His young right hand extends out to a stack of small logs that are on their side and leaning on the clay walls of the pit. At first, he tries to lift a log with one hand, but he is far too weak and must use his left as well. With all his might, he places the log upon the fire feeding its blazing flame. Just then, the front door of the small-town farm cracks open and meshes with the same crackling sound emanating from the firepit. Young Jahnier shoots his head up like a dog would when its owner braces their home. He runs to the front door entrance and moves with purpose and excitement. Once upon the first steps into the home, he is greeted by his adoring mother and father, however, something is wrong. The young boy goes and hugs the right leg of his father. Fingers tugging along the lumber jack's cloth pants. Those eyes linger upward to see his father's face. The man of the house is missing the left half of his facial structure.  

              The half face looks like it was torn asunder by a rapid beast with an intent to kill.  Blood spills from the visages as if the invisible assault is taking place within the boy's mind. Blood drips reach the floorboards and the sound of liquid fills little Jahnier's mind. A face of shock renders across Jahnier's features. The little boy grabs the pants of the disfigured man, clenching the cloth tightly within his small grasp. A sound of grief rips through his small throat. "Father, please come back!" Once those words echoed through his hollow mind, the woman beside the man fully disappears along with the father fading back into the bloody darkness but not before chunks of the male's body are swallowed by the blackness. A disheartened voice rears through his mouth as if it's moving to form words. "My son … love …" Jahnier's hands drop to his side. He looks up to the fading man and his face no longer resembles a state of horror or aghast. Instead, those pale orbs of his wonder along with the void of nothingness. There is no one in the farmhouse but himself. Young Jahnier drops down on his knees and looks up in wonder. The boy's small and frail voice manages to reap through the stale air. "Who were they?"

              Jahnier's eyes rip open like seeing the light for the first time. That young throat of his propels a scared and tortured yelp of submission and confusion. Those worried eyes look around the stony classroom and he finally notices where he is. The Elder Prime looks at the boy for a moment then narrows his eyes upon his sleeve. With the back of his hand facing the podium, he uses the free appendage to tussle down the robe's length. He gazes at the multiple diamonds that are etched into his skin. Some of the markings glow with that purple mystical energy while others are hollowed out. However, among a row on his wrist, one of the hollowed-out diamonds begins to fill and glow like pouring a mauve mixture into a vial. Once the marking glows like the others among his skin, a grime smile reaps across his face. Ever so slightly, the Prime lifts the cloth over his tarnished skin and then directs his attention over to Jahnier, the boy with a missing memory. "Well, let that be a lesson to you." The teacher's attention reaps across the newer student, Peter. With a deep and sinister tone, he speaks with a pitch of malice and even a darker tone. "And you." Prime waivers his hand to his side and lets calmness wash over his more sadistic personality. The tone of his voice goes back to that of a mentor rather than a villain seeking punishment. "Now who can tell me where and how are mana is used? Anyone?" No hands raise for the seemly off-putting question, though the Elder Prime's ears begin to twitch. Footsteps walking upon an empty hall lingers through his mind. He knows who it is and claps his hands together. "That is enough for today, go to your rooms, class is dismissed!" The small group of boys stands at their teacher's attention before leaving the classroom. The sound of their footsteps meshing with the oncoming another set.

              The inside of The Occult is made up of ebony stone and red brick as far as the eye can see. The corridors are lit up with torches leading the way down multiple paths like a maze. Within these hallways are countless rooms that seem to go on forever. The doors are a different color and are made from marble rather than stone. Within each door is a pink current of power that rushes through the outer insides of the gateway that forges a circumference of unyielding energy. All the students would have to do to enter these isolated chambers is rest their hand upon the crafted door, and like a chemical reaction, the energy flowing conducts with their touch. Jahnier rests his right hand on the right side and within a matter of seconds, the bedroom opens. Inside is nothing special. A simple singleton bed, a desk with a bunch of papers and feathered pens with ink, and a window through the outside do not match the interior of the building or Kales at all. The view would depict a never-ending field of untarnished plains and wilderness. Beautiful trees shape the land and the creatures of old living peacefully. The boy's eyes rest once he sees such a sight like a trance forced upon him. He enters the room peacefully and the living doorway closes behind him.

              A worn and torn Tegan wonders along the maze-like halls. Blood drips from the corners of his mouth and the canaster's on his wrist leak a light purple fluid on the ground which forms a trail behind him. The arcane fluid seeps within the cracks of the stone as if a living object absorbs life essence. Some of his custom armor pieces drop from his body. The pauldrons fall from his toned black-clothed shoulders and slam on the ground which creates a vibration upon impact. While he paves the way forward and limps to his desired destination, the rest of his once beautiful armaments fall to the ground. First, the gauntlets slide off from his wrist. Next, what is left of the chest plate breaks free and falls directly behind him. Finally, he stops midway down his desired path. The man takes a deep breath that forces his quaking body to be still and unmoving only for one moment of peace and reclamation. A right-hand rushes down on the metal leg piece of his outfit. Bare fingertips reach for his inner knee, gripping his flesh between the dark cloth under the armor he wears. The other hand joins in, the appendage latching around the base of his inner knee while the other tugs at the top. Tegan pulls his leg from the metal prison using all his might. Grunts of pain soon flow from his mouth, but his bare frail foot collides with the stone ground beneath him. Upon contact, a spider web of purple energy spurs out along the floor like a moving glass painting the fluxes in constant motion.

              The thin, energetic webbing spreads out across and entwines with the harsh stone floor but soon enough even the walls and ceiling begin to be enveloped by this mystical arcane spell upon the establishment. Another deep breath manages to linger past the cracks of the man's teeth. Tegan takes the time to gather himself as if his mind is delving within the deepest chambers of his vast mind. While the mind is placed within a sanctum of remembrance, both of his hands reap along with the armor knee. Again, with all the power that he can muster, he pulls his leg free from the shackles of combat and metal only to brush his bare foot down along the other. Tegan is now free of the armor and the cloth he wears underneath is a long black sleeve cloth shirt and singleton capris. He leaves the armor behind him and walks a few steps forward. Clings and turning begin to fill the stale air that occupies the building. The Occult is taking another shape and changing. Stones moving and wood split join the fray among the sounds that make the man's ears twitch and move. The door in front of him is now just a wall coated with spiderweb energy. Tegan's right-hand rises in front of him. A firm open palm presses on the stone. The flux of magic becomes erratic and acts as if the living power is coiling around the space of his fingers. Those eyes of his close and one finally breathe lap from his heavy breath.

              A teenage Tegan stands at the attention of seven Elder Primes though they lurk in the shadows while he stands within a moonlit. The smell of the forest lingers upon his nose. A lush and perfect grassland is presented with the intent of becoming a bloody and gory battlefield. The seven float just above the woodland. The combination of all the mage's voices reaps through Tegan's mind. Their sound is like all their vocals are combined into one like a higher power entity speaks through him. "We the seven have deemed you and six others worthy of your mind and a seat among the arcane mages. Only one Elder Prime pupil shall survive for only the best student will be accepted. Now, one final word from your Prime." The Elder Primes descend from the shifting skies. The Elder from the Occult lands beside the shoulders of Tegan while the others land at different spots in the greenwood. The Prime places a right hand on Tegan's shoulder and grips the young boy's flesh tightly. The mentor's voice comes out of his throat calmly though what he says is with malic intent. "Kill them all. Show these mages what a hunter can do. Then once you have reclaimed your mind, join me and together we will put an end to this black blight we hovel." The teacher floats back up in the air as do the rest of the Primes. The youngster breathes in the scent of wood and grass then exhales out. His eyes open with the intent to kill.

The hand upon the wall shakes in place. The spider webbing along the stone fades away until there is only one streaming line of energy pulsing with power. This magical line serves as a beacon to find where the man needs to go. The hand along the wall starts to trace along the cold surface and while doing so Tegan manages to move in tangent with the purple power. The man's movement forces his throat to exhale his tired breath. Those pants become rapid within the corridors of the dark building of nothingness. Soon enough he could hear the echoes of his worn and torn breathing throughout the inners of his mind. For him, it would feel like days are passing by before he would make it to the end of the lining which he followed. The hand on the trail finally drops to his side. His fingers twitch and ache and blood drips from the apex of his small appendages. The man's back presses along the cold outer wall then slowly his body drips down till he is sitting on the floor. Right beside him is a marble door. An eerie sound reaps across the stale air once the door is pushed open. The Elder Prim stands within the doorway. "Ah, the king's Chosen gracing me. And look at this, in need of my attention to be sure!" The Prime inspects Tegan with a greater purpose. A voice of concern leaves the Elder's mouth. "What the hell happen to you?" Tegan closes his eyes and falls to the whims of his mentor.

              The room of restoration is where Tegan gets carried to. The Elder Prime pushes one of his damaged limbs over his shoulder and then lifts him from the stony ground. Like a brother that has been wounded, the elder makes way to a stone tablet that is in the middle of the room. The room in which the elder takes the Chosen is more like a cellar or a basement. Purple arcane energy flows through the stony corners of the hidden space. Indents within the rock hold the constant flow of purple liquid. The four streams, one for each corner, leads under the table and through the indents along the pillar that holds the stone table. Within the place of restoration are boys lined up in a circle along the outer hem. Four of them, each having their hole in the wall space.  These boys are pre-adults, no older than the students from before. Their eyes are covered with a black leather strap. Their arms are to their sides and their frail knees are driven in the rock beneath them. The nameless don’t wear any clothes and instead, their bodies are covered in the memory stored magical items that the Elder keeps under his sleeve though these enchanted items are hollowed out and black. Tegan slams on the table, his back resting on the slab of rock. The prime folds his arms and presses his back along with the table. An arrogant tone reaps from his voice. "I will ask again, what does the king's hound want with me? Repairs? You better have a good reason." Those tired and eerie eyes of the old man wander along Tegan's exposed wrist, he sees the empty canisters.

              A face of shock manages to reap across his face like he had seen a ghost creep from the depths of an endless hell. Then nothing. Calmness renders across his old, tired face and those eyes manage to dart down to the empty container within Tegan's arm. A left-hand reaches for the hem of the object and pulls a small metal latch that is attached. Stormbillow from the metal hovel that keeps the empty canister in place, with this, the Elder made quick work pulling it from the Chosen's wrist. The man places the small empty object between his fingers, among the dirty glass, he can see a grimy version of his reflection. With a free hand, he pushes some of the dirt away. After the dirt is removed, he places the object down on an unoccupied spot on the table. "So, what made you phase shift so much? Clearly not a common thief." That voice of high power and a snob is back in full force. The tired Tegan opens his eyes and sits up at the table. Those dagger-like orbs of the Chosen linger upon the face of the old man. A stiff voice manages to seep out of his dry throat. "A sage." The elder's voice manages to change once those words echoed through his vast mind. While he thinks to himself, he pulls another latch, and another canister is pulled free to join the other. "Are they dead?" He asked the wounded friend.

              Tegan manages to gather the strength to shake his head out of defiance of the pain that subdues his body. With the turn of the shake, he can feel his bones crack within the sanctum of his flesh. "No, we capture her. She was escorted to the cells." The Elder removes the last canister from the left arm and places it with the rest on the empty spot of the table like a foundation. "Surely the king will execute her." The older man spoke in a rather calm and collective tone. A left hand of his flings in the air and his fingers snap. One of those secluded boys stands at the attention of its master's call, like bones snapping at the echoing sound. The boy gets up and walks over to a corner of the room. Like a meat puppet, he places his hand along the wall and upon flesh meeting stone, the room glows with those arcane powers. Streams of runic that were once hollow and black are now visible with the purple aurora. Within the space where the slave boy is, a statue begins to emerge from the ground. Meshing ground and gears turning envelope within the room until the statue depicts a granite carving of an elder mage. The statue is the foundation for a fountain and once fully emerges, the purple liquid of magic begins to pour from the mage's eyes, wrist, and the book it holds over its head. The fluid forms within the circler indented base to be gathered.

              Tegan has a grim look on his face. The notion of death by a king's order is something he did not agree with, so the trial of the sage's unbecoming lifestyle plagues his thoughts so, though the sound of his mentor breaks through his everlasting thought and emotions. "Surely he would, what do you know about this sage? Tell me everything." Tegan lets out a firm exhale of pain. The hand without the canisters goes limp at first and then numb altogether. Those soldiers' eyes linger upon the damaged arm with the empty indents. The compartments within his inner wrist and arm are coated with metal and blood. "Salavanta, the Pirate King." The Elder moves over to the next arm and while he moves the blinded boy walks over to the table. The small hand of the boy takes the empty containers into his hands and then reverts to the magical statue. The mindless male places one of the canisters on the top of the statues. Seemingly, a small gravity barrier envelope when the compartment comes close to the fountain, forcing the material to float.  The liquid reacts the same way with the other two capsules. Soon enough, the three compartments float, one above the statue and the other two on the side. The lids of them fold outward and then to the side of the glass. With the lids opened, the liquid starts to flow and sway with the air and then fills the canisters to the brim with the arcane. Once filled the lids move up and then over, covering the entryway.

The Elder pulls one of the indented latches which knocks one of the canisters from the opposite arm free. Gently, he places the container on the stone slab where the others were once present. The pitch in the Prime's voice manages to hold some concern for the sage but also Tegan. "To think the last pirates in hiding would be found here and allied with a dark one… We are going to see some dark days my old friend." The Chosen's eyes narrow at the boy who waits for the flow of arcane to fill them up with the liquid he needs. Those tired orbs manage to find their way back to the elder, and with a shake of his head, he protests before him. "We are already in the dark days." The Prime stops for a moment, his old fingers pressing down where the two remaining containers are. The middle finger reaches along with the latch and pulls another free from his arm and sets it aside. "Phase-shifting six times, I could not imagine the pain. I fear it is much easier for you to see the darkest days, but hope is what will save us from who we once were and who we can become. One less sage in the world is good. Do you know where the execution will take place?" Tegan shakes his head. "I heard a guard saying that they are going to take her away to castle Valhi." The prime looks over to Tegan, unlatching the last of the containers. "To House Valadin? Makes sense." Tegan responds. "How do you figure?" Elder Prime responds. "House Valadin were known for helping the pirates under the king's nose and the Jalafays always had a flair for making an example out of those who once could not be trusted."

              Tegan looks over at his empty arm and nods in protest from what his mentor said. A grim look soon falls upon his lips. "House Valadin always stood for independence over one true ruler. How do you know they won't save her after the Jalafey's visit?" Tegan speaks in a low tone of voice, his tongue latching around the inside of his cheek to soothe his dry mouth. The elder manages to crack a small smile and a soft chuckle follows in its wake. "Walden, the lord of house Valadin. He is a king's man through and through. I doubt he would save a pirate in exchange for his own life or his family." The elder snaps back. The boy comes back from the statue and starts to place the filled capsules back into Tegan's arm. Once the first container slides into the middle compartment, the small latch moves back from once it came. The filled capsule tightens within the hold and begins to glow in a purple emanating confluence. The attached metal mixed with the nerves of his wrist starts to twitch erratically like his muscles are born anew. The boy does the same thing with the remaining two. Once all three are in, Tegan's hand becomes stable. He balls his newfound strength into a fist then extends his fingers. Some of the visible veins begin to pulsate from the surge of power. 

              The enslaved nods at the pulsing energy as if he can feel the waves of power reaping along his face. With a satisfied sniff of the pungent power in the air, he makes his way to the other side of his captor. A grace of purpose races across the slaves' hand and within a moment of time, he grips the empty capsules only to retreat to the statue that is birthed from arcane. Tegan rests his tired gaze upon the floor, and once his eyes linger upon the moving soles from the slave, his dark voice soon surfaces within the stale air. "Looks like you will need to be within the king's party during travel if you want your questions answered." The Prime looks down upon Tegan. A right hand lingers under the Chosen's chin only to lift their eyesight. The elder and Tegan's gaze manage to gaze within the windows of their souls as a son would with their father. Soon enough, that same hand falls, and like a pillage of snow, gliding across a slop, the back of the old man's knuckles rushes across Tegan's dirty cheek as if the Chosen is his own pet. "That is why I have you, is it not?" The sound of the elder's voice is vile and carotid with rot and controlled chaos. The knight manages to pull his gaze away, snaping the hold so his chin becomes free, though his eyes fall upon the statue with flowing powers that fill the nature of his own self-worth. A foul taste lingers upon his throat and the next words he befalls share the same taste as acid splashed upon oil.

              "I do not live to be your dog." Tegan manages to say with scorn and purpose. His eyes linger down to the boy slave that watches the containers filled with the reflecting purple liquid. The view of the action and how the enslaved looked turns his stomach, so much so that he holds back the sensation of vomit surging within the depths of his stomach. His throat tightens and his tongue becomes wet with the innards of his maw. The elder lets out a small laugh and then grabs a white cloth that hangs along with one of the corners of the table. Slowly the Prime wipes his hands clean from the blood that plagues his skin. The old man throws the rag away from the two and shakes his head in disappointment with the words that came from his child's throat. He smacks his lips before protesting. "Well, that is tough to hear from my flesh and blood. Though I suspect that the king will want his right-hand soldier boy on his voyage. You know how savage those men from house Valadin can be to such a young and innocent king." Tegan stays silent and drops his gaze to the floor. The elder places a right hand along Tegan's shoulder and sighs. "And if you do happen to see her, I expect you to get the information I require before those savages rip her limbs from her body." The hand slides away and the old man waves his hand. The door opens.

              The old man wonders to the front of the open doorway. A shrug of his shoulders soon follows, and the pitch of his voice manages to become deeper and darker before his exit. "I know you will do the right thing Tega'Von. After all, I created you." With that, the older man takes his leave, the door closing shut right behind him. The boy walks over to the table and starts to place the capsules in the empty compartments. Once all six are within Tegan's flesh, his veins begin to pulse with that arcane power surging through his bloodstream once more. The boy picks up the cloth and begins to wipe the blood from Tegan's arms. The once white cloth begins to change to a dark red. "The master said to keep your shifting at four rather than six." The boy's voice comes out as soft, almost feminine. The tone and pitch make the Chosen's ears twitch. "If you phase shift any more than four, you may not come back." The boy tilts his head up as if he could see through the black blindfold that clouds his physical vision. "We wouldn’t want that! After all, you're a master's favorite." Tegan's voice is stifled from the reaction. Most notable from the smile the boy gives before going to the next arm to wipe it clean. "Did he say why?" Tegan manages to say. The boy shakes his head. "Nope! Just to make sure to tell you." The slaves take the cloth in their hands and place it on the table to the side. Tegan sits upward and hangs his feet from the table. His hands feel up his arms, the pads of his fingers tracing over multiple scars he has within his forearms.

              "A new set of clothes are within the chest in the corner over there." The boy nods his head to a wooden chest in the exact location. Tegan nods in an agreement and manages to stand on his two feet. He ventures forth to the chest. While he travels the voice of the slave rings freely through the stale air in which he breathes. "Try to use some sense of décor while fighting. I would hate master to be sad if he lost you." Tegan Pauses. His legs cannot move, and his arms are still. The feeling of the boy's breath and voice splashes through his mind like a thought or emotion would when experiencing a traumatic event that has already happened. The sound of the door finally surfaces within the room followed by the entryway closing and once the brink of sound rushes henceforth, Tegan breaks down by the chest. His knees slam on the stony floor and his hands cover his face. The tips of his fingers press on his visage all while tears drip slowly and then rapidly. It takes a few moments for Tegan to collect himself but once he does his right-hand lifts open the chest. With the chest is an older version of the Occult uniform. The color of the top part is covered in blood, blood that has been dried for years and years of not being washed. A shaking hand reaches out and grabs the cloth. A thumb rubs along the blood which stifles Tegan's nerves. There will always be something special about being home, even though the home is unbecoming of a bloody past.