Shadow Slayers

   Ooro giggled as the toddler called out to her as he trailed behind the dancer. She followed a few footsteps behind, taking note of her surroundings in case she got lost later. Manasa had lead them to the library. The shelves towered above them, each division stacked to the brim with about anything one could think of to read. The woman had plucked a book from the arrangement, and began to read to the child of her culture. It was rather heartwarming to see her perk up as she spoke of her customs, as Ooro had long lost ties to her own heritage. She smiled at the dancer, nodding as she spoke about the marigolds that adorned her people during the celebration. 

   At first, the dancer hummed as she skimmed the pages, but upon reading for a scroll eyes had widened with horror as her voice let out a shrill cry. In desperation she had flung the parchment away from body, as though a terrible vision struck across her. Her fingers appeared to coil in dismay from the text's touch and her sockets welled with glimmering tears.

   The toddler immediately rushed to her side, not thinking as he gripped at his companion tightly while the poisoned droplets singed the ends of his hair. Ooro quickly lifted her bracer to shield the tears from furthering dripping onto the young one's scalp. "Careful little one, I don't think Mana wants you to hurt yourself," she shook her head, taking a quick glance at the tossed scroll. She could only make out the illustrations... one had appeared somber, but Ooro hand't known the meaning behind it. 

   "Manasa... is there something troubling you?" She drew her eyebrows together, gazing at the woman with concern.

Manasa first instinct was to hold Oxy close and to hug him for comfort, yet Ooro's gesture broke her free. "I'm... the golden princess..." she muttered, pulling the little one off of her, making sure to grab him by his clothes. Her hands shook as she tried to ravel the scroll once more, sniffling away her tears and trying not to further upset the child and Ooro. It almost felt as if the scroll stung her as Manasa touched it's cotton palp, making the simple act of putting it away increasingly difficult.

   Ooro raised an eyebrow, perplexed by the statement, before remembering the scene that was illustrated on the parchment. The Golden Princess... was a tale often told to young ones that was derived from Manasa's culture. The elders of her village would occasionally recite it to her and the other village children during communal gatherings. While Ooro hadn't thought much about the story itself; it was certainly a different matter for an actual vishkanyan. The picture she had glanced at was when the princess had kissed her lover's lips, only to have him poisoned by her affections. 

   The realization hit her hard upon understanding the dancer's implication. Manasa had just possibly hinted at loving another that was separate from her kind, and judging by her tearful outburst- the tale's tragic prophecy had been fulfilled. However, who had Manasa loved, she wondered? If it was one from the guild, the only conclusion to be made from was Rylan being she recalled the dancer spending time with him. Yet, Rylan's passing could not be blamed on Manasa- she had no control over the fearen, surely. Besides, she had known nothing of Manasa's past before her arrival in the guild. 

   Ooro found herself at a loss for words. Regardless of who it may have been, to console one who has lost a beloved was never an easy task. No matter what one could say, the pain could never truly be dissipated; it was a weight one would carry for life. Ooro had been unsure on who triumped in the battle that had been lost to time, but she knew that Marcus and Lily must have departed from old age by now. She bit her lip in frustration over her uncertainty, but also because she knew that now Manasa would have the burden hang over her for the rest of her years. 

   Unsure of what to do, she lightly gripped at the dancer's arm as to offer her company and parted her lips. "I... am sorry," was all she could think of to say for the moment, before gathering the courage to raise her voice once more. "Do you... need to talk to someone about it?" Her eyes were fixated on her as she waited for a reply.

She completely missed the point, but it was better that way. There was no way he could call Altheron out in front of the innocent girl, since that was the one way to clarify his jealousy. Altheron wasn't going to steal her away anyways, so the worry was completely unjustified on his part.

"Emotions are weird. They have nothing to do with anything you or Altheron do," he reassured Luair. He was truly stupid in this regard: letting petty emotions get the better of him.

The entire time, Altheron ran about the halls of Darik Castle as giddy as a child, relishing the splendor of its interior, from the patterned rugs shifting underneath his rushed steps to the sparkling crystal dealies hanging from the ceiling. Ignoring the many ornate paintings that adorned the walls, the shaman went up and down every flight of stairs and explored almost every floor, losing a berry or two with each ascension. As time passed, he found himself getting deeper and deeper into the castle without ever keeping a thought in his mind to remember how he got there in the first place. Once he finally began to tucker himself out, he slowed his pace, digging into his hat to find a snack to replenish his energy. He pulled out the red fruit and took a huge bite out of it as he looked all around this new hall. Through the many long, draped windows, he could see the sun shining its rays along a almost perfect cold sky. Altheron had finished the fruit and threw it back into his hat before shuddering at the thought, being pulled out of his euphoria to remember the chill that had been creeping up his arms and torso even after the guild entered the massive structure. Wrapping his arms around his now half-full hat, the shaman held his shivering form as he continued to trek through the seemingly endless hall before stopping before two massive doors. The feeling of curiosity pulling him from his near-chilled state, Altheron brought a hand up to the gilded door handle in front, hesitating for a moment to appreciate its shiny golden color and the twists and curls its ends whirled around in before they began to mesh with the embellishments that adorned the rest of the door, then held it down and pushed his way into the room. On the other side of the entryway held an enormous chamber filled with different fabrics, all with varying hues of different colors and designs, as well as entire outfits neatly sprawled about, with some hanging on the walls and others folded and neatly stacked in piles for easy access. “Ugh”, he said, his nose scrunching up in disgust at the horrifically gaudy garments. This was why he was never quite fond of nobles. To him, kings, queens, princesses and the like were fools, thinking that they could hold themselves as higher beings just by owning riches like the garish clothes surrounding him. Hmph, they think they are better than spirits…, he thought, scowling at a radiant purple coat with an eye-aching pattern decorating its surface. Truth be told, the man would rather be dead than seen in any of this garbage, but before he could fully turn around to begin his leave, a small glimmer from underneath the stacks of clothes shone in the corner of his eye. Whipping his head back to the source, the shaman slowly made his way over to the piece, knocking over all the other tacky garb on top to get a better look. His eye widened at the sight of a lustrous vest sitting atop a pile of random other garments of the same nature, but with far more extravagant designs. It appeared to be the most tame piece in this collection, and he couldn’t keep his eye off it. Something about its style interested him. He took his attention away from it for a second to place his hat on the floor, being sure to prop it up against the fallen clothes to assure that the fruit inside wouldn’t fall out before turning back around to pick up the vest. The color was what interested him the most: it was a gold color, one that not only caught the light wherever his fingers moved it, but glimmered in the loveliest way. The entire thing was gold. Gold fabric, gold trim, gold buttons, gold everything. The color was far more radiant than the hue that donned the collar around his neck, the ribbon that clasped it closed, or the straps on his…..

His arms. They were still so cold, as was the rest of him. And they were so filthy too, the white, once blemish-free skin now marred with dried blood, dirt stains, and slight scars. As if noticing this for the first time, Altheron looked all about himself feverishly before staring back at the vest with sad eyes. He was a mess. He couldn’t possibly wear it in his current condition.

“I need to be clean now.” he said plainly, and then it hit him. He remembered how the battle left most of the guild. They were all pretty beaten up, some of them leaving the area drenched in blood. The last he saw of them, they were all too distracted by the fanciness of the castle and the extravagance of the feast Kama said another guild prepared to care. He had to alert them, but first…

The shaman held the garment back up to his face, shivering slightly at the lack of protection it had against the winter air. Tearing through the pile of clothes again, he was able to find a shirt lightly buried in it, one with cuffs that resembled the design of the vest he still held. Sure, he may have not been much of a sleeve fan, but he was willing to bend just this once. He was also lucky to find some pants and boots a bit deeper within the room. They weren’t gold themselves, but together, the outfit he threw together looked decent by his standards. Beautiful, even. Stuffing most of the clothes in his hat and carrying it with one arm with its fingers gripping the boots from the top, Altheron used his free hand to pull the door back open all the way. Once he was out of the room, he looked to the right of hall, and then the left with a blatant look of confusion plastered on his face as he stood perfectly still in front of the closet doors. It only took a few seconds afterwards before an overarching sense of panic washed over him at this painful realization.


“Guh……”

He was lost.

Now scared, the shaman ran about the halls of Darik Castle once again, clutching his hat and change of clothes in his arms as he ran up and down the many flights of stairs in search of his friends (or at least a place to bathe….). 

"It doesn't matter," Manasa blurted out. She continued to try and ravel the scroll. "Naga... already," she froze, a lump forming in her throat. No, what had happened was no fault of Naga's. "I already killed Rylan." The scroll tore. A rip formed through it's center, blood dripped from Manasa's hand as the paper cut into her flesh. Manasa's eyes grew wide when she realized what she had done; she destroyed a part of her heritege.