FATE ONE: A Prophecy

       “Naught can be done to cease the crushing flow of era cometh. For all they have made will in due time fade, their lasting mark be only their fall.”
       He spoke to her with words cryptic and unwelcome, echoed across the large vacant chamber shared only by the party of two in conflict. His voice painted in innocence chilled the very air throughout all reaches of the al fresco great hall that graced the top of the awesome ziggurat.
       Outside the gargantuan citadel, its brick-laden steeple which spiraled up toward the golden heavens they assumed they found, an infinite number of branches canopied the highrise. A flock of white-plumed birds soared in formation; their sights set toward the clear twilight skies, fleeing the storm approaching their tails. They pass through the hundreds upon thousands of green leaves gracing the boughs, reflected upon them warm hues of the brilliant sun that finds itself consumed by ever darker clouds.
       Standing with her back to the ornate pillars that divide the room from the volatile outside world, she glared sharply at this person; one she had thus thought well to confide in for as long as she could remember. A being that now wrapped itself in cloak and hat black of the void, withdrawing further from the light of their world.
       It was clear to her that she no longer recognized this shadowed vizier. Nor could she take serious his guidance any longer. The rushing deluge of thoughts carried by his tiny yet powerful words overcame her with an intense desire—a terrible urge unbefitting of her status.
       He continued, smiling eerily with full knowledge he had properly rattled her majestic composure.
       “With safety cast aside, molten to profaned idol. Theirs, yours, or mine… See you must that time’s word is final.”
       Her fists clenched, shaken with venom as his mouth became a toothy grin that would find charm on anyone else. With words he spoke, however, all that was displayed was an undistilled malice.
       “Know you better these creatures yearn much in their meek little lives, yet outlast long enough--”
       Lightning, a bolt mere dozen yards away, cut his statement in twain, distant squawks tinged in panic followed thereafter. The flash cast them both in the stark contrast of light and shadow. He patiently allowed the rumbling to subside, finding welcome beauty in its dramatic interruption as he took the time to confidently pluck his next words.
       “... to crave when end’s embrace arrives.”
       Two feathers gracefully drifted between the two tense parties, carried by winds of the torrential storm raging through. Whilst one, its silken white vane glimmered, its perfection frozen in time; the others’ charred barbs smoldered as ruin consumed it with each passing second. The two inevitably floated astray. A spark, seen only for an instant, abruptly engulfed the already-cindered quill in a blaze, continuing its clumsy descent until it left nothing but a small splash of soot upon the immaculate granite floor, its pure sibling gently falling beside it in mourning.
       “So then, would you not agree with your current scorn…” he resumed his interrogation, bereft of care for the weight of life gone that dared part his conversation.
       “that absolution is, in fact, time's purest form?”
       Her eyes widened intensely at the dire implications of his suggestion as he raised his head towards her, his face still veiled in clinging darkness.
       “Yes, a welcome monument to their persistence annihilation would be, but the greatest expression towards their existence."
       Her anger overwhelming her, she approached the black-dressed man, her height significantly towering over his moppet stature; to be expected of Her Grace.
       Where he stood, cloaked in simple darkened cloth and stole, she rose in elegant dress; her form covered in ornate decor of bronze, and a circlet with six wings empowered her brow. Her hair cascaded behind her like a billowing crimson cloud, holding back her own storm within. She glared down, robbing his form of light with her closed distance. But as one already bathed in darkness, being cast in hers left little effect.
       Another bolt of lightning dressed them both in its blinding light, though neither found faze by its booming thunder. The rolling shudder lasted long enough for the silent woman to finally find her voice, tinged in a thin veneer of fury.
       “Absolution!?” she lashed mockingly, her voice youthful yet motherly. “What you propose is nothing more than extermination!”
       Her eyes, normally gradient of lilac and emerald, began to glow a deep solid violet, warming from her restrained rage that was slowly loosening.
       “Such patience you utterly lack. These children found sire to claim this land, ceded for their prosperity. Abide not such deplorable acts can I, no matter the reason!”
       Staring at the smoldering remains of the truant feather, her voice cooled with heavy melancholy.
       “Be they not but flowers still waiting bloom, meagerly seeking the sun’s warm light? Roots must extend violently before their true beauty springs forth.”
       “Even flowers, with volition, need pruning,” he reflected with a scoff, “lest they falter under owns’ ambition.”
       Only the intense smile continued to be seen upon his soft face whilst the large brim of his headwear shadowed the rest of his features.
       Upon him raising his sight, however, the luminescence of his golden irises pierced deep into her soul—those large shadowless amber lenses that would tremble even the most courageous of warriors. Though she retained her focused expression, inside she was shaken.
       “If not now, inevitability simply waits,” he sneered as his attention shifted. He stilled his open hand, inviting the flow of embers from the dove’s immolated plumage that drifted by.
       “And as their hunger drives them wild, their control found stoked and riled…”
       The cinders slipped through his fingers at the attempted grasp. With a dense blink, distracted no longer, he threw open his cape with his right arm in dramatic gesture, his gaze corrected toward his subject, and an obstinate passion wrought in his voice.
       “Wish you will that you had acted to save them from their fates--”
       “I HAVE HEARD ENOUGH FROM YOU!”
       Her rage taken her completely, she swiftly swung her left hand out to her side. A trail of light followed thereafter, fading to show a thin blade wielded within the acting hand. Its pristine and prismatic steel shone in the light as it held steadily at the end of the abrupt swing. The iridescent ribbon rang with high frequency until both faded after a few tense seconds. The right-hand side of the indigo stole draped around the man’s robe drifted softly to the marbled tile, severed by the swipe as it flailed up from his theatrics a moment before—followed shortly thereafter by the white-sleeved hand falling upon it, a sickening plop cast as both hit the floor.
       He dropped to his knees as he began to wince in immense pain. Though scream he did not.
       “Think not I to be blind to your schemes—such foul insolence,” she calls out with scathing vitriol. “You who never once held reverence toward their creation, nor respect toward their desired existence! From dawn, you saw them as merely tools to your whimsy…”
       Shocked wordless by the pain, the small man looked down without retort, staring at the hand parted from the rest of his arm. No blood fell from the wound nor the severed appendage as it slowly dissipated to dust and cinder. At the sight of its deterioration, he eyed the remnants of the two feathers before. As he ruminated on her judgment, his silent seething of agony turned to increasingly unsettling laughter, echoing upon the great pillars as though they, too, shared in the bolster.
       The woman began to clench her empty fist, unsure now if she fears him anymore than she does herself. As his mad cackling continued, she took a deep trembling breath and decidedly relinquished control of the failed dispute.
       “Lord Gehenna!!” she called out as she turned her head to the stairwell that centered the observatory, her dense red plumed hair swayed with the jerked momentum. “Remove immediately this traitor from my presence!”
       A second man arrived in haste, massive in stature with a mane hued like fire. A pair of draconic wings flowed from his back, though short in span, shared in the dense bulk of the man who bore them. He was taken aback by her demand, as well as the sight of conflict present before him—Nevermind the omnipresent cackling by the wounded man found kneeling on the floor. Two more sentries followed suit, however paused at the door—signaled wordlessly to remain outside by their captain, lest they become privy to this quarrel between lords.
       “B-by your will, Your Grace…” he stammered, stilled by her sharpened demeanor. Stunned further still by the presence of her blade, ill seen by anyone prior. Its beauty made lessened only by its terrifying use.
       “Those found conspiring with this man shall be banished to the far ends of Ogelna,” she commanded. “Seal their chords. Consult Lady Zion where best to dispatch these guilty parties. They must be denied contact with each other, instead forced to survive alongside those they held ire.”
       Dismissing the guard’s hesitance, she then turned her words back to the black-dressed man who, still in a doubled-over slouch, laughed evermore.
       “For you, however, the cold loneliness of exile awaits… for instigating a war steeped in autocracy and genocide. An eternity of nothing is your wish? Then grant it I shall.”
       With those words, his laughter finally halted.
       “… By your will,” the giant man, still listening, repeats. A subtle sigh threaded the words, strung with disappointment over the dispute witnessed.
       The cloaked’s silence persisted as the large guard reached down to aid them to their feet.
       “Know not what exchange came between you two,” he started with a grunt as he knelt down, “But absolute are her ord--”
       The remaining hand emerged from the black cloth, pressing against the sentinel’s chest, gently yet startling. Though the cloaked man’s laughter halted, he panted subtly as he whispered to the giant. “That… is unrequired.”
       Standing back up of his own power, he pulled his mantle back over the now-amputated arm with that which remained. His eyes again hidden in the void cast of his brimmed headwear, only his tone of voice conveyed his deep dissatisfaction.
       “I fear we’ve since reached finality.”
       With one final sigh, he hastily spun around, the cloak’s momentum dispersing the ashes that once was his appendage—cast aside like a broken toy and nothing more.
       “You… disappoint me,” he chided as he ambled calmly over to the hulking man, now waiting nervously near the stairwell. Despite the disparate size difference, the large guard was wholly intimidated by the smaller dark-dressed man.
       He tilted his head once more to the woman, removing his hat with his remaining hand as he held it flat against his chest. An unsuspected innocence worn on both his expression and in his final spoken words.
       “This fate is—nay, has been—the only one granted to us. Choice forgets us, for fate will pounce upon time it wears down. Heed now this one truth: that Qidron has naught but enmity—liberty none—for them. For us. Rest assured, forevermore shall you live in darkness of your regret.”
       The two men departed, leaving the perturbed woman to dwell on his cognizant words. She eyed over to the remaining detritus of the plumage that had fluttered into the room; beauty overcome by hate. Her blade flashed in intense light before fading away, its rage dismissed as its wielder attempted to find tranquility in this newfound loneliness of her own making.
       “O, though they must survive, and be allowed to revel in their agency,” she said quietly to herself, eyes closed in somber prayer.
       Striding over to the barrier peering to the outside, she looked upon the world her kin had made for themselves—a utopian paradise that stretched across three visible horizons that only stopped to worship the surrounding forests, mountains and rivers, respecting their claim of the land first. Another flock of doves flew by in rejoined formation, garnering her attention as they flew off into clearing skies of the new dusk, obscured only by the shade of the massive tree crown above.
       “For those children are the ones with but one fate: To succeed us.”

       Several of the birds found rest upon the peak of the grand steeple, where six ornate angels gave reverence to the heavens above in opposing directions. A gleaming orb fixed within an immaculate sculpture decorated with various wings reflected its gathered light upon the cloistered ceiling of leaves above, like the sun cast through a drop of dew.
       As this calming light danced upon the golden-green foliage, few leaves began to fade to an irregular deep violet hue.
       The doves that journeyed onward made way to lands far far away from that immaculate city, traversing days across seas and valleys until they made their way over a rich forest. Living among the lush trees were vast fields of grass, grain and crop. Crop not born of the soil on its own, but placed to propagate by those of human hands.
       Isolated groups in time branched out into sprawling cultures and civilizations. Small tents and huts soon gave rise to domiciles, towns and kingdoms. Clumsy grunts eventually tuned to eloquent phrase and beautiful song. And hand in hand, necessary companionship gently evolved into love.
       These children of the world of Ogelna, whose strides had seen terrible hardship mere generations ago, began to flourish and thrive as time continued its persistent march. Their cultural leaps and bounds always at peaceful coexistence with the natural land of which they all shared and protected.
       Another dove, resting upon a treetop, molts its dead weight before joining the rest of the flock westward.
       Feathers felled from the molt descend to the wood below, soon to be picked up by wanting hands. Fletched onto wooden stem, a new arrow is born, stuffed thoughtlessly into a quiver upon the crafter’s lower back. The large man bearing a darkened brown head of hair waits behind a broader trunk, a well-honed bow eased in his left hand. His steel cuirass green as the nearby grass, though prim and free of rust, its dull metal shone no luster.
       Apart, another man watches upon the same clearing carefully, a pile of nuts and seeds placed in plain sight among the thickets of grass and weeds. Bait for the hunt. Light of the midday sun shines through the treetops above acting spotlight for the decoy.
       His leather-gloved hand gently wipes at his brow, sweat gathering beneath his unkempt auburn hair from waiting. Unknown if merely minutes or hours have passed, it mattered not.
       “I believe they’ve moved further east at this point,” whispers a third person crouched alongside, dressed too in the same uniformed protections of the waiting archer and his current audience, his longer hair a slicked-back black, tucked neatly behind his ears. “We should probably try deeper in the wood. If anything we do get out here, be our luck just small fries.”
       “Shh!”
       The patient hunter dispels the doubtful spotter, the two falling silent again. And so they continue to wait in silence. But soon enough, his patience is rewarded.
       A single boar, maybe a meter tall and fur thick and matted, spots the gathered offerings, sniffing at them curiously. Though its size is favorable, it wears its age without question. As the elder beast closes in to partake in the feast, the wind whizzes, a squeal rings out, and the prey falls to its side. A single arrow sticks upward from its flank, flawlessly piercing the boar’s heart.
       “What did I tell you?” says the spotter. “Just a scout. These kind always send their old for such survey.”
       The auburn hunter dismisses the comments as he quietly signals to the archer to hold, still hiding further away from the two grounded men. As the man predicted, The first boar, too, was bait for something bigger.
       Another much larger swine investigates the fallen scout, its size nearly three times larger than its kin, and tusks that bow outwardly. A true predator had entered their trap. Growling as it decidedly ignores the obvious foods left out to snare them, it looks around cautiously, on to the hunters’ schemes.
       “That’s our target,” the leading man speaks, drawing blade from his hip. His bright blue eyes sharpen on their prize.
       As it peers around, grunting vigorously to its curious surroundings, its ears perk up to the sound of rustling foliage. From the vegetation leaps out the daring man brandishing a short sword, the blade a brushed steel with iron fittings and quillon, and hilt wrapped in fine blackened leather bandings. Landing just shy of the wild boar, he stands near eye-to-eye to the massive predator. Its attention locked solely on him, it fails to notice the two arrows that catch it on either side, rearing the beast in pain. Its momentary scream quickly tacits as the sword pierces its head downward—felled in an instant, its suffering a mere blink of the eye. It keels over, blood draining from its narrow cranial wound. With the confirmed kill, the spotter gathers at the brave man’s location.
       “Just like that, men,” he gloats with pride, sweat pouring from his brow, spots of crimson covering him from the momentary up-spray. “This should be more than ample for the dealer, I’d imagine.”
       “A beast this size would feed three or four whole families a whole month,” the spotter comments, running his fallen black hair back away from his face. He looks over at the small elder first slain. “Think they’ll pay us extra for this one, as well?”
       “Leave him be,” commands the hunter, wiping the bloodied blade with a terry cloth hung on his scabbard before sheathing the weapon. “Let nature claim him. Can’t take everything for ourselves, can we?”
       “Of course, Captain,” laments the dark-haired spotter. “Greed forgets growth.” One of the archers closes in on the two as they begin to regroup for their haul.
       In their eased conversation, a strange sound approaches among the brush, catching the ears of the captain. He turns left to see a silhouette leap toward him. A green-hooded man in leather armoring, his hand brandishing a small dagger. Though catching the group off guard, a quick decision by the nearby archer sees their captain pushed from harm’s way, taking the blade instead in his own lower abdomen.
       “Parth!!!” the saved man shouts out, uncaring for his own safety. He redraws his blade, but finds it too late, for two arrows land in the bicep and thigh of the assailant.
       He hits a dirt patch with a hard thud, crying out from the pain inflicted. The spotter runs to catch their wounded comrade. The blade pierced through, however evaded fatal damage. The second archer finally emerges from his hiding place, his stature leaving one to wonder how it could find any concealment.
       “Is everyone alright here?” the gentle giant asks. “He gave sign before the boar attack, but I found no chance to strike prior. My apologies.”
       “You did well, Tannus, thank you,” the Captain states calmly. “Please restrain the bandit for now.”
       Tannus thumps his fist into his own chest before producing a thick rope from his satchel, tying the writhing criminal’s limbs together, rendering the already injured man physically harmless.
       “How did you shoot two arrows so quickly?” the bandit seethes in a deep rasp, noting they had to have come from the same bow.
       “I nocked two and prayed,” the archer replies straightly, stunning the assailant silent. “You have a name and outfit?”
       The man doesn’t respond.
       “He’s a loner,” the captain answers in his stead, suturing the wound of their fellow crew who appears to be stable. “A straggler from Gaea’s thieves guild.”
       “How could you tell!?” the tied man reflects, practically confessing before backpedaling. “How would you know I’m not from Kabbal?”
       “Easy. Your dialect,” the captain responds. “Besides, bandits stopped raiding from the north ten years ago, when that town was wiped out in flame.”
       The man rolls his eyes in defeat. “… Guess I should have kept up with the times, huh?” He laughs meekly, breaking into a wince as the large man snaps the stem to one of the piercing arrows.
       “If you’d like, I can keep the other one there,” Tannus says with a smile. “Let the dead weight pull on the wound some more.”
       The bandit sighs before gritting his teeth, groaning as the other stem is broken away.

       Early evening begins to claim the sun as the hunters’ carriage arrives upon the cobblestone roads that welcome entry to the town of Gaf, their humble home. At the southeastern gate, the burg’s normal bustle began to thin for the day’s end where three more soldiers in similar dress awaited the cart’s halt. They are surprised to see more blood than usual coating three of the returning crew’s pale blue dusters, with one being gently carried down from the carriage. They rush to meet them halfway, taking the wounded Parth from the captain and spotter.
       “Another lies in the hold,” the captain informs, gesturing to the back end of the carriage. “Be sure he and Parth both receive proper treatment.”
       “Aye, Captain!”
       The third jogs to help Tannus offload the bandit while the other two take their injured comrade to safety. The captain sighs as he reclines against the wagon, tousling his hair as he finally lets go of the cool demeanor he’d held since the incident a few hours prior. His lieutenant decides to join him, hoisting his arms up behind his own head.
       “Why don’t you let me wrap up with the client this time, Captain?” the black-haired man suggests. “You look as though you need the rest.”
       The man begins to shake his head, but peers one eye open as he looks just past the cart.
       “Wish I could heed those words, Arefel,” the captain replies, staring at a distant woman standing just out of earshot. “I have a feeling I’m to be given further task, anyway.”
       The spotter laughs. “Don’t let her work you too hard, Sir Terra.”
       “Good work out there today,” the worn man tells his teammate as he withdrawals from his moment of peace. “Be sure the storekeep is informed of the added dangers we encountered. With that beast’s size, he should gladly add to the bounty.”
       “Aye, Sir!” The man places his closed fist at the center of his chest in salute as he reboards the coach to head toward their job’s turn-in, leaving the young Terra with the woman who begins closing her distance.
       Her dress is silken with full-length pleats, toned the same blue as the hunters’ dusters. An upper layer, white with red lining overtop, frames the bust and hips of the dress, cinched to the ensemble with a broad green decorative band tied into a large bow in the back. Long white belled sleeves tethered to a hollow-crop bolero that covered the shoulders, a split tail flowing down the back. The jacket and dress fails to meet in the middle, creating an open band upon her upper chest, only a fancy golden necklace with a ruby gem resting between the two.
Her impossibly long dusty brown hair, peppered with grays throughout, flows down her back. Stray bangs disturb her lightly-aged face which sports an intriguing pair of spectacles, a second pair of flip-down lenses hinging upon the outer corners of the frames.
       A unique circlet crowns her brow, baring a jeweled crest with wing motifs emanating from the sides. It is bronzed and well maintained, but is nonetheless still notably a relic.
       “I trust the hunt went well?” the woman assumes, her voice light yet commanding.
       “As well as it could have, given an injury among the ranks,” he replies nervously. “Your sight about the stray bandit really was astute.”
       She smiles slyly, closing her dulled emerald eyes. “My apologies if my info was not specific enough to avoid troubles, Sir Terra.”
       He bows with shaken head. “Not at all, Miss Requiem. Without your insight, we may have been taken by the nomad with ease.” He raises his head as he observes the cart Arefel took over disappearing among the heavy foot traffic on the cobbled streets. She can see his thoughts weigh on something more personal at this time.
       “I will see to it the butcher doubles your reward,” Requiem tells the stressed man, to his surprise.
       “That won’t be necessary.”
       “Your bounty was much larger than hired for, and so, too, were the risks.”
       He’s much too passive, for which she sees right through. He shakes his head in defeat.
       “Thank you, ma’am,” he resigns.
       “However,” she interjects, perplexing the tired man. “I do have errand to request of you.”
       “Oh?” he queries despite expecting the request. “What do you need me for?”
       “Not now.”
       She hesitates, rendering Terra further curious.
       “Come by the mansion at 5AM tomorrow morning,” she directs. “I shall have everything ready by then for you, including deposit.”
       Confusion takes him momentarily, but shakes it off. Any promise of coin from her usually indicates a good payout—paired with high stakes.
       “Get your rest for tonight,” she orders casually. “May mares keep their distance this eve.”
       “Thank you, Miss Requiem,” he bows again. As she leaves, he passes a hard sigh.
       “Sadly, no matter the night, that same dream finds me…”

<Well, did you find what you were seeking?>

“No… No, this isn’t… How could I expect this…?”

<Chasing this power was ‘your’ goal, was it not?>

“I didn’t know… No way could I foresee-- …”

<Do not believe yourself so oblivious to these events. You saw the outcome clearly with your own eyes.>

“No, those… Impossible that those visions would…”

<Still taking refuge in doubt, are we?>

<Our poor child.>

“Still… It matters none. I’m far too powerless…”

<So, then. You still truly believe you-->

“Of course I do! Tis my folly! My father! Mother…
My hometown!!”

       A lone graceful feather descends against gray skies, propelled downward by heavy precipitation. As it approaches the parched ground, blackening as it inches ever closer, the young man stands swept completely by the endless downpour. Rain trickling down his sopping auburn hair, he stares off in the distance as he argues with voices without form. Before him stands his town.
       The rain continues to roll down his face, tears shed from clouds above fade abruptly to vapor as the view ahead becomes incandescent.
       In a blinding flash lasting both a second yet eternity, his quiet home changes from a sleepy burg of prospering lives to a cacophonous explosive glow. Homes, shoppes, buildings, and gardens become splintered and dispersed by the growing fireball. Swallowing up the entire landscape, the flames begin to take an ominous shape—large wings of fire spread out, four in total, and consume the man’s haunted view. The lone black feather floats gently back into the sky from whence it came as, out of sheer terror, he abruptly opens his deep sapphire eyes.

       Terra’s vision slowly adjusts to the darkness of his room as he sits up in the suddenly uncomfortable bed. His awareness refocuses as he wipes the cold sweat from his brow before lowering his head in silent relief. Listing his gaze out the window to the pale lit domiciles visible within its frame, sunrise yet remaining a distant moment away, he is calmed by the sight of the edging of its onset glimmer highlighting the landscape. With yet another heavy sigh, he tells himself a reminding yet unwelcome statement.
       “No matter the night, that same dream finds me…”
       After a moment dwelling on the traumatic images still embossed on his memory, he attempts to shake it off and lie back down. “It’s persistence grows,” he laments to himself. As he rests his head against his freshly flipped pillow, the backside still damp with perspiration, he pulls the covers over himself as he tries desperately to get a wink more of sleep. However, sleep wouldn’t come, but rather a familiar voice instead.
       “Terra,” the feminine voice rings out within his mind. His eyes open widely in harsh cognizance. He springs back up urgently as he locks eyes with his bedside clock—5:19, the hands indicate.
       “Damn it all, I overslept!” He curses, throwing the heavy blanket aside. Leaving his bed in hurried frenzy, he locates his shirt and trousers nearby, prepared for the early exit, and briskly heads for his bedroom door. Small lamp in hand, he leaves in haste, yet steps lightly so as not to disturb the other sleeping resident in the household, her room separated from his only by a thin one-meter-wide hallway. A note graces the door that would be in plain sight as he leaves if his hurried state of mind could see past his tunneled vision.
       “Pick up some eggs from market this morn.”
       Clearing the stairwell, he grabs a belted sheath resting beside a small table in the vestibule next to his boots, his sidearm blade holstered within. After affixing it to his person upon his left hip and lacing up the tall footwear, he finally opens the west-facing front door, stepping out onto the dew-covered grass that lines the paths among the still-sleepy town.

       “I’m here,” Terra declares as he enters the doorway of the large mansion, situated at the northern end facing the market square about a dozen acres from his own abode. Being built fairly recently, it traps its warmth far better than his own home against the chilly dawn air. His voice echoes subtly off the many decorations that line the walls of the foyer, mostly unseen as the massive estate remains shrouded in the darkness of twilight.
       “She still asleep?” he wonders to himself. A thought strangely answered aloud as he immediately hears a soft voice give distant reply.
       “Come, Terra. I await in my study.”
       A dim hint of light is seen coming from a doorframe going straight back under the stairwell. He nods to himself and walks toward the highlighted threshold.
       “Should’ve known better,” he quietly chuckles to himself.
       He gently opens the door, entering the room to see the town of Gaf’s personal fortune teller and self-appointed mayor sitting at her lavish desk.
       “Apologies for the truancy, Miss Requiem,” he bows.
       Her chamber lies adorned with many old tomes and artifacts, showing the lush history of not only the Kabbal region of which they have made their homeland, but the Judah continent as a whole. Terra is always in awe to see so many books and tomes in one place, many of which aren’t even in circulation amongst the mainland’s publishings. Multiple candelabras and lanterns keep the room well yet warmly lit.
       “Your formalities are always in excess, Terra,” she scolds him. “It seems rather I should apologize for your disturbance. That terrible dream still grips you this morn, I suspect with regret.”
       Genuine concern wraps her low yet gentle voice. Terra remains silent before shaking his head. For even the innermost turmoil, her vision saw all. Standing from her chair, Requiem walks around her desk, her dull brown hair waves freely with each step. Aside from her usual jewelry, she wore a simple combination of two robes sharing colors of her formal dress, bound by the same green sash, though worn unusually low, fitting the two overwraps loosely. It came off that her appearance was far less a priority than usual this meeting. Her slight view of sensualness almost overrides her lightly aging visage, for which he notices her trademark glasses appear to be truant from.
       She grabs a nearby book from a shelf, ordained with a silver emblem of a perfect circle surrounded by wing-like frills, and begins slowly flipping through its pages, whilst simultaneously dismissing Terra’s speechlessness.
       “Besides, what I called you here for this morning is much more of a… personal errand.” Her tone calculates, as if trying to avoid her phrasing in any way that may create hesitance from the young man.
       Terra takes ease from her words as she signals him to have a seat in the leather covered chair cornering her room facing toward her desk. She leans back to sit against the tabletop, book still open in one hand. A gold ring containing a single tourmaline-shaded jewel can be seen among the grasping fingers of her left hand he never recalls her wearing prior.
       “Tell me, Terra,” she demands gently. “Have you heard the stories of relics known as ‘Fated Swords’?”
       Her tone well displays that she almost certainly already knows his reply.
       “I don’t believe so, no,” he responds inquisitively. She wears a momentarily proud expression, leading to a brief chuckle under her breath.
       “In fairness to your tutelage, they are considered fable by most, and largely forgotten to the annals of our history.” Her words reassure the man, as history was not something that was widely covered in common schooling. “Though written of yore, this tale cannot be relegated completely to fiction…”
       Terra piques an eyebrow before sitting himself in more listened manner as she begins her reading.
       “Ancient tale, nearly a millennia old now, tells that in history’s infancy, fierce war broke out between humans and undefined gods. It tells that in the past, these so-called deities meddled with man’s destiny, attempting to shape our lives to their whimsy. However, amongst the chaos of the ensuing conflict, a true blackened evil rose up, threatening the lives of both god and man.”
       Her words have Terra’s curiosity. No studies nor bibles make mention of such apocryphal tales. In fact, most schoolings only covered the last couple hundred years or so regarding even Judah’s small but rich history. Yet, knowing Requiem’s insight, her lore is not to be doubted so abruptly.
       “To stop the looming threat and signal an end to the mutual bloodshed, four gods gave their lives to cease the conflict. They bestowed upon man the concept of ‘free will,’ as well as the entire world of Ogelna to live on as we saw fit… And as token of their sincerity, they also gave to mankind three swords forged of those gods.”
       She resumes after a brief pause as Terra sits up, speechless to the enlightening lecture.
       “Two of the swords represented the dueling absolutes of power in our world… “ She turns the page to ones much more illustrious than the word-heavy pages prior.
       “The sword of heavenly protection, Aegis—Its blade said to be large like a shield; it symbolizes the gods’ vow to safeguard their creations. And the sword of the wrathful earth, Helgram—its fury toward any that pose harm shapes its flame-like steel…”
       She turns the page again while slyly eyeing at Terra, monitoring his captured attentiveness.
       “The third sword, which cost the lives of two gods to create, was made as means to balance the two opposing blades, keeping them in check, and to maintain a ubiquitous equality throughout the realm.”
       Requiem closes the thick tome, dropping her head slightly for a moment as she unseats herself from her lean, walking back over to the proper side of her desk. She raises the top of the work station, with elaborate slides and clever gears guiding its ascent whilst keeping it level, to reveal a large hidden compartment within—The interior lined with padded silk, violet in hue. Nested within lies a scabbard with large wing-like protrusions wrapped around its locket. Terra slowly stands up as he notices a hilt can be seen sticking out from between the folded wings.
       “W-wait, you mean this--,” he stammers before she continues over him.
       “This is that medium,” she declares with conviction. “Though its name lost amongst our written lexicon, we have come to dub it ‘Dual Balance.’”
       His eyes wear his shock openly.
       “Once seen with my own eyes, I was doubtless of the other two blades’ existence,” she says as she lifts the artifact up to present to Terra, who has taken awe at the peculiar object.
       “The legend states that the remaining pair were scattered and hidden across the land, that their powers lie undisturbed.”
       Terra begins to reach for the precious heirloom as she hesitantly pulls it back toward herself. Her eyes close with deep worry.
       “I know not its usefulness as a weapon…” she states. “But, as the blade that governs both the other two, it should react to their presence.”
       Reopening her dull emerald eyes to him, she begins to stretch her arms out toward Terra once more, inviting him to handle the piece.
       “However, depending on your will, it is written that the influences of either sword could backwash into its user. It is something one must always be aware of.”
       Terra, somewhat overwhelmed, nods in feigned understanding as Requiem finally relinquishes the sword to him.
       “So, simply put, you wish for me to locate these other two swords of legend?” He asks to clarify, to which she nods.
       His blue eyes examine the sheathed weapon, noticing the pristine condition of the jeweled pommel and leather-wrapped grip. For the supposed age the lore claims, its steel and fabric remain as if forged today. The wings folded around the scabbard take him aback, however, for at touch they feel strangely authentic; one bearing feathers white as a wedding gown, the other fleshy and black with a bone-like claw protruding from its digit bend. Stranger yet, he finds veins visible in the thinnest parts of the skin upon the darker wing.
       Observing his deep examination of the artifact, she presses her tale. “An old trade dealer scouring the Kabbal area sold this to me on a whim, likely having no clue of its legend. While I first was held in doubt, after years of studying and appraisal, I deemed it to be nothing short of the legitimate relic.”
       “Kabbal… The old town ruins?” Terra replies, his eyes still scanning the sword.
       She shakes her head in a corrected affirmation. “Yes, but the so-called village was still well intact at that time. It has been several years ago now,” Requiem says, almost seeming to choose her words carefully. She crosses her arms beneath her ample chest, puffing herself within her loosely fit open robes, as she decides to finish her prior statement.
       “If the tales are to be believed as gospel, the Aegis should be somewhere in the direction of the continent of Dia to the south, possibly as close as the Metas Desert, near the oasis village of Torrah.” Her informative tone shifts to one less relaxed. “The Helgram, however, may be a more treacherous earning, out among the massive mountainous region north of Gaea…”
       Terra holds glance at her, avoiding the view of her rather buxom presence, before re-eyeing the sword. He catches a glimpse of a large gem at the center of the crossguard, unable to make out its detail hidden underneath the folded wings. Flipping it to the opposite side bears only a grayed shallow dome in the similar position, quelling his curiosity with some disappointment.
       He looks back up to her, with an inquisitive tone. “If I may be so bold to ask, should the other two exist… What importance are they?”
       With all the trust in the world Terra has for Requiem, even he has his hesitations with this newly recited fable. Sensing this with an understanding, she chuckles in her response. “Perhaps it is just my unending curiosity…”
       She then stands up again, walking around her desk directly toward Terra. She stops shy of him before leaning in, taking a more serious look on her face. Her emerald-cast eyes seem to gleam, be it reflecting the warm candlelight or something less natural.
       “But I also worry about some of the events that have gone on in the world recently.”
       He shifts his gaze downward and off to his side. Hesitation stills his voice, but eventually subsides.
       “You mentioned a ‘looming threat’… Do you think these could be connected?” He mutters. A bitter hurt carries the words.
       “My certainty eludes me,” she answers solemnly. “Some things remain outside my field of vision, after all.”
       She arcs back up before turning away, striding back over to her desk, closing the hidden compartment as she leans downward upon its cleared surface.
       “Frankly speaking, Terra, I do not anticipate this to be a short nor safe journey… It would be best for you to prepare adequately,” she states as she opens a drawer on the desk, recovering a small pouch from its contents.
       “I have down-payment ready for you, though be it half of the total planned,” she laments as she hands him the bulky silken pouch. Its weight is hefty, startling Terra as he tries to catch the bottom with his other hand before it slips from his grasp.
       “Half!? This alone is too much!” he says with shock in his voice.
She simply shakes her head before reiterating. “As said before, this will undoubtedly not be a swift errand. Take what you feel you need. I will tend to Lerum’s needs in your absence as the other half of the deposit.”
       Though this relieves any need to take care of his mother momentarily, Terra still finds worry regarding his being away from her.
       “Oh, and please remember to pick up her eggs.” She produces her truant spectacles from her desktop as she looks back to him.
       He snaps to realization with a sharp nod. “Of course!” He no longer questions her knowledge of such trivialities at this point.
       “You may leave when you are fully prepared. However be it unwise to dawdle,” she closes ominously as she reseats herself at her closed desk. “What lies ahead is rife with darkened clouds. Even my view of the future lies in a dreary fog.” She clasps her hands together over the desktop, the grasped fingers covering her mouth. “I feel a storm may soon be upon us…”
       Terra stands from his seat, taking heed of her foreboding words. Strangely more awake than he was when he entered the briefing, his face now seems to beam with anticipation.
       “I cannot recall my last transit to even Gaea…” he says with newfound glee as he heads for the door.
       “Who knows… A good journey might be what ailes my restless nights.”
       She nods with a smile and waves her hand, signaling his right to leave. As the door closes behind him, Requiem leans back in her chair, tilting it slightly. Her expression sharply contrasts his disposition.
       “I pray you are prepared for the trials that lie ahead…”

More Coming Soon