The Cloven Woods
Aidalis continued to dash forward - spurring his horse onward. He clutched to Kieara as they ran, pulling her into his chest. He held her close, like a man cradling a child, as Malack surged forward beneath them. In their path they kicked up dirt and grass, pebbles into the air. There was the thunder of his horse's hoof-steps against the ground, and then, the sound of fire - a crackling, a whoosh of smoke and flame. Suddenly, Aidalis felt very warm, sweating beneath the plates of his armor. His skin was prickling with perspiration. His mask slid about on his face, greased with the saltwater from his pores. It was hot out - it should not be hot. It was early evening, it should be cool, filled with stray breezes.But there was a terrible roar of heat alround them, and the bite of smoke around them. Aidalis could feel it, scratching at his lungs. Why was there fire? Why was their flames. He glanced upwards - more out of habit than anything else - only to see that high in the sky above him sailed the form of Sahariel - gown flapping like a banner in the wind, in the holocaust of fire and embers that she had brought with her. She did not seem to be pursuing them, however, instead, forging her own path through the woods. And in her wake, the forest had been set aflame by the trails of her wings.
Aidalis only spurred his horse on, running as far and as fast away from the temple as they could. Time passed, chimes, ticks, who could be certain - but the only thing that the All-Sword wanted to go was get as far away from this place, with all of its evil taint as he could. The fire was behind them, when He finally tugged on Malack's reins, pulling him into a walk. The horse gasped and fought for air, and Aidalis huffed as they began to meander through a clearing of trees - as circular as the last they had come to. There were no standing stones, not here - just a few overlong stalks of flowers gone to cinder; everything was covered in a fine layer of ash. The results of Sahariel's inferno must have blown this direction, for a fog of smoke had descended amongst the forest trees and the petrified stumps. Everything was grayed out, seen in monochromes through the filter of the fog. It was perfectly silent, as most parts of the Cloven Woods had been ; but for some reason, the silence still made Aidalis' skin crawl.
The angel had screamed - she was either hurt or afraid. There was no reason she should not be either of these qualities - he was afraid too. The All-Sword cradled her in his arms, as they continued to walk, burying her in his chest. He stroked her hair, and murmured, softly - voice tinged with exhaustion and cracked with smoke, "It's going to be alright." He rocked her in his arms, and brushed back some of her hair from her face, kissing the top of her forehead. She still fed cold and clammy, still felt sickly, but Aidalis would have kissed her if she had been bleeding and broken with Blight-sores. He continued to rhythmically run his hands through her hair, but then, he looked up, watching the horizon. Perth would be ahead, and so, hopefully, would be Gallae. He had to warn them. Holding Kieara, he dug his heels into the dies of his horse, and they continued on, on through the smoke and fog.
Elsewhere | The White Room
The hooded man languished in his throne. The black pools around the edges of the room were undisturbed, and their surfaces were like smoked, mirrored glass. They showed nothing, save for the reflection of the pure white ceiling. The man's golden gauntlets clenched around the skulls and bones that made up the arms of his chair, giving a distinct impression that the man was tense, stressed. Of course, there was no expression to be seen upon his face. The glaive of light sat at his feet , making the visible edges of his sabatons flicker and glow with the reflection of its light. His tendril like wings splayed across the stretched flesh back of his chair. The white room was empty, and the only sound was the shifting of plate and the screaming amongst the bones and sinew that made up the hooded man's grisly throne. The hooded man outstretched a hand, a ball of golden light appearing in his palm. The light twisted in his hand, and he began to mold it with his hand, forming into the shape of a small thrush, which flapped around his hand for a moment, letting out small songs. The hooded man then crushed it with his hand, as a dark shape stepped through the white door of the white room.
The hooded man leaned forward slightly; to see who had come before him, but then, leaned back at the sight of his son. The white haired demon was dressed impeccably - it was clear that he had made some effort to come before his father in proper attire. He wore a long, black robe with embroidered flames licking up around the hem, and his hair had been tied back in a long braid. The robe was open, up he was no longer bare-chested, instead wearing a highcollared red shirt and black breeches. Golden armor made up pauldrons and sabatons, half armored. The hooded man tilted his head, watching as Dantelion had approached. The demon walked with a spring in his steps, and his shoulders were held back. The hooded man's attention remained as the young, white haired man walked to stand before him. His son wore a smile on his grey lips, causing dimples to appear around the edges of his mouth. It was a self satisfied expression, triumph shining bright and clear upon Dantelion's face. The son's hands were folded neatly across his red shirt, and his white-haired head was bowed politely towards his father. The hooded man lifted a hand from one of the arms of the throne, flicking his gauntleted fingers with a clink. From his fingers drifted a few motes of light, which twisted into the shapes of moths before dissipating into nothing.The gesture was beckoning, an invitation for his son to approach him.
Dantelion moved forward, lifting his head up. His eyes were shining bright, like the afternoon sun. The hooded man was old enough to remember what that had looked like. The son did not seem to be able to rid himself of that self-satisfied smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching with pride. Dantelion ran one of his taloned hands through his hair - a gesture that rid the demon of his formality. Such pretenses were dropped when triumph was at hand. Indeed, Dantelion approached his father's throne and settled upon the marble step, black robes pooling around him as he did. He leaned his head back, neck craning as he did. If there had been eyes beneath the white hood, the young demon would have met him. His son spoke then, and his tone was filled with warmth, happiness, even ; it had not been in his voice, when his son had spoken to him last. He only said three words, but those three words carried a weight and gravitas that had not been heard in this room for some time. "Mother is home." At those words, the hooded man pulled himself out from his chair, posture strong, straight, and walked away from his son, to the far side of the hall. He stood infront of the huge rectangle of white light that served as the entryway to this place. He folded his hands behind his back, staring with no-eyes out into the blinding light.
And then, a hand stretched through the door of light - a hand that the hooded man grasped immediately - his reaction too quick for any human. The hand was pale, thin, and the tips were topped with blades, and the palms were stained with blood. The man pulled on the hand, and tugged in to the room a woman, draped in dark blue, somewhat transparent, silk. S The fabric clung to her figure, held up by an ornate silver clasp that gathered the fabric in the center of her sternum. Beneath the clinging fabric, Her breasts were full and soft, her hips wide and plush. She had thick, dark hair that framed a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and thick red lips. She had grasped the hand willingly, readily, and when she was through the door of light, she clung to him. Cinders of silk fell from her back as she wrapped her hands around the hooded head, leaning into the man's robed chest. She clung to him, like a lover, and he brushed a gauntleted hand down her back, watching ashes shed from her gown as he did. The hooded man's tendrils of light, his wings, wrapped around her, embracing her more fully, pressing her curved body closed to him. One of his other gauntleted hands tangled in her hair. The gesture was that of a true, loving couple.
The hooded man spoke, a command with affection behind it. "Dantelion. Leave us." The son padded past the embracing mother and father, and bowed his head once to the both of them, before walking through the white door of light, and disappearing into the great world outside the white room. The hooded man scooped the woman into his arms, carrying her effortlessly. He walked with her to his throne, where she came to rest in his lap, knees straddling either side of his hips. She placed one hand on his chest, the other crept up to cup the edge of his hood, a touch that the faceless man seemed to lean into. Her voice was soft, hesitant, and her words were marked with tenderness and sorrow.
"Why did you never come for me?" She said, honey-dark eyes wide and watchful in her face, staring up at the void that was her lover's face. The hooded man adjusted her on his lap ; sliding her up a bit, making her knees (scabby and bloody, protruding from her gown) brush up against the stitched flesh back of his chair. he reached up to brush a piece of hair from her face, and leaned in to her neck, perhaps to plant a kiss there, perhaps to bite her ; whatever the gesture was, it was lost beneath the black of his hood. Her face was pained - distant. It was impossible to tell where she was, but she was not really here, not really in the white room. Her eyes were thousands of miles away. The hooded man pulled his head away, the black still there, still blank and formless. And he spoke;
"I knew you would be freed." And she sighed, and shook her head, long black locks shifting beneath his hands as she did. She reached out to place both hands around the cowl, and then, she pulled it back, away from his face - or would have, had he not grabbed one of her wrists, fiercely. He pulled her hand away from his cowl, bringing it to rest on her left breast. He tilted his head, and said softly, "You are beautiful." The tone was not complimentary, merely a statement of fact - a feelingless appraisal of what was before him. The hooded man leaned back in the chair, and the throne let out another scream - loud this time, deafening. And the woman crawled up his torso, and rested her head against his chest, holding him, laying with him. He murmured, quietly, as the hand grasping her wrist was removed, and returned to stroking her hair; "What are you going to do, Sahariel?"
She let out a small laugh - it rang like a chime in her throat, "You know what I will do." Her tone was chiding, albeit affection. She pulled herself up, lazily, and her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder. She reached out, to pick one of the hooded man's hands - guiding the gauntleted hand to press against her right breast, while her free hand rested on her left. The man's hand responded, gaunleted fingers closing around the soft tissue of her breast and silken gown. He dragged his hand down, and the fabric ripped, exposing her soft, white flesh - leaving torn pink lines of skin from where his fingertips had touched. Her words were softer now, as the man with the hood leaned it to bring his cowled head against her body, words soft and thin, "I will give you the Slánaitheoir."
