Where The Mind Goes

[Taelian Edevane]

86th of Ash, Year 120

He had frightening dreams that afternoon, as he slept in the company of his wound. He'd been having dreams more vivid of late -- dreams of things he hadn't even conceptualized before; so far away from the breadth of what possible reality appeared to be, and yet, there they were. At times, these images felt vivid enough that they were mistaken for being real: a desert of red, a wasteland of iron and bones, millions of Orkhai chanting and roaring, shouting, warring, assaulting, killing. Weapons strange to him -- blades of coagulated blood, cannons that fired heavy stones, blades hot like molten flame.

Within the core of this dream-landscape was a place; a center that led into an endless array of tunnels, leading down, sort of like a long shaft that followed into the center of this reality. The more he witnessed these flashes of red-clad warriors, orange-colored wastes and darkening skies, the more he realized that this was perhaps not a dream at all, but a premonition. It spoke to him of a place he'd only heard whispers of in the past, curiously from the lips of Miranda or Eloise: Bel. A word stood out to him, too: Arun. He could not remember where he'd heard it, only that he knew it as if internal to himself. Almost as if it were home.

As he awoke, it did not take long for him to notice that he was crying. Only a little - just droplets of tears at the edges of his eyes, falling, descending onto the surface of the bed from his cheeks, his chin, his collar, lower and lower. He felt terribly confused; these images - almost like memories - felt like they were pushing him out of his own body, into a separate reality where he dwelt. Unlike Aldrin, who knew his father and at worst originated from Muid, Taelian was the son of an Imprisoned God deep within Bel, a true hellscape. His 'home' was naught but nightmares of death and war; not a place to return to at all.

It was for the first time since he'd realized his ascension, now, that he began to think: it would have been better if he'd not been like this at all. Or at least if he'd never known. Perhaps Venadak could have simply let him die -- at least then he'd likely be in Muid, with his mother and father... somewhere.

...If that was even where they were.

A silent terror overtook him, then, as he thought: perhaps Bel was where his home lied. Perhaps Venadak had brought them there, so touched they had become by his corrupted talon. He could only pray that it wasn't so; they had suffered more than enough in life.

He sighed. His wound was bandaged -- blood had already seeped through, but he could tell that most of the damage he'd dealt to himself had probably already recovered. That was perhaps the most stark difference between now and then; his vitality. He had the strongest sense that it was even moreso than other Draedan. Taelian was somehow aware of each and every one of his abilities, and he'd even given them names; the one that made him so strong, quick and enduring, he called 'Lightborn'. He was the son of Venadak, after all, a God known for his strength, his sturdiness. That power was what kept him alive now.

Taelian began to unwrap the bandage, and after doing so, he pressed the palm of his hand against the remaining wound and simply seared it shut. It stung, but not incredibly so. As an Ebon Knight, he was used to fire, to being cindered and scorched. Now, it was even more internal to his being than with the Beacon. The man sighed.

He was remembering the last day more clearly, now -- the bits before he fell asleep, anyhow. He told Arkash he loved him. Somehow, those words had lifted a sense of loneliness within his heart, one that he'd had since he moved to Lorien. It was difficult to be so alone in the world; without love, without companionship, without hope. Only a duty, an incredible burden... one that only kept expanding. The more he thought on it all, the sadder he got.

"Oh well," he muttered to himself. The man stood from the bed and looked for something to clean all the blood with, but he couldn't find anything that would suffice. He supposed he'd have to pay the hosts of the establishment extra, and perhaps more, to keep it all under wraps.

[Arkash]

Arkash knew from his many outings that blood was annoying to clean. When it came down to a fight, Arkash was almost guaranteed to end up coated in his opponent's life force for some reason or other; he often went for the throat, arteries, places he knew to bleed heavily. So, he'd grown accustomed to the feeling of old blood beneath his scales and patches of his fur-trimmed clothes being matted and gross. He'd had to scrub his body and attire a lot through his adventures. Something he was not used to was cleaning floors; scrubbing the wood boards down and soaking up the deep crimson that pooled there.
That had been Arkash's problem for the day: wiping up the puddle of ichor that stained the floor of Taelian's room. He carried two pales to and from the room, up and down the stairs, and all the way to the well and back at least a dozen times. What was even more impressive was the number of rags Arkash had gone through trying to mop up such a sizable puddle. He'd originally thought three would be enough, but he was on his way back to the room with his thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth. The rags were tucked away in the bucket of his left hand, while the right carried a pale of freshwater in his right. He was done with the floor and just needed to clean up the elf and his bedding.
It was a curious thing, the godling's injury, for he'd not looked into a man's wound like that before. He'd not seen all the moving and flexing parts until he'd inspected Taelian's wound. He'd seen them still and inanimate, of course, but never still alive. It felt strange, taboo almost, but he ultimately paid his mind wanderings no attention.
When at last he stepped into the inn with the depiction of a rooster on its sign, he eyed the keeper from across the room as he proceeded to the stairs. The young, shaven man had been glaring at Arkash for the past four trips, and Arkash could tell that he was close to asking the rathor's business, but hadn't worked up the nerve just yet. Arkash took full advantage of his hesitation and proceeded to the stairs, which he carefully climbed with both pales held steady in his freezing cold claws.
Eventually, he set the buckets at the door, then looked to his claws while he caught his breath and passively warmed himself in the temperate air of the inn. A sigh escaped him before he carefully twisted the brass handle of the door, then eased his long head through the gap in the frame to check on Taelian. To Arkash's surprise, the elf was awake; on his feet, even. What was more was Taelian's bandage was off. Arkash furrowed his brow at that.
"Oi!" He called, voice stern. "I' wasn' easy wrappin' up a si's-'undred poun' elf!" He scolded with a glare, then lifted both pales before moving past the threshold of the door. He used his shoulder to push the wooden barrier ajar, then leaned his body a little to heft the pale of water into the room. Just a few feet past the threshold of the door, Arkash set the two pales down, then rolled his sore, strained shoulders before kicking the door shut.
Finally able to rest, the rath shook off his arms, then straightened his back before looking over the tall elf. Wide eyes peered at the stretched, melted flesh that grew in a grotesque scar at the epicenter of the man's abdomen. Taelian had somehow cauterized the wound, but he'd said he lost his magics, didn't he? Did he just have some other fire ability in godhood? He furrowed his brow while he considered what the man had told him, then shook his head a little. He couldn't recall all Taelian's powers but knew that the man could fly and survive otherwise lethal wounds.
Was that even what Taelian was? Half god? Arkash wasn't entirely sure he believed in gods, let alone their offspring. Even after the display, his mind passively sought reasons for Taelian's ludicrous vitality. Drugs? Dumb luck? Elfish vigor? Necromancy? Maybe even a type of magic Arkash knew nothing about? He couldn't be certain; all he knew was that Taelian was incredibly resiliant.
"Am glad youer orite, enyway," he spoke as he leaned to the left to try and get a look at the exit wound. Somehow, Arkash doubted 'reaching behind his back' was a superpower that the godling possessed. "'Ew are orite, rite?" He spoke inquisitively before he rubbed down the sections of his fingers that had been strained by the weight of the buckets, then collected a clean rag from the lighter pale, and heaved the water bucket to the edge of the bed. He had little hope for cleaning the sheets; They were more than likely stained, but he could at least dilute the intensity of the marks.
So, he set the rag down, lifted the pale with both arms, then oh-so-carefully poured a portion of the water into the bedding where the red stain was most saturated. Immediately, he began to rub it down with the rag. Unfortunately, the stain only grew in size, smeared by the efforts of Arkash's cleaning. The rath bared his teeth in a sort of cringe, then set the rag aside. It was just going to have to stay bloody, it seemed.
Arkash then turned to Taelian with something of an awkward smile that pulled at the hinges of his long mouth. A glance was then cast to the rifle he'd brought with him, which leaned against the far wall, empty. A squint saw him reach behind himself to pull the pistol from the rim of his trousers, as it had been tucked beside his tail for some time. His free claw produced his remaining three bullets from his pocket, and he set them aside.
It might have looked like he was busy or had some sort of agenda to attend to, but in truth, Arkash was looking for things to occupy the time with. Taelian had said some things- a lot of things- that he needed to reflect on, and didn't quite know how to proceed. His mouth was dry and the stir of anxiety wrenched his gut. His breath bated while he looked about the room, and avoided eye contact with the elf. Finally, his eye set on the sack he'd brought with him, and the glimpse of that strange book caught his eye.
It was bound with a strange pale leather he'd not seen before and scrawled with endless common words, inked with blood. It was Malafor's Grimoire, and he still knew not what it said. He'd had the opportunity to ask Fayeth to read it for him, but she'd been a little upset about Arkash's adventures; he hadn't worked up the nerve to remind her of his outing with the loot of said venture. Taelian, though. He knew not what had transpired in the past two weeks. What was more? Arkash could trust him. He claimed to love Arkash, after all- the rathor had found his distraction.
"I can' read," he spoke seemingly at random as if only to break the tension. "Wull I can, jus' no' in commun," clarified the rath before he walked to the bag and lowered into a crouch to grip the edges of the creepy book with both claws before producing it. "I uhh..." he started while he considered the story he wanted to use. "Th' fella I wus 'ired to kill Vogen faw scumbagged me an gae'me 'is book - faw killin' a celebran'!." Arkash bared his teeth in an awkward grin. "I might'a took credit faw youer kill," he laughed a breath, but more out of awkwardness than actual humor.
"Enyway, it wus 'ew tha' finished th' job, an' I can' read enyway, so I figure 'ew can 'ave the spoils," the rath declared as he approached the wounded godling, then offered the book. "If 'ew ge' aroun' t' readin' i', tho', I'm dyin' t' know wha' i' says... y'kno', if 'ew feel liek sharin'," he spoke with something of a smile and lifted the book in a gesture for Taelian to take it.

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