Chapter 25

"Life; She is such a terrifying mix of Beauty and Pain."

~

The Secret Cell, the Under-Ground Dungeons,

Kingdom of Tristendyre,

The first Phrinight of the Second month,

XXI Year of Regency

Jaycob Israel Oreius, the Perceptive Rook

"And how are you feeling?" asked the olive haired young Archer, stepping into the cell of the elderly and skeletal man upon the cold floor.

"Like it is a wonderful day to see my wife, at long last", replied the long-abiding tenant of the confidential shell, his voice faded and frail. Jaycob appeared worried.

The robust companion squatted down beside the man and took his cold hand to hold. He kneaded the senile one's palm gently and noticed that it remained pale, with no blood rushing to the surface.

"That is an audacious statement to make, sir", said the masked man. "And, you have had meagre appetite. I find that grandly concerning." His gaze moved to eye the platter of bread and drink he had brought earlier that day, which remained untouched, leave alone unconsumed.

The elderly man's chuckle escaped his throat in ragged heaves. "This world has little to offer me at this age and fragility of mine, as opposed to what I may bestow upon it."

The man's mind was inhabited by thoughts of his single ordinance that remained unfulfilled.

"And what may that be?" asked the young man, leaning close.

The question he had posed seemed to have invoked much reflection, for the man's drooped eyes appeared pondering for depth and cause, before he spoke:

"Every life is born into this world with a purpose to fulfil in its course and run.

Some may be born to rule, some to save, some to defend; there may be a life born merely to compose a song, but that song would speak volumes to other vagabonds' souls in their nights, would show them the embrace of heaven and those feelings write meaning to the life that composed the song; there may be lives born as forerunners or as a vessel exposed to the rain of Fate where it would garner the waters into its being and when the time has come, pour forth the rains into the possession of another life and watch them bring change into the world.

If I have been a vessel worthy of endowing my esteemed successor with the wisdom they would need to take the torch up and run their course, I would be rapt in knowing my purpose has seen due completion and I may rest in sleep with my beloved that have crossed the seas and are yonder."

"And whom do you consider as capable as to take your light and run the course before you?", asked the Chief Archer.

"Capable would be a term too general, my boy. But neither auspiciousness nor talent can bring a competent successor", answered the elder. "They must be vested; foreordained."

"And what requisites are demanded? How is one so foredestined?", asked the dark-eyed man.

There was an especial and sure aspect that bound the fragile man's spirit and interest to this peculiar conversation. "They will have been endowed with divine powers from their very birth. They are Warriors."

At this phase, Jaycob's appeal was also inevitably acquired by the subject discussed. "The Class-Warriors referred in the Prophecies of Judah's Ascendency, the rise against the Dragons?" asked he.

The man's eyes turned to lock gazes with the lad in exchange. "That is precisely the matter at hand, my son. And if it intrigues your passion, I am a descendant of the Zephaniah clan mentioned in such foretelling", said the elder.

As his breath was spent in words, an element of his fleeting strength was exhausted.

"I am aware", said Jaycob, with a mild chuckle. "You make an enthralling subject in my researches."

The aged Zephanian offspring smiled. "We were foreigners, children of Jael Zephaniah, the Warrior of Judah's army from generations ago. She was outlawed from her home country, battled the Dragon Knight Sisera and prevailed for she was of those that possessed Auspices."

"But are you aware of what her auspices were?", asked the robust man, curious.

"I am afraid, I do not know of the details thereof", said he, mesmerised in his pensive ponderings. "But I am aware she was a Rook, the one overseeing the East. The Prophecy decreed that the two Rooks of the army would be of like blood and kin, and she had grandly persuaded her brother, for she had interpreted he was the chosen rook of the west. However, that had not been the case, for he lacked powers."

"I assume she settled in Tristendyre subsequent to her triumph over Dragon Knight Sisera?", asked Jaycob, content that the old man's moods were fair this eve.

In all their years where he had arrived here to feed or assist the man, they had never shared such a deep conversation, none regarding his blood, but constantly of his sights in this world.

Jaycob did not know wherefrom such inspiration had been welcomed, but it was a lovely sight to see the man speak of his history.

"In that feudal Era, Tristendyre was familiarly known as the Kingdom of 'Fraizendale'. She brought a souvenir from the war field: a Fang of Dragon Jezebel", said the elder. "Sustaining vital injuries and poison, she did not survive long after her victory and thus did not compose a will for her children, but the fang is in her heirs' possession."

"Are you not of them as well? Why do you not hold it in rightful custody?", asked Jaycob, although he was well-aware.

"Ah, with the branches in family, the sibling of my ascendants claimed it for their branch and lineage. They are rogues, my boy. They lust for unquenchable power. I would not pollute my hands with such blood. In honesty, I was innocent of all the folly these descendants wrought with the power it brought", said the elder.

Jaycob was curious. He was far more informed than an average man, yet held his possession of significant history in mystery.

The elder proceeded to end what was upon the emergent face of his mind: "When I had realised that they were using the power of this souvenir as an instrument to beguile the people, I voiced my contention. That is what has brought me to this sorry state you see this day."

"Ah, you claim so of the Arch-Eccleissor, then?" asked the Chief of Artillery.

"That is the name he has bestowed upon his profession of deceit", said the man, quietly.

Jaycob nodded. He had overheard a conversation earlier that very day, where the man and the Regent had inadvertently spoken of Devland's lack of innateness in vatic power, despite listening ears of the darkness.

But presently, he required source to such summoning methods that they seemed to bear.

"Is there any more that your awareness compasses?" asked he, but then he realised that the man was ailing for breath. His sensing sight of divine arts was distorting, as it did during fraught times.

"I must leave this world peacefully, dear boy", said the old man, a pleasant yet laboured and toothless smile on his face.

"When I had arrived earlier this day, you were peacefully asleep. Are you not feeling healthier?" asked Jaycob, creases dancing about his brows from the pangs of fret.

"My darling young girl was led away to execution and I could not prevent, but solely worry on her behalf", said the elder. "I truly believe she will survive."

The young man bowing over him smiled, "She has, indeed. And she will present herself in a few moments. The frost of this monsoon is chilly and she cannot afford to be inflicted by illness."

"She is something of a powerful one, my son", said the man, a certain glow in his deep set eyes. Jaycob nodded as his gaze swept over the man's wrinkled face that bore the folds one would see in dried raisins.

"I do believe she is peculiar; it gladdens me to know that you have found a friend, as it is rare", said he, softly stroking the man's scarce hair.

"Ah, this man is old and poor, bereft of a family; but I truly have found a friend in you as well", said he, with a tender laugh.

"I am more than simply your friend", said he, removing the mask that concealed his secretive countenance, "...grandpa. And I am the prefigured inheritor of Jael's auspice, wielding powers, as the second Rook that stands upon the west end in Judah's army against the Dragons."

~