Chapter 4

The lightning dancing between Dettetcheny's claws never ceased their sparks, arcing loudly between each talon with a deafening crack and blinding blue light. He almost had the satisfaction of scaring her skin, perhaps even slaying her where she stood, yet the manifested spirit Hornmaned Drake's powerful jaws clamped down tightly, refusing to budge. Even as the lighting whipped at its soul, rending the crimson-bathed apparition form, threatening to obliterate it entirely, the Dark only harshened its bite to a significant degree.

Dettetcheny didn't just hear, but felt the snap rock throughout his body as the lightning instantly vanished and his fingers fell limp. Though, it wasn't as if his bone was simply cleaved, for the drakes teeth were too jagged as they tore into his flesh, rending his muscles even as Dettetcheny desperately pulled away, pain wracking his body and mind. The drake cared not however, as it only clamped down harder and harder, feeling as the bones grinded down and flesh compressed and tore, as the skin ruptured became degloved, exposing his muscle that spilled out and snapped violently. With a growl that rattled the very depths of the castle, the Drake flung his head back with one final snap, before vanishing into thin air as Dettetcheny crashed upon the far side of the cell, his severed transfigured arm falling to the floor limp and bloodied.

"Sorry," Annesha muttered as her awestruck gaze soon faded. "It's odd, Zamzon never once jumped my command in the past. Though, no doubt the ancient war between man, Gryphon and Dragons still festers within his spirit. Say, Dettetcheny, ever heard of a beast known as a Great Scorpion?" the princess asked in a casual disconcerting tone of voice.

She steadily approached Dettetcheny even as he moaned and writhed upon the stone floor. He clutched his bloodied arm and kicked as he struggled to grip reality. He didn't wail out however, no doubt the shock and adrenaline both doing well to stifle the true extent of the damage he suffered. Blood quickly covered the ground, his face growing more and more pale by the second, each breath becoming lighter then the last.

Annesha continued, elaborating, "they can often be found in central to southern Agernal, and they're terrible things, so I've heard. They crawl on eight legs, are larger then you or I and have a fine set of formidable pincers that could cleave a man in two as well as a set of vicious set of mandiables you'd never wish to be caught in. If you ever saw a great scorpion, you'd certainly scorn Lynthre for producing yet another unsightly, monstrous abomination for this world to suffer. However, among its deadly pincers, thorn-like legs and rending mandibles," she continued, kneeling down next to Dettetcheny, a cold set of fingers taking hold over his throat as her thumb levied his chin to gaze her in the eyes. "A great scorpion's pride is its very stinger. One it proudly displays high above its form upon its tail for all to see. Like a glistening, golden, immaculate and priceless medallion." His eyes were growing dull, struggling to keep a fixed gaze as his vitality gradually began to fade. "It could strike with precision and poison foes with a deadly concoction. You could slash at its hide all day, cut away its legs and sever its pincers and it would remain fight fiercely on, never deterred, stubborn to give in. However," she continued, her fingers giving his throat a tentative squeeze within her firm grasp. "If you simply cut the stinger away from the start, a great scorpion loses all will to fight. It just gives up and allows itself to be slain."

She could feel the pulse within his neck as her fingers sank into his flesh, feel the air slipping through his throat with each breath he took. It was at times like this Annesha remembered just how delicate the human body was. If she so desired, all it would take is a bit of light magic to give her the strength needed to clamp down upon his esophagus and rip it from Dettetcheny's body. The mental image of him bleeding out and sputtering from the bloodied whole in his neck ringed a satisfying, gratifying tone in her head. Nothing less was deserving of a traitor. The skin upon their muscles was far too deserving, the limbs hanging from each socket, far too generous, the teeth within their maw, far too liberal for the nature of a Gyr Worshiper. The mere sight of him made her fester with rage, enough to spark a flame within her hand.

One capable of turning flesh to ash, yet at the same time wasn't hostile to her. Unlike Dettetcheny, she wasn't blinded by rage, it didn't drive her actions as she gripped his bleeding stump searing away at his flesh. She watched with satisfaction as Dettetcheny winced and stifled his cries, struggling to maintain a defiant glare, even as tears welled up within his eyes. Her face was so close to his, he could feel her sinister breath upon his lips as her unblinking soft gaze never shifted or wavered. It was a pathetic sight, seeing such a weak feeble being. Like an injured domesticated beast in need of being put down, until his expression suddenly shifted.

All sense of weakness drained from his expression as one of pure spite and hatred took its place. The aspects of Myndre cried out to her soul, driving her hand gripping his neck to instinctively reach at her side intercepting Dettetcheny's lunging fist containing a dark summoned knife poised to pierce her neck. She held tightly, stunned by the sudden attempt on her life, one nearly successful. He lured her in appealing to her proclivities. If it wasn't for her godly aspects of Myndre, she most certainly would've been struck dead.

Still pressing for the cut even as his blow was held at bay, Dettetcheny murmured, "don't compare me to the likeness of dumb beast."

Raising her chin, glaring down with a grin, she answered, "I'm beginning to see why Demion is so fond of you." A glint of recognition crossed his eyes, yet he remained stalwart. "Tell me Dettetcheny," Annesha began. "What of Gryalphaimy do you think he does now? Is he watching on in earnest? I bet he is, laughing on at this spectacle as you lay clashing with the princess of Carthol? -deriving entertainment from your suffering, trials and hardships? How much longer do you intend to entertain this baneful god?"

"They can burn," he simmered, a veil of unrefined light magic encapsulating his arm, greatly increasing its strength, enabling him to push past Annesha's firm hold, allowing the blade to gradually press into the skin of her neck. "Every. Last. God."

"If you kill me now," Annesha began as she counteracted his advance with a veil of refined light magic over her arm that was capable of keeping his strength at bay. Still the blade pierced her hide, drawing a drop of blood that trickled down her neck. "-the spectacle will stand to entertain gyr longer. Should you die and Gyr will have still been fulfilled. Such is the nature of the gods, always watching on, seeking to be entertained. We can't win Dettetcheny," she muttered as the idea and reality slowly began to penetrate Dettetcheny's weary and feverishly anxious mind. "So it's best we don't play their game."

She could feel the strength in his arm waver, the resolve in his light magic begin to wane.

"Why do you even make the effort for me?" he asked, fist still holding strongly to the blade. "Carthol is in ruin and it was your blood who led them to their death because of this meaningless war, because of your unyielding, uncompromising and erroneous pride."

"Correct." she retorted with a blunt voice matter of fact tone of voice, as though it were obvious. "The frivolous war, the senseless deaths, the meaningless loss and the sacrifices too quickly forgotten. Everything past, everything present and all the suffering we bear is the very product of the old Lord's pride. Pride that festered before my father's Lordship, before even the first Mortemy's Lordship, beginning a war that should have never come to pass."

"I can't follow in their footsteps, not even if I wished. Carthol's age of war is at an end, the call of Myndre, the God, the icon of war, forever falls silent. So that is it Dettetcheny, no longer can you disent for Gryalphamy has no cause to oppose. No war, no conflict. The very thing you've always wanted and the very thing you lost so much for. But I see it in your eyes," she said, pulling herself closer once more, horns extending over either side of his head as she brought herself face to face. "It's not good enough, not for you. This age did not come to pass through any effort on your part and neither your foregone god's. Your friends died in vain misled by the god you so entertain. The only thing you've gained is time enough to recognize your shame. The shame that taints your soul, the anguish that rends it asunder. Like a blade you're warped and misshapen by the incompetence of a temperer, but not yet broken. Like a smith, despite my typical disposition, I don't see your faults and folly, I see an opportunity to reforge and make better."

"I've done so much wrong," Dettetcheny said. "I've robbed and assaulted. That can't just be forgiven."

"There is only one in need of paying recompense." It was then she unhanded Dettetcheny and withdrew standing above. "Fancy spitting in the eye of a god, soul of rebellion?"

Not long after Demion would find Annesha in the gardens of the castle once more. Greeting her with a nod, he asked, "So how did it go?"

"I managed to convince him," she answered.

With a cocked eyebrow, he inquired with a nod, "and that bloodied transfigured hand was given up willingly?"

Looking down to her hand with a wrapped and bandaged severed limb clutched between her fingers, she shot Demion a smile and said, "Zamzon just gave him a love-bite." Pinching her two fingers together, she iterated, "a little one."

"You never did learn to play nice with the other kids," he grinned.

"The other kids had oughta be tougher. Regardless, I'd say I'm a changed person, for the better too. I swear it!"

"Heh, I'll take your word for it. In the meantime, get in contact with head master Oren. That boy needs an education and training in the aspects of the physical, elemental and magical."

"Aye, it's already planned, Demion. That headmaster and I have a date in a few days' time."

In the meantime Dettetcheny was escorted to his room by two guardsmen at each side. They certainly did seem ill trained in the proper treatment of an honorary castle guest as one harshly clinged to his elbow walking in him at a fast pace practically dragging his feet upon the carpet. When they made it to his room Dettetcheny was swiftly thrown in like a bag of waste both were desperate to dispose of before slamming the door shut behind. He wasn't sure if he was to consider himself a prisoner even if his cell was a fancy furnished room fit for an aristocrat.

It sported a bed, a rather fine and luxurious one too that was so large, Dettetcheny was certain it could fit his entire family. A chest for clothing, a dresser for more clothing, a closet to hang even more clothing. Dettetcheny began wondering how much clothing a single person could possibly need. There was a grand and large mirror sitting atop the dresser, big enough to see his entire head, but that was nothing compared to the mirror sitting off to the side that could showcase his entire form. When he investigated he found the mirror was in fact part of a door and that door led to an entire washroom complete with a tub, a latrine… and yet another mirror.

It was strange seeing such luxuries, Dettetcheny didn't quite know how to react. He was quiet, trying to process and make sense of it all, yet nothing quite ran through his mind. He couldn't necessarily focus on anything. He couldn't formulate a plan, was there a need for a plan? He certainly felt there should've been one. There had to be something, some drive, some cause but nothing came to mind. He wasn't a prisoner, he wasn't being hunted, he was in no need to actively survive, yet his heart couldn't stop racing, his mind burning as though it had been running for miles, yet never took one step from the starting position. Nothing quite made sense, everything just felt… odd.

He opened the door to his room and found there were no guards looking after him before retreating back inside, latching the door shut with a click.

It was well past evening as he glared into his reflection. He was a worn and dogged individual, covered in dirt, soot, bruises, scars, cuts and blood. His severed the ugliest aspect of his image. In the morning it would reform for no doubt Gyr derived joy in an aspect that is shunned yet will always to grow back, and ensure it could never shed. It would forever remain a mark upon the individual who coveted the forbidden god of Gryphons and grow back each and every morning.

"Morning…" Dettetcheny whispered to himself. "Make it to morning…"

But what did that entail? Simply sleeping seemed like the obvious answer but there was more to do before then. It was then he entered the washroom again before eyeing the tub and the plumbing. It had two knobs to which he twisted both only for water to begin pouring out and filling it up. Cleanliness was of importance, and so he naturally fell back into his old routine. Washing himself, cleaning his hair, dousing his wounds, washing away the blood, picking at scabs and checking his body for parasites, none tonight, undoubtedly there'd be one to be counted in the morning. He didn't drain the tub out of habit before removing and drying himself off.

He checked the numerous chests, draws, dresser and closet for nightwear before finding a single pair as if put there for him. It was the perfect size and certainly of higher grade than the rags he was dragged there in. Yet, as he threw it on, something seemed to catch his eye. It was a glint of a blade from beyond the glass window and when he investigated he saw a lone figure swinging a sword in an orthodoxed and deliberate fashion in the midst of a garden circular. They swung with intensity and precision, struck with power and grace with each step one of with deliberate intent and balance. It was rather dull as a matter of fact, and Dettetcheny's eyes were beginning to weigh upon him prompting the boy to take refuge in the sheets of the bed.

The first thing he noted when laying into the bed was how soft it was. Dettetcheny always remembered laying upon the floor when he went to sleep as a child with nothing but a few pelts of skin that varied in stiffness and softness. Some nights sleeping was easier than others, but this bed, the soft covers, the warmth, it all seemed to rapture him to a land of dreams where the entire weight of his being was lifted and there was nothing but cozy rest. A place he could remain for forever until the rays of the sun penetrated the glass, invading his room and filling his eyes ushering in a new morning.

Making it to this grand morning certainly came easy, but as Dettetcheny sat tiredly up in bed, he already began to wonder aloud, "what now?"

When he rubbed his face, he nearly scratched away at his skin as the talons dug in. He winced his head away before looking to his newly formed gryphon arm. It was as though it had never been cleaved away, but Dettetcheny was used to this phenomenon, so much so that he felt rather disappointed.

His eyes were drawn to the foot of the bed to find a set of clothes complete with fine footwear. None of which was there the night before, the boy didn't complain as he donned them upon his person and turned to the full mirror to see. If anything, he looked as much a common folk as he did before ever getting arrested. Perfect for blending in down in the capital, however, within the castle grounds, he no doubt stood out as the commoner he was. An aspect he didn't mind much.

He still didn't have a clue for what to do with himself yet, or how to go about his day. What did people usually do? What should he do? An answer that didn't quite come easily, he wasn't one for remaining idle, but as he paced throughout his room in inquisitive thought, his eyes glanced out the window once more only for his eyes to fall upon a lone figure. The same one he'd spied briefly the night before swinging that sword of theirs. Only, they were laying upon the grass, face up, limbs sprawled out as though they collapsed.

Though Dettetcheny was curious and wished to investigate, he couldn't just leave and walk in public. His transfigured arm assured that nothing short of a public lynching was in store for his near future. But upon the nightstand, Dettetcheny spotted a conspicuous roll of bandages.

Truth was Verreene had trained late into the night, swinging her sword and taking her stances before exhaustion gripped her spirit and she collapsed, sprawled out on the grass swiftly falling to sleep. It wasn't until the dawn of day that a stranger's face was the first thing her sore and sorry eyes laid their sights upon.

He was a rough looking fellow with defined features upon his face, many bruises and scars. He certainly looked the part of a hardened veteran or serviceman, especially considering his heavily bandaged arm that she guessed was earned in battle. Verreene certainly would've been fooled if it wasn't for his youthful complexion. He couldn't have been much older than herself, perhaps a month or so younger even.

Typically it was common practice among those of Roe to wind somebody in the gut who so brazenly violated the aetherial, god given sanctity of one's personal space. Though his complexion seemed blunt with a gazed edging from inconsiderate to harsh wordless judgment, Verreene strangely felt he was nothing to be feared. Perhaps it was the fatigue, perhaps it was the distinct smell of soap and the aroma of a recently washed fellow, but she allowed his presence in her vulnerable state.

"Are you just going to stare?" she asked tilting her head rather incredulously like she was well within her right to be laying passed out and sprawled out within the decadent castle garden.

It was then he seemed to bring himself down upon one knee and gaze closer at her face. "Your eyes," he first muttered.

Though his act was strange, she played it off as she raised her fist to her chin as though to better present herself with a grin, with eyes that shined with a deep and burning bronze glow.

"Beautiful aren't they?" she reckoned.

"Who are you looking to kill?" he questioned rather bluntly.

It was then Verreene's rather playful and coy demeanor quickly diminished. "My aunt," she answered.

"Did she kill someone close?" he seemed to interrogate.

"My brother."

A short moment passed between the two before the boy seemed to nod his head in approval. "You think fighting shadows all night is going to help?" he asked, standing from his position over her and circling around to the front before outstretching his hand.

With a heavy sigh she took his hand allowing herself to be pulled to her feet, answering, "if I had a sparring partner I wouldn't be dueling the shadows. Since you're ever so enlightened, I suppose you wouldn't mind sufficing, aye?" she offered with a cocky grin.

This boy certainly didn't look as though he were combat ready. He wore plain clothes without a speck of armor upon his person. Not to mention he lacked any sort of weapon and he certainly didn't look as though he were one to sling some elements around. It wasn't as if Verreene would be all that disappointed if he declined, but scaring him off seemed like a silly prospect she'd enjoy. She certainly was an imposing type, armored with a heavy pelt of fur, the hooked blade at her side, not to mention the stone armaments upon her back. Even if she didn't acknowledge it, she indeed had the capacity to be an extremely lethal individual if she so pleased. This fellow however looked as though he'd have trouble killing a rabid stray mutt, even if he did admittedly looked as though bare handed a beast and narrowly eked out a victory.

"Hmm," he seemed to consider as he casually distanced herself from her before turning once he was ten paces off. "I'd be rude to decline, I suppose. Let's see," he muttered as he held his chin as if to carefully consider… options, or more accurately his memories.

A black mist began to take form in his hand and it quickly shaped to that of a blade, from hilt to tip. The sword in particular wasn't anything impressive, at least not at first glance. It seemed to be a simple straight sword, less reach than Verreene's blade by a significant margin, likely lighter yet swifter to handle, and overall looking rather unimpressive. Though, it was even more so when the rays of the late morning sun washed away the dark magical hue over the weapon revealing its true color and texture only to find…

"A wooden training sword?" she asked with a rather condescending and doubtful grin. "Buddy," she began as she withdrew her weapon and flashed the blade before his eyes. "You know this blade can certainly cut right?"

"Can it?" he questioned. "I mean the blade is certainly sharp, but a sharp blade can only cut so long as the wielder enables it to."

Verreene frowned at his assertion. "Well then, just know this didn't come without warning." Verreene took her stance. Her legs were wide apart, blade held at her waist pointing to her right. "Your name," she demanded. "Before we begin."

"Dettetcheny," he answered as he took a stance of his own.

His stance wasn't as wide as Verreene's as he held his blade pointed forward, arms nearly completely extended with both hands gripping the handle. His right bandaged hand over left as the blade retained a right-sided preference in relation to Dettetcheny's center of mass. As he gauged and judged Verreene's intentions and movements he occasionally swapped to left over right with left-sided preference as a result, before reverting back again and altering yet again rather indecisively yet confidently all the same.

"Deutchen… Derr… Dettchey… hmm," she mused as they both stepped closer to one another. "That's an odd name. I doubt my tongue could craft such a noise. How about Dutch?" she offered with a grin.

"Dettetcheny!" he insisted.

"Dutch!" she insisted again.

As Dettetcheny let out a disappointed groan, Verreene acted first. She rotated her blade downward, arcing up from the ground in a fast and single motion. Dettetcheny quickly reacted, rotating his blade down to intercept along its surface before stepping forward once, and as her sword raised harmlessly away at his side, he drug his training sword across its surface before unleashing a single slash across her chest ending the bout.

"You're dead," he stated as he distanced himself ten paces once more.

"Lucky strike," she muttered before taking her stance again.

"With skill, there's no need for luck."

They approached once more ready to act and ready to strike. Verreene still held a bit of reserve within her mind, not wishing to truly harm Dettetcheny as she lashed out yet again, this time with a downward slash. Yet when she saw Dettetcheny manipulate his blade letting it glide safely away from his body, she quickly stepped back to avoid his repost before thrusting forward. It was safe to say Dettetcheny was caught off guard by her footplay and reactiveness, yet he swiftly stepped aside before thrusting his own blade forward. The tip heavily prodded at her stomach causing her to lurch over at the blow.

"You're dead," he again expressed. Ten paces once more, they both took their stance. Verreene was growing visibly frustrated, her movements more rigid and curt. Dettetcheny took the opportunity to ask, "so tell me about your aunt, what do you think of her?"

"What do you mean?" she asked in a low voice as they both slowly approached.

"You want to kill her, don't you?" he inquired. "Take revenge for having slane your brother."

"More than anything," she insisted.

"Then act like it!" he barked. "You want to cut her down?"

"Yes!"

"Then swing like it! You want to beat her down, bludgeon her face, flay her alive, cleave her limbs and spill her entrails?"

"I do, Dutch!"

"Then fight like it!"

He lashed out first, swinging with one hand sure to strike if she never acted. She was quick to raise her blade, arcing it before her to bat it away before using the motion to follow through with an upward leftward slash. One which Dettetcheny was quick to intercept before lashing out with a fist striking her in the chest. It was enough to send her back, essentially resetting their standoff.

"Dammit Dutch, are you trying to get me to kill you?" she warned as she repositioned her blade.

"If you could, you may actually stand a chance," he said as he circled around her. "Right now, I see a girl who's going to die a pathetic death."

"Dutch," she warned, anger welling up within her.

"It's Dettetcheny!" he stated in a cold, even voice before lashing out first yet again.

His movements were swift and precise as he wielded his blade. It was all Verreene could do to dodge and deflect with her sword, struggling to keep up with his breakneck and lethal pace. She would find her openings to strike, yet he'd swiftly act accordingly to avoid taking a potentially lethal strike before attacking once again. He observed her foot placement, her movements and attack patterns and she was rather… predictable.

Her guard and stance had a preference for blocking and deflecting right sided blows, she couldn't easily open up with a sudden left swing, leaving her only three avenues of attack; right, upwards and downward blows. Her left swing was typically reserved for when she deflected or managed to clash blades. She never took advantage of the crossguard, it was a sort of quillion. Where the blade side jutted straight out protecting her fingers, the hooked side guard pointed forward along the blade. If she was knowledgeable and skilled enough she could've binded his blade and wrenched it from his hand, but she never made such a move to do so and with all that's been mentioned, he swiftly took advantage of every detrimental aspect to her style.

He began with a kick to her leg, then a stab at her shoulder. She deflected it away as he predicted before lashing out with a leftward swing as though it were natural law to do so. He was ready as he stepped back letting it glide past his waist.

"You're certain to die," he insisted as her swings grew more desperate and wild, each of which he stepped back and distanced his way from. "Your endeavor is fruitless. It'd be best if you just ran away and never returned."

"Shut up!" she hissed as she persisted again as she put more and more force behind her swings. They were growing less othadoxed and seemed as though she were simply batting the blade around, over swinging leaving herself wide open on all fronts.

"You'll fail Verreene, your resolve in nill and you'll be slane just like your brother."

Knuckles white she swung once more before raising the blade high above her head shouting, "Be Qui-" but her voice was cut off as her throat dangerously pressed into the tip of Dettetcheny's precisely placed blade.

It brought her to a frozen stand still with blade elevated high over her and a resentful glare written in her deeply burning emerald eyes.

"Wrong, Verreene. You're dead," he whispered. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, allowing Verreene to do the same as she held and rubbed her throat. "If you couldn't keep your cool now, do you really think you'll remain level headed when you're faced by the one you hate most?" Verreene didn't give him the courtesy of returning his glare, simply turning away and sheathing her weapon silently. "Hatred and rage certainly are tools, but you must never wield it with abandon. It must be channeled to give you the drive, to give you the determination to succeed. Else you foul up like you did here and die."

As she stood quietly with her back turned, her mind was occupied with many thoughts and considerations and emotions, much of which she couldn't even begin to decipher. Yet, before she could become lost in thought, a heavily bandaged hand rested upon her shoulder before giving a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll show you how to kill the one you hate most Verreene, by any means..."