He sighed and bent over the furred carcass, fiddling obliviously with the stone knife. He stopped. There was a strangeness that proved itself unmovable from his awareness, a need to stop and think. Outside of Yoid's warning, Enavro had hinted at the beast's elusive nature. Would such a creature allow pride to be its undoing? After all, make no mistake, the Bastard had died for that reason. A little rationality here and there, and the current outcome would not be so… current.
So why? "Why am I so… anxious?" He observed the corpse once more and forced a calmness within himself. "Mist it, I don't have time for this." With the knife in hand, poised and ready, Merrin leaned towards the Bastard, blade aimed at its left arm. Cut it, and he has a trophy. Cut it, and he has proof for Auwale.
Thus.
The blade drew a line atop the flesh, blood spilling out. Slow, but sure. Just then, a question came upon him. It was a wonderment of sorts. Why am I moving so slow? It's dead, what's the point of being careful?
Awareness superimposed a memory: The Bastard is elusive! "Why?"
A voice echoed in the distance. He turned to it, found Enavro running, coin in hand. This, of course, had been deliberately given to her. After all, "use the coin and the Bastard dies and vanishes entirely." Without proof. That was against the wanted thing. Regardless, why was she running? Did something happen?
Enavro mouthed something—words, no doubt. "What is she saying?"
She repeated.
"What is that?"
She fiddled with the coin in her grasp, almost in that need to 'throw it' manner. Why? And in that moment, Merrin was overcome with an immense intensity of fear. He knew it before his body did. Incoming. A large claw moved towards his head. Too close.
Memory replayed: The Bastard is elusive… Intelligent!
It had prepared a trap for me.
The hunter becomes the hunted!
I'm going to die?
Something shimmered past him—a round, gleaming thing.
The coin?
Sudden.
It exploded into a tide of darkness, Enavro cupping her hands around him, dashing faster than expected. Behind her, the tide of darkness was expanding, growing, drowning the earth, the stones, the pillar. A roar echoed from it. The Bastard was caught, its arm enveloped in that flowing blackness.
And Enavro was running—oh, how fast her motions were. In a moment, they had crossed 20 meters from the flood. She had saved him.
We need to get a piece of the Basta--!
Something crashed into them, tumbling him over the earth. Pain arcing across the flesh and bones. Something hard had collided with Enavro. A solidness familiar only from her… To the Aelmiren! A chill ran down his spine. Eyes wide, he coughed, staggered up, managed a step before freezing.
There they were, those creatures of stone. Those three-eyed monsters that hid themselves expertly in the dark. Here they stood, winged, three-eyed, one on the temple, skin fissured like cracked stone. Pale. Pallid. Rocky. They stood unclothed, yet existed with that obvious marker of gender. Flat chests, sculpted muscles for the men, and bosoms for the women. All naked.
They stood—four of them, one holding Enavro wrapped within its hands.
"Wait!" The words left before mentation. "What are you doing?"
They did not respond… They couldn't. Outside of Orvane and Enavro, none of the Aelmiren bore the needed intelligence. She told him this.
But did that matter?
Merrin screamed. "WHAT IN DAMNATION ARE YOU DOING?"
Silence. They turned, the struggling Enavro pinned strongly within their grasp.
Must save her!
Ah, the strength that powered that thought.
Since when was she that important?
Since when?
He moved before the answer could imprint itself upon his awareness.
Must save her!
They were faster. A moment and one is before him, smashing him into the earth. Instant darkness. But there was sound—the torturous screams. Enavro wailing, crying out for him. He couldn't move. Weakness. What a hateful thing that was…
In the blackness of fading awareness, he recalled Enavro. Silent Enavro, hiding from her mother, from her people. She cannot be taken to them. I must save her. I must!
But he couldn't.
So.
There he was, sliding into the blankness, aware… truly aware of the failure he once again was.
What a joke of a God I am!
Upon the discovery of the ever-functioning status of the mind, the deadEyes, at least the conscious ones, have sought to achieve that level of unaware computation—code of the deadEyes.
Merrin stood outside the cave of the tenebrous badlands, the world screened in that layer of deep ashness—the ocular prowess supposedly inherited from the veilCounsel status. A well of power it promised to become.
"What mistsense." He gritted, caressed his face, felt the familiar dryness of each strand. His froststone could not rejuvenate that aridity. Nothing could. Often, the Ashmen would joke about such things:
"Look at them, the lowlanders—look at their hair, it's so dead that it can't even feel the wind. Their nose so water-drenched it smells nothing in its trueness."
He fell to his knees. "It's not working." The words echoed out, drowning in that now unpleasant magnitude of the undermines. Tears swelled within; he knew it, but caster mentation mocked with that constant cogitation of it. Cold logic: What is the point of crying? Would it solve anything? Would it return her?
No.
Then why do it?
Indeed, one could ask forever the reasons why humans did anything; some would characterize it as some manifest of the innate attributes—behavior, and the works. But was it? Seldom, yes, but humans did go against their internal traits. Rage in a compassionate soul. Fear in the courageous one.
"What am I saying?" Merrin observed the coin on the floor—dim red now. Inner heat being collected from the ground. It would melt if left there. "You also failed, eh?"
No response.
Coins didn't speak—at least non-casted ones. The others, on the other hand… He sighed. Who knew the limits of caster power? Who knew what could be achieved by merging one symbol or so? Look at the chaos one had caused.
In the distance, far beyond what normal ocular sight could achieve (normally that is), a spread of land was bleached. White. A certain paleness present across 4 meters. Vanished pillars, consumed rocks. Nothing but chalky earth. Just the eerily contrasting whiteness against the larger red-brown of the undermines.
Almost beautiful in that chaotic manner.
Should you really be thinking about that?
Merrin scoffed. "What else is there to think about?"
Memory superimposed into reality.
Enavro dragged away!
He had awoken after the failure he knew with absolute awareness had once again been assured. Something had been taken from him: Enavro. There she was, pinned within those fissured hands of stones. And where was he? On the floor, dozing off. Useless. What a God he was. What a Savior he was.
Over and over. A recursive pattern.
He screamed. "IS THERE NO MORE ORIGINALITY!" The tears broke free. "Is there not meant to be a change? Why must it always repeat itself?" The question flowed like a tide through his awareness, seeking out some notion to blunt its power. This was the way the mind dulled despair. Consider it, and it provides some measure of reassurance. You are not weak; you simply fought a stronger being. You didn't fail; no one could have succeeded.
The mind played that role: The Calmer of the despair. And oh, Merrin knew the rising of that darkness. Within, he felt the weakness; just sleep, just rest against the searing floor. Why bother? The pattern is omnipotent. It cannot be broken. Why dull your mind in the bootless acts? There was no need for such actions. Just rest. For once, think about yourself. Your pain. Your loss!
"SHUT UP!" Merrin yelled out into the darkness. "What pain? What loss?"
What did I suffer that she didn't know more of? Hundreds of years in isolation, in madness… just to have me, the jinx in her path. "I was the reason for this. Without me, without my problems, she would not have this in her reality."
He felt the replacement of despair with rage—Good. Let the anger surge. Let it burn like a fire greater than the lands. Let it erupt endlessly. Let it burn him. Let it remind him of the pain he caused others. Let it be the ram that breaks the wheel.
Something spewed out of mentation.
Was she even important enough for it? The inner self said, halting the vast computation of data. What a question that turned out to be. Was she important enough? Was she nobody important?
A wistful smile curled over his lips. "Nobody important. Nobody important." He muttered. "That's amazing, isn't it? In this world, every soul has a role, a means, and there she is, not important… What a unique thing that is."
What a creature she was!
Merrin went within, searching out the source of this thought: Enavro was something new—precious enough to be saved. Should be saved.
But she isn't human?
"Neither am I." He said, "Not truly," stroking the inner fury.
But she's held by the whiteMother, no doubt. How can you save her?
"I will—I can try."
But you might die.
Yes...But
"I must protect anyone who cannot protect themselves… This is to be my penance."