There is a profound allegory residing in the driest piece of Buranorme’s body, this oddly barren land freshly peaked into existence only several decatries ago to coexist among a myriad of different countries within the dormant planet.  Something reflecting the brutal rift between the goddess Slayers and her loyal Revivers in regards to the lonely wasteland desert that Nede has evaporated into.  Unfortunately, said poetic comparison and deep thought never helped the poor dancer trudging through burning sands.  It could not save his tired feet anymore than it could free him from enslavement.  So it was abandoned, these flowery words only to surface in a state of inebriated peace.

Today was going to be exactly like the last couple cycles of history, the previous three vessels of the goddess coming and going as if no one else existed within that world at all.  The panicked news of each battle taking the lives of the goddess’s shells would just bring more unease to the pattern of use he'd grown accustomed to.  Just a ceaseless pattern of keeping the Monarchs’ of Oasiah entertained, it didn't matter who they served as long as he served them.  Better to be exhausted by voluntary movements than the spoiled flesh meshing against their perfect puppet.

Traversing through the oddly calm sands of the Kitan pass, the younger boy swallowed his innate excitement of seeing outsiders again.  Not only was it a break from the ups and downs of mountains in their path, it was a town he always felt at home in.  The three tribes between his Masters’ home of Frensol and the aggressive Domisk Slayer Society were undecided grounds; these nomads tried to distance themselves from the obsessive war for the goddess Oasiah.  The golden haired man admired the sense of neutrality instead of the seemingly unnecessary conflict of the ruling parties.  Unfortunately, this indecisiveness surged mediation from traveling nobles to the far off merchant village.

“Must we really convert these Slayer ruffians, my dear Vicky?  They are of no good or harm to our Goddess, let us ignore them in favor of solidifying our position as the new Prophets of Oasiah!”  A meek yet exuberant voice peaked up in the silence among the two drabbly attired individuals heading the back of the formation.  The elder man towered over their small team, slender frame drowning in heavily dyed cloth of blue only a few shades deeper than the sky itself.  Nothing stood out about his outfit, save the jewels hanging from a silver chain that adorned his heart.  Three decorative gems brightened the dull clothing, to the left an ashen grey, right a faint clouded blue, split up by a searing red eye in the center.  It hung just above an opening in his cloak, no undershirt to hide a burn mark of scythe's blade in the center of his chest.

Contrasting harsh tones responded to the timid man, the thread binding Kiley’s wrists pulled tighter around his otherwise flawless skin.  “Clarek, how often must I explain the importance of supporters in our cause? The Vitus family, while in utter shambles, is still regarded as the head of our people.  Just because your tragically pointless Misel bloodline paired up with my superior Asona blood does not mean we are immediately strong.  Even the most royal must maintain their golden veins.”  As they paused in their journey, a small gardening scythe extended from the boisterous woman's hand to bluntly hit her arranged husband's shoulder in irritation.  “For the last time, you address me as Asona or Memoria Victurin.  Is that understood, Emotia Clarek?”  

A heavy breath leaves Clarek's lungs at the physical confrontation, but he quelled any anger with a simple smile back to his assigned partner.  “Perhaps we ought to take respite until fire sets back into the heavens?  These gusts show no sign of lessening in the near future, and poor Kiley looks absolutely drained.  Even pets need a rest when permitted, and he really could use a nice treat.”  This joke brought a pleased expression out of Victurin, the traditional gems swaying from the woven crown upon her shaved head, accenting the burned halo around her skull.  Captivating sapphire eyes gazed over at the lanky blond possession, soft espresso skin caressed by the much too rough mud-tainted hands of the Memories inheritor. 

“Mayhaps a break is in order.  My feet certainly are hurt from such strenuous travelling. I cannot fathom how my poor little dancer feels burning those adorable feet day in and day out.  Well, at least those disgusting blisters keep you in your place.”  Laughter erupted among the two, the shorter woman snapping her fingers to order the tired captive to set up their resting grounds.  Feverently unraveling and hoisting up alperian hides and cloth from its woven fur, sheltering the duo from newly harsh winds took longer than usual with minimal help and terrible provisions.  Movement that would be deemed too fast surely could slip the boy into a quick sleep of his own, though no rest could be had for a loyal entertainer of the Oasian hierarchy.  As Kiley worked, he hummed a soft tune, the haunting melody from the town that raised him.  This song always gained a look of condescension from the native born Frensolians as the origin of it caused quite the controversy.

Clarek put a hand on the working boy’s shoulder, a difficult task considering the height difference of half a foot, pulling him out of the self-induced trance.  With a bow and overly forced smile, the younger man knelt down at his master’s feet.  “Yes, sir, what is it I can fix in this process?  Have I not set up the safeguards correctly?  Did I butcher the alperian steed incorrectly again and leave too much of a deathly smell upon the materials?  Did I-”  A not so light tap on the head signaled a request for silence, soft angelic locks brushed back so his airy green eyes would meet with worn granite counter-parts.  While very loyal to his owners, Kiley often forgot to hold his tongue, his brain ran too wild with racing thoughts no one could contain inside for long.  It was a quality Clarek admired and Victurin despised.  If it weren’t for the class difference, he could almost be the son they never had, something unheard of in the society of Oasiah’s Revivers.  It was due to Victurin’s infertility that the couple were allowed a companion like Kiley, a boy saved from the hands of the diluted within a home not aligned with the Goddess’ teachings and beliefs.

“My poor Lost Soul, do you even know the words to that archaic folk song you hum so religiously?  If you truly understood what Oasiah did for you, you might reconsider singing it at all.”  The hand slid away from his hair, a softer tone matching kind gestures. Lost souls, a title of endearment referring to those that are taken in by the Revivers, are adopted into empty homes so that they might take over their new overseers place in the town of Frensol.  By the age of ten, Kiley should have been a royal himself, taking the place of Clarek; unfortunately they never adopted the necessary second child, so the ritual did not proceed much to Bartholomew’s rage.  As if he had any place to protest after the Visian Betrayal.

None of this mattered to the adopted boy, now that twenty cycles of time had passed for him without knowing he could possibly be a true Child of Oasiah.  He had no interest in the notion, rather unsettled by the ritualistic culture of those living isolatory in Frensol.  What mattered to Kiley was surviving, and that meant keeping people happy.  Life could be worse, he could be a soldier like many Lost Children.  Without the calm nature and overall compliance the sandy haired orphan possessed, he'd be dead by the hands of the Slayer Combatives in the name of Oasiah.  Another body for Nede to swallow, a soul lost in nothingness to a heartbreaking finality.  That was an end he expected, forcing him to work day and night to avoid that inevitability.  So he’d hum the tune of those bizzare people, a song that brought him an eerie sense of comfort. 

“Why just hum the song, little one?  We would like a show if you can manage to set up our seats while singing.  It is a short song, I’m not sure you’ll be able to finish in that time.”  Victurin’s laughter filled the tent, thrusting her supply pack at the boy in question.  “Make sure no sand gets in my things, it would be unfortunate to wait for you to clean that up.”  Requests piled up as the two rested on personal blankets of shinzarae wool, an imported luxury from the people of the Weik tribe.  He had no choice, if a song was asked for it was his sworn duty to comply, lest they find other ways to enjoy his presence as natural light began to decline.  Thankfully this task garnered no harm to those around, it was a pleasing activity.  Kiley happily gathered the three bags they had each carried, unfurling a fraying rug of similar making and storing them in the back of the spacious portable abode.  As he pulled out the pillows stuffed with more wool and contained within the finest bupresinger silk, the boy began to sing the lullaby he had learned as a child traveling across the land. 

“Sing to the wings of  an angel most modest,

Praise be thine feathers adorned to a novice.

Sing upon stars that mists across bodies,

Praise be thine scythes tapping these melodies.”

His voice carries around the group, a jump in each step towards decorating their resting place.  Four pillows placed for Victurin, all decorated in greys so unloved, while only three set for Clarek, melancholic blues residing where he shall sit.  As the scrawny child moved, the ups and downs of the melody followed each wave of his muscles, pulling him every which way as blankets were draped around the tired elders.

“Discarded emotions, weakest heart of the gods,

First piece of the lost soul, our Oasiah, she sobs.

Shattered memories, none remain in the end,

Second piece of the lost soul, our Oasiah, she will not mend.”

They leaned back in their spots, watching the flow of Kiley kneeling down to place candles halfway into the sands, the disposable material to melt away into the dry land letting them know when sleep would occur.  He continued on with the final verse, lighting wick after wick to the beat of the song.

“Stricken with blindness, crimson eyes were plucked free,

Third piece of the lost soul, our Oasiah, we plea.

Silence begotten to her muted lips,

Last piece of the lost soul, oh Oasiah, your blood drips.”

The last candle’s fire grew at the final note, his soft vocals slipping away sweetly as he knelt before his nobles, his breathing ragged from the passionate display.  He awaited their next set of instructions between the two as is tradition for the ensnared soul.  Perhaps this would be the final resting point, drawing ever closer to the destination of Kita’s merchant centre.  After nearly a full cycle had passed in traveling from their home of Frensol to this pilgrimage of conversion, supplies were low and morale had just begun to slip.  The song did them no favors, creating a tired conversation.

“These children place us at the bottom of the chain, they are taught that we mean nothing compared to Lullenda and Vitus.  Yet where are they now?  Cheryl Lullenda killed herself with our traditions and Bartholomew Vitus continues to pretend he suffered as we did.  He cannot pretend that bastard son of his doesn’t exist forever.  Oasiah will bring him back to our people, she will have his family dethroned for us when the time is right.”  This topic came up time and time again, always involving people Kiley would never know and a man he found utterly terrifying.  Bartholomew Vitus, the leader of the Goddess Revivers, a man so cold the desert heat could not melt away his tone.  There were many rumors circling his only birth child, the primary one citing that at his coronation into the bloodline the son vanished without a trace.  These fairytales bored the dancer, he had no interest in folklore that he couldn’t sing. 

These two would rant on about the injustice of the Vitus family and how they are not fit to run a nation, then they would slip into hours of speeches back and forth exclaiming how they would run Frensol.  Seeing as they were completely ignoring him now, but knowing he couldn’t simply laze off without an objective, an innocent question was posed.  “If you know that your Goddess Oasiah will punish this bad family for their mistakes, why do you fret over it so frequently?  Should we not be focusing on spreading good words of her teachings instead of the follies of some misguided fools?”  The sentence was awkward, clearly copied from the manner Clarek spoke in an attempt to be heard.  For once, his additions were noted, cold eyes of blue glaring in response as they looked at the confident child.

Standing from her rest, Victurin picked up the bladed weapon, cold metal swiftly held against Kiley’s neck loosely.  The force was enough to bring about a bead of blood, pricking ever so slightly into shaking skin.  Staring down at the kneeling boy, she shook her head slowly, judgemental vibes oozing from those icy orbs of entitlement.  “You do not speak of matters that are above you, boy.  We have been most generous to give you the freedom you have.  Those monsters that left you for dead cycles ago were nothing in comparison to our great interest in your well being.  One would think a Lost Soul would be glad to have something close to a loving family.  Buranorme may wish to swallow you up into his belly by means of sweet Nede’s sands, mayhaps we ought to feed her in the name of Oasiah.”  Giving Kiley no time to speak, the weapon was lifted high above his head before the hilt rushed downward, crashing into his skull.  Letting out a pained cry, Kiley fell on all fours, the red from his neck mixing into sand unseen in the shadows.  A yowl could be heard in the distance, possibly the mourning of a fictitious lynixen pride roaming the sands, their compassion for suffering a mystery among the Echrel-bound creatures of the land.

While he did not move from his seat, mostly for fear of asserting any command over his lovely wife, Clarek leaned over to look apologetically to the punished.  “You had best apologize to Oasiah for your transgressions, Kiley, she does not have patience for know it all Lost Souls.  You know where you belong.”  Words of warning, though they stung more than the slight gash into his body.  Any moment the blond feels he might be getting closer to the royals, that they might truly care about him, the reality of his purpose, his existence, comes crashing around him in a flurry of scars or bruises.  Twenty cycles and no progress has been made.  Twenty cycles repeating the same mistakes over and over again.  Twenty cycles of foolishly thinking maybe he could belong somewhere.  Nede wished to drown him in her burning waves.  Buranorme desired his soul be thrown into the depths of her darkened stomach.  Even the wonderous Oasiah had no time for such a worthless body. 

Kiley had little fight left in him, bowing his head to the Monarchs in solenm sorrow.  “I will not speak out of turn again, my Lord and Lady.  Please forgive this transgression, please allow me to continue serving your Excellency.”  The words rolled out robotically, a phrase burned into his mind.  As these words were spoken, a low whining whirled around them, something he tried to ignore.  The felines must be starving, they miss having a meal as good as his damaged consciousness.  If only he knew what type of wandering soul emitted such furious wailings.

Listening to the less than sincere apology, it seemed to only anger Victurin further, causing her to strike again.  “It is Lady before Lord.  Always, child.”  She snarled at him before seeming content with the punishment.  Laying the weapon back down at her side, she returned to her resting state, tension strangling the servant as he had not been asked to move yet.  Time passed, his knees and hands digging into the now cool sands, their candles flickering ever closer to a close.  The winds continued to pick up around them, yet they were kind enough to leave the flames be, allowing an ounce of warmth to dry his dripping eyes.  This always happened after a punishment, it was something Kiley couldn’t understand.  He would be positioned on his hands and knees for an elongated amount of time, not allowed to move until the tears stopped falling from his traitorous eyes.  He had no idea why it happened, perhaps each time a piece of his trust was shattered and those pieces needed to be released in some way.  Water rushed from his shivering body, the tiny sounds of guilt-ridden sniffles filling the tiny tent they shared.  Clarek and Victurin said nothing, both watching him silently as he fell apart for the hundredth time because of them.

He would try to cheer himself up in these cases, though he learned not to do so verbally or physically unless he wanted another session of retraining.  Kiley would simply recite a poem he had written himself over and over in his head, words that reminded him that he had a purpose in this world.  When everything constantly tried to prove this wrong, he’d say it louder in his head, his own personal mantra.  Words to live by, words he would certainly die by.  

In a world surrounded by self-inflicted suffering

Why must we souls suffer more than a self imposed?

If one's purpose is to suffer,

Then suffer greatly once and move on.

So that from that point on each moment of torture bares no suffering.

Just a lesson from our self reminding us that we live on.

He had repeated it several times over, so many that he couldn’t count it even if he was requested to.  It lessened the tightness in his chest, allowing his breathing to settle and tears to finally cease.  As he finally found a stable state to sit in, Clarek spoke up in the silent.  “That took much longer than usual, my child, the fires are almost out.  You certainly left us for a good moment.  Please sit up and take your seat in respute.  Even you must rest from time to time.”  In obedience to his caretaker, Kiley got up off his sore knees and brushed the sand from his body.  Taking a seat on the worn blanket that held their possessions, he crossed his legs and looked forward as if to say he is done with that momentary break down.  He should be so lucky they allow him a moment to cry.  Most Lost Souls would be slain for the emotion.  Clarek, however, embraces such things and encourages it.  The lord walked over to his pet, removing a bundle of herbs from his pocket and putting it in front of the latter.  Kiley’s eyes widened, looking up with confused want in his eyes.  “You look like you could use a treat, and we did promise it earlier in the evening.  A bit of Ylfirium should help you relax after that frightening performance.  It is your favorite, right, my sweet dancer?”  The foul smelling sphere was dropped into a shaky hand, a bemused smile adorning the faces of royal blood.  Unbeknownst to them, a third watching form crept in the distance, no expression to be exposed at the vile notion thrust into ignorant hands.

Kiley did not notice the silent hunter, too entranced with picking apart and devouring his intoxicating treat.  Victurin could not have noticed over her own laughter at the foolish addict.  Clarek may have noticed if his partner had not been pulling at his arm to watch the child use the drug completely wrong as he always did.  The evening continued uninterrupted for the moment, only observed from the cloaking dusts out in the unwelcoming dunes.  The chatter flowed on between topics of converting Kita to the Revivers cause or the terrible sandstormers created by the pain of Oasiah.  Nothing was overly solid, just idle chat as they watched on as the boy fell deeper into his soon to be inebriated state.

“These poor goddessless people are living a life devoid of love and must live drastically unremarkable lives.  How can one live without the guidance of our perfect creator?  What can life hold for those heathens without her glorious purpose?  If they do not see themselves as a Child of Oasiah, with no occupation instilled by her grace, how di they continue on as just husks of her image?  What a dreadful existence, how absolutely disgusting.”  Such a change in tone from the older man, so interested now in the livelihoods of the heretics he previously saw as a waste of time.  This shift bored Victurin, having no ounce of interest inside her mind to carry on that topic as she knew it would change once Clarek great too tired to travel again.  Instead, she turned to the now fidgety carry on.

“Little hungry heretics feeding off false faith.  It really does not matter if they believe as we do.  In death Oasiah will swallow their souls back into their original form within her bodice.”  Cold words echoed in Kiley’s mind, still consciously aware enough of who uttered the unsettling statement.  It was a common curse they frequently laid upon his heavy heart, the promise that an immortal creature would one day devour his worthless soul.  Some days he could ignore the inevitable assimilation within a goddess that no one taught him about directly, others it all but consumed his thoughts.

Numbing develops slowly, stemming from the tip of his tongue and crawling slowly throughout his mouth.  Creeping down the throat like tiny worms slinking through, dragging venom deep into his core.  Every taste bud almost burned and bubbled up at the contact, justices of the Zier root washing shredded Drexend spines over the fatigued muscle.  As the last of the substance worked down his body, the cavern of his mouth began to tingle and fizzle into nothingness, as if each segment that came in touch with the sludge dripping into his stomach disconnected from Nede all together.

Hushed voices around Frensolian fields spread rumors that Ylferium can skyrocket the soul into the Echrilm to meet Oasia herself.  SUh a common yet carefully constructed treat only comes from the highest of Nede in terms of NObility to talk directly to her Winged Grace.  The more generous servants of the creator often share this experience with their personal accompaniments, Kiley being no exception.  ‘There is no closer call to true acceptance than a call from Ylferium!’  The saying goes, seems brain deterioration may be a symptom of the afterlife after all.

With that deterioration comes the voices and lights, a smile spreading across paralyzed lips at the return of his friends.  They held no figure and spoke incoherently, but Kiley loved his Yulifers, as those hallucinations are often labeled; or was it the users?  It did not matter, this thought hardly connected to a drowning consciousness.  This batch was very strong, Clarek must have focused on gathering more spines than struggling with the fickle Zier.  Why bother fighting with a plant that statistically more often than not cracks open in the ground and soaks the sand instead of a parched mouth?

Jovial chuckles sounded in the distance, voices of his masters bouncing off the inside of Kiley’s hollowed mind.  Disembodied words popped up from the surrounding environment, rambling on and on in a broken loop.  Every item vocalized to dazed ears, from the wound and woven mats the elders’ knelt upon in their respiring state to the cooling grains of mineral beneath his shaking feet.  The world summoned his attention, it begged for an audience with his angelic presence; to ocean eyes darting about on perfect caramel skin the universe beckoned forth a revolution in a voice foreign to the traveler.  

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The sound did not echo like his possessors, it felt harsh like the winds now howling around a weathered body.  The sun had lowered, when had it dropped so low?  Hadn’t they begun traveling at the break of light’s cycle?  When had the dark’s guardian Mulene risen from its slumber and put the heated Ailerisk to rest?  Those lovers’ dance of balance began the close of one circle within Frenel’s cycle.  The drug often confused his lapse of time, how many cycles had he stayed with Victurin and Clarek?

He could not recall, his attention drawn to a bright  color he’d never seen before.  Such a vibrant sight almost more lively than Nede ever could be, the body adorned in the threads of green stitching upon thin black cloth.  Each ounce of Ylfireum brought the strangest visions, since it was impossible this spectre really lurked just beyond the tent.  His vision must betray reality, as inebriated eyes often do, because even in the dim light of their candles’ flame the figure’s eyes shone like sparkling emeralds shining in reflection of the heat god Ailerisk himself.  The individual stepped closer, Kiley’s whole self entranced by shimmering scarlet spheres replicated eyes on what looked to be a mask covering the creatures entire head.  This ghost had been the most realistic apparition the man dreamt up to date.

Much like his wards, the crimson eyed creature was adorned with a drab heavy cloak, dark as the void in some places yet light as sand and dull as rocks in the lower flowing skirt.  These separations sewn together by neon green thread, an unnaturally dyed color that couldn’t exist. Unlike the still babbling elders’ robes, the patchwork cloth seemed much looser, especially around the arms that laid unused at the side of the man, as if no limbs protruded that piece of the clothing.  A hood bunched up by its neck, again lined in that bright lime, and remained rather intact compared to the rest.  The outfit finished with a pair of black gloves, the left seeming dipped in silver sporadically.  A pair of heeled grey boots painted in that vibrant illusory color decorated his feet, two words scrawled across the sides.  ‘Feral. Vyris.’  Together these meant nothing to Kiley, but he did understand the first term.  It almost echoed about the desert, finally alerting the distracted prophets of an intrusion.  Did they partake in the herb as well?  How can they possibly be staring towards the sound?

The oddest part sounded close by, a mechanical voice chanting, “Feral.” like it wanted to address the figure.  That tone, while glitchy and metallic, stayed calm and confident.  It was a masculine dictation, resonating mostly behind Kiley.  It jumped between the figure and something across them in the depths of shadowed sand.  

This grains beneath the figure shifted now as it ventured toward the camp.  Pairing with these movements, the echo behind Kiley grew closer, its strides accompanied by a rush of wind.  Whatever stalked from their rear could almost slice through the air before crashing back into the sand.  Panic seeped into the two coherent travelers.  They were being hunted, most likely by a Slayer.  Rumor has it there was one traveling around and slaughtering those spreading the word of Oasiah, but that had only been a myth, there was no real proof.  Facts cannot be released from the lips of a corpse.

Getting up from his spot, Clarek held up a small blade he kept at his side.  It was more for ceremonies and marking new members of the congregation, but it would suffice in a fight.  “Whoever you are, what you are doing or thinking of doing is a crime against the Goddess.  She will not allow you to harm her messengers.”  The threat silenced the echoes, and by addressing the noise Kiley had to accept that maybe he could actually see the creature in the distance.  It stepped closer, not heeding the warnings,  another slice of the air from behind them.  This couldn’t be real, Kiley was sure it was all in his mind.  There was no possible way they were all about to die.

Now Victurin stood before the figure, taking a brave step towards it with her sickle ready.   Gesturing the blade forward in a swift motion, she shouted out at the hunter.  “How dare you approach us.  Do you not know who I am?  I-”  A loud sound brought a shriek out of the outraged woman.  A mixture of an animal crying out its dying breath meshed with the sounds of machinery grinding together screeched across the desert as the creature traveling from behind them landed roughly besides Kiley.  

The blond boy crawled away from the monster, his blurred vision gazing upon what was illuminated by the candles around them, glistening off of what appeared to be metallic flesh.  That haunting sound persisted quietly as it stepped forward on all fours, a sight that terrified the boy now on his knees.  While it was quadrupedal, it stood almost five feet normally, clawed feet disappearing into the sand with each step.  Pursuing slowly, its dark silver body swayed gracefully like a lion gazing upon new prey.  An elongated and slender tail held up tall behind the being, a spiral of lime green pulsing light giving off a faint glow.  Many wires coiled around it, tightening and loosening against its limbs as if the thing were alive and breathing.  By far the strangest aspect was the head, sleek plates of metal as shiny as diamonds with two glass eyes, housing one green and one red eye respectively.  Ears like any other of the wildlife around them laid pressed back against the top of its head, twitching slightly in the direction of the other figure.  As for the mouth, it was hardly attached to the skull, hanging down by two conjoined bolts and showing off useless sharp teeth like a carnivorous animal might have. From this mouth came those words again.  

Feral.

Feral.

Feral.

“Lynixen...That thing is a Lynixen from the Echerilm.”  The young boy spoke, looking from the still stalking abomination to the now frazzled couple.  He stood up, noticing it has no interest in him in the slightest.  “They prey upon suffering and sorrow, the children in Kita speak of them often.”  His words, while slurred from the numbness in his mouth, seemed to put his owners on further edge.  Before he could say anything else, the demon took its turn to speak, now standing right in front of Clarek and Victurin.

“We are fully aware of who you two are.  Our Vyris, in his slumber, he spoke of you.  Memoria Victurin and Emotia Clarek.  Loyal hands to the Oasiah.  Spreaders of her word.”  The tone stayed a consistently bland one, almost disinterested in the conversation it was having with them.  However, the royals seemed less uneasy after the description was given.  They lowered their weapons, disregarding the presence in the distance that still slowly walked towards them, just until it was standing just outside of the tents.  

Laughing in a rather condescending manner, Victurin approached the feline machine, running a hand along its smooth back.  “Of course you have heard of us, we are the most influential of the Goddess’ people.  Am I to believe she has sent you to us so that we might return home to govern over her people as I have been awaiting.”  There was no time for the mythical being to respond before Clarek joined in such disgusting self absorption.

“You truly gave us a fight, my dear Lynixen, we had mistaken you for a hunter.  As if anyone would dare risk dishonoring the Goddess by harming two of her most precious souls.”  The two laughed together, both examining the intruder.  Kiley watched as the other stepped closer, something slithering off of its left arm as it was pulled out of its palm.  He backed away from the group, pointing behind them.  The cat-like figure glanced back at him, jaw swinging about with the motion.  “Oh, don’t mind him, your grace, he is still under the influence of our special candy we give him to rest better after a long day traveling.”

“It should have worn off by now, we only really used the numbing agent this time.  Poor darling is really just delusional on his own.”  Again they laughed, this time directly at the poor scared boy.  All the while, the other stalker pressed forward, body shaking as if it were laughing along with them.  It stood directly behind the two jovial ones, only a few inches taller than the cat it seemed to be grinning towards.  No, it wasn’t a grin.  The thing had wires sewn into its lips, mangling into flesh and pulling at skin as it chuckled silently.  Now that it was closer, Kiley could see a mask upon its upper face, those scarlet eyes almost jewels decorating the clothing.  The article looked to be made of the same material as the beast in front of Kiley, an ornate piece of attire that he had seen in a sketch Clarek has doodled one day.  The mask of the Visage of the Maiden, another of the main four royals of Oasiah’s town of Frensol, the place Clarek and Victurin reigned from.  It looked of pure night and covered the person’s head much like a visor.  Behind the red jewels, Kiley could see a hint of emerald eyes filled with pain.

Once again, the Lynixen spoke, raising one paw to lay on the chest of Victurin.  “You who have been traveling for so long, we wish to give your weary feet a rest eternally.  But first, we would prefer something of resistance.”  The words were puzzling to the group, murmurs between the husband and wife showed a bit of unease.  “We require a response soon.  Feral is impatient.  Feral does not like your kind.”  Before the two could speak again, the creature’s voice changed as sharp nails dug into Victurin’s arm from behind.  

“Hurry, hurry, hurry, oh loyal followers of a pointless deity, we really are oh so impatient.  We would really like to have some fun with you before saying goodbye.  Things have been so lonely.  So lonely for Feral.  Vy won’t talk to us anymore.  But he hates you.  He hates you.  We hate you too.  So dance with us, give us some fun!”  The voice was manic, covering up the cry of pain let out as it attacked initially.  Removing the hand suddenly, blood dripped down a metal arm now, and just like the feline it has wires coiling in and out of it.  The figure ran a sharp finger along its sewn lips, smiling as best it could.

Now free from the grasp of the strange being, Victurin went to pick up her weapon again.  This proved to be pointless as the large feline pressed the object deep into the sand, the wailing nightmarish sound echoing around them again.  “Feral likes to cheat, they have no interest in getting harmed by such useless weaponry.  You would do best to end yourself before they can.”  The calm voice again, yet still from the same creature, almost like they were sharing a speaker.

Taking the opportunity of his wife being the target, Clarek ran from the situation entirely, not saying a word as he absconded.  Both creatures glance towards him for a moment, before gazing upon the bleeding woman.  She glared at him, shouting at his trail.  “You traitor!  How could you abandon your wife and superior?”  The paw was placed back onto her chest as she moved to run as well, the four legged one tilting its head curiously.

“Such pitiful last words, blaming another for your follies.  We understand why it is our Vyris dislikes your type.” The calmer voice stated, its hanging jaw just inches from her face as the creature stood up on its hind legs.  Front claws dug into Victurin's shoulders, effectively holding the woman in place.  “Feral, please do not make a show of another death.  It is exhausting to see you play with your food.”

“No!  Please, don't eat me, I can give you anything you want.  I can give you the boy, Kiley wouldn't even struggle with the Ylfirium in his system.”The offer silenced her hunters, eyes shifting to the boy on his knees.  “Creatures like you devour the souls of the suffering, so say Oasiah's teachings.  That boy is nothing but a lowly slave, he does not know of his home or parents.  Surely you mean to take him out of this misery and up to the Goddess?”

The threat echoed in Kiley's hollow thoughts, his high slowly turning into searing pain, as is typical with an improperly mixed batch of the drug.  He heard ringing, followed by that harsh metal scream, and the feline stood before him in seconds.  It's multicolored eyes scanned the boy, joints creeking as it shifted in the sand to observe.  The blonde boy gazed into the creature's eyes, placing a shaking hand on its head.  

“You…are real?  You're actually in front of me, talking to us, and hunting us?  Am I…going to die?” Panic set into his mind, slurring together with the aftereffects of paranoia.  Shallow breathing coupled with jittery eyes brought hesitation to the robotic stalker. “I'm going to be eaten by things that shouldn't be real.  I don't even know what to call you and you want me dead.  Why?”

The question lingered in the air, everyone involved standing perfectly still in that uncomfortable tension.  Even Clarek listened from beyond the tent, he hadn't run very far.  The masked figure placed its right hand on Victurin's shoulder as she began to move, the less stable voice speaking once again.  “Our name is Feral, we are the protector of the vessel known to us as Vyris.” It spoke with less aggression, though during the conversation it laced a thick wire around its prey's throat to ensure there would be no escape.

The captured woman began to pull away, gasping as the wire cooled tighter.  “Please, Feral, I'll do anything for you to stop.  The Goddess will smile upon you if you let us go, I swear it!” Her voice rasped out against the binding, yet the two didn't react.  Instead, the feline spoke once again, the soothing voice returning.

“You cannot barter with us by offering up the soul of a slave, he does not belong to anyone.” The wire tightened, so much so that it would cut into skin if the inner wire wasn't insulated.  “Feral, we still have another two to eliminate to have enough sustenance to survive another few days.”

“We don't care if we survive.  Just need to kill.  Kill those we can.  Kill those we can't.  Kill.  Kill.  Kill.” Laughter erupted from Feral, the clawed hand raking against Victurin's neck, tiny specks of blood beading out from the scratches.  A low humming came from the actual body, tapping fingers at her chin now, reaching up to do so.

“You cannot kill me!  She wouldn't allow it.  The Goddess, my Goddess, she-” Her hysterics shifted into gurgled screams as the nails penetrated her throat, twisting around until the entire hand ripped straight through her throat.

“The goddess cares only for her own world, we are simply her toys, and we regret playing along for so many years.” The machine stated, watching as Feral tore at the woman's innards, blood cascading to the sand below.  The body slumped against the smaller force before it was tossed unceremoniously to the ground.

The four remaining sat in silence, the sound of blood gushing out of Victurin's lifeless figure keeping them from ignoring the situation.  As she continued to paint the sands, the masked creature stepped away from the tent and towards a frozen Clarek.  Kiley moved to follow, only stopping as the cat moved in his path.  He looked in disbelief at the corpse of his guardian, whispering quietly to the animal, “Why us?”

Another scream could be heard in the distance as Feral failed to grab Clarek, the latter running awkwardly in the uneven sand.  Instead of giving chase, the hunter took out his whip once again, this time peeling away the protective layer.  He hummed a soft tune, the same one Kiley had learned from the followers of Oasiah.  There was a swift crack of his weapon, exposed and sharp metal slicing through the heavy cloak, easily dropping the scrawny man.  

Kiley grabbed at the cat, pulling it closer to him.  He hid his face in the metal frame, not wanting to watch another person get slaughtered in front of him.  The machine held up a paw to his face, helping to keep the boy protected.  He couldn't see what was happening, but he certainly could hear it.

Though the previous attack caused Clarek to crash to his stomach, he was still alive with only a few minor scrapes to his exposed back.  Flipping around to lay on his back, the injured man looked up in terror at the glowing red eyes above him.  “I won't hurt anyone anymore, I'm so sorry for the things my wife and I have done, but we had no choice.  This was the Goddess’ destiny for us as her closest servants.  You wouldn't understand.”

“You are incorrect, Emotia of Oasiah.  Our body, Vyris, he understands your plight all too well.  We are here to protect him from the wretched goddess.  We exist to kill her.” Feral explained, again pulling at the stitching with a grin.  Bringing their right hand up to their mask, the figure removed the article and stared down at Clarek with remarkable emerald eyes.  On their face were two scars under each eye, burns almost identical to the ones on Clarek's chest.  At the sight of this, Clarek got to his knees to look closer.

“The marks of the Goddess.  Under your eyes, it is the sign of… No, you can't be him!  I was there the night Bartholomew exiled his son, I gave him those marks.” Reaching up to cup the young hunter's face, his thumbs rubbed along the scars.  Green, pained eyes looked down into ones that once helped raise him into the Goddess’ world.  “Kyle Vitus, Visia of Oasiah, how have you survived?”

The figure nodded softly, placing a hand against the elder's face in a similar fashion.  “We survived by the teachings of a rogue and an exile.  All to protect our Vyris.  We must continue on that path until we are killed.  Will you kill us, Emotia?  Many have tried.” The question rang in Kiley's ears, listening to the conversation coming from the feline protecting him.  He peaked over its back, looking over at the scene.

“Kill you?  I would never, I'm sure your father would be thrilled to see you again.  Kiley and I can bring you home and we'll just say some animals got to poor Vicky.” Clarek's voice did little to hide his disinterest in the fate of his dear wife.  

Standing now, the man smiled brightly down at the lost child.  “Come, let us bring you back to your people, they'll need your guidance.  And I know that Johannae and Issac must be worried about you.”Those names brought out a low whine from the mechanical beast, causing Kiley to try and soothe it by petting down its spine.  Watching the scene unfold, the blonde could see the shorter man's left arm drop his wire whip.

Kyle looked up at Clarek silently as if the noise hadn't occurred, tapping a finger to his lips.  This caused Clarek to lean down and take a closer look.  His lips were littered with unhealing scars from wire being threaded in and torn out, a fact that kept his attention away from moving hands that pulled sharper cords from the metal arm.  “You poor thing, who did this to you?”

“We accepted this fate, as you have now accepted yours.” The erratic voice stated, the new wire lacing around Clarek's neck swiftly, digging into his neck.  “We hope you meet your goddess, Clarek Asona.” The boy pulled tightly on either side of the wire, sinking the weapon deep into the man's throat.  Blood spurted out onto Kyle's face, the colour matching his crimson hair.  There was no time for Clarek to react, his end swift as life fluttered out of his eyes.  Like Victurin, the body slumped over and collapsed into the sand, dying it with his essence.

A soft cry came from the blonde observer, clutching his still swimming head in terror.  “Please, Feral, I don't want to die.  I have nothing but my body to offer to you, but I promise as I was loyal to them I will be loyal to you.” Begging didn't suit the poor, scared boy, but it was all he could think to do as the killer made their way back, coiling the whip back into the now damaged metal arm.

As Kiley wept, the robot beside him pressed its head against his side, beckoning him to pay attention.  Once the boy drew his gaze back to the feline, it began to speak.  “Kiley, it is our understanding that Feral does not want to hurt you.” The statement quelled those tears, spring green eyes meeting the multi-colored ones.  “Allow us to introduce ourselves. We are ALTAR, our creator has explained that this stands for Assisted Life Transition Automated Robot.  That means little to many. As the human has stated, their name is Feral, a protector of our Prince Vyris.” 

Such a polite greeting caught the dancer by surprise, tears still stained down his face.  Feral knelt down beside the two, wiping away the tears with their real hand. A soft smile pulled at the ginger's lips as they spoke once more though Altar.  “We do not wish to kill this one.  How curious, very curious.” Tilting their head, the blood soaked man let out a long sigh, a shudder rolling through their body as if something were awakening inside.

With a quick snap, Altar jumped between the two and pushed Feral away from Kiley just as the former began to writhe in pain.  Metal finger gripped tightly into the opposite shoulder, the figure gasping in agony as it felt as if something were erupting from within.  Blood from the puncture wounds seeped into their heavy cloak, a quiet whine escaping Feral as the wire holding their lips together tore at damaged lips with all the new strain.  Eyes widened and shook, a burning sensation engulfing their brain like a fire coursing into each nerve.  Just beyond the agonizing pain, quiet bickering whispered back and forth both inside the hunter’s head and choppily translated out of Altar’s speakers.

“It can’t be time.  It is our time, our time, our time.  Vyris cannot come, he is unwell, unwell, unwell.  Let Feral take care of the child, we can protect him, protect you, protect us.”  Feral spoke with fear now, frantic and quiet like a terrified child.  

“I can’t keep hiding.  Can’t stay hidden.  Must keep moving.  The goddess is calling them, she is calling me.  I need to get my wish, I can fix everything I caused.”  This voice felt the most human to Kiley, it held a sense of ownership to the situation.  It felt as if he had heard it before, a warm familiarity hiding behind unknown speech.

“Kill the goddess.  Kill her.  There will be no wishes for us, no wishes for you.  The goddess will harm.  The goddess will be harmed.  Our Vyris, do not do this.”  The two’s argument did not go much farther as Feral began to scream, falling to their knees and gripping into the sand below.  Tears and blood dripped from their body, trembling with that blood-curdling screech until finally it stopped in an instant, a vacant stare glancing up at Kiley and Altar. 

The man referred to as Vyris blinked several times, looking very confused at Kiley and Altar.  “What is happening?  How long have I been away.  Altar, explain my current status.” The more human voice addressed the two, its owned getting back to his feet as if none of that had just happened.  He winced in pain upon moving his right arm, holes from the metal claw still oozing blood.  He grimaced at the feeling, but brought his attention back to the cat as it began to explain the situation as if to recap.

“Prince Vyris, status report.  You have been in stasis for two cycles.  Alter Feral took command of your body to continue survival.  You have killed approximately fifteen people reigning from Frensol after parting with Alec the Vicious.  His status is unknown after his altercation with Feral.  There is no damage to the cerebral link we have to each other.  There is heavy damage to your remetal arm.  There is some damage to your right arm.  Suggestion, find a town to gain supplies before initiating your new objective.  Locate Johannae to repair any damages.”  There was a pause as if to allow the other to digest the information, neither really addressing the blonde for the moment.  “Did the visions from the goddess give you any ideas of where to go?  Or were they simply nightmares in your dormant deposition.”

Vyris walked back over to the group, shaking his head at his companion.  “Don't care for the Prince thing, but I have come to realize I can't reprogram you.  Really, Feral killed fifteen people?” Sitting down in the sand next to the other two, the redhead stretched out as if waking from a long nap. “The visions are shaky, but I have a course of action.  For now, we just go to Kita and get food and supplies, and maybe to drop off the kid.  I’d like to avoid Johannae if possible.” 

The two connected travelers looked over to Kiley expectantly, awaiting a response to the proposed idea.  “To Kita?  Wait, after all this you are just going to drop me off?” He would finally be free.  No more masters to serve, no more entertaining the privileged when money was tight for his owners.  No more offering himself to all nobles who inquired.  Total freedom for the first time in his life.  He would finally be away from the madness.  After quite a bit of thinking, the blonde smiled brightly and said, “I refuse.  Take me with you.”

A dumbfounded look from Vyris brought out a laugh from Altar, something Kiley didn’t think an artificially intelligent Remetaton could muster.  He’d never seen one in real life, only heard of them in their travels.  Altar was something of a robot, but the idea was that the owner would link their brain with the creature so it could analyze everything that passed through the human’s brain.  It also seemed that Vyris was using this creature to speak.  It would make sense the son of Bartholomew would own one, he was the second most important person in the city of Frensol, if Kiley was paying attention to politics correctly.  

The heir to the throne walked over to his defiant new friend, giving a very concerned look as he offered a hand to the boy.  “Are you certain you want to join us?  I am highly against the idea, considering the type of people we may meet along the way.  That, and you have no idea who we are nor what we plan on doing.  Can you soundly decide to travel with someone you just watched murder two people?  Even if that wasn’t me and just my body.”  There was a tinge of defensiveness in that last statement, the man looking in disgust at his stained hands.  

As he contemplated the night’s actions, the Remetaton slinked closer to Kiley.  “We do not understand the reasoning either, our Prince, however it seems this human is very adamant to stay with you.  His aura speaks to us, one of great importance on our journey.”  The statement was rather ominous, causing the dancer to hesitate in taking the hand that was offered to him.  Could it be that the rumors of the chosen followers having special abilities were true?  He didn’t want to risk it, perhaps it was his destiny to follow these two.  That would explain the tight feeling in his chest when looking into those deep green eyes. 

“If you sense something in me that says we ought to be together, perhaps my feelings for you are not as stupid as I first thought.  Perhaps the goddess wants us to be together.  That would be something that you believe in, right?”  The question itself did not register to Vyris, for he was too caught up in the notion of being destined for each other.  Kiley excitedly took his hand, a huge smile in his face now.  “You must be my destined partner, Kyle.  Just like Victurin was to Clarek.”

“Altar, this child is clearly still intoxicated, we need to get him into town for some actual food and water.” Vyris stated urgently, heavily worried about the other man now that he was speaking of such ludicrous notions. “While my family is very traditional in Frensolian culture, I do not believe in such rituals and traditions.  You are not mine, Kiley, and you never have to be anyone's.”

“You're just scared of being loved, our Prince, perhaps he is destined to be your partner.  Additional, Kiley is three cycles older than you are.” The feline joked, earning a quiet huff beyond sewn lips.  The humor was lost on Kiley, who was taking all of this very seriously.

“Whatever it is he desires, which should not be me, we must get to town.” He crossed his arms in irritation, looking around at the camp.  “There is nothing of use to bring with us aside from their jewels for bartering.  Altar, let the boy climb onto your back so we may arrive in town quickly.” 

“Of course, our Prince, we are oh so thrilled to be used as a ride again.  At least Feral knew how their legs worked.” The snippy comment made Kiley laugh, though it was ultimately ignored by the ginger as he collected any trinkets to sell.  Altar laid down for the new party member, gesturing that he climb on.  “Please do not move around much, it throws off our stabilizers.”

The dancer happily gathered what little he owned, mostly writings of songs and poems stored in a small pack, and saddled himself atop the Remetaton.  It was oddly comfortable with the remetal build, the smooth back feeling akin to the silk of his clothing.  Low vibrations brought out a sense of welcoming, the quiet whirring of gears making Altar sound almost like it were breathing. 

Vyris joined moments later, a rucksack filled with valuables around his shoulder and lying against his back.  He sat back behind Kiley, making an effort not to touch the other.  “Altar, take us to Kita, be quick.” The order was met with that loud screeching as the machine took off, a steady pace headed toward the town.

Kiley watched as the tent fell further into the background, until finally he'd seen the last of his caretakers.  Looking now at the man behind him, a question popped into his mind.  “Vyris, or Kyle, wait, which do I use?”

“You decide, it isn't a concern of mine.” The younger replied, not looking up from the necklace he was picking gems out of.

“Okay, I like Kyle better then.  Kyle, whispers throughout Nede state that you ran away seven cycles ago.  Where have you been hiding, if I may ask.” The question earned a soft chuckle from Altar, and a sigh out of Kyle.  He placed the jewelry back into the bag, taking out his mask and observing it.

“Kiley, I hope you like long stories.”