“Horrible. A damned travesty, this is. Have any of you ever read something of quality?”
The Playwright, much to his credence, never was much for finishing his works. It was a shameful practice, and even in the throes of creative desperation, he threw himself deeper into the craft—and spoke arrogantly to those spirits that accosted him, blaspheming against the Grand Poet who gave him the gift of prophecy and tongues. He crumpled the pages, abandoning the ink-soaked parchment for a new sheet. A ream of off-white cream papers was stacked to his side, a number of half-opened books for meticulous research scattered along the length of the desk. His feather-pen, a gift from a comrade in a much more pleasant time, remained slicked with red-tinged fluid.
“Pray tell, Grand Poet. What is it he desires?”
It was the most important question, of course.
But, it was one that had been asked, again and again, forever becoming altered and serving little purpose other than to inform the next story. The Playwright sought another one of those “Magna Opera,” a work of unrivaled, infinite creative genius. It required—of course, it required—a particular number of base essentials, and such was impossible to procure for any normal human. To channel that of the muses, is what was performed in the most ancient of times. But, for the Playwright, he sought not any particular entity—but instead, the entire world.
“‘Lo, Morpheus! To ye, I offer another memory. Take what you will—Leave me with the burden of conveyance.”
And, so it shall be.
CHAPTER ONE
His arrival to Grand City was precluded by those darkened skies.
The once-prosperous metropolis maintained its attempt at escaping the sterility of grayness, shackled to an island that had been besieged by haze and admonished by gloom. Even from a great distance, its perdition was visible through blackened clouds and shattered lands, appearing to have erupted in a great cataclysm many aeons ago. But, it was only seven years that had passed, and humanity had still not adapted to such.
“What a dreadful sight.”
He spoke aloud to none in particular, peering aloft towards those broken crags that populate the Null Island, the land at the center of the world. Little of the people who flocked to the region would be able to withstand the intensity of the dread, wherein death had made itself present eternally—Yet, that damned association continues to harken to all those who seek a better life, calling forth those who they deem worthy.
Xorin was one such person.
“Compass, is what I seek in this city?”
The device in his hands was of a strange, foreign design. An assortment of aureate materials encircled an ocean of blue marble, creating the foundation of the compass, and many concentric rings ensnared the center in an array of stars. Three bearings of white stone lay in grooves round the edge, and they spun to form the precise direction that must be followed—an arrowhead marking the path.
The material of the compass vibrated, and Xorin smiled.
“...You’re honestly right. Perhaps, once I am accomplished, I shall find what I am looking for.”
He turned away from the dreary scenery, and relinquished himself to a short reprieve, traveling the length of the iron railing that encompassed the ship. It was a wayfaring galleon, though modified with the proper implements of travelling dangerous lands, and from that came an oppressive mood that did little to ease the mind. Though not wholly unbothered, Xorin found himself in good company; He pulled from his pocket a pack of cigarettes, and placed a filtered end into his mouth.
It ignited by itself, and created a purplish smog against a black cherry. He inhaled, finding himself in the shadow of the helm, and went to speak.
“Smoking at such a young age is terrible for your lungs.”
He was interrupted, a presence appearing to his side. It was shadowed by animosity, though it was not directed towards Xorin himself, and the blackened mass that populated its form held little to make out beyond a silhouette. Only the yellowed eyes, and the vague purple hue of its flesh made any semblance of personality beyond words.
“You’ve come to me more frequently in these times, Beast. Where’s the warmth you once had?”
Tsk. “You’re still following the Compass; I’m forced to accompany you as such. Much of this journey has been… less than fortunate for myself, and I believe you to be purposefully extending it. Why not simply return home?”
The Beast retorted, and Xorin contemplated for a moment.
“Returning home, at such a point, where I am penniless and without any merit, would be sinful. Something like you understands as much, no?” Xorin flicked the cigarette, a flake of gray falling to the deck. “We have not reached even the precipice of the first trial, Beast. Remain patient, and we shall be rewarded greatly.”
“Do you believe yourself capable, or are you simply suicidal?”
His silence amused the Beast.
“The Guild Association values those who have something worthwhile. What do you have to offer them, Xorin? You’re not much of anything—Little more than a child, I’d say. Do you even remember why you left?”
“Enough, Beast. If you have nothing to offer, I’d prefer the silence.”
“Very well. Don’t be disappointed when nothing comes from your struggle.”
The Beast dispersed into a number of particulates, colored darker than its flesh and swirling in a mass of heavy spheres, and receded into nothingness. It was a common sight for Xorin, yet even he was perturbed by the suddenness and intensity of such an action. Many times, the creature had come to the man, but never once had it seemed so antagonistic. It was as if, overtime, the Beast had grown resentful of himself, as if Xorin were responsible for its condition.
Compass vibrated again.
“Apologies, did you want to say something?”
Xorin inhaled from the cigarette once more, disregarding the snide comments Beast had made, and repetitively rubbed his thumb across Compass. The device always had such a calming presence, and it was only capable of being heard by himself, making it all the more disheartening when it would speak of loneliness. The man did his best to speak to it often, but supposed that he himself was not enough to care for the object.
You should rest, soon. It would tell him. You have much to look forward to by evening.
“Evening is far from now, Compass. What of the afternoon?”
You’ll make a friend, I suppose.
“A friend, huh?” The man gave a smile, a hint of melancholy adorning his eyes. “That’s something I haven’t had in a long time. Are you sure of such things, Compass?”
Compass vibrated numerous times in a row, warming to the touch.
“Right, right. You’re never wrong, after all.”
He finished the cigarette, placing the Compass into his pocket. It was rather cold upon the ship, and had become a deep chill the further into the Zero Sea he had gone, as if Grand City were the source of the unnatural, bittered winter. His white coat did little to appease him in such weather, but it offered more comfort than the alternative of being without it, and so he appreciated his father’s kindness of passing down such to him.
Xorin sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time he slept on a deck.
----------------------------------------
Footsteps reached him before he was fully cognizant and awake.
Xorin’s eyes opened placidly, his vision blurred and scanning the environs for the source of the sound; He was greeted by the appearance of two swordsmen, a man and a woman, of which they appeared strange and foreign to himself. Most particularly, he first assumed them to be incredibly wealthy, on the fact their hairs were dyed a mixture of blue and scarlet respectively, until it became clear that even their eyes were marbled with the same colorings. They sported the same uniform, appearing militaristic and marked with the symbol of the World Atlas upon their brooch. Both their hands rested on the hilt of their scabbards, though Xorin felt no signs of any direct danger or animosity—And, so, he responded graciously, giving a soft smile.
“Greetings. I assume you were looking for myself?”
Heh. “Something like that. How has the journey been so far, Xorin?” The man questioned, kneeling in front of his newfound conversational partner and taking a seat. He kept one leg outward, while the other was tucked to his chest. The woman, however, continued to stand, apparently aloof and disinterested in Xorin himself.
“It’s certainly been an adventure, I’ll say that much. Not much has happened since I left the Loft, however—It’s just been weeks of straight sailing. It’s quite nice to be left alone with my thoughts from time to time. What time is it, if I might ask? And, if it isn’t too much trouble, your name would be appreciated.”
The woman pulled from her pocket a time-telling device, holding it out to be viewed by all present—10:30 AM.
“I am Nero—of the Voclain family.”
“Viktoriya,” The woman added, “Same family.”
“Ah, well, then, Nero, Viktoriya. How has your travels been? I suppose you're military men, but I'm not sure where you’ve come from. That means you've traveled far, yes?” Xorin took note of the fact the ship had not yet stopped, which the implications of such—alongside the knowledge they had already known his name—did not bode well for. Yet, the pair exchanged looks, and even Viktoriya gave a small smile.
“We have traveled quite some ways. It's been ages since anyone asked us our thoughts—We’re awfully tired, but there's much work to be done.” Nero explained, and from such, Viktoriya continued the conversation.
“In particular, Xorin, we're here to ensure you pass the trials. The Guild Association needs strong recruits, yes, but it also needs those with connections to other organizations. You understand that much, don't you?”
Hmm. “I suppose I do. You need a way to communicate readily with my father, don't you? Such is expected, but I don't believe myself necessary for that cause.”
Another exchange of looks. Viktoriya shook her head.
“We already have a way in with the Coffin-Bearer. We were referring to your… abilities, so to speak.”
“You mean my Birthright?”
“Precisely,” Nero interrupted, “Your Essence is an incredible tool. We have some knowledge on it, though beyond the term, there isn't much that we can do beyond requesting you to… perform, I believe is the word.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Nero and Viktoriya exchanged another look, before wicked grins came across their faces.
“Form a Connection. With us.”
Xorin straightened his back, pulling from his pocket another cigarette. Inhaling with the automatic lighting of the black cherry, he looked to the swordsmen—and promptly shook his head.
“It doesn't work like that. It's not a decision I make. I have to be emotionally attached to the person, and even then, it doesn't always work.”
“What is the trigger for the ability, then?” Viktoriya questioned, and Xorin shrugged. It was clear to her he knew the precise mechanics of his ability, lest he wouldn't have been able to explain their original plan to have been incapable of working. And so, he explained.
“It's an emotional response. Intense emotion, combined with attachment, plus an immediate reaction to the stress. All that together leads to a connection forming. It's a useless ability, really.”
“You're wrong about your Essence being useless. It's just something that's not easily abusable. At least, not without the right tools.” Nero contemplated for a moment, before standing.
“What do you mean?”
Xorin attempted to do the same, but found Nero’s blade to have been drawn—pressed to his throat. He hadn't seen the man move whatsoever after standing, but there it was, capable of striking clean through and ending his life there. Xorin did not show any signs of outward reaction, but even Viktoriya could tell the man was nervous, though without any animosity or bloodlust—it became impossible to incite fear into his heart.
Tsk. “Enough of this. You have three days to pass the trials, Xorin. In that time, find a way to form a connection to us. We’ll keep in touch,” Nero spoke, the man taking his leave, blade in tow. Viktoriya gave a quick bow to Xorin, as if still wanting to maintain some level of respect, and followed in pursuit.
Xorin pressed his hands to his throat—not out of fear, but discomfort, the blade having nicked the skin.
Xorin inhaled again.
“Compass, how long have they been following me?”
They never really stopped.
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In the time since Nero and Viktoriya’s departure, wherein they had seemingly disappeared from the ship itself, Xorin had managed to acquire a number of necessities for something of great import. It was for a tool that he had attempted to make previously, in the solemn silence of his home amongst the Loft, but never was capable of creating such. Albeit, now with Compass—and the vaguely remnant presence of the Beast—it seemed genuinely possible to manifest a proper Spellbook.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Compass, are these the all the implements that I need?”
Of course. It rumbled. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop questioning me.
Xorin stood in one of the empty chambers of the metallic vessel, wherein he supposed it was an iron box more akin to a prison than a broom closet. Though, while it was suffice to say the janitorial supplies scattered about lead him to believe otherwise, much of the atmosphere of Grand City had leaked into the environs of the vessel, bringing forth an ever present tinge of dread in the back of his mind. Thankfully, he was a Caster, and such meant he was capable of handling such unnatural hazards.
He placed an unmarked leather-bound journal directly across from himself, in the center of a ring of metals and minerals and herbs. Iron and salt were the most visible, but much of the greenery poked through the white and silver granules, making it appear far more vibrant than the actual truth of the matter. He was performing a form of Magick uncommon to most—a form of ritual—and as such it required the presence of a suitable mirror; which, of course, he had borrowed from the Captain’s Quarters.
Xorin set the mirror across from himself, further past the journal, and pulled from his side his dagger—which was a blade enshrouded in purple metals and crafted from volcanic glass, reinforced with a form of elementary Magick. He began to carve into his own flesh, cutting into the meat of his wrist wherein much more scar tissue remained. Blood trickled from the inscribed rune, glowing with a pale white substance, and fell upon the covering of leather. It soaked into it, a great plume of smoke beginning to form.
It had partially succeeded—he’d made it this far before—but never managed to successfully finish the ritual. Hence, Xorin gathered his hands in a visible form of prayer, and called forth.
“Lo, Faustus! Harken to my call, O’ Lorde of Mephistopheles! I have offered to you much in my time, but in this moment, I have given you my blood and sweat! Show me the fruits of my labours, Grand Caster of Magick, and relinquish your hold upon my Essence!”
The smoke began to become overwhelming, burning the nostrils and eyes of Xorin himself, and it became obvious it was impossible to stay in the room any further. Yet, the ritual was not complete, and the mirror not yet cracked. He cursed the God, though knew it were his own insufficiency that led to his inability to create the Spellbook. And, in a fit of desperation, Xorin cried aloud—before grabbing hold of the burning book, and turning the pages.
It was as if he were possessed, the vaguest presence of the Beast appearing to him in a pale visage and speaking to him in a tongue foreign to his ears. Xorin wrote and wrote and wrote, allowing the smoke to choke him painfully, the pages of the book scarring his hands until they became charred. The blood he used would seemingly not dry, and it became impossible to prevent the liquid from smearing, but the information remained captured nonetheless.
Xorin breathed intensively as the smoke began to clear.
“A Spellbook, he hath not created,” The Beast spoke, and placed his hands of Xorin’s shoulder, whose eyes had begun to bleed from the vessels bursting from heat.
“And so, what have I now wrought?”
You’re a horrible person. Compass stated. He had no need for a Grimoire.
Xorin found himself to have been restored to his previous state, his markings and wounds having disappeared with the dispersal of the smoke. As if ironically, he pulled from his pocket another cigarette, and began to smoke.
“God will curse me for this…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What time is it, Compass?”
It is much past noon. It explained. The ritual took many hours of preparation.
Xorin gazed toward his newfound Grimoire. The book remained slicked with his own blood, though it too now began to soak into the pages. It was as if the book were absorbing the lifeforce he had offered to it, a ravenous entity coming to fruition from the death of his own cells.
And, then, Xorin smiled.
“Greetings. I take it you’re in need of energy, now?”
Xorin picked up the book, and placed his hand on the cover. It possessed little energetic-substance, having only taken in a modicum of lifesblood, and hence the man began to feed the Grimoire with his own. It was called Aura, this energy only capable of being viewed by that of a proper Caster. Even Xorin could only intuit its existence in most fashions, but—upon offering more to the entity within the blasphemous tome—his energy became visible for a brief moment: a kaleidoscopic array, a symphony of iridescent colors, slickened with a blackened mass of energy.
In that span of time, Xorin became aware of the difference between himself and others, his mind exploring the nature of his own Essence. Unlike anyone else, he could form a personal connection to even that of objects, and as such, none could understand Compass—and, in the very same way, none would understand the Grimoire. He contemplated what exactly Beast was, as it seemed capable of forming something vaguely physical, but he had no time to dwell.
The Grimoire had begun to breathe.
“Thank you for the meal, my master. I am Metatron.”
Xorin smirked. Perhaps, a Grimoire was the best option.
Hmm. What are you smiling for, Xorin? Compass questioned. You just committed blasphemy. Against the God of Magick, no less.
“Let the man enjoy himself,” Beast recoursed, “He hasn’t much in the way of allies. This way, he’ll have something to protect ourselves with. The Trials are harsh, after all.”
“You need protecting, Beast?” Xorin questioned.
“Of course. If you’re injured severely enough, even I would disappear. Such is the nature of our existence.”
“Master, may I make a suggestion?” The Grimoire—Metatron—asked. It remained silent, awaiting permission to speak, to which Xorin eventually nodded his head to signify such was acceptable. It continued. “Perhaps, you should collect a map of sorts. Compass and I can work together through it. It can be your first proper spell!”
It sounded as if Metatron were smiling, her voice infectious—Xorin took note of the humanization of the object in his mind, and he quickly gathered himself to his feet.
“I… suppose I can find a map,” He stated, grabbing both Metatron and Compass.
“The ship has stopped, as well,” Beast explained, “You should exit quietly. Don’t let anyone see the damned book, either.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of something like that,” Xorin acknowledged this fact, before smirking. “It’s appreciated, Beast. I’ll be searching for a map once I reach the city proper.”
Xorin then left the enclosure, and would soon remove himself from the ship.
----------------------------------------
Grand City was demonstrably larger than any other, that much was certain. Even standing at the edge of the metropolis, on a singular island at the edge of a shipyard, the buildings appeared impossibly large. They stretched to the very clouds above, into that of the perdition haze, and likely eclipsed that even so. The aureate materials that composed the buildings themselves was secondly impressive to that of their sheer size, and it made it such that the brutalist nature of the buildings did not hold any harshness, but instead elicited the signs of grandeur.
“Compass, where can I find a map?”
The white-stone bearings turned, the arrowhead twisting to the proper direction.
“Thank you very much,”
Xorin continued into the city, passing beneath an archway defined by materials much too rich for himself. He assumed immediately the currency he held on himself would either be useless or much too low in value to purchase a map directly, and though he was not unwilling to steal, it never felt pleasant to do so. It was almost embarrassing that he had been forced to engage in such so many times—though, he held no conscious shame, and would continue to do so if necessary.
It would be less than an hour before Xorin would reach the Grand Library.
It was in a hall of books that Xorin designed the Compass, and so it was always nostalgic for him to be brought to another. He had found himself in a section of the Grand Library that was without any patrons, of which there were exceedingly few already, and had scoured the lengths and breadths of its shelves for the signs of a map. However, he had only discovered numerous items that could only potentially be useful, rather than being pertinent to his situation—most peculiar of them was an ephemeris that tracked the position of the mainline celestial bodies.
“Compass, could you attune yourself to the position of Eldritch Moon, if I provided the proper formulae and coordinates?”
That is indeed possible. It noted. You would need a fourth bearing, however, to track it through space.
“I’ve prepared replacements in the past.”
Xorin pulled a white-stone bearing from his pouch, sliding it orthogonally to the others in the surrounding groove. The arrow at the center spun counter-clockwise, whilst the ball-bearings rotated the opposite direction; After a moment, the Compass glowed a pale blue in color, before settling onto the expected position.
I’m attuned to it. What was it needed for?
“Ah, well,” Xorin laughed, “I needed a way to keep track of time, and I’m too poor to afford a time-telling device.”
Compass shook violently, becoming excessively heated.
“Apologies. I have other reasons, but that’s the simplest.” He explained, searching the shelves continuously. Compass had guided him in this direction, but the broadness of its searching radius made it so that finding specific items would become extraordinarily grueling, and therefore it was far easier to simply scout for it himself. “I suppose I should be more honest next time.”
An unnoticed book became so, and Xorin removed it from the shelf. It was the most recent edition of the World Atlas, it appeared, being a collection of maps ranging from various periods, locales, and statehoods. It possessed nearly a thousand pages, and the types of maps were equally varied: political and geographical were the most common, but it also included more specialities, such as that of mythical beasts and the locations of dungeons. Stranger, the last several pages were left blank, and a feather pen was left between them.
“This doesn’t belong in the library,” Xorin noted, and opted to look for any signs of ownership. Finding none, he placed the item into his bag, and continued searching the shelves for anything else of note. “You know, Compass, I’m beginning to feel like my luck is incredible.”
To me, it seems like you’re merely taking from others. At this rate, that luck of yours will turn sour.
“...I need the map, and I can tell that whoever left it didn’t want it anymore.”
How can you tell as much?
“It told me itself.”
----------------------------------------
It wasn't quite evening in Grand CIty, and as such, it left Xorin wanting for more.
He had been told there was much to look forward to, which was a peculiar choice of words—not something, but much. It left him curious, having already found a friend in that of the Grimoire Metatron, of whom he believed to be resting. The atmosphere of Grand City was toxic to Magick, even if not directly noticeably such, and he believed the only reason Compass could withstand it was due to the longevity of the device. Metatron, however, was newly born—and, as such, needed to rest in such desolation.
As did Xorin, having traveled across the ocean for many weeks, and having foregone several days without a proper meal.
“Compass, I appreciate you.”
Xorin spoke aloud, holding the device once more in his hands. Compass warmed peacefully to the touch, enough to bring the blood flow back to his hands, and informed him of the location it was guiding him towards.
A tavern should be within your sights. It explained. I chose something you’d have enough money for, but that may mean it's quite… seedy.
“I’m not much for judgment. I simply need a meal and a room. By tomorrow, I’ll be taking the preliminary trials, and by the day after, I’ll have become an accomplished Guildsmen. Hopefully, that’s enough for Nero and Viktoriya.”
Xorin faced forward, looking towards the supposedly seedy tavern he had come across. Instead of a dilapidated and ruinous establishment, it was pleasantly surprising; a modified cafe, of which a small hostel had attached itself to. It appeared to be meticulously maintained, the golden adornments maintaining some degree of shine, in spite of the regularly tarnished Grand City, and the ornate woods appeared glossy.
The building was more reminiscent of a cottage than anything else, to the degree that Xorin believed it similar to the various homes he had seen nearest the Loft. Such left him moderately uncomfortable, especially once he recognized the script of the language used to write the signage.
“An outsider works here. Why did you bring me to this place?”
It was the only real option.
Xorin begrudgingly entered the cafe, an aroma of sweets and various confectionaries reaching his nose first, brimming with such potent flavors that Xorin believed he could taste them. It was a strange sight, then, to notice the various patrons of the cafe to be Casters; especially odd, once he realized many of them were battle-hardened, carrying weapons and bearing armours from lands distant from Null. An attendant immediately made their way to Xorin, giving a slight bow.
“Hello, traveler. Where do you hail from? Is there any particular drink or sweet your people prefer?”
“Mmm, that’s alright. I’ll have a local coffee, and any foods that will settle well after a lengthy fast.”
“Then, I don’t recommend coffee. Would tea be alright?”
“Tea is fine.”
Xorin approached an empty table, taking the seat nearest the entrance, and pulled from his bag an enveloped letter. He sighed, and opened it once more, having done so repetitively throughout his journey. It were a draft letter, one appointed by the Hero Coalition of the Guild Association—He had been especially picked out from the recruits of this generation, and while he appreciated the opportunity to forge his own path as a proper adventurer, becoming a Guildsmen is much more work than any other pathway to doing so.
“I really just wanted to travel the world. Make friends. You know that, Compass?”
I know that better than most. I’m sorry I cannot do more for you.
“Don’t—Don’t say that. It’s not like that. I just…”
You’re lonely, aren’t you?
“I suppose I am.”
Xorin surveyed his surroundings, realizing that none would bother him. Hence, he pulled from his bag Metatron, and placed them upon the table. Mumbling to himself as he inspected the written spell, he read the scrawlings upon many of the opening pages of Metatron, taking into what he had only envisioned hazily in the moment. It was a particularly useful ability, it seemed, and Metatron had dubbed it Wayfarer. While it was indeed a ritual, it required energy rather than lifesblood, which was good for Xorin—he was tired of having to cut himself for Magick.
“Wayfarer seems to be capable of locating persons and objects, so long as I’ve met them previously or have held the object. However, for places, it seems the desire to reach them is enough. How quickly can we perform this spell, Meta?”
Xorin realized he had given the Grimoire a nickname, which felt awfully strange to have done, especially after only just meeting them hours prior and holding only a single conversation. Still, Metatron answered firmly.
“If you have the World Atlas, it’d only take a few minutes of preparation. It’s an incantation ritual, it doesn’t evoke anything other than your own power. And, of course, mine and Compass’s. You simply need to say the magic words, really!”
“I see. That’s wonderful.”
The heavy thudding of boots approached, and Xorin looked up from his reading.
She was a woman dressed in military garb, though such was distinct from Nero and Viktoriya’s stark whiteness—Instead, hers was of a dulled gray, outlined in a darker shade that neared blackness, and trimmed in that of gold. It was also heavily modified, her legs left to be exposed to the elements, of which were heavy and thick and with great musculature, though a length of the fabric was still left to drape downwards and cover her undergarments. Equally, the covering upon her head marked her as an important official, a military cap with three golden stars, especially once Xorin had recognized her as hailing from Lost Paradise—such was clear by the inverted cross upon her neck.
Still, the most shocking thing about her was her hair: a wildly impressive mane, a mixture of shades of pink and highlighted with black, of which curled randomly and extended down to her back. Xorin hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until she was directly in front of him, looking him squarely in the eyes.
“Greetings,” Xorin began, “I suppose you were looking for—”
“Cut the shit. You’re late.”
“Pardon?”
A hand gripped the back of his skull.
Xorin did not comprehend he’d been grabbed by the woman until he was lifted out of his seat; struggling to move, aiming to release himself by prying the woman’s hands, he was being thrust downwards at breakneck speeds. His chest hit the table first, cracking it in half, before his face followed suit and barreled through—cratering the linoleum floor. Splinters of wood had pierced his flesh, a mixture of a sharp and dull pain accosting his upper body; The woman had injured him terribly in a single movement, and Xorin still hadn’t yet understood she planned to attack him. After all, she held no bloodlust in her at all.
It was the cusp of evening, and much was to look forward to.