With seemingly blank eyes, he gazed into the dark depths of the black chest. A red gem dusted by the dandruff of age and neglect, a gun he’d likely never use, and some papers resting at the bottom beneath the formers. Did he even give me bullets for it? His reasoning crawled. A supposedly priceless red gem. Aurem, pops called it. I wonder if Goatbeard knows the difference between this and a ruby, or some other red gem. Better question - can I trust showing it to him? Pop said it’s priceless. Eh – I’m sure Goatbeard ain’t gonna steal it.
Zolton casted his eyes to the rains befalling the sea, filled with only a bit of worry. “I’m fairly certain that he’s,” Zolton mimicked with an interpretive tongue, “‘not concerned with material possessions!’” The giant-blood found himself lost in troubled thought; a haze of unease and uncertainty portrayed by a blank stare into the infinite of the ocean, though the drowned bellowing of some creature reignited his cognition. "That man, though, Avar – asking me for help in retrieving his friend from the navy. I don't care too much for it but I do need galleons; surely he doesn't expect me to do it for free. I can respect his loyalty to his friends, though. That's something everyone should have, at least a little. "
He glanced at the black chest with speculative eyes. "I'll ask Goatbeard about the map in there, see if he knows if it leads into a White Eye's anus or something. Avar does portray himself as a loyal guy, but I refuse to believe it's simply coincidence how one of the terrorists who ignited the village appeared before me as soon as he left. Surely he doesn't think I'm dumb enough to have not realized? Then again, there were two of them in Auxuth. I don't know where the partner was – probably somewhere hiding in the darkness of the woods, watching."
“I should also see if Yazzalo knows what the hell that message was. Rushed home to write it down quickly before it slipped my memory fully. Though I can’t help but wonder about it: why would he design the paper to burn if he wanted me to read it? That doesn’t make any damn sense!” he self-explained, briefly loosening his grip on the sailboat’s steer. A short judgment of the drizzling sky to the ocean danced on him, but ultimately Zolton left the steer on its own to search the chest. “Et… facti… tibi unus ex ill… that’s all I could remember by the time I wrote it down.”
Zolton rolled the message up and returned the piece back to the voids of the chest. Though the rain grew angrier – or trollsome – a persevering spirit within him kept the sailboat steady. He peered through the downpour with a demeanor coldly stoic. Goatbeard's stones shouldn't be too much further, he mused a hope, after a day’s sail, it can’t be much further…
He squinted to a towering silhouette hiding within the gray, rainy scape. First he could make out only a sole structure, until the closing distance revealed a second pillar, shorter than the previous – and then three more all placed in a staircase-like position with an unsettling amount of space between each stone. “Oh thank the gods… I was on the verge of killing myself if I had to stay out here any long—”
A nautical groan and powerful crash sent the bedraggled sailboat capsized and crashing into the stoney platform before it. Planks spluttered aloft as speeding winds and agitated waves carried wood with their rage. “Pa’s chest!” Zolton cried as his mass plunged into the mixture of debris and water. The man searched and dug through the disaster's cacophony, his heart sinking more the increasingly dire his situation appeared. But finally, much to his relief, he found an exceedingly dark object before him.
His hands made grasping attempts upon the chest, and successfully made contact. However, much to the surging chill of his spine, a softness with an unpleasantly slimy texture fed his finger tips a disgusting feel. Then, the dark object jolted back into the clamor of the sea. Emerging from the blue blur in its place was a cave of abominable serrated teeth no more than a hair away. Fear drove Zolton’s fist to an encasing of Blackwater, but he knew it was far too weak to push away such a beast. But much to his shocked salvation, an explosion from above the water sheet shook his world. In the added chaos, the onyx chest drifted before him, and a quick reaction caught it. His trembling skin emerged from the depths, and hastily, he pulled himself onto the land, though he assured the chest made it first. He looked through the debris of his boat, and a long red streak that pushed through several dozen meters of ocean before. His fist clenched his chest, nearly tearing his heart right through himself, and fell back in mortified relief. As his eyes locked skyward, a face met them. “Welcome back,” Yazzalo greeted with his left fist steaming a red mist.
“Holy shit, Yazzalo, was that a sea titan?! Woah – you’re white! And jacked! I was gone, for like, a week! What the hell happened?”
He of Renegade shook his head tiresomely. “Just a megalodon, I’m fairly certain. And — yes, I’ve gained some mass, lost some pigment – and,” he muttered begrudgingly, “a bit of beard. Merely temporary side effects. Explanation will come later – some almost unruly events have unfolded in your absence. Follow.”
Yazzalo skipped over the three center stones, arriving at the highest with a single leap. Zolton, on the contrary, had to test his endurance with jumps from each. He soon met up with his master on the highest point, who stood with folded arms next to his fighting ring of plant fibers and exsanguinated animal parts. At its center was a violet light radiating in the gray rainy scape. It was cold, almost frigid in the area. A block of ice levitated before the raven haired woman, standing still with her arms at her side. Despite her stillness, and oversized clothes hanging on her like blankets, great tension announced itself as it ran all throughout her joints. “Pyrei!” Zolton called out.
The floating chunk of frost dropped and shattered, perhaps by the warmth growing in her heart. One leap brought her over the ring’s barricades, and into his arms. “It felt like you were gone forever…” she spoke into his shirt.
“You don’t even know half of…” he paused. “Am I really here or have I gone crazy?”
She looked up into his eyes. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I feel your right hand but—” he looked down her left arm, finding a cast rounded over the wrist’s end. “Your left — isn’t there?! Wh– what the hell?!”
“Right…. Yes, I lost it to an animal… or so I thought.”
Yazzalo broke in with a cold commanding stare. “To a mad man. Not only that, your organs have suffered from extreme stress and there is no guarantee your amputation is fully protected from infection. You should be resting, as I instructed you. Heed my words, Pyrei.”
“What do you mean a mad man?” Zolton pried, “Who? Where is he? Is he dead?! Do I have to do it?!”
Yazzalo, statued with his stance, spoke. “Relax, Zolton, and I will explain. On the wilderness island where I sent Pyrei to meditate, there is a man who has been there for who knows how long, apparently. I have never seen him before until a few days ago as I went to receive an update from Pyrei on her progress – only then did I encounter him.”
“So — he’s dead? You handled him, right?”
Yazzalo’s eyes shut in thought, arms still crossed. “That would not be inaccurate to say – but if you are asking if I killed him, no. He still breathes and remains there.”
“What? You mean… you saw what he did to Pyrei and decided to let him live? Are you telling me you handed the island over to him? Why?!”
“At first, I was more than eager to murder him but — upon finding Pyrei — I decided against it… amongst other reasons.”
“What the hell do you mean you ‘decided against it’?! She almost got killed because of you sending her there, and when da’ opportunity presents itself ta’ repent for whatcha did, you just say ‘screw it’ n’ move on?!”
“Zolton – it’s not like that,” Pyrei said. “Yazzalo has his reasons, and I have full faith in him and his decisions.”
“Well I ain’t see a drop of trust in any of that sweat shining on his nude scalp! Why didn’t you kill him?!”
“Pyrei lived, and he is not right, to say the least. I made new regrets that day, but sparing him was not one of them. One of those regrets was my attempt to wipe the world of his presence with only hate in my heart. My thoughts were all but serene; rage, fury, vengeance. I only wanted him to die an excruciating death – and I acted upon it. All because of spite.”
Zolton’s furious, nigh tearful face chilled into a demeanor of worry. “You keep talking about attempts and tries at killing this guy – so that means you did attack him?”
Yazzalo nodded, “Correct.”
“With ‘rage, fury, vengeance…’ how much — how much power did you use on him?”
“A regrettably great deal.”
“And you say he—he’s still a–alive?”
“Much to my surprise – yes. In one piece — and still full of vitriol and ire so crazed. I've rarely seen such a blistering spirit.”
Ropes of a deafening wasteland coiled Zolton’s throat and choked him. His eyes nearly popped at the consideration. “A–are you sure you tried to kill him? Because – I mean, I’ve never seen you go all out but I’m sure it’s something insane, right? He goes crazy, right Pyrei?”
“It is indeed a display.”
“Really?! Coming from her, th-th– that’s crazy, Yazzalo – and you’re telling me, he lived? Yazzalo there’s no way you weren’t aware of whatever… that is?”
The master watched into Zolton’s racing heart from the windows of his eyes. “Relax – your joints are becoming stiff. Yes, I found it troubling to have been unable to sense his presence before you two went off. That is very strange. Even on the island, I had my suspicions of something unordinary, but only discovered him once he alerted me with a nasal breath. Pyrei, were you able to identify him… before?”
She brushed hair away from the path of her eyes. “There was a moon,” she paused, “a red moon, something like a devil. It stood out in this monochrome plane of… wherever I was. Skeletal trees of leaves both black and white, with that demented red demon grinning madly and twirling about in some demented dance through the bleak canopy. It tore its organs out and hurled them about — then I later awoke… I think. I’m not sure if that was related to Venator’s presence or my usual… the moon…”
You beckon me, my good wet skull?
“Venator? Is that his name?” Zolton questioned.
Pyrei nodded. “At least it’s the word he’s used most often in reference to himself… I think. He does often speak in the third person. The man is unwell — I can’t help but pity him.”
Zolton gawked stupidly to her. “Pity him? You feel bad for this guy? Did he not try to kill you?! Is he not the one who sliced off your hand?!”
“Yes – and that is a risk I accepted upon coming down here. Besides – it’s not as if I said I wouldn’t even score.”
“Coming down here?”
“Which will not be soon,” Yazzalo charged. “You are unfit for any sort of conflict at the moment. You’ll only lengthen your bedridden status should you retain this impatience, Pyrei. It is a time to rest; your prowess is impressive enough as is. The time to advance once more will come, but it is not now. A tree with weak roots cannot grow – and you are lacking in both wellbeing and spiritual focus.
Regarding this ‘Venator,’ I’ve been communicating with him over the last two days. With mixed – mostly negative – results. The man is thoroughly destroyed. He cannot tell where he is half the time, and often fights with himself. His being is ridden with fresh, self-inflicted wounds that are practically entrances to his skin-tight bones. All these mountains of ailments piled upon him, yet his strength has still managed to keep me alert. He is an anomaly – and he smells.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Pyrei rested against the hut’s wooden foundations. “You mean like that?”
“Yes. I noticed not long after arriving.”
“Like what? What the hell are y’all talking about? He stinks? That would be one of my first guesses hearing of a man living in the wild – so what?”
Yazzalo shook his head. “Not the aroma of horrid hygiene – which he certainly has – but of them: Penumbra. A distinct scent of their corruption all over him, likely even within him. I’ve seen this ‘Venator’ enact some strange metamorphosis. After I nearly murdered him, leaving his body resembling nothing but incinerated wood, his skin began to melt into a dimly radiant, gray substance. Frankly, I was intrigued so I left him there to study this event upon my return. After Pyrei was stable and I finished applying remedies, I returned to the island and he greeted me with an assault after I made only a few steps there. The time that passed was perhaps no less than twelve hours between my departure and return, yet not only did his body repair from effectively total destruction, he was on his feet and with the same deadset prowl blood when he saw me again. All this to say: I theorize the Undergrowth had him for some clandestine reasons. Likely experimentation. How he ended up there, I haven’t a clue. ”
By the hut, Zolton looked into Balton’s dark chest, finding the items damp but at least all still inside. He placed it inside and sat himself beside Pyrei, to the result of her slouching against his arm. She said, “We haven’t mentioned the Aesir in some time, Yazzalo. Could they not be culprits?”
“Anyone or anything could have a hand in whatever that man, I say without full certainty, is. At the very least, he is not a Curse wielder as I’ve found from some testing. Perhaps he is not fully human, or not at all. Maybe he’s a creature in man’s skin. I just find all of those unlikely considering he carries the pungent stench of Penumbra, leading me to believe that is the most probable cause. Though, as we’ve learned, they have the ability to at least change a person's magic into another form, so shifting a person’s genetic makeup may not be far-fetched. I’ll have to dig further into his thoughts – a task exceedingly difficult considering his behavior. I’ll first have to cleanse his mind and spirit of the nightmarish storms which corrupt him.”
“Wait, wait wait,” the Vastus blood interjected, “Aesir? There are just more and more questions that I’m finding… Besides whatever this Aesir is — we’re just going to leave him around? We’re fine with him being there? Fine with him being alive?”
Yazzalo nodded. Pyrei, despite her apathetic gestures, approved of the decision, though silently. Yazzalo began again, “Unless you have a reason to execute him? From what I can tell, the ‘man’ is broken – barely even one. What I mean by that is not only does he behave more like a beast or devil more than a human, he is young – closer to a boy than a man, I believe. At least to me. Ironically, behind the grime, beatings of the elements, and his involvement in Penumbra – even possibly the Aesir or gods forbid somehow both – I believe there is someone who can be salvaged. He appears… different than what I’d expect an enlistee of either group to be. I don’t think he’d be on a remote island the way he is if he was given any respect from either group. Alone? Perhaps, but not like this. However, I will be the one to worry about that ordeal. I noticed that chest you brought along, Zolton. Your concern for it is well presented.”
“Oh,” he opened the black box, revealing the paper within. Parts of it were rippled away by liquid elements, leaving even more of the already tampered letter unreadable. All that remained barely legible were the smeared letters “fac – tib – x.”
Vividly disappointed, Zolton held his head low. He stuffed the paper back into the chest and shuffled through the chest mumbling, “That damn shark…” His hand ended up falling upon the red gem, but he paused. With some silent consideration, he took back his hand and closed the chest, leaving all contents within. “We can worry about my issues later… I want to see this ‘Venator’ person. I want answers from him for what he did.”
The Renegade master eyed him with a dash of confusion. “Were you not listening? He’s mad. He is not yet able to give an answer… I’m working on mending that disability.”
“We need to talk.”
Yazzalo looked into Zolton’s eyes, finding his soul stern and unmoving. Alas, he let free a capitulating, tiresome breath with a roll of the eyes. “I’m sure you have a second plan considering the destruction of your boat. Can you swim there before some other sea predator bests you in that ‘race?’”
He looked the master in his eyes and stood. “Of course.”
I did NOT think about that… he worried, stepping to the edge of the pillar. He stared at the ocean, grayed by the precipitating atmosphere. He breathed and outstretched his arms – and the dark water droplet symbol manifested. Soon, a steaming flow of black sludge poured from the magical ring. As the pungent substance struck the sea’s surface, it steamed even greater – but sunk. An awkward grin stretched across Zolton’s face, but then a peculiar ‘blooping’ noise began to emerge from the sea. There, in the ocean, a floating piece of darkness sat on top of the water. “Impressive,” Yazzalo applauded with enlightened eyes. “I did not expect you to not only have gained control of that bizarre magic in your absence, but to have taken the initiative to learn of its properties and reactions to other substances. Very good. It seems I did expect too little of you. Well done, Zolton.”
Tearing himself from his surprised shock, he nodded. “Uh – yeah, yeah… It comes naturally, you know… Let’s, uh, let’s get moving. Pyrei, you coming with?”
Yazzalo’s glare nearly ignited and sent the young man into fiery combustion. “No, she is not. She is going to rest. You get moving. You and I will meet there.”
Pyrei turned to Zolton, shrugging. “I guess not. You be careful, Zolt. He’s more dangerous than he looks.”
“For sure. Wait, Goatbeard, what do you mean we’ll meet there? Aren’t you walking on my—”
A flash which drew a major gust rippled through him. Yazzalo dove into the sea, and in no more than two blinks vanished into the gray coat of rain. “Ya know, I never considered how he gets to that island to be able to claim it as his own. And I know he’s just flaunting his skills and athleticism… but it’s working.” Zolton looked down to the floating aftermath of his magic combined with the sea. “Athena, please let me be able to stand on that…” he prayed. With a final breath, he stepped off — and found himself standing upon a wobbly platform, warm yet reluctant to cohesion. With each conjuration, he waited before taking the step. They steamed, bubbled, hardened, and then his legs moved. This pattern was followed all through the deep fog, and he continued his bridging path all across the hidden sea until he and the island met after what felt like an hour’s walk.
There, Yazzalo awaited him with eyes subtly impatient, though he mostly hid it. “How confident are you in being able to stand your ground against him?”
“From how you two portrayed him, it sounds as if he’s a war power, so… not too confident. I’m ain’t gonna run from it, though.”
He smirked. “Of course. Be on your toes – he has likely sensed your arrival.”
“As in energy sensing?”
Yazzalo’s head moved in disapproval. “No. He and I are similar in our — Get down!”
In what seemed no more than a flash of pure rage, the primal man launched from a lush thicket with his great blade in hand. With his marvelous reaction speed, the Renegade Master caught the Venator by the lock of his right arm, birthing a major shockwave that rippled the island. The nearby water jumped a few feet, bushes trembled to the loss of their leaves, and the trees nearly snapped in their bends. A brief plume of smoke arose from the collision of Yazzalo’s arm and Venator’s body. Despite the primal one’s terribly impacted chest, oral frothing poured and sprayed from his screaming mouth in violent flails. “I will tear your heart through your anus! Vire – Do not cower from me! Vire!”
“Soothe yourself!” Yazzalo commanded with a boisterous throat. He planted Venator to the sand, back first. He kept him pinned beneath his arms, and the hands radiated an angelic blue energy. “Get the hell off of me! You will be drained of blood, too! Wait your turn! Wait your turn!” he cried. Then, the beastly being began to butt his head against the old man in feverish repetition. Each slam resulted in blood, but not of his restrainer. No – each collision left Yazzalo unphased, but on the contrary, Venator’s face spurted blood and grew bruise after bruise. “You are harming yourself, boy! Cease!” Yazzalo pleaded, but the crazed head banging only grew endless.
“Get off! Get off! Get off! Get– get off! Get…” his tongue slowed. Eventually, after a cascading crimson splutter, his violent jerking came to an end. His body went pale, and veins a harrowingly, bulging blue as if his skin hugged them too tight. Blood drenched his face and ran down his chest, but he still drew breath – albeit slowly. Still, the hilt of his blade remained tightly secured in his grip, and his seemingly dead eyes were still chained to Zolton. Yazzalo’s running breath soon recollected and relaxed. Slowly, steadily, and with undivided attention, he lifted hands. Finally, he took a large breath. “Wonderful — you’ve now met him and know what to expect,” the master chuckled.
Zolton’s hair was blitzed by the explosion, now shaggy to his shoulders and swaying in the wind. His breathing; his eyes; the hairs of his limbs; all screaming murder. Otherwise – rather ironically – his throat was silent. Zolton chained his barely blinking eyes onto the almost cloud-pale entity. His stare and Venator’s locked, though the latter’s were still burning with a rage mysterious to all. Even in his semi-comatose state, his body jittered as if electric currents were having a dance within him. As his nerves settled, Zolton inquired Yazzalo, “What did you do to him?”
“I lowered his blood pressure… though with him it takes noticeably more effort than most people. Honestly, I cannot say I’m certain that the boy bashing his skull against mine didn’t aid in his slip into unconsciousness – or at least close enough to what constitutes a drowsy state in his case. Before, I used the same method and it brought him down rather quickly, but that was after he had just endured the assault. It did not take him long to recover and have another go at me… but he was different then.”
“What do you mean by ‘different?’”
“When I first encountered him, he was as if a slobbering beast. As our conflict went on, however, his behavior and mannerisms began to change. He began to speak maliciously, like a tyrant with a sadistic purpose in mind. He also began to plan out his movements and use tactics in combat instead of running solely on instinct like an animal. I’m not sure if this is an act but… judging from the way he almost unintentionally committed suicide just now, I cast major doubt on that idea… Err – forgive me – my thoughts slipped. What I’m saying is that, regarding me, his first attack simply was animalistic. It then evolved into thoughts that, while evil, resembled human capacity. Then, upon my later return, he behaved primal once more, but it did not take long for him to begin moving as a relatively competent entity once more. His attacks seemed motivated by an ashamed man seeking vengeance more than mindless lunging… but just now as he saw you, this was much different.”
“Ok – what are you getting at, old man?” his increasingly impatient tongue spoke.
Yazzalo pulled on the blackened burnt edges of his beard. “Once he noticed you, there was almost no time to react. Yes, there was some of that animalistic behavior in his movement, but even it was overwhelmed and drowned in something else: pure, unadulterated abhorrence. As I held him back, I could quite literally feel his heart pounding against my arm. Needless to say, that is not normal. Very, very little men have ever grown so furious by the mere sight of something they despise that his heart could be felt by another like a beating drum.”
“So — so he hates me? No – loathes me from the sound of it. Didn’t you beat him to the brink of death? I mean, hell, I can see half of the island looks like it was beginning to burn! What the hell could I have done to him that you haven’t done ten times worse?”
Yazzalo looked to the gray sky in thought. “Obviously, I haven’t a clue. He was screaming something, though — ‘Fire?’”
Zolton shook his head. “No, he was saying ‘Vire.’ I guess he could just be slurring his words considering his very obvious mental deficiencies. No – that doesn’t make sense, though. He was making an, uhh… a threat. A very vivid one...”
Through the fickle silence, sand erupted and rained in a sudden splash, alerting the men. Soon following, a second great bang that waved across the land and nearly brought blood to Zolton’s unprepared ears – then the dust cleared with the carrying shockwave. Mere breath from his face the insane man hollered and spat, violently biting the wind as his goring attempts met failure due to Yazzalo’s restraining strength. Now, however, Zolton did not freeze. Instead, he looked past the mass of bushy hair that seemed almost like an entity of its own. Venator’s hair was ridden with plant components, dirt, and what could only be guessed as either insect remnants or earthly minerals. Some of it just befell his dirt-danced face, but no amount of obscuration could conceal those sickly yellow and insomnia red-cracked eyes. Zolton studied the shell of a man, falling pitiful. “What if I helped you kill ‘Vire?’”
In a sudden flipping maneuver, Yazzalo pinned Venator’s stomach to the sands. He kept his weight down on the arm which pinned the rabid one down. Then, he looked at his pupil with a questioning stare. Still, Venator thrashed and screamed blood, but even such a gnarly sight failed to break the Vastus-blood’s unbowing. Zolton grabbed the frothing beastman’s skull and forced a bridging of the eyes. With words of steel he called to him, “Venator! I do not know who or what this ‘Vire’ is — but it is clear whatever it is did ya wrong. Listen to me: although I don’t know a thing about you other than how you harmed my friend… I will give you the opportunity to show us what made you this way. If it interests you, take this opportunity to prove to us that your name is tarnished not fully by your own doing.”
Venator’s mad squirming slowed. Eventually, he stopped, appearing to think. He simply gawked at the sands as if halted by time. Zolton spoke to him again, “Don’t crush the opportunity.”
Venator looked up to him. “You… are not Vire? No – you are not him… No, Villoven Vire… Villoven Vire is already dead. Of course he is…”
Yazzalo and Zolton traded bewildered glances. Still, Yazzalo gave Zolton a nod, messaging him to continue his craft. “Uh… who killed him?”
Venator fell silent as he endured what seemed to be a trial of remembrance. Then, the deranged entity studied his great white cleaver dropped in the sand, and a smile so terribly haunting crept across his dirty face. A grin stretched so far the corners of his mouth would surely tear to a blood dripping mess should they expand any further, and it would be unlikely for him to acknowledge the damage. He responded, “Me.”
Again, the student and mentor traded stares over the seized man. In a sudden, unsettling turn, Venator began to bawl some incessant ramblings. With a quivering throat, he droned, “If only I killed him, if only I killed him, if only I killed him — all these lessons of seizing opportunity arriving so late! Why now! Why not before! When I had the chance! Now I’ll never be able to find him and tear his throat out! Without that rotted treant’s forsaken chains! Autonomy! Me! Me! Me!”
“Is he dead or does he live? Is this ‘Vire’ or should I say, ‘Villoven Vire’ dead?” Yazzalo plunged in search of exactness.
Venator, through his bizarre wailing cries, cackled his answer. “Yes! The giant is dead! My favorite slay was him — but Father… Father lives. Father– no, no that is not his name! What – what is it?! He is not my father, no! Why is this so hard?! Make this damned shit not difficult for goddamn once! Please!”
With a silent tongue, Zolton articulated to Yazzalo the words, “Give him space.”
Hesitation was a sticky paste with the master. Eventually, his worries capitulated to his trust in Zolton, and he took the imprisoning force of his arm off Venator. With his granted freedom, the Venator stood. He then struck himself at the sides of his own head numerous times. Zolton reached to him, but a strong fist grabbed his wrist – Yazzalo’s. The master looked at him, shaking his head. “He is not stable enough for you to handle him – I don’t want to push our luck and he ends up devastatingly harming you. Don’t worry about him. I will not allow his suicide,” Yazzalo assured the best he could muster.
Held back, Zolton simply watched the nightmare, forced to observe it all, through the lens of a newfound sympathy. He almost found himself teary eyed and clenched teeth, but persevered and forbade even a drop. Eventually, after a display that felt unending, Venator’s rage on himself came to an end. His knuckles and upper regions of his head were bloodied, bruised black and blue. He collapsed onto his knees, and wiped his face to rid himself of the optical liquids of grief, assuring all its remnants had perished. With his eyes slightly, yet noticeably, closer to humanity, he glanced at the two men in a heavily panting trance. He opened his mouth in preparation for a word, or a few. However, all that fell from the bedraggled being’s throat were guttural, scratching breaths. Alas, he fell into a canine-like posture and re-acquired his weapon, resting it on his back as he gripped it. With a gallop, he sunk into the treelands, agitating the foliage to rustle. Quite soon, though, the sound of leaf and twig being collided with grew too distant; their language articulating his far displacement.
Yazzalo set his palm up on Zolton’s shoulder. “As I told you, he’s durable. Believe me when I say he’ll be fine.”
Zolton stifled his sorrow in response. “Well — now what?”
“At this time, we leave him by his lonesome once more. Your talk truly impressed me, but most importantly it seems to have made the road to his mind a little less rocky – smoothed out the edges, per se. Although his reaction expressed the very opposite, I believe you’ve brought him some clarity. He is thinking now; considering his circumstances; the upbringing which led him here. Thus, I want him to dwell in them for some time. I’ll refrain from becoming drunk with optimism, but I believe the next time he encounters us… there may not be as much violence – because you chose not to. Good work, Zolton. You’ve made me proud.”
“That’s… neat. Well, I have some things to show you in the chest I brought back with me. I’d appreciate it if you could spare any insight you may have regarding them. I figured you would?”
His mentor stood before the ocean, pulling back his legs and twisting his back. “We'll take a look back at the stones. Also,” Yazzalo smirked knowingly, “I want you back there in no more than five minutes. I believe you can manage to cut your previous time in half. Catch you there.”
The winds of Yazzalo sent a screaming breeze that danced through Zolton’s clothes and hair. In a blink, the man had disappeared into the gray abyss of the raining sea, leaving Zolton to himself on the shore. He was unmoving at the shoreline, water rising just above the mudguard of his shoes before receding. Some ethereal hooks trailing from the forest stuck themselves into the matter of his brain, and he looked through the foliage with a considering gaze. Nevertheless, he heeded Yazzalo’s order, thus to the sea he took – though at his own pace. Each foot upon the enigmatic platforms of steaming darkness, slow after assured stability. Alas, he, too, sunk into the gloom of the storm, only no longer visible to the eyes of the Renegade’s Wilderness.