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The pyre, which now long since held Russel's body, had withered into nothing more than a heap of ash, bone, and scorched flesh beneath a charred tarp. Team CEDL sealed the cave with more stones and debris, a process that lasted longer than their hasty burial and enflamed ritual itself. Soon after, the quartet scurried their way into the forest, setting camp along the river from earlier. Within the bag of Cardin Winchester, wrapped in spare cloth, were three separate blades clattering in a rhythmic fashion.
Two of the items were identical copies of each other, long sleek daggers with a multicompartment dust chamber near the hilt of the weapons, similar though not as expertly crafted as Weiss Schnee's own rapier. These blades were nearly the length of Dove's own shortswords, despite the slight curving their steel had been tampered into, of course. Each had a name, like most weapons, though the pair shortwings' own name had been lost along with their previous master's passing.
The other, final blade, however, had been the broken dagger that was pried from Russel's defiled corpse. The shards were stored away in a spare hard leather pouch, whilst the hilt was secured in a leftover cloth from "Asche's" sleeping bag. _EDL paid no mind to their leader claiming the weapons, figuring he of all people, should now retain ownership over his former partner's weaponry and the murder weapon itself.
Conversation between the boys stalled, with only the most basic of words being traded. Each member previously knew Russel Thrush was likely dead, though the sight had still left its mark on their psyche. A fire was made, a small meal cooked, and the watch began. Like every night prior, Cardin Winchester took the watch first, sending the remainder of the team to slither into their delayed rest. Yet something was different this particular night, not just for Dove and Sky, who took longer to sleep than usual, but for their dearest leader as well.
CEDL's leader spent most of his time fumbling with the acquired blades, more specifically, the shattered dagger. His attention was almost entirely dedicated to inspecting every intricate detail of the sidearm. Every slight chip of steel, every scuff of the strange pommel, and the strange engravings on the blade itself further lulled Cardin into a deeper state of morbid curiosity. Even after "Asche" rose from his act of slumber, he failed to avert his focus. Only after the champion shook Cardin, was he momentarily lured back into reality.
"Oh shi-!" He frantically began, before "Asche" placed a finger above his silver mask Cardin peered over the unkindled one's shoulder, spying the other snoring boys. "Right... Guess I almost forgot."
"Asche" withdrew his hand, sitting beside the leader. Typically, the two would share a moment before the switching of the watch, just as the two previous nights. Though, after a lengthy pause, it was clear the events weighed on Cardin's mentality. "Asche", of all people, knew the signs far too well.
A gaze as if it had been focused on an object within the distance. A tense, overcautious, and strained posture, one not suited for the spine's well-being. An over fixation, the dagger in this case, of a particular object. The sense of foreboding, to where each hidden thought absorbed and captivated their victim, to a point of near obsession. And of course, the physical effects to cope with their troubled mind. In Cardin's case, this came in the form of red smeared lips, he had been chewing on the skin since the team set up camp.
They began to swell, the boy likely spitting or ingesting the drawn crimson liquid between more biting. When he spoke, his inner cheeks were severely inflamed and chipped away. It seemed as though after he bit away from the thin extra lining to his lips, he began gnawing on his own internal flesh. A sign of unbridled anxiety and nervousness, one that inevitably, when coupled with his earlier signs of worry, led to....
"Asche, can I... can I tell you something?" Cardin began.
...A confession. Whether it was from a guilty conscience, grievance, or wrath would always be irrelevant. Each strain followed the same signs, though not in any one specific order, let alone in similar sequences.
The young man felt his head drop, looking from his peripheral for a sign of approval from his masked compatriot. "Asche", moved closer to the other boy. With a single nod and an accompanying reassuring tap of the back, he gave Cardin a means to confide in.
"Remember when I told you about Russel? I told you he and I were just partners. That I didn't really know him..." His vulnerable and hushed voice trailed. "...That was a lie. I knew... Well, I sort of knew him previously."
Cardin raised his head, glancing over at the sleeping boys one last time. This, while seemingly unimportant to him at the time, was a secret best kept between him and the silent member of CEDL. A fellow man who could quite literally never utter a word of the admission. "Russell and I are... were, both from a town in Southern Sanctus. A city bigger than most, but nowhere near as big as Vale."
"He and I practically grew up together, but not in the way you're thinking. Sure, we went to the same academies and even the combat schools, but that's just about it. My family is pretty well known, so I was something of a popular kid myself. Go figure, right?" He continued with a dry chuckle.
"Well, because of that, I never really knew Russel. I was too focused on living it up and basking in my old man and Gramp's fame. Russell though, his family was just your typical backwater type. Come to think of it, now his mohawk makes more sense." Cardin commented with halfhearted amusement. "But after some years went by, and after a few... problems, he started hanging out with some of the shady kids. Over time, he started getting cozy with his friend's other friends. Turns out they were all pretty much nutcases. Some religious zealots, gang members, something along those lines. They had a thing for red cloaks..."
"No no no, I know what you're thinking... Nothing like that Patch girl in team RWBY, I meant more along the lines of Pre-War officer clothing. Gold trimmings, laces to tie it shut, and sometimes a hood. The backs also had some weird black vine designs. I'm not sure anymore what it was exactly, but yeah, something like that."
"Come to find out, Russell was part of some weird niche religion. So that pushed me to ignore him further, those groups always rubbed me the wrong way. I don't know too much about it either, maybe I'll look into it later."
"But it still feels... Wrong, ya know? He was weird, definitely not a friend, and overall not the type I would have hung out with outside of classes."
"I don't know, maybe it's me overreacting but ya know... We were supposed to be partners. He was the same age as me and we were still classmates for pretty much our entire lives. I feel like... I don't even know. "
"Whatever, I'm off to bed. We're leaving first thing in the morning. I'm going to Vale Monday morning to... distract myself. I'll be staying with my aunt and will message you where I'm at during the weekend, come alone. If anyone asks, it was a family emergency." He announced in a whisper. "And not a word to anyone, even Sky or Dove..."
"...You know what I meant, dammit." He corrected, waving off the mockingly offended look from his masked compatriot.
"But I mean it, Asche. Come alone."
Cardin left, eventually falling asleep himself. "Asche" assumed his role of keeping watch, still refusing to wake either Dove or Sky.
The next day passed far too quickly. Morning came, and soon it was the afternoon. As evening approached, team CEDL drew closer to Beacon's cliffside. Once night had fallen, the boys scurried their way past the campus courtyard, entering the academy. Students were still awake, some offering a word of congratulations on their extracurricular mission. Others, the more groggy and sluggish, offered a brief compliment in passing.
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Cardin was absent when we woke. He left behind a note on his bed and fortunately, we found the parchment before we decided to search for him. If his writing was to be believed, he had gone to Vale just as he said he would. The other two shrugged it off to poor timing, somehow already knowing of his relative's poor health. I, however, stayed behind.
There was no need. The need for regular nutrition escaped me, as did slumber. Neither did I require water or other fluids. Being undead once as a corpse and once as ash molded into a human form; tends to do that to someone I suppose. Still, it felt calming to indulge every so often. Not too frequently, however, lest the act becomes routine and loses the feeling it brings to me.
My former and dearest Seigward of Catarina once spoke of it over a gracious kettle of Estus soup he had made during my voyage through Irithyll. Though... I'm afraid his exact words continue to escape me. All I clearly remember, without requiring my focus, was the sense of feeling his words always brought.
Jovial, that was the word. Even as the many-worlds caved in, converging to save themselves, he ever remained jovial. To this day, I often wonder where his soul went following or final reunion against Yhorm the Giant of the Profaned Capital. Wherever he found himself, I pray he lies in well-deserved rest.
"...And of course, Zagar The Third of the Yasen tribe would later found the city-states that eventually came to be Southern Sanctus. At the time, much of the continent's populace resided in nomadic tribal-based communities..." The historical doctrine spoke.
As I did with Oorbeck of Vinheim's lengthy lectures over sorcery and the sciences behind my own realm, I was sure to scribble down each and every word from the instructor's mouth. I had done this act so very often before, that I could let my mind wander freely into other thoughts, my hand would copy the spoken words without my full attention. Oorbeck knew my kind too well, teaching me this skill before our discoveries ever began.
Then again, despite his devoted passion for the art of magic, he was sure to always aid in me understanding the material rather than expecting me to as we uncovered more knowledge. If not for him, I doubt my own wisdom would have grown as much as it had. I hope, wherever he is now, that Oorbeck will forgive me for transposing the souls of hollows for his beloved tunic. In the rare moments, I adorn the garb, I feel that trusting bond we briefly shared. Oh, how I wish for you to have found all there is, my dearest mentor.
I turned a page, scribbling down the spill of words that escaped the instructor's mouth.
This was done in every class of every field offered in the university. In fact, I had already exhausted an entire journal for each course. To save space in the dormitory, I stowed these documents away in the bottomless pouch I kept at my side. My supply of journals would, by my best estimates, only last another week of studies.
I made a mental note to purchase more, hopefully, larger, journals during the approaching weekend. Cardin had asked me to rendezvous with himself in Vale, nullifying the need to plot a trip on my own accord.
"...But with word of the Yasen tribe's legacy, many more flocked to the continent's first haven. This would later become the first of many safe havens of Remnant from the Grimm, provided the populace could mitigate their negative emotions, of course..." Oobleck continued.
I could always read over this lecture at a later date. Previous "quizzes" as they were called, were made exceptionally easy considering any notes taken were permitted for use. It prompted the writing of key points, eventually leading the information to sink better in the minds of the courses' students. Speaking of which... There was a frantic scraping sound on either side of me.
There, to my left, sat my good compeer, Squire Sky Lark. To my right, Heiress Weiss of The Schnee. Beyond her, Ruby Rose and Yang Xiao-Long both of Patch, as well as the illusive Madam Blake Belladonna.
Madam Belladonna, since our first encounter, scrutinized me. Of course, each instance I would glance at her, she averted her attention elsewhere. Then again, many other pupils at the university did. Rumors had already begun over the mask I wore concealing a disfigured, atrocious, and corrupted face. As of yet, only Young Sky Lark knew these to be false. I hold disbelief for that to change either, I have endured burdens greater than mere speculation.
The mask, cowl, and hat were crafted to conceal the previous master's scarred face. I, however, only wore it for two reasons. To hide away my hollowed and previously shriveled state and to honor a man more noble, deserving, and braver than I. A man who forsook his own lineage to pursue his moon enchanted service to his beloved silent Goddess Rosaria, he was Leonhardt The Ring-Finger.
Like his mask, I also took up his sword. Though he wielded the blade with more prowess and finesse than I ever could, I would not allow another to fall in possession of it. Till my own eventual loss of sanity, his name will carry on. May the Mother of Rebirth bless you upon your next life, most honorable Leonhardt.
Before long, Doctrine Oobleck's course concluded. Sky, along with team RWBY, began to take their leave. I stowed away my journal and writing utensil, waving farewell to the hyperactive doctrine. As I tallied on toward my next course, Sky bid farewell. He, along with Dove and several odd students of varying teams had been placed in an additional combat class. From what I gathered, one who lacked practical skill or scholarly knowledge below the accepted average was bound to have their schedule altered to accommodate the additional course.
Though Sky and Dove were capable during our trek through the forest, Glynda The Good Witch only bothered taking her supervised course into account. Dueling was unfortunately not their strongest array of combat, to keep it short.
Professor Peter Port would be the next course I attend, alongside teams JNPR and RWBY. His length-loving lectures most of all were sadly only a culmination of doddering nonsense. True, epics from days of old and transcriptions of one's many past battles are often an exciting experience; yet Professor Peter Port had an insatiable knack for dulling his own tales. A tinge of me is rather impressed by his unorthodox talent.
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"...And thus, like many woeful beasts before, I slew the Ursa. But, then suddenly! I grew an irresistible urge to do the bravest of actions at the time... I slept!" The posh and well-fed scholar pridefully announced.
My writing again followed every word, even as tedious as it would eventually become.
"Pst. Hey, Asche." The hushed voice from Ruby of Patch called. "What did he say about hillside Ursas' disadvantages? I...kinda fell asleep. Can you tell me?"
Ah, so the snoring from earlier was not a trick of the mind after all. With a single tap against where my mouth would be (if not for Leonhardt's beloved mask), I again expressed my vow of silence. Ruby of Patch chuckled her mishap sheepishly, offering a vulnerable "oh...right, sorry, dude". Her offense was anything but, sealed lips are still uncommon, even in this fairly lofty land. Though I continued to write as if it were innate in myself, I prodded a finger toward the answer to her question, causing the hunter-maiden to readjust her position closer.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Okay, thank you so much, Asche! You're a lifesaver!" She quietly cheered, scribbling down largely summarized variants of what I had blatantly copied from my shoulder.
Her speed was eager at first. She wrote paraphrased memoirs of my own direct passages, only skimming over the more minor details of Professor Port's "epic". Slowly over time, and beneath the tutoring elder's monologue of a distant boastful tale, Ruby of Patch stammered in writing. It began with a slight grunt, then an exasperated sigh, growing into a fit of innocent profanities.
"But of course, not before I made the most grand of toasts in dedication to...me, of course! Afterward, as I said earlier... blah blah blah blah..." The professor lectured from afar like a sluggish dreg.
"Ugh...your handwriting is too fancy for me..." Ruby of Patch whined, opting to withdraw from duplicating my own text. "I can hardly read it, it's just... too freaking neat!'
A complaint of elegance? In my rather shoddy penmanship? I am, nor was ever a rightfully prompt and punctual scholar. Even my makeshift mentor Oorbeck of Vinheim often criticized my "skill" for writing. I recall little from before my awakening in The Cemetary of Ash, though my own nearly forgotten "muscle memory" showed I was clearly not one for scribe work. The only skill with writing I have or rather had was transcribing the many rune-like messages from other champions of ash of varying times and places. Any poor sod could excel in that field, seeing as the writing for the runes were more than elementary.
"I hate that I'm saying this but she's right, Asche. Your penmanship is... refined. Somewhat." Weiss of Schnee said, peering over her leader's own body. "Are you sure your transcripts were correct? Only nobles are this well taught."
A true noble would have been disgraced by such words. A commoner would have been both doubtful and begrudgingly flattered. Weiss of Schnee is the most peculiar of nobles. More so, she is negligent of using more proper vocabulary. She often uses or expresses herself in rather... unfitting words. Truly, she is strange...
No, not quite. Perhaps it is only a product of this particular era.
Heiress Schnee was more than just a strange lady. As her name implies, she was rather cold and detached from most others, little showing in the manner of compassion or empathy. Though, in the most secluded instances, her true caring nature shined. Weiss of The Schnee prepared her leader a fixture of coffee, confiding a collection of confessions many days prior; if the "Scroll" messages from Ruby of Patch were to be trusted.
Oorbeck and Karla too had been very much similar in an estranged way.
Could Weiss of The Schnee too, had her fair share of secrets? She struts with a sense of superiority often, though humbles herself when in the company of Professors and especially Pyrrha Nikos of Mistral. Whether it is due to an inferiority complex or a sense of admiration is unknown; considering she generally has no respect for most others. She is of a sophisticated lineage however, this strain of demeanor is nothing short of the commonplace, as boggling as it is to my own limited knowledge on the matter.
"Blah blah blah... Right! Now, ahem!" The professor bellowed with a stern posture. "Which method would work best against a slumbering Ursa?"
"Hmm, any volunteers?" The professor prodded, clearly ignoring the raised hand from Weiss. "Ahuh... I see, what of any involuntary volunteers?"
Mentally, I facepalmed. What point was there to be called a volunteer despite it becoming known you had no consent?
"No one? Well then... Mr. Embers!" Professor Port addressed, now standing closer than as per usual at my shared desk.
I bolted upright, shaken from my near haze-like state from the abruptness. The motion of my hand stalled for an uncomfortable period of time. With several dozen pairs of eyes glued to my figure, I slowly rose my head. Lighting from above clouded my vision momentarily as I brought a single finger to the place my lips were concealed.
"Well? Speak up, boy! Be proud and confident with your youthful knowledge! I've glanced over your fine writing before, I'm invested in your ability young hunter!" The professor cheered on, soliciting a rather overturned display of his bloated thumb.
Classmates and our estranged tutor both unnervingly veered into my very being. I prodded my concealed mouth twice, then thrice, gently offering a shake of the head. I dare not utter another spoken word; I've still a solemn vow I must follow in accordance with.
"Hmm? Does a Grimm have your tongue, Mr. Embers?" The rounded man enticed. "Does your mask muffle the steadfast voice of a hunter to be? Can you not bellow your commanding notes in pride, young Asche?"
Attention, stage light, any similar phrasing of the contextual focus frightens one such as me. I, along with many other of ash, care little for this sort of recognition... more so with the sheer amount of onlookers. My forehead and cheeks feel warm, a different heat than what I've been accustomed to. Faintly, I can feel a... dampness, of sorts. I shook my head once again, unsure if I could commute my "issue" clearly enough.
"Oh? Neglection in speech then?" He pondered, stroking his stark handlebar stache. "And why may that be?"
A nervous and hushed chuckle escaped my silver coffin, fearing for the very worse. This was quite the predicament, one I rather not be trifled with. Yang Xiao-Long of Patch, however, came to my figurative rescue, shifting the attention over to herself in my stead.
Long may our incandescent sun shine upon you, dear Xiao-Long from Patch.
"Ay prof, it's simple... He can't!" Yang of Patch interjected from beside her half-sibling, Ruby of Patch. "He's mute~!" She sang.
"Ohhh, I now understand. My dearest apologies for my hasty generalization, Mr. Embers. Fortunately, I am quite skilled in the art of signing." He continued, waving his hands in a rather queer and foreign manner. "Would you kindly sign your own reply, young man?"
"He can't!" Ruby Rose of Patch brightly chirped, saving me yet again. "He hasn't taken those classes yet."
May the less accursed flames light thy path, kindest hunter of crimson.
"O-oh, of course..." Peter Port nervously chuckled. "Then perhaps you could type out your reply via the text to speech?"
"He can't..." Madam Blake Belladonna droned. "His typing is always in Olde Valian, pre-war speak. We would be here all day waiting for him." She added, earning a...embarrassing round of snickering for those who knew it to be true.
Professor Port waved a hand, scanning his eyes over each of the amused students in stern yet gentle caution. Still, even as the bout of laughter died down, I felt myself shrink further into the metallic veil. That was an unnecessary comment, Madam Belladonna...
...Pray your rancid and thoroughly lukewarm Siegbrau does not traverse the wrong pipe.
"Hmm... Very curious indeed." The instructor pondered. "Are you able to write in a more modern way? I would not be averse to translating your speech pattern into a more palatable way if not."
"He can't. Wait, No... Yes, yes he can write." Heiress Weiss of The Schnee corrected.
Like Madam Belladonna, your comment was unrequited. I believed you to hold a level of mutual commemoration. I have been struck with a formless tinge of injury, utterly double-crossed, and most likely left entirely perplexed.
...May your soul one day finally be warmer than the Painted World of Ariandel, bitter Queen of Winter.
"Splendid!" The tutor applauded. "Mr. Embers, would you mind writing the answer on the chalkboard for your fellow peers?"
The eyes around me, a mix of pity and stifled humor, seeped into what felt like my very garments. Truth be told, I was not in the most comfortable of position, I only wanted this course to draw to a close. I had faced gods, deformed abominations, scions of undeath, hellish fiends, and all other manners of creatures; this was menial. Why should I feel uneasy? I knew the answer.
And to think, I hail myself as a champion of ash...
I then stifled my apparent stage fright, revigorating my mind and motive both. With a lesser strain of defiance I held against the Soul of Cinder, I gallantly shook my head "No". this left a collective and fearful pause of breath within the classroom. Even Professor Peter Port lost his demeanor for but a second, bewildered at my disregard for answering his question.
"Did you just tell me, a decorated professor to this luxurious and prestigious academy "No"?"
This time, I offered a nod of my head. Steadfast and stubborn in my blatant refusal. I'll be damned to Irithyll Dungeon before I change my comfortable seating. The students around my vicinity all murmured in disbelief, worry, and curiosity of whatever my punishment would entail. "I see...Very strange, Mr. Embers..." He sternly trailed.
"...Well alright then! Now, does anyone else hold the answer?" He nonchalantly continued.
That was... surprising, in a near uncomfortable manner. I blinked several times, wondrous of how that actually worked. It truly felt far too easy. Could I simply refute every instance like this? If so... then perhaps I'll have to further postpone my speech assistance classes in a similar manner?
"Ms. Valkyrie!" Port rang, addressing the still half-dazed lady. "Do you know the answer?"
"Oh...well, uh...Uhm..." She sheepishly stalled, sinking back into his seat. "What was the question again?"
As Nora Valkyrie The Brute fumbled back and forth for an answer, I turned my gaze to the left, spotting Weiss of The Schnee gaping at the stunt I executed. Further to her left, Madam Blake Belladonna held a near horrified look. To my right, a snickering Yang of Patch and a silently applauding Ruby of Patch. My attention soon returned to Heiress Weiss Schnee, still lingering onto her ajar jaw. Doing what I knew best, I innocently waved to her, as if I were greeting her warmly. Her trance stuttered, quickly being shattered by her own shake of the head.
"Sometimes I just can't understand you..." She murmured, "Shouldn't knights be more... confident?"
"If you can even call him a knight... After all, those of As-" Madam Belladonna muttered, before clasping a hand over her mouth, sealing away her next words.
How strange of her... Then again, she was the most off-standish of her bunch.
The bell chimed shortly after, signaling lunch. Each fellow pupil dashed to the doorways, cluttering the corridors of the academy. Even the Scholar Peter Port eagerly blitzed his way to the dining quarters... to no surprise of course. Today was Monday, one of two days that students enrolled in the culinary-oriented courses were permitted to prepare meals. If the many rumors were to be trusted, the second-year student: "Alwyn" would be among those to cook the day's meal.
Their name appears often... all within the context of skill, prowess, and regal, though I have yet to meet the fellow. Perhaps one day I too will meet the hunter in training, even if only to understand the respect the student's name is held in.
With my own team entirely absent, I entered the dining hall alone. The crowd by now had largely dispersed, making my journey to the cafeteria free of worry and the chaos a bumbling crowd brought. During this time, I became accustomed to the tedious lines, gathering of a tray, and selecting of my own meal. I would not eat of course, as the act felt uninteresting still, though I did indulge in gathering two glasses of pomegranate juice. It became a sort of guilty pleasure, as well as served to stave off the potential wrath of Heiress Weiss Schnee.
Soon I took my leave for my team's usual table, finding it abandoned, which was expected. Cardin left for the city of Vale, he was obviously absent. Sky and Dove, however, would have a delayed lunch period. I sat alone.
Aside from the chattering, I felt familiarity return.
I shut out the noises around, further ignoring the scraping of plates and clattering of utensils with ease. My senses were allowed rest, no longer needing to be so honed or focused. As my eyes, ears were left abandoned, I felt a tinge of heat. It was comforting, therapeutic, and rejuvenating. Like the greatest of brew, it was intoxicating, pulling me further into a state of rest. A form of meditation I had honed from the time spent near the many bonfires within Lothric. At times, I would even spend uncounted years mustering up the urge to press on further through my accursed journey.
The flame was nonexistent in my vicinity, only being a sensation similar to a strain of phantom pain, though I was not in the mind to neglect it. Oddly enough... I craved it more than anything. Other than my many former compatriots, I longed for the embracing flames of a true linking bonfire. I could only sink further into my self-made delusion. It felt soothing, no matter how grim it truly was.
I drank away at the dark violet juice from a thin straw underneath the lining of Leonhardt's mask, savoring it more than when under the scrutiny of the white-themed fencer from Team RWBY.
But I spoke too soon, for several slamming of trays broke me from my trance. On every available spot, seven new trays revealed themselves. Curiously, I glanced to reveal the teams of JNPR and RWBY, with the exception of Jaune Arc, who was another student enrolled in the schedule-altering course. "Hey there, buddy. Thought you were kinda lonely over here." Yang Xiao-Long greeted with an informal salute
"Mind if we sit with you?." The lioness of RWBY asked, seating herself regardless. "Great! I knew you were a cool guy!"
"Yang doesn't like to give people a chance at choosing." Madam Blake Belladonna apologetically said from beneath a vague titled book.
"She doesn't take "No" for an answer anyway." The heiress added, seated beside Yang Xiao-Long of Patch. "Though, it is a nice change of pace sitting somewhere new."
"Heyo Asche!" Ruby of Patch spoke, inciting the rest to seat themselves. "You know you could have just sat with us, there's like wayyy more room at our table."
"Hello again, Asche." A familiar red-haired warrior greeted from across my own seat. "I'm sorry, but Jaune isn't here today, but I'm sure you're aware of that by now." Pyrrha Nikos of Mistral explained.
"Jaune is suuuch a buzzkill, I keep offering him chances to spar with me, but he never takes them!" Nora Valkyrie, the combat-hungry war maiden whined. "It's just a spar for crying out loud! I saaaid I'd go easy on him!"
"I'm not sure sparring with you means what you think it does." Lie Ren, her companion retorted softly. "And it is nice to see you outside of combat class, Asche."
I relaxed in my own seat, inhaling and exhaling to mimic what others would call a sigh. With a single nod of my head, I returned the lengthy greetings. They had broken my escapism, sealing away my mindless yet comforting wandering. Though I should not complain. I had spent possibly millennia fulfilling my tasks in solitude... Their company should be appreciated, however tedious if generally became.
Chatter, both idle and expressive filled the void of the shared meal. I, in an effort to stave away suspicion, slide small increments of food underneath my mask. Thankfully, it seemed to work, as the sideways glancing dissolved away from each internally concerned guest. Except for one...
Madam Belladonna.
Her eyes would glance my way periodically, though she hid under the guise of only reading. She analyzed my every detail as if she was met with a recurring stranger from the past. My mask, hid away my eyes, allowing me to easily meet her gaze each time her own eyes wandered.
They were doubtful, suspicious, and riddled with scrutiny. It was as if she saw through my false display at normalcy. But that is absurd, it was only my paranoia attempting to build mistrust in those around me.
Eventually, as we departed to clear our plates and return to our next class, Madam Blake Belladonna lost her balance, softly crumbling into me. I caught her, against my better judgment and further against my own will, she grasped my hand. After a second to rebalance the two of us, I released her.
"I'm so sorry, I must have tripped over my shoes." She monotonously apologized as she closed my hand's palm. "I'm... still not used to wearing these kinds."
She offered a knowing nod to the hand before returning her own to her side. "I'll see you around... Ashen Embers." She parted, dropping her voice near the end.
Before I had time to panic or properly halt her retreat, she departed, rounding a corner to her own next course. And then I heard a slight crackle as if something has been softly crushed. It had come from the limb she held onto, inciting me to warily turn my still closed fist. In my hand, a small and hastily torn parchment, likely from a journal. It was folded several times, forcing me to unravel the paper. In a rather bland series of words, the note read thus:
> {Meet me on the dorm rooftop at night. We need to talk.}
> {- Blake}
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[BONFIRE: LIT]
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||| "Don't You Dare Go Hollow..." |||