"Worship me in rivers of blood"

STR: 311 | SPD: 507 | CON: 256 | END: 225 | INT: 256 | MANA: 13,550

Any sense of delight was lost in those moments, all the time that Astrid had taken trying to get to Oak Town, the excitement and freedom that she were to have felt, all lost behind a sea of emotional uncertainty that now plagued every thought, every idea, any and every action that she could have hoped to have given consideration towards. Her mind struggled to figure it out, the answer as evident as written upon the paper that she held gingerly in her hands, the weight of it being like that of a unbearable burden forced onto her. But her eyes did not veer down again; the potential to witness again and further reinforce the truth that she sought more than anything to deny, it was too much.

Yet she remained there.

For the yearning that echoed within her to resist believing that this were true, that her father – someone who had for years upon years advocated against the efforts to rise to further ambitions in politics, that politics were a tool to aid the people; not that of oneself – for him to be willing to go so far as to seemingly betray the principles he once stood by, and even worse to frame the death of her mother and to lie about her own! Perhaps it were that that stung most to Astrid, the idea that she may have been dead within the eyes of the people. She was very much alive, simply tired of the life that her father had tried to manipulate and control with every effort, every motion that he took. His false proclamation threatened to tear down everything that was owed to her.

All the goals and dreams that she sought, the destiny that the world had owed to her, he was threatening all of that. And yet, for as much as she would have sought the chance to reverse fate, to proclaim herself alive, she couldn’t. Never mind the plight of her being within Oak Town, at the inherent mercy of the difficult trek required to venture to Crocus, the near impossible route that it would take to reach there. Her arrival in Oak was only achieved through the most abandoned roads, dead reminders of ancient empires that had long since been lost to the time and forgotten in memories.

To try to navigate through the roads leading out of the city, infused with the full lawlessness that persisted in this region of the nation, there were little hope that she would manage to make her way there without either carving through enough bodies to paint a trail right back to her, or otherwise find herself so preoccupied as to be too late.

It was a race against time and she had no way of winning. Not as things were now.

467/1400 (-20% Censor of Dragon's Blood, -10% Zera'thul)

"Worship me in rivers of blood"

STR: 311 | SPD: 507 | CON: 256 | END: 225 | INT: 256 | MANA: 13,550

Despair seemed to sweep over her, an emotion that so often she seldom found herself facing, now suddenly overwhelmed by it. A moment passed, barely an inch of her body having moved, when suddenly her hands seemed to lose whatever strength remained within her. Her legs remained upright, the fact that she did not simply slump to the hard cobblestone below being nothing shy of a miracle. The paper, whose weight had seemed to grow exponentially with every single second that passed, slipped through her fingers, falling to the ground in her stead. Pages tore apart from what little held them together, causing a small mess to cover the ground all beside her; a puddle of ink on canvas, spread all around her.

The world felt as though there was no motion, no movement neither by her nor the people around her. However many people passed by her in the time that went, the curious eyes that gazed upon her with intrigue or confusion, none of them seemed to draw the woman’s attention.

It was not until the man stepped forward, his feet the first thing that she noticed as the boots pushed through the mass of papers, parting them as though a rock cutting through a roaring wave. They stopped just before her, barely a meter which stood between where she stood and this figure, one who neither moved nor seemed interested in that. Rather, it seemed the man was intent on awaiting her response. Waiting for her to look up.

Peering her head upwards to the man, the first motion or sign of life that she had given for what felt like a lifetime, although actually barely a few moments. There the man stood, his frame imposing, standing more than a full foot taller than that of Astrid, her neck fully exposed as she looked up to exchange stares with the man, intense eyes full of amber looking down upon her. They were not eyes of cruelty, but eyes of intrigue, benevolence of sorts. Even perhaps a sense of something more disguised within them. Madness.

Chaos.

“You seem lost, child.” His words were soft, betraying the intimidating visage he carried, but there was a sinister nature to them too. She could hear it. It was the same venom that she spoke with it, an underlying cruelty masquerading as a warm, thoughtful invitation. The man shifted ever so slightly, enough to cause his foot to kick up one of the scattered newspaper pages, of which the faintest of smiles flashed upon his face in response. “Ah, yes, I can see your surprise. That would make sense… the betrayal…”

Her eyes widened, the realization setting in. Whomever this was, it was no mere accident that their paths happened to cross.

927/1400 (-20% Censor of Dragon's Blood, -10% Zera'thul)

"Worship me in rivers of blood"

STR: 311 | SPD: 507 | CON: 256 | END: 225 | INT: 256 | MANA: 13,550

Reaching down with an almost elegant poise, the man’s eyes and focus never averted from the bewildered look upon Astrid’s face. Rather, it seemed that for the longer the two held each other within their gaze, the more assuredly he maintained control of the situation; her paralysis at his beck and whim.

In a single gesture he gripped the paper, fingers smoothly wrapping themselves around the paper, pulling it whilst maintaining the delicate charm like holding that of silk. His hand never quite touching the paper itself, but running itself close enough to almost, like that of wet paint being lined upon the parchment. “Father’s decision take you by surprise? I would say, someone in your position I could certainly understand it.” A weak smile dashing upon his face, almost a rogue-like glisten happening, “If I had found myself in your position, I don’t know if I wouldn’t feel the same.”

His words brought back life to Astrid, a stark contrast to the catatonic sense that his presence had first imposed itself onto Astrid. Her eyes glared into the man, not of contempt, but of ignorant dismissal. Who was he to suggest any understanding of her plight? Of what she was going through?

“You know nothing.” There was venom in her voice, contempt seething out of every breath she spoke. Yet, the reaction seemed to only further widen the smile upon the man’s face, to a point where he made little effort to hide it.

“I know you’re still alive, despite your father’s claims. I know you’ve come to Oak Town in part to escape him, in part to figure out your own path.” He looked down once again, getting a good view of the image, a rough portrait taken but enough to sell the man as a figure of importance. Only to the uneducated did things of these seem to inspire any sort of appreciation towards. To the rest, a waste of time on the part of the artist. “And I know that left to your own devices, you have no hope of changing your fortune. The destiny promised to you, stolen from you before ever getting a chance to realize it.”

She held her ground, unwilling to accept the truth in his words. It was there, for as much as she would have wished to deny it, but that was the reality, to her dismay. Hearing it told back to her, she were not sure whether to be enraged or dismayed at the depths to which this man knew of him. “Why are you here?”

The slightest nod of the head was enough for the man, the girl quickly having figured his reasonings for this impromptu meeting of sorts. “Why, because I want to help you, is it not obvious?” He paused, if only to watch the express on Astrid’s face to change, taking apparent delight in the reversal of circumstances, the persistent shift of the young woman’s disposition.

“I will provide you with aid. Transportation to Crocus. Support, when the time comes for it. I’d say more, but really, I don’t want to spoil things. This is your show, after all. I just want to make sure that I reserve a front row seat to the grand finale!”

She did not know quite what to say. It was hard to believe, but this man had shown his hand from the beginning. He knew her. She did not know him. It could have been a trap, certainly, but she had seen this play out enough times with failed efforts against her to know when to believe it. If she were to have fallen to this man, she would be drowning in her own blood already.

“How soon can I leave?”

1549/1400 (-20% Censor of Dragon's Blood, -10% Zera'thul)