Through the smatterings of dribble, babbling quips and innuendos laden through the various pitches of cadences and timbres, Ytone was carefully constructing and imitating the looping scrawl of her scarlet aesthetics compressed beneath leather with heat blooming through the flesh of her robes. The intricate laces of peeled skin and thick layers of sustenance elicited whispers of shuddering breath through the passages of her flaring nasal, evoking the most tempered of pants until the scenery and bucking of the wagon over the roads fractured the euphoric concentration of her pain. Ytone's gestures carefully slid back, fingers twining through crimson threads as the securing blanket of her Raksha nestled onto her lap cemented her reality to the evidence that she did not have the luxury of quiet contemplation. Her sister, the Tessen was securely folded, compressed by the silver switch that would decompress and spring open at the faintest coaxing of her touch and hidden discretely through the fabric of Raksha's embellished scarf. The methods of conversation among those gathered was of little to no interest to her, the only point of stern concentration being the intended path, as if attempting to commit the roads to memory and bringing with it something of familiarity.
She had come this way before.It was only by the subject of willing death that evoked a reaction out of the Gaki envoy, a woman responding to the subject and thus bringing the question flush and returning to initial thought. The press of her silver stare sliced through the fringe of her lashes, brow raising an increment in her illustration of perplexity at the man who voiced the original inquiry to their apparent want. Her eyes remained thus, never flinching away a fraction before she disengaged her silence.
"You speak of Death as if it really were just a mere wish." Ytone began, for Death was no luxury like the woman detailed, for Death was no happenstance of circumstance. Death was of much more complexity and wonder, for the final slumber was a gift of a God.
Marcus winced as an unfamiliar tone cut through the air and the swath of replies that now seemed eager to wet their throats with conversation. Despite having never heard the sound before or meeting its owner, common sense and his peripheral vision confirmed that the first of his fears had finally come true; the strangely dressed woman from the wall in Armistice could not resist the allure of conversation either. As if that fact was not bad enough, the first words she spoke indicated the beginning of an introspective into abstract concepts that neither could be nor had any business being quantified--suffice it to say, the freshly released convict felt his attention being forcibly dragged in the direction of the one group member he was the most uncertain about. Though he wanted to address those that had spoken to him first--especially the one in the other cart who seemed to have...
Interest in his manhood--the futility of trying to ignore the sheer aura emanating from the gaze of the weird one grew with every passing second. The squeal of the cap as it loosened from the flask signaled the only preparation Marcus could take as he ingested the warm liquids and prepared his mind and soul for the encounter. This, no matter what, was not going to end well.
"You speak as if you wish for death. Seems like we're back where we began, so I'll ask again in a manner more befitting of your sensibilities. What kind of ignorance brought you to willingly volunteer for the kind of quest with only one possible ending?" Marcus now focused his gaze fully on the one he could not bring himself to look upon in the city.
Integrated intricacies of habit rendered by blades of eternal sundering, and woe garnered a peculiar performances of her pupils dilating into spheres of depressing cesspools lined in silver corrupted by the finest webs of ebony from the cancerous mana coursing through every vessel throbbing beneath her skin. In a slow cant, her cheek came almost parallel with her shoulder, black thread spilling over her shoulder, pooling onto her lap where Raksha calmly posed in silent malice, akin to a feline lounging in the midst of the tamer. His retort simmered with the slurring drawl of his beverage, her eyes flashing to the flask clutched within hand, and the careful implants of a rebuttal garnered in something distasteful. She recognized the patterns through the execution of his movements, they were harsh, deliberate, befitting to the representation of his countenance, but more was laden there that made Ytone's lips perch upwards into a simper of illustrious wonder. Speaking to her in such a variation of his previous inquiry bade a similar rejoinder, clipped in the husky bearings of her usual cadence and gleaning like the edges of metal embedded into her pallid skin.
"I know better than to address Death so ignorantly as you have. I was taught such reverence." One could've mistaken her utterance for a reprimand, but a dull, simmering reflection of pity and sorrow in the silver of her stare dissuaded the assumption as her focus redoubled in effort, and was wed to his eyes and self.
"You mistaken me for a treasure seeker? That I willingly proffered my blade and body for the desires of a union that bears no importance to me? If only Fate were so kind." Ytone lips gaped at the slither of a chortle that sputtered from her throat marred in ink and scars, irony lacing tight into the fixation of her mind at the baseless conclusions he spoke of.
"Reverence?! So, indeed you are one of them," Marcus pushed the flask into an unseen pouch and even let a chuckle escape.
The Catastrophe was a terrible event in the dark and convoluted history of humankind, but it was also an era that informed the presently surviving world. The death and destruction caused by the armies of invading beasts were exponentially bigger than any previous wars fought between the countries and this kind of chaos lead to a division in the mentality of the population. In the experience of the former knight, there existed a sect of individuals who seemed to worship the concept of death itself in some ridiculous attempt at avoiding any sort of calamity in the future. He had encountered many who genuinely thought this much in his official travels and this oddly dressed woman was merely repeating their ideals in a more fanciful tone. Those unearthed memories were unwelcome.
Marcus pushed his back straight against the side of the cart and improved his sitting height slightly. His mood twisted into that of disgust as he wrinkled his face and furrowed his brow.
"You speak too surely of yourself," He watched the woman's black locks fall ominously over her weapon,
"Did you think because you carried a weapon, I would assume you to be a warrior? In the same way that these new adventurers underestimate the outside world, you severely underestimate that which you seem to honor and bend your knee to. A roaming beast won't give a shit if you proffered your blade and body for its own carnal desires, much less the actual nature of your agenda." The wound expanded over her thigh from the previous interlude at the wall suddenly
burned. Beneath the thickets of her robe ebony fissures rocketed and flamed across the swallow complexion of herself, splintering through the flesh; manifesting a sheen that bloomed across the silver coins of her eyes accompanied by a near sheer disbelief. He was dismissive, ignorant of the plights and evidence of her representation. He inclined her to be apart of some existing lunacy, as if he were even
aware of the horrific realities that sundered her soul, fostered her taint, and corrupted her heart to a deadened organ that pumped poison, ash, and pain through her being. She respected the final slumbers, the intricacies of death and despair, for she was to be denied them through all leagues and bounds of eternity, she wished naught for death; but - perhaps - only the freedom by the blessings of such a gift from a God.
Do not mock what you cannot hope to fathom. . ."And you underestimate me and my purpose, you twist and spear my words to reflect the fear burdened inside yourself, you who came to the gate by a leash.. You're no better than these adventurers and seekers of Fate, I respect the finalism of life, for I have seen the depths of Hell, I've felt the fire and ash of the woeful dead." Her voice bubbling with a hidden, festering ooze of pain and suffering, a near desperation to bend his will and body to the spears of blood and silver that tangled and wove into the locks shimmering ebony in the light.
"Don't you dare speak to me of beasts. I've felt their ire and power, you know nothing of Us." As the words spilled from her mouth, chaotically arranged and tinged with an arrogant anger that relished in its own assumption, Marcus felt a barrier begin to crumble within himself. He had always been a private sort of person, never speaking of his time in the knighthood and never selling stories of the harrowing ordeals he faced as a career criminal. He had witnessed and experienced many events, emotions, and traumas that he was content to keep locked away in the bowels of his mental sanctity until he stepped into his final resting place. Despite the masks he wore as his persona to those on the outside looking in, there was still enough genuine dignity left to constitute pride in the unspoken ideals he held dear. Due to the fact the almost never took another seriously, he could always protect his pride no matter what verbal offense came charging his way. This time, however, he felt the grip on his imprisoned identity loosening. It was not that this woman mentioned seeing the chains he wore on his way to the gate. It was not that she accused him of harboring some sort of hidden fear that was he was now attempting to project onto others. The problem was far more serious than that.
This woman... This
bitch implied that only she had seen the true depths of hell. That only she had felt the pain and anguish and tangibility of those that had perished. That Marcus, a man she hardly knew, had never felt the sheer power and authority only the beasts held when facing down a mortal opponent. She implied that this broken man could not know the meaning of chaos, destruction, and true evil. She was sorely mistaken.
Instinctively, a shudder raced down Marcus' arm. The limb involuntarily wished to act on its owner's welling rage and clutch the blade that would end not only this discussion, but the life of one who did not deserve it--did not deserve such a rare gift. The weight laying across his crossed legs suddenly felt heavier and more real in that moment than any other. Flashes of various methods of immediate offense appeared and disappeared just as quickly. Irate pools of green focused a murderous gaze directly into the eyes of the one that drew their ire, but no words managed to slip passed the lips which remained sealed. There was nothing more to say. Marcus learned everything he needed to about this woman here and now and it would be something he would remember for the duration of this journey. Her visage seared a special place into his memory. Her words became everlasting echos that he could recall whenever he desired. He would know the sound of her voice amidst the bustle of the biggest city, but...
He would never ask her name.
. . . will you then ask for my name when the world has gone.
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