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                                                . ...Kil'rel Fley... .
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                                                      Where... Is your v****a? Delicate hands explored his face and prodded his throat. Her voice sounded confused, as if somehow a blind girl was capable of being sure of two very wrong things. One: That he had a v****a, and two: That it was on his face. He sat up in a hurry, knocking her off of him and snorted like the animal he represented. When dreams of being touched sensually by natives of Ignit turned to reality of being accidentally harassed by a full grown child, you tend to wake up in a bad mood.

                                                      "Excuse me?" He grabbed both her hands roughly out of habit. Normally an unexpected wake up call was bad. "I do not have a v****a, I am a man, I have a p***s." His words slowly grew more kind, more explanatory of the situation as he woke up more fully and realized who Orphelia was and how she was likely raised. "Men don't share the same parts, Orphelia, it's basic human-ish anatomy."

                                                      "I've never met a man before..." Her words trailed off and she blushed in mortification. Kilrel assumed as much before the statement, but to see the extent of her ignorance was almost enough to make him feel anger at the Queen of Lutria for letting it happen. A smile grew across his face and he waggled his brow.

                                                      "Want to experience a real man?" Anyone with manners would realize joking like this was brash and tasteless, but not Kil'rel; the man could see no wrong in jest.

                                                      "I've experienced three so far?" Was that a question or a statement?

                                                      ". . . . Not the way I meant."

                                                      "Oh. How did you mean?"

                                                      ". . . . Nevermind."

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                                                      A gasp left the girl's lungs as he wrists were grabbed suddenly and she was almost falling on the man that still laid in the hammock before her. "Excuse me?" He was accusing, upset. "I do not have a v****a, I have a p***s." Sylvanus had been careful to explain the female anatomy to Orphelia when she'd started her monthly cycle, but never bothered explaining to her the male side of it. Orphelia hadn't even bothered asking her, either. "Men don't share the same parts, Orphelia, it's basic human-ish anatomy."

                                                      "I've never met a man before." She blurted out. Did that sound obvious? She did just meet Desmond two days before, but that was so fast before she was swept up on the ship. She sounded obvious and it made her cheeks red. But suddenly, Kil'rel's tone changed.

                                                      "Want to experience a real man?" Was he teasing? She didn't know.

                                                      "I've experienced three so far." Her last word went upward in tone, as she'd kind of changed her mind on what she'd decided he'd meant by 'experience'.

                                                      "Not the way I meant." So he didn't mean meet and be around.

                                                      "Oh. How did you mean?" She asked, still aware of their closeness and the breeze tugging at her hair.

                                                      "Nevermind." His hands slipped from her wrists then and she took one on her hand and lightly rubbed it, feeling her pulse was fast and warm.

                                                      "I'm sorry to bother you, Kil'rel." She said politely, though she didn't want to leave him yet. "You're probably very tired from your travels. I'll leave you to your rest." Her hand reached out for him again, her fingers brushing along his bare chest, feeling the muscles under his warm skin. It made the breath in her throat hitch and her cheeks turn red once more. "S-sorry.. I'll go back inside.." Turning quickly, Orphelia fumbled aroud a bit, hand reaching out beside her for the house and using it to guide her way back to the house. It wasn't much cooler in there, perhaps even a bit warmer, but she didn't want to bother Kil'rel any by being outside.

                                                      One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven... How many steps was it to the stairs? Her feet started shuffling forward, feeling anxious now as she was afraid to suddenly hit something or stumbled over something and fall and make loud noises and wake everyone. Breathing shallow, she continued slowly as the moments seemed to drag on like hours, Kil'rel's snoring picking up again until finally her toes found the bottom step. She could have cried in relief. After taking the first step up, she realized she also forgot how many steps it was to the top. And each step would groan under her weight, as light as she was. Her sensitive ears picked up every creak and it made her wince, and the moments crawled away once more before she reached the top and gave herself a small heartattack when there wasn't another one to step on to. But now that she was up there, was her room to the left or right? Her sense of direction was failing her miserably. Taking the turn she felt most comfortable with, Orphelia took slow and timid steps forward until she felt the door and slowly opened it. Inside smelled of outside as the window was open, and she could hear the bugs and night birds cooing softly. Taking slow steps forward, she reached out and felt the bug net, lifting and pulling it aside until she was inside it. After placing it all back, she undressed to her undergarments and laid down, sinking under the light sheet as she felt her head hit the bed. There was no pillow. Turning over, she reached out and felt someone's back, lines engraved in it. It made her jump, although whoever it was had suddenly flipped over and grabbed her, yanking her hands over her head as something hard and sharp was pressed at her throat, his weight pressing to her stomach as he straddled her, the sheet falling away.

                                                      "Make a noise and I'll slit your throat." Was that.. Desmond? He sounded much harsher and cruel, and it scared her.

                                                      Shaking and wincing at the tight grip he held on her wrists, Orphelia's mouth came open as she gasped, but that made the blade dig into her throat and she clamped her mouth shut, leaning her head back in an effort to relieve any pressure it had on her skin.

                                                      "What are you doing in here?"

                                                      "..."

                                                      "I asked you a question." He hissed.

                                                      "You said- not to make a noise.." She let out an almost inaudible whisper.

                                                      "That was before I knew it was clueless woman walking into my room and not an intruder trying to slight my throat!" He was speaking lowly as well, probably in an effort to not wake the others.

                                                      "I took a wrong turn!" She shivered, suddenly aware she was in nothing but her underwear, her skin mostly exposed. It wasn't that she wasn't used to it, but feeling Desmond's eyes on her made her very uncomfortable.

                                                      "You should think before doing something idiotic like that."

                                                      "I'm sorry.." She let out a quick gasp again, and slowly the blade was pulled away from her neck.

                                                      "Don't sneak up on a man like me." His weight shifted off of her and he let her hands go.

                                                      "It was an accident. I didn't mean to wake you." Her voice faltered as she struggled to sit up, shaking still as her heart pounded in her throat. "Please don't be upset." Though he already was, she could feel it. But she couldn't move any more than that. Her legs wouldn't co-operate. A breeze went through the room then, and if Desmond was looking at her right then with the full moon's light coming through window on her, would see small blue glowing dots on her jaw bones and near her ears, about five on each side.



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                                                              There was a stirring around the house. It was quiet. Subtle. Yet that didn't keep attentive ears from ringing in alarm. Like an animal's did. It was moments like these when the young thief had to wonder if he was not T'vinian himself. That the part of him he had lost was not that of his heritage in Al'mil but the animal part of him someone had ripped from his mind and shoved into a closest filled with someone else's skeletons. He tried not to think of such things, because such things came with questions and with questions came answers no one wanted to hear. Yet, his eyes darted in the darkness, his nose almost twitched, and if he had fur it would be raised and stiff on his back. He fell just short of having his lip curl in a cautionary snarl to anyone who dared enter. He had no idea what was going on just downstairs. No idea at all. But he heard voices. Nothing that could picked out and recognized readily, a hint that no matter how animalistic Desmond was, he was not an animal. His hearing was that of a human's and that frustrated him in moments such as these. All he heard was what sounding like mumbling, carrying through the floor and quaking every instinct he had. He could act. Stand up from his bed and go downstairs to check the noise himself, but what if there were several enemies hanging in the parlor. Waiting for him to do just that. Any weapon he could use was hidden deep in the closest in a chest locked away by a rusty brass lock that hung heavy on the clasp. He could see the chest in his head, walking himself through the house mentally, imagining what enemies could be waiting. He thought of sneaking by, but that was impossible. He thought about fighting head on with only his dagger. Sure, but what if they carried bigger weapons. What if these enemies were larger and more menacing. Desmond was not a small man but he wasn't a brute either. Standing in a healthy medium between the two extremes. Then he had to think again, if there was an enemy, how had Kil'rel not met them first. He's was a beast of a man for obvious reasons. If there was an enemy standing beneath the Desmond's bedroom floor then why had Sakima not stirred, rushed down the hall and met him here. Perhaps Sakima was with their new guest. She was worthless in such situations. The poor blind girl couldn't even walk without an unsuspecting chair meeting the punishment of her colliding with it clumsily. Or perhaps there wasn't an enemy. It could very much be nothing even though that was rarely the case.

                                                              He thought of all of the possibilities and his best option was to stay where he was. To lie in his bed and wait just a little bit longer. Hand gripped tight around the dagger hidden beneath his pillow so unoriginally. Anyone who knew he was a pirate would know he kept it there. That was almost a pirates trademark. A bottle of rum on the night stand and a dagger that he was more loyal to than his wife. That was the life of a pirate, yet Desmond was missing the alcoholic sleeping agent by his bed so perhaps no one would suspect a thing.

                                                              It was then that the door opened. After several moments of uninterrupted silence. The door creaked as if always did, but the intruder made no note to be any quieter despite it. Their feet patted lightly against the wood and they made no effort to move anymore gracefully than that. Was this a joke? A ploy perhaps? There was a rustle of clothing running over skin. The quietest thing about the entrance of this unknown person. Yet he heard it, even a slight flowery scent wafted against his nostrils that flared as he tried to steady his breath. The scent was familiar, soft, sweet. And all at once he realized that it was her. His poor little captive. In his room. . . .why? Then his mind went else where. Sex? No. Did she even know the meaning of the word? She hardly seemed to know what a man was. She even gave him this daft look of " what in yin's name are you?" on their first encounter. Then. . .something else. It came to him that she could have been deceiving them this entire time. If he were a small curvy woman staying in a home with three pirates, he would play dumb too. . . . .until the right moment.

                                                              Once the bed shifted under her weight, he waited a moment longer, his eyes glancing over his shoulder as best they could. Suddenly, as if it were a justified action, he felt cool fingertips graze his back, moving over every individual scar in it's path. Then she flinched, and he was unsure why. Perhaps she didn't expect to feel so many nightmares cut into his skin.

                                                              Just like that, something ignited in his chest. A fire that spread through him so violently he was hardly able to understand its source or its presence and within moments he had that dagger out from it's hiding place. His body, much larger than hers, pinning her hips down to the bed, knees jabbed into her ribs for good measure, and then just as quickly as he revealed the weapon it was pressed against her throat. Blade gleaming beneath the moonlight flooding into the room. She could not see him, of course, but he was taking in every bit of her image. Her dark hair splayed across the plush beneath her, skin bare. With little care, he grabbed both of her small wrists within his large free hand, pinning them above her head and he felt the blade press deeper into her flesh. If there was anything he could say in perhaps the last moments of her life, he could at least say she looked beautiful just before he ended her life.

                                                              "Make a noise and I'll slit your throat," he threatened seamlessly, with every intent to do so if she did not obey. After he said those words all he could think was, she better have a good reason for her intrusion. For a moment they were silent. She was following his demand and he was thinking. Slowly finding his composure as his eyes searched her features for any kind of ruse. He found nothing but fear in her expression.

                                                              "What are you doing in here?" he asked calmly, no growl or ill intention in his tone. Yet when his question was met was silence his frustration quickly came back.


                                                              "I asked you a question," he hissed, roughly tugging at her wrists just to shake her a bit for extra affect. Something he learned was very intimidating from the captain himself.

                                                              It was then that her dark lips quivered before she stuttered."You said- not to make a noise.."Her reply sweet even in a whisper of fear.

                                                              "That was before I knew it was clueless woman walking into my room and not an intruder trying to slight my throat!" Honest answer. He thought her evil for a moment before he found himself, barely clothed as well, on top of her looking down at her while she practically trembled.

                                                              "I took a wrong turn!" she cried to him quietly.

                                                              It was then that he let out an exasperated exhale. "You should think before doing something idiotic like that."

                                                              "I'm sorry.." His body relaxed and all at once while he shook his head he pulled the sharp blade from her throat, sitting up straight for a moment, hands placed on his thighs as he stared down at her for a moment longer. "Don't sneak up on a man like me," he warned just before he rolled off of her and onto his side to lie down again. He took a deep breath, pulling his body into a comfortable position while pulling the blanket over himself. There was no effort in making her leave for he expected that it was obvious she was not welcome. Even if it wasn't obvious, she had every reason to scurry away in fear. Had she of said one thing wrong he would have dragged that dagger across her throat with little hesitation.

                                                              Yet just as he was wondering what she was doing she timidly spoke again." It was an accident.I didn't meant to wake you." He fought the dying urge to groan. " Please don't be upset." His back remained to her, hoping if he closed her eyes and wished her away he would open them and there would be no annoying presence lingering around him. Eyes closed and opened and yet she was still there. Again, wishful thinking had failed him." I would be less upset if you left me alone," he answered simply. " As a matter of fact, the longer you lay there as if you have a right to be in my bed, the more you upset me." Without thought, he slide the dagger beneath pillow again, a sign that he was ready to sleep again.

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                                                      As a matter of fact, the longer you lay there as if you have a right to be in my bed, the more you upset me."

                                                      Those words continued to ring in her head long after she'd woken up the next day. Still in her own bed, she listened to the birds outside and the men's voices from downstairs as she thought about in detail what happened last night. Why did he have those scars? Why was he so on edge? What did he mean 'right to be in his bed'? She knew she didn't belong there the moment she thought twice about touching him! Why was he so hostile to her? Kil'rel was, too. Was it because they were pirates?

                                                      Questions kept her awake most of the night, so when she'd finally moved to get up, the knock at her door made her jump. It was Sakima, inviting her down to eat. Thoughts of the previous night's encounters with Kil'rel and Desmond though made her cringe. She felt embarrassed to have to deal with that- she was sure they thought she was some sort of incompetent invalid with no proper use of mannerisms or social etiquette. Which.. wasn't too far off, considering she'd led her life rather enclosed to the world. Her love of stories had kept her, more or less, entertained and fed her appetite for knowledge. She was always so curious to learn more, and perhaps it was that curiosity that encouraged her to get up and move. As she moved her feet from the sheet, she felt a small, folded stack of cloth by them. Sitting up, she reached for it, and recognized the cloth's feel as being her clothes. Apparently she'd left them in Desmond's room last night and had forgotten to pick them up before she left in her hurry to get back to her own room. Smiling to herself at the small gesture from him, she stood and slowly dressed herself as best she could, ending with wrapping the scarf around her head, tying it in the back. She missed Sylvanus doing this for her, and bringing her breakfast and letting her play her flute. Orphelia's heart dropped when she realized she'd left it back home. She loved playing it, it made for for passing time enjoyable.

                                                      Making her way back down the stairs, she counted her steps this time, making sure to remember the number. The men's voices were loud enough to cover the sound of the old stairs creaking and groaning under her steps, though she could clearly hear every syllable they said. They were speaking about the boat, going out to gather supplies and so on but quieted when she'd apparently been noticed by them. Taking tentative steps forward, she reached out ahead of her to make sure she didn't bump into anyone when someone's hand gently grabbed her arm and guided her to a chair to sit. Their greetings felt a little stiff, but after a few moments of them picking up conversation again, she busied herself with trying to eat, being careful not to make a mess and having no idea if that was successful.

                                                      "Excuse me?" She asked after awhile when there was a break in conversation. "If you don't mind me asking, why am I here? If you aren't selling me into slavery, holding me for ransom, or kidnapping me to.. to kill, then why was I taken from my home? What use do you have of me?" She wasn't about to risk asking about them using her healing powers, forgetting Desmond had called her La Bella the moment he saw her the first time.




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                                                              A servant ran down the hallway, huffing and puffing with her dress balled up messily in one hand. She was plump especially for a servant, fed well in the face of prosperity of her lovely ruling kingdom, Al'mil. Her dress was made of soft cloth neatly tied around her, not rags. She was even clean, evidence that within the castle was bath house for the servants, not every kingdom was so lucky to afford such a luxury for the lower class.

                                                              Now, the pampered servant ran, sweat beading on her brow as she crossed the castle. Covered feet slapping against the smooth stone, her breath fogging up in the frigid air and the fire barely stayed lit on the torch. Under her breath a quiet Al'millian prayer passing pale lips. "Beneath the moonlight I shalt not fear, for I am protected," she chanted common in a whisper over and over again. Within moments, her plea was drowned out by the sound of bangs and thuds, growling, yelling. " Where is she!" the voice bellowed as it was followed by the sound of wood crashing and shattering against the floor.

                                                              In the hallway just outside the door, stood two servant girls, staring, wincing, cowering against each other as they watched. Then they both screamed and ducked as a silver candelabra came flying out of the doorway, lit candles still held tight as it spun and hit the wall just as they ducked, flames going out making it dark again. " I demand an answer!" Another loud crash followed that just as the other servant joined in the doorway to stare into the infamous Lucia's room, to see the king towering over two other servants that were crouched on the floor holding each other in horror, tears running down the young one's face, the other staring up with furrowed brows, trembling in her place. " Last she was seen she was dressed in savage clothing and walking towards the courtyard," the most confident one answered, cheeks flushed but absent of tears. Just like that the towering figure seemed to almost relax, his shoulders even seemed to slump but judging by the expression on the girls' faces, his intimidation had yet to cease. " That was it?" he asked lowly, in a more calming tone and yet even the servants in the hall quaked for it was more worrisome than his outburst.

                                                              The women continued to stare up at him. "Answer me." The youngest girl flinched at his growl of a tone, closing her eyes and turning her face to the floor. With her mouth slightly agape the other girl shook her head slowly. " Daggers were tied to her hips and she carried a satchel," she admitted. " And you didn't think to stop her?" he pressed. The girl shook her head again. " All of us were unaware that she was no longer fit for battle," she swallowed the knot in her dry throat. " Your majesty. . . ."

                                                              Even from behind him, the servants could see him huff in frustration just as he turned around. The servants in the hallway gasped and took steps away from the door, the silver clanking against the floor as one of them almost tripped on it from moving back so fast. He looked at them, naturally dark blue eyes now glowing fluorescent and as boldly as the moonlight that hung in the window. Those eyes almost mirrored the mighty moon.

                                                              It was then one of the servants dropped to her knees, bowing, her forehead meeting the stone as she chanted. " Au akmul von dokere gudinne, Sina von au monne" her voice trembling and from the shrillness of her tone it was evident she was in tears. It was then that the king glided confidently out the room, passing the servants in the hall. Any other time, he would have demanded directly that he wanted the room cleaned up, but he knew now that he didn't have to ask at all. They would obey his silent order out of pure unfaltering fear.

                                                              ❖❖❖



                                                              The morning air was just as unforgiving as the before night was. Frigid. Enough to see your breath. Enough for your fingers to go black by the end of the day if one were not cautious. This was an Al'millian summer, of course. Unlike the deserts of Lutria or the tropical forests of Ignit, Al’mil was cold even in the warm months. Though snow no longer graced the earth, the soil beneath the brown dormant grass was frozen and solid. Only the most hearty of plants could withstand such conditions. Just as the people. It was not for the faint of heart, this place. It snowed most of the year, the sky was always layered with thin gray clouds except for in the night when the moon cleared the curtain from it’s path to watch lovingly over her kingdom.

                                                              An Al’millian family lived off of meat from the domesticated oxen that were only raised in the fields of this country, for they were bred for the cold and relentlessly grouchy in the heat, just as most Al’millians were. Every man, woman, and child dressed in furs of bears, fox, and wolves born and slaughtered in these lands. Their meat was not wasted, but it was a delicate meal considering the land only rewarded the people with so many of these creatures. This kingdom was not for the lighthearted. It was a kingdom of survival and war. A kingdom for the strong. It was why an Al’millian would laugh in the face of a Lutrian. “ You will not last a night,” they would tease over a mug of mead. “ You may live forever, yet you waste your life pampered in warm air,” they would laugh. “ A real man survives the cold and likes it!”

                                                              Pride was an Al’millian trait. As is lust. And who hadn’t met an Al’millian man glutton for his imported ales? It was a sinful place, as Ignit would say. One shrouded in darkness and evil yet they enjoyed every minute of it. When it was warm, only for a month and still it was not even as warm as a cool day in T’vin, they would celebrate with procreation and drunkenness. A day was even rewarded to it, where every man was allowed his prize of a woman and every prostitute or married woman was was allowed her pleasure and there was no shame in such things. That day would be here soon, and the atmosphere of the town within the walls was dying for it.

                                                              The king paid little mind to such a tradition. Sure, he had his concubines and any noble woman of Al’mil longing for his undivided attention and the task of meeting his needs as a man. Yet, Vergil was not that type of man. He didn’t just take anyone into his bed without a thought or care in the world. No. He made his decisions wisely. One thing that separated him from his late father. Sure, he experienced lust. Just like any other man would carried the burden of raging testosterone. Though, he had other things to worry about. Such as his personal slave running off to lunge herself into battle without his permission.

                                                              Yet, he even set that issue aside. There was little he could do about it now. Instead, he took long strides out in his barren courtyard. As usual, the sky was gray. Along his shoulders rested the finest of wolf’s fur, black leather gloves stretched over his large hands. A long sword strapped to either side of his hips that gently tapped against his calves as he walked. It was so quiet here. Serene even. Strange for a man of war to fancy such a thing, but even in the midst of bloodshed much needed silence could be adored. Al’mil hadn’t been in a real war for almost three years. So unlike a country of it’s nature. Though, that did not keep them from training. It most definitely didn’t keep them from being just as alert. So what if Arc’hilde came to it’s doorstep, knocked, and waited with spears pointed at them? Al’mil was no stranger to sharp weapons and hostility. It was even foolish for them to think they would fall to such faces of danger. In reality, it was not a danger at all.

                                                              So, as if nothing was on the horizon, Vergil strolled through the center of the courtyard. A snow furies lightly drifting from the skies about, resting on his fur covered shoulders as he moved through it. It’s better than rain, he thought. Nothing was pleasant about Al’millian rain. Not even to the people who had lived here their entire lives.

                                                              In the entrance of the courtyard, standing by the tall wooden doors stood two brutish guards. Plated armor covering their bodies, long hair wrapped and twisted behind their heads. They watched their king. Rather with admiration or envy, they watched. Vergil was used to such treatment. Someone was always watching. He stopped, not paying the men any mind. His heavy lids closed, tilting a pale and flushed face up to the sky. He filled his deep set lung with cold air that burned his nostrils mercilessly. But he didn’t care. He loved the feeling. Lived for it. On several occasions he had even swore his life to death for this peace. For these furies that fell from the sky and landed on his cheeks only to linger and melt against his warm flesh. A faint scent of burning Caluk* wood lingering in the air. It smelled of spice and smoke as the air always did in the end of the coldest season. This tranquil silence could not be felt anywhere else. The king could say that first hand. There was something about this emptiness. A charm about the loneliness this country placed in it’s land with care. No one could understand the beauty of small white bits of snow falling from the sky such as this. No one else could appreciate it. While the sun beat down on the faces of those in T’vin or Lutria. King Vergil basked in the low light.

                                                              The silence made it easy to be alert, which is why when the sound of something whipping through the air met his ears, he was suddenly broken from his meditation. He opened his eyes slowly, searching the sky for the source of the sound, and when he found nothing instinct told him to look down. He did so, slowly, and between his feet stuck an arrow. The shaft of it blackened as if it was craved from a charred tree. The tail end of it flared out and black as well. He furrowed his brows at it, almost in confusion.

“My king!” one guard yelled in the distance as both of them came stomping over to him while he still stared down at the arrow that could of severely wounded him had the archer tilted the bow up just an inch higher. It was then, that pure curiosity told him to look up in the sky once more, When he did, he saw his grayed sky blackened with thousands of arrows raining down terror on his castle, trails of wispy black clouds spiraling behind them. “Your highness! Get to safety!” .

                                                              And what would that do?, he thought. Sure he was faster than most of the men he fought with, but that did not make him a god among runners. It was far too late, even he knew that. He was too far from cover to make it. If he was going to be impaled with thousands of arrows he would much rather they be lodged in his front rather than his flank. They all inched closer, and if someone didn’t know better they would say at the speed of light. Yet darkness trailed them. As a prideful king would, he stood his ground as his dark eyes brightened and shined even in the face of the abyss.

                                                              He could hear the guards yell. Beckoning him. Warning him. Yet, he simply closed his eyes and accepted the fate that was rushing towards him. Even with the will to live burning heavily within him. If only there was a way. A shield of some sort. The arrows whistled as the tore through the calm air. A cool breeze rushing passed his face as if nothing tragic was happening.

                                                              Then all at once, the sound of snapping and breaking joined the sounds. It was then that Vergil figured that he had yet to feel the sting of being struck with an arrow, a feeling he was not unfamiliar with. When he opened his eyes again, he was met with a bright blue light that created a dome in front of him, stretching over his head and creating a shield around him. Through the translucent field, he watched as black arrows crashed into it unsuspectingly. He furrowed his brow at it. His heart sinking as he watched it, though he was grateful that his life did not end here.

                                                              When the storm of arrows ceased, he tilted his chin to look ahead of him. Both of his guards laid in front of him. Face down in the cold earth, arrows protruding from the back of their heads and their necks. That was no a way to die. With your face in the ground rather than facing the heavens. Yet, what could a warrior of Al’mil expect? At least they died in attempts to protect their king. Though they had failed, it was a death worthy of praise.

                                                              Respectfully, he had to give them something for their sacrifice. So, he stepped through the force field before him, that broke as if it were smoke and scattered in his wake. He trudged forward, pulling the arrows from their heads, flesh tearing from their skulls and blood gushing from open wounds. When they were free of them, he rolled them over. Eyes wide in terror from meeting death so unsuspectingly. He crouched, whispering “ Mer jestifin*” as he placed his fingers over stretched lids and closed them. He did the same for the other lying beside his dead comrad.

“My king!” yelled another guard. With that, Vergil sighed and stood. Without a second glance he turned and never looked back. He walked with a purpose now. An attentive sway in his gait as he came to meet several guards walking out into the courtyard. “ Ready more guards and bring them to the front gates!” he ordered as he marched towards his young solider. “ Yes, your majesty,” one guard answered, turning around and sprinting back inside. “Are you alright, my king?” asked another, the concern sounding odd on his deep voice. “ Yes. Not a scratch on me,” he answered distantly. The guard nodded in confirmation before he stiffened at the king looking at him. “ You majesty may I speak out of turn?” he asked.

                                                              “If you must,” Vergil sighed in return. The guard swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “ Your eyes. .. they are-” and all at once the guard was staring at them. Vergil furrowed his brows, turning and bowing his head to look in the pool of black water sitting still beside them. Before he even got close to it, he could see the light coming from his eyes and when he did everything made sense. He sighed again. “ So it begins,” he mentioned lowly to himself. Then his attention snapped forward just as he began to march forward into the castle. “ Ready men for the gate,” he reminded the guard as he walked away. “ And what of the towns outside of it, your highness?” he asked to the king’s back. It was then that he stopped again, turning to look at the obviously troubled man. “ Has great damage been inflicted on them already?” he asked, for he only assumed the arrows were the beginning. It was then that the guard nodded slowly, swallowing again. Vergil huffed and then turned away looking at the other guards standing in the door. “ Ready a militia to move out into the city. Now,” and like that, the guards scattered once more.

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                                                      Several days passed, and the troops were more exhausted than ever. Several started getting that look in their eye, that look of not caring and giving up. Artherien was almost along with them too, as it seemed the scouting mission was going almost too poorly. He'd lost several of his men to that Treeebeast, and he wasn't sure how he'd get to explain that one to Vergil without a good reprimanding speech.

                                                      Running a hand through his hair with some water, he looked up to see a worried look on his lower officer's face as he approached. "What is it?" Artherien asked as he stood, irritation and an undertone of anger in his voice.

                                                      "There's a scouting party from Arc'hilde that's been spotted not far from here. There's only about fifty or so of them, at the most. We might be able to take-"

                                                      "No. We'll have to hide or move." He looked around at his men now, wary and hunched from lack of rest and hunger. Spoiled children. "We can't take them on in our condition. We'll keep moving. Which direction did they come from?"

                                                      "Our best guess was from the West along the border. But we weren't able to confirm that."

                                                      "Then we'll continue that way. Have your forward group meet back up with us before continuing on-" He was cut off when they heard shouting, and he looked at the same time his officer did to see one of the members of the forward party standing up on a low ridge, running toward them with his arms waving for their attention when he stopped suddenly and fell to his knees, then to his face, two long and thin arrows protruding from his back that slowly dissipated with the breeze. They were magic. Suddenly, right behind where the young man lay, the scouting party from Arc'hilde appeared on the ridge, all lined up shoulder to shoulder to look down at them. Their armor and trinkets glittered in the sun, weapons and hands raised, most with a glowing magical effect. But the auras they held were dark and held a strong ill intent.

                                                      As the horses started to spook and the men tried to calm them, Artherien made a hand gesture to his officer who turned quickly and began to spread word to prepare for an attack right now. Slowly he walked forward toward them, staff in his hand as he waited to see if their leader would come forward as well. Instead, the man in the middle raised his arm slowly, hand closed in a fist. Slightly confused at his gesture, Artherien decided to respond in a similar gesture, but as his arm lifted, he felt an uncomfortable shift in the air, and the clouds overhead became dark. This magician of theirs was pulling the atmosphere to his closed hand, and Artherien could see now the dim glow that radiated from it. This man was preparing for an attack.

                                                      "s**t.. s**t!" Turning quickly, he ran as fast he could to the men, calling for them to retreat. This was not fair play, and the magician had no intention of allowing them to live. The attack he was about to use was way too strong, and even Artherien could feel it. His eyes darted around for Lucia, and when he didn't see her he panicked slightly. Pausing, he looked around again, but felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. Turning, he saw a large, dimly lit ball of magic flying toward his head. In an effort to avoid it, he dodged to the side right before it made contact. The ground around it rose up in a ripple which knocked him off his feet, and as the ripple continued, knocked the others off theirs, too. Struggling to stand, he rubbed his ears in an attempt to stop the ringing that was caused from the initial blast of the hit. Looking up toward the ridge, he saw the mage had his hand raised, gathering for another attack. Growling under his breath, Artherien stood and didn't hesitate running forward, staff gripped tightly in his hand, fearless of this magician and his powers. The sky darkened again, air being pulled toward the extended arm, the hairs raised on the back of his neck as he watched the dim light gather from the man's fist.

                                                      As Artherien began to run up the side of the hill, he felt his body stop completely. He was frozen in place, though his heart continued beating wildly in his chest. He couldn't move his muscles, not even to look to the sides, only staring upward to the man ahead who's next attack was ready. He felt the hold pull away from his head and all he could do was watch as this ball was thrown directly toward the men below. He opened his mouth to shout, but found his voice did not come when demanded, another act of magic from these people. All he could do was watch as this attack hit the ground, but instead of rippling the earth like the other did, this one, when it hit, erupted into a ring of magic that quickly extended out around it, creating a similar rippling effect like the first, only this one erupted before it impacted, sending a burst of dim magical light outward from itself into the air around it. Those that were still struggling to stand from the first wave got hit by this one, those closest to the burst dead almost instantly.

                                                      Artherien's mouth opened to shout "NOO!" But the sound never came from his mouth. Turning his head back to the group before him, he felt his lip quiver as the leader of the group looked down at him first with a smug look of power, but his eyes widened as he watched Artherien's face change. It was not on purpose that this happened, but suddenly the hold on his muscles went slack and he was free to move again. He could feel himself move almost fluidly, and for a moment he was convinced he had detached himself from his body to watch his actions below- until he swung his staff around and it was not a staff, but a scythe, large, sharp, and powerful. His ancestor's weapon and armor were magically enchanted, and made to change with the wearer's abilities. Grinning wide, he felt a burst of energy flow through him as he swiped left and right, not hesitating to strike down these necromancers and their failed attempts at pulling him down. Left and right, up and down, he watched through an umber sheen the magicians before him sliced and cut through like a soft cream. Growls and shouts left his chest through his throat as he shouted, howling like a beast as he continued and watched with a satisfied snarl as these soft men fell before him, terrified at his might.

                                                      It wasn't until he'd heard a voice, her voice, that brought him back to a more stable reality. Lucia's shouts of his name made him pause, scythe raised above his head as he was about to attack another who laid on the on the ground before him, arm raised in defense. Only this man was not from the Arc'hildean scouting party- it was his own second in command of their group. Panting heavily, Artherien slowly lowered his scythe as he took a step back, his massive claw loosening it's grip on the weapon. Claw? Looking down at what was once his hands, Artherien stumbled a few steps back, grabbing at his face to feel it was a snout, long and bony, sharp teeth protruding from his jaws. Running the claws over his head he felt two long horns protrude from the top of his head and curve backward, neck and shoulders and torso covered in short, coarse hair. Letting out a surprised sound, he looked up again as he heard Lucia's worried voice still shouting his name, ordering others to get back. Looking over to her, he saw the determination in her face as she threw a rock at him, hitting him square in the shoulder.

                                                      "Over here!" Her voice rang through the clearing and she took off into the woods, starting a chase that he easily could follow. He didn't hesitate, bloodied scythe still in hand as he ran, picking up her scent as he went. He lost sight of her, but his nose took him right, then left, then right again- she was running haphazardly in an attempt to slow him down, but it did little good. She stopped suddenly, in a small clearing where she stood to face him, worry on her face as she held her weapon outstretched before her, and she was.. afraid. walking sideways slowly back and forth, he watched her, scythe slowly starting to twirl between the fingers of his claws with a dexterity almost too human. Low growls came from his chest as slowly he lowered himself to the ground, placing his claws into the dirt as his knees pressed into the soft earth. Whispers filled his ears with unknown words, calming, soothing, as he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Another groan escaped his lips as his chest lifted on it's own, head tilted back, as his human form slowly replaced the beast that had just been before her. Eyes closed, he felt his body fall limp to the ground, and after a moment of catching his breath, he lifted his hand and placed it palm down, pressing his weight on to it as he struggled to sit up. Shaking his head, he looked up to see Lucia standing before him, sword still held in front of her, eyes wide in awe and fear at the sight before her.

                                                      "Lu.. cia.." He managed out as he knelt there, breathing heavily. "What.. have I done?" Concern covered his face as he sat, hands trembling on his thighs.

                                                      "Ar-therien." Worry graced her voice as her sword fell away and she took quick steps forward, cupping his face in her hands. "It- was nothing you could control."

                                                      "I killed them, didn't I?" He asked, face leaning away from her sweaty palms. "My own men. I slaughtered them." It was fear now, in his brows, as they lifted from his usually scowled face. "At the attack from the Treebear. I killed the men that had gone with me to take it down. I killed them.." His gaze was off concentrating on that time.

                                                      "They were soldiers, Artherien. An early death was their fate. They- ... We all accept that when we become warriors. We can not save everyone. Sometimes we can not even save them from ourselves when we are bloodthirsty in the midst of battle. And if they died under the hand of their general... Then they died a more honorable death than if they had died under the hand of an enemy. At least, you will mourn their deaths."

                                                      "I had no remorse.." Blinking a few times, he wiped his face with his palms, streaking the dirt from his hands across his face as he did so, though he did not care. Standing slowly he picked up his weapon, now a staff again, and headed back to what was left of their camp. The men who were left were struggling to get their supplies back together, those still alive helping the wounded while others were gathering the dead. Sixty-three men were killed this time, most from the Arc'hildean scouting party, but some from his own hand- or claw, as it were. He was tight lipped about their deaths, admitting a beast that escaped him into the forest, had Lucia not been there to distract it, would have killed him too. It was not an utter lie, but it not the complete truth. They didn't need to know it was he who killed his own men. Aunt Jem would have reprimanded him, punished him, made him bow before the families of the men he'd killed and ask forgiveness. She would have visited each home and thanked the families each for their services to the kingdoms and thanked them for bearing such strong and noble sons. Even if he was a coward in battle. Because that was what it meant to serve in the greatest military among the kingdoms. Honoring them to the point of them willing to join of their own free will.

                                                      The fifteen or so men who remained gathered what they could and they started their journey home. After the trials Yin had put them through, Artherien doubted they'd survive much longer. Vergil would have his head, and Lucia's, for tagging along. They'd left the Arc'hildean bodies behind, a flag of Al'mil's in the midst of it to show a clear sign- that they would not back down, no matter what they sent at them. Artherien had a smirk on his face as he turned away from the scene, though he stopped as he felt someone's eyes from the woods on him. Reaching for his staff, he approached the edge slowly. "Who's there!" He called out, watching the treeline with a cautious gaze.

                                                      "Efil si ton a tro'hs yenro uj." Life is not a short journey A male's voice responded, calm, yet on alert.

                                                      "Lucia..?" Artherien glanced to her. "That sounds like something you used to speak."






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Akibirb's Significant Otter

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                                                      Do you remember when we first met?" Shiak'se shifted her weight on his chest, lifting her face to look at him with those sweet brown eyes of hers. He was still panting from their lovemaking, arm under his head while his other hand stroked at her shoulder as they cuddled in his bedroll.

                                                      "It was.. when my family traveled to see yours. You dumped a bowl of scorpions in my pants when I tried to kiss your cheek."

                                                      Her laugh made his torso move and he smirked at the feeling. "And then you went running to your papa saying you didn't want to marry me because you thought our children would be spiteful, cursed with scorpion poison." She'd let out another soft laugh, but this held an undertone of weight.

                                                      "Shiak'se.." He stroked her arm as he kissed the top of her head. He could feel the sadness in her voice, how she wished she could have her own children. "There's nothing wrong in taking joy in the others' children."

                                                      "I know." She moved again, sliding to his side as she rested her head on his shoulder, arm across his chest and leg lifted to rest against his thighs. "But they will never be my own." A kiss was placed on his chest and he sat up on his arm, leaning down to kiss her deeply. "Lu'aia already has three from you, and she's younger than I. I heard her say I was cursed, by-"

                                                      "I love you, Shiak'se. I don't care that you can't bare children. You are still my wife-"

                                                      "One of your wives."

                                                      "My first wife- and you will always hold that place in my heart." He kissed her again, and he felt her relax against him, feeling quickly at ease in his arms.


                                                      =====

                                                      That memory burned into his mind as he ran. He couldn't look back. Not now. Not after he'd already shown his cowardice. Shiak'se encouraged him to run, knowing the implications if he did so. She wanted him to save himself, and he took the chance, leaving her, Lu'aia, his five other wives and children behind along with his tribe. They were a strong group, each having a magical ability to protect themselves and work together to fight off their enemies. Jho'turr was physically strong, but when two groups of magically inclined people start fighting each other, the one person without magic is usually the one hiding behind a rock. Or caught in the crossfire. He had little time to think, trusting his wives and his tribe in a fight that they could not win. It was a false trust, and he knew he should have stayed behind to fight and die like a true tribesman warrior. But he was afraid. He was a coward. And now, he had no family to return to, with no magical ability to speak of. Edite had not graced him with that. He was good for fathering children he could not protect.

                                                      Stopping to rest, finally out of earshot of the screams and shouts of his family and the people from Arc'hilde, Jho'turr placed his hand against a tree and gasped for air as the trees above opened their covering to allow in the night sky and the moon's magic from above. "Fi aye nak..." He managed out between breaths, "K'sa Edite, Yin... Rof ru'oy p'leh. I am a coward.. give them strength. Let them be successful!" He sank to the ground from weakness in his knees and heaved, losing the contents of whatever was in his stomach. Shaking, he wiped his mouth as he sat back on his ankles and looked up at the stars above, the moon's light washing over him. "But who are you, to answer the prayers of a cowardly man. I have no right to ask." He finished sadly as he stood, continuing on his way.

                                                      For days he made his way through the forest of Edirthe, not because he was lost, but because he had a strange feeling it would be a long time before he would come back here, and he felt ashamed to attempt to return home now.

                                                      A rumbling in the ground set his nerves on edge and he stopped. An earthquake? Swaying a little, he leaned against a tree for support as he looked around, feeling the ground underneath him finally settle. After a moment an explosion made his ears ring and he clasped his hands over his ears. What in Edite.. He continued on, a little worried, and as he walked up a small incline, the echoes of shouts and more magical abilities being used met his ears. Stiffening in his place, he was scared another tribe had been attacked. Should he run now? Be a coward once more? Swallowing hard, he felt adrenaline rush through him and he bolted forward, the sounds becoming louder. Was that a growl? What sort of beast did the Arc'hildeans have that could create such a terrific sound? Sliding to a halt, Jho'turr pressed himself against a tree and peered around it, watching in the clearing ahead a battle that was being won by a single creature. A massive beast with horns slung a scythe around, spraying the grass with blood from it's fallen prey. Eyes widening, he sank to his ankles and watched, hand over his mouth as he could not look away. The Arc'hildean group was slaughtered in a matter of minutes. It then sauntered down an embankment an sliced to it's left, to it's right- it was attacking a different group of people now. Unable to look away, he moved around the tree and watched wide eyed as the creature raised it's scythe again to a man who was on the ground.

                                                      It was a woman's shouts that stopped it. She was calling for someone, worry in her voice. He couldn't see who it was as she was up a little further from where the creature was. It stumbled, and Jho'turr watched as the beast seemed confused. Someone from the group ahead (was it the woman?) bolted into the forest, and Jho'turr huddled against the tree again opposite of the side she ran past, and the beast growled, quickly running after her. What sort of madwoman was she? That was something a tribeswoman would do, not one of these kingdom's women.

                                                      After several long moments, he stood slowly as he heard her return, followed by a man. She must have slain the beast, and this man helped her. Watching carefully, he saw them gather the dead bodies of their comrades, perhaps over fifty of them, and saw the bulk of the man she'd walked with easily carry them and place them in lines, kneeling next to each one and closing their eyes, muttering something before moving on to the next. They didn't bother with the Arc'hildean dead. In fact, they rather proudly walked over and stabbed a flag into the ground, that of one of the southern kingdoms. Was it Al'mil? And why would they take credit for a battle they did not participate in? It was the beast that killed them all. As the brute of a man continued back to his group, Jho'turr recognized the woman now that she was walking close enough to the edge of the treeline as a tribeswoman after all. Long, thick curled hair, dark skin, even wearing traditional fighting clothes. Since when did the kingdoms ally with the tribes they worked so hard to wipe out?

                                                      The brute shouted something as he was approaching the trees, and Jho'turr took a slow step back.

                                                      "Efil si ton a tro'hs yenro uj." It was the first part of a greeting, and it was to let her know which tribe he was from.

                                                      The brute turned to the tribeswoman and asked her something as she stared toward the trees in the direction he was.



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                                                              " Your majesty," a timid voice beckoned from the doorway to the king's back. There she stood, unwavering, yet fearful. He could her her breath shake as she exhaled, trying to pretty as if she wasn't practically panting from the journey to this side of the castle. Though the king paid little mind. For he had both palms flat against the stone window seal, eyes scanning the outside world with a predatory glare. Eye narrowed, brows furrowed, my racing with thoughts.

                                                              In the distance, where the mountain top in which the castle stood mighty and tall, down the natural scoop of the earth that had begun outside the stone wall protecting the king and his castle from situations such as this. Down the bend, following a wide path before meeting the first set out wooden homes sitting uniformly to imply some sort of border between the king's land and the villages. Only a miles walk from his home, there was chaos. From his window, he could hear screams, shouts, cries. Fire rising from one home to another, a think black cloud of smoke rising from the main city, Tylun, the capitol in which Al'mil left it's hopes and trust in. The center for safety, for prosperity, and the over all protection of Yin herself. Where it was said their fair goddess had laid her hopes to rest in. Yet, the king stood in the window, watching, waiting, loathing. He gripped the the stone tight below his fingers as he watched. He couldn't understand it. How would a n unworthy kingdom such as Arc'hilde take down the mighty city of Tylun in a day?

                                                              It was then that he saw a burst of green light, a loud boom and within seconds wood turned to ash and crumbled into ruins. That alone took out the main market place, he knew this city better than he knew the confines of his castle. He knew how devastating losing that part of Tylun was. How many people populated that area. He gripped the stone tighter, the subtle sound of a crack whispering through the air and going completely unnoticed by Vergil. Magic. Of course. What cowards they were to set such an unfair fight. They were aware they could not fight with brute force or even sheer intelligence and strategy. To take down the astounding warring kingdom of Al'mil with nothing but your men and your swords was an honorable fight. Arc'hilde wasn't looking for honor, and by the end they would be rewarded very little of it. Yet, they might be able to take the kingdom with such a force and Vergil knew that very well.

                                                              "You rmajesty?" the servant whispered, as if she could take it back if it was quiet enough. " What is it?" he answered lowly, his voice giving an false sense of composure. There was a silence, for the servant was no stranger to it. For a moment, Vergil thought she would remain silent and turn to walk away. It wouldn't of been the first time, and he preferred those moments over the ones where a servant was forced to reward his ears with grave news. This time he was not so lucky. " The council wishes to speak with you." The king exhaled slowly, standing up straight and looking out into the distance onto his collapsing country. " Of course they do," he growled, just as he spun around on his heels and practically stomped heavy footed passed the servant, just barely missing colliding his shoulder with hers out of not caring too much about her feelings or anyone else's.

                                                              Entering the counsel hall on this day was like entering a war zone all it's own. Yelling, arguing. Plump men and old women all bursting from their seats, throwing Yin's curses at each other. Spit spluttering from dry lips, pale faces turning a deep saturated red, eyes bulging out of their heads in panic that masked itself as anger and passion. " We should leave Tylun and fight for our other villages!" one councilman offered so confidently. " Tylun is the heart of the kingdom!" another cried. " Al'mil is a great beast it will take more than just one city falling for it to take it down!" another exclaimed proudly. " Mighty beast or not, stab it in the heart and the rest will cease to live!" Through all of this yelling, Vergil found himself sitting in his silver crafted chair, sitting at the end of the table. Leg carelessly draped over the arm, elbow propped up on the other rest of the chair as he watched the arena carefully in front of him, starting to wonder when and where they wanted to speak with him. The bickering could be done without him as an audience.

                                                              " We need to gather our army and head to Silveah!" someone finally offered. Not a horrible idea. That was the intellectual capital of this fairing kingdom. If scholars ever had a place in a war it was now when the kingdom faced an enemy with unknown power. " And the king should go along!" Vergil groaned. There they were, parents speaking of their unruly child who needed to be protected from every little danger. " No! It is safer in Tylun! We need to fight for Tylun!"

                                                              A loud bang, brought the council to silence. Every on edge man and woman, snapping their heads towards the sound like scared prey looking for their predator. They stared, some wide eyes in fear other in utter annoyance. Vergil had both his palms pressed flat into the wood table, now sitting straight up in his chair, feet planted firmly in the floor, attention now on them just as much as it was on him now. Slowly, he pressed his hands into the table, forcing his arms to lift him to stand. When he was fully out of his chair he leaned relaxed, leaning over the table as his eyes scanned each and every face. " Tylun is not dead yet," he rebutted. His eyes darted to the side when from the corner of his eye he saw councilman Gurdold's nostrils flare. Hideous excuse for a man, and he was well aware of it. If the king wasn't so concerned about other matters he would have loved to look into the white bearded man's dull eyes and rub his nose in how idiotic of an idea it was to abandon Tylun so soon. Yet time was of the essence. More than it had ever been in Vergil's entire existence. So his eyes continued to move along their faces. " We shall stay here, wait for General Artherien to return with his army. Then him and I shall discuss this matter among the other divisions of our military."

                                                              "And where does that leave us now, your highness?" Gurdold chided, his head almost bobbing from side to side as a way to mock his title. Vergil rolled his eyes over to Gurdold, remaining calm at his disrespect. " It leaves us at a standstill," he answered. A scoff came from the old man and then a few whispers broke out among the others. Urgent whispers, those of anger and fear. " What if the general doesn't return? What if he got caught in the wake of this battle?" councilwoman Mardya chimed in. A sigh came from the king, bowing his head slightly as he thought for a moment. The idea wasn't completely out of the question. Artherien was liable not to return. His death could have been promised the moment he left. With their best general out of the loop and no frontman to take second in command in this war. . .Al'mil would be doomed. There was no one else good enough to take that position and Vergil couldn't play the part of warring king and general. " If he does not return. We ask for assistance." Louder whispers broke out among them. All of them chattering unsure of what that meant or if they would like it if they did know. " Who would assist us?" Gurdold hissed in disbelief. It was then that Vergil looks up at them, silence overcoming him just as he was starting to feel confident in his reply and not that confidence was retreating. " T'vin," he answered simply. Then chaos broke out. The room raising to a loud roar of voices. " Nosense!" they said. " A peaceful kingdom such as T'vin? Why would they even consider it?"

                                                              "Because if Arc'hilde is after Al'mil then what keeps them from attacking T'vin, hm? What keeps them from attacking Lutria or Ignit? What choice do they have?" he finally raised his voice of the crowd. " They could ask for favors later!" one man cried. " They will expect the same from us!" Vergil groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers before letting his hand slip from his face and land palm down on the table. " Perhaps we need an ally! If would of had one or two already we would not be in this mess now would we?" he retorted.

                                                              "And if they refuse?" Gurdold asked, matter of factly. Vergil grew silent, as did the rest of the room, eyes setting on the councilman finally as he stared him. Their eye contact daring the other to stand down. Others watched, for Gurdold had a voice but Vergil had the final say. " They won't, because I will make them an offer they can not refuse."

                                                              "Oh? And what is that?" he pestered. Vergil grinned at the old man, now tired of his games. " Nothing you need to lose sleep over, councilman" Gurdold tilted his chin up, staring down the bridge of his nose at the defiant king, eyes narrowed into a glare as he stared at Vergil. " Any more questions you wish to waste your breath on?" Vergil asked. The council seemed to stir like one large animal. Everyone looking between Gurdold and the king and then between each other. Some even seemed to look else where, such as the ceiling only the walls. Gurdold continued his glared before softly saying. " No. . .your highness," he said with a slight bow of his head. It was then that Vergil stood up straight, tall, proud. " Good. Then I wish for you to send orders to collect our best troops to gather in the courtyard within the hour." Again there were whispers. Yet this time, Vergil pretended it was just as silent as it was this morning. Unsuspecting, unadulterated, no sign of danger or anger. Just calm silence. " We have little time to waste. Suggest all of you come to one common agreement and that is. . . that you will loyally follow my orders rather you agree or not." Once more his eyes scanned the room and when no one made even the slightest bit of an objection. " Now, if you will excuse me," he added before pushing passed his chair and walking around the table, everyone's eyes watching him. Yet he was used to it, because as always there was always someone judging, making ill comments in the confines of they mind. Vergil didn't mind, he was king. he would get his way. " Ready my armor," he said quietly to a servant at the door, though not for the sake of the council hearing him. " Yes, your majesty," she answered, bowed and turned out of the room and ran down the hallway.

                                                              Day 1: Empty Streets and Beasts




                                                              From where Vergil placed himself. Just before the village, on his horse he perched, craning his neck to see further into rhe distance. The heat was rolling through the gelid air, wafting passed him as the fire grew hotter, heavier, and more destructive. Smoke crawling over head, twisting and casting shadows beneath the already clouded skies. In the distance another loud boom caused Vergil to look down from the skies and stare straight ahead as the ground began to quake beneath them, causing the horse to snort and stir on its hooves. " Whoa, Caston," he warned in a low tone as he pulled back on the reigns with one hand and patted the neck of the animal with the other. Then he was looking ahead again, his thoughts trailing off. " It is. . . alright," he said softly just as the horse snorted again, but he was staring off into the thick cloud of smoke. that rolled down the path beneath the homes that barely stood before him. As roar of fire raging in the distance, still there were screams to be heard, but after hours of terror, one could only scream and cry so much. It was almost silent. The streets now cleared, those who could take cover did and those who could escape were better off doing so. Then the ground began to quake again. He stared below him, the pebbles vibrating against frozen soil, and it was then that he glanced over his shoulder back up towards the castle to see his army finally catching up.

                                                              Within minutes his army was standing before him just outside of Tylun. The horse trotted in front of them, Vergil sitting up straight and confident as he always did. For if the king was not confident then no one else would be. " Look for any survivors and evacuate any Al'millian you come in contact with!" he bellowed over the distant sound of death and destruction. Though he was displaying nothing but pride in his army he could see vacant eyes darting back to the city behind him, shifting uncomfortably, and wondering if they would make it out alive. " Have no mercy on any Arc'hildean for they chose to fight the wrong kingdom and we shall make them suffer!" He received a few nods from that, a few angry grumbles. They were enraged by this. A rage that surpassed any fear for someone had insulted their kingdom and their pride. Then he stopped in the middle of the line, leading his horse, Caston, to stand in the middle his head held high as well. " Untere é akmul monne!*!" he yelled closing his fist before extending his arm to the side and slamming his fist into his chest in which the army growled in response. " Kye harc!*"

                                                              Within the hour, Vergil found himself scouting alone. It wasn't the wisest choice for the king, but with so many soldiers fighting and searching who had time to guard the powerful king? After all, he was capable of holding this own just like any other warrior in his army. When he found himself at the edge of the city once more. He stopped, looking into the smoke he had yet dared to venture into on his own. It was coming further through the city. At first is stayed towards the enter and now it was expanding, lurking the streets. It was then that the horse started to prance back and forth, throwing his head back and huffing, smacking his lips together in protest. An odd thing for Caston. He had rode into so many battles without disagreement. Yet, something had spooked him far before it had even showed its face. Vergil understood his fear, because even deep within his own chest he felt as if something lurked in the darkness right before them. Even he was concerned, the son of Yin, prince of the night was staring ahead, squinting, not sure rather to retreat or stand his ground, while his loyal horse argued and pulled against the reigns in a plea for freedom of escape.

                                                              And as if on queue to the ominous nature of the scene, from the smoke rose two beasts, throwing their heads back and roaring like untamed lions. Their flesh gray, dry, wrapped tight on wild bodies. Four strong legs leading them forward, the girth of the shoulders set far and wide. Heads rounded with thick necks protruding from their skulls to attach to their bodies. Their ears nothing but deep set holes in their skulls, extra skin dangling from their necks in rolls. With long thinly slit eyes on either side of their head, crimson as freshly spilled blood, empty and soulless as the demons that haunted sleeping, dying children. Drool leaked from their horribly protruding underbites, with jagged and broken teeth pinned their top lips, flesh stuck in the spaces between them, saliva drenching their faces up until the flat rounded nose mixed with unsightly bits of splatter blood and uneaten organs hanging from their jowls. Vergil had never seen such a creature. Beasts that looked as if they had crawled out of the tales of Hera'cine and they trudged towards him.

                                                              Even though, Caston and Vergil stood a short distance away, they did not pay them much mind. They didn't even seem to notice. Perhaps because they could barely open their eyes wide enough to see them. So, Vergil remained silent for the blind always had a sense to make up for their most important sense.

                                                              Yet, Caston had another plan.

                                                              The horse snorted, pranced some more, made as much noise as he possibly could. " Caston!" Vergil hissed without much thought. It was then that the beast before them stopped, grunted, turned their heads up and sniffed the air, almost unnaturally in rhythm with one another. One, tilted it's head back down, his lip curling in a snarl before it turned it's head their way and roared, clumps out flesh spraying from its mouth. The other one lifted its head, turning it and craning its neck to get a better listen before it's head snapped it in Vergil's direction and it snarled too. Vergil calculated his options as he stared ahead, for he was found out now thanks to his trusty horse who was almost starting to create circles now. They couldn't be very fast, but he couldn't run back towards the castle only for the beasts to take the army by surprise.

                                                              One of them lunged forward, the other following suit soon after. Kicking from dirt and weaving in between each other as they took the king by surprise. Quickly, Vergil kicked his heels into Caston's side, roughing pulling the reigns to force him to take a sharp left and take a route behind the buildings. As Vergil had thought, they were not very fast. A man on foot was an easy target but they were no match for a horse.

                                                              Successfully, he had led them around the the border of Tylun, taking left into an outside alley way. He could hear the beasts clumsily crashing into the walls, their panting as they came closer, despite Vergil jabbing his heels relentlessly into Caston's ribs, the horse took caution through a narrow alleyway. Especially since the smoke became more dense the closer they got to the center or town.

                                                              Then another boom, hollow and loud, was heard. It was almost deafening and Vergil knew he was close. Perhaps too close for his own good. Just as Caston had reached the end of the alley, the smoke thicker than before leaving both Vergil to cough and even the horse made sounds of suffocating. Within moments he felt dizzy, swaying subtly, the horse beneath him even seeming to stumble. This was not normal smoke. Yet, he forced the horse to turn around remembering the beasts that had been following them, his hand over his mouth to keep from inhaling too much smoke.

                                                              Eventually they were outside the city again. Not an Arc'hildean in sight oddly enough. The only evidence of them being here was the damage and the beasts that only Vergil had seemed to run into. No one had lost their lives to the enemy. A few soldiers had risked themselves to save citizens from collapsing homes only to end up crushed beneath the rumble. It left everyone confused and eventually they retreated for the night only to return to clean up the mess the next morning.

                                                              Day 2: Their Return


                                                              The next morning was not met with such peace. Every soldier facing a rude awaken of more loud explosions, this time outside the castle walls. Vergil jumped out of his bed, racing to his window to see Tylun up in smoke again. Only this time there was no fire. Instead it seemed like a fog, one with a life of it's own. What was it? What was it doing? Was there some purpose to it? Vergil couldn't answer that. Instead, he had gotten up to send the troops before stomping off to write a detailed letter to the Library of Sylveah on the things he had seen. Just before he headed to the stables to ready Caston, he was standing on the balcony sending of a carrier hawk to Slyveah with the urgent message.

                                                              The city was alive this time. Loud noises, more yelling this time ones of triumph and passion. The sound of swords clashing together rang through sensitive hears. Grunts and groans mixed together in a symphony of battle sounds. Vergil was no stranger to it in reality he couldn't hear much passed the panting of Caston as he galloped through town. Vergil had his long sword in hand, catching any Arc'hildean he could as he raced towards the center of the city where the main battle was now taking place.

                                                              When he came to the town center, he brought Caston to a stop, looking among the ruins and the corpses to fight that had broken out. Many of the men that laid dead were Al'millian. None of them having a look of the freshly dead. Instad most of them had sunken black faces, eyes rolled back in their hands as hair had already began to shed from their skulls. And the smell was putrid. Already the scent of rotting flesh had settled in and for a moment Vergil could only stare down at them in horror. A man who had seen death many times and one who had hung around long enough to see what death's decay looks like. He was unable to make sense of it. These were soldiers and even if some of these bodies belonged to yesterday's kill, not even they would have rotted this quickly. He looked up, seeing one Arc'hilde grab a man's throat, green light illuminating in his palm and the Al'millian solider grew still, mouth open in a silent cry as his skin turned black within the grip of the enemy soldier.

                                                              It was then that Vergil sent Caston forward, and while in the middle of his spell casting the Arc'hildean had little time to prepare for the king's sword to meet at the base of his jaw, lopping his head clean off, leaving the body to collapse to it's knees and fall with it's Al'millian victim.

                                                              For several minutes, Vergil pinpointed these men. The one's with green light, placing their bare hands against others and sucking the life from them. In the midst of battle, these men barely expected a thing before they died. Especially when they were concentrating so intensely on their dying prey. Then he was outside the raging battle again, panting heavily and drenched in blood. He looked around now that his goal was done he had to choose a new target.

                                                              Caston whinnied once again, trying to take a step back to avoid the the collision but was unable to. For even the king had been caught up in the battle. Something growled, and launched for Vergil from the ground and before he had much of a chance to even turn around to face the beast he had his back on the cold stone and a weight forcing him down, with his sword against its chest. The creature was lanky, all bone with skin tightly pulled over thin muscle. This beast had no eyes to speak of, but sharp teeth hiding behind dark lips that curved into an eerie grin. With an arched back it pushed forward, slender knobby fingers wrapped around the blade as it stuck it's pointed tongue out at Vergil, saliva dripping onto his face as it struggled. " Ukus zure mesoe, ukus sure mesoe *!" it hissed in Al'millian, high pitched snarls following the words. Vergil's eyes widened at it's use of language, then only felt dismay when it spoke his language. The beast pressed forward harder, the tip of it's tongue flicking Vergil cheek as he turned his head to avoid it. He growled in a low tone before his knee met the protruding ribs of the creature. It cried in pain, loosening it's grip enough for Vergil to force the handle of the sword into the creature's cheek. It cried again, jumping back from him, it's five long fingers nursing the wound on it's face in a human like manner. " Nerezzan hond!" it hissed, as Vergil got to his feet and pointed the blade on the beast. Slowly, it's hand fell from it's face, now on all fours, using it's finger tips to walk, hind legs like a dog's. "Harc mau," he demanded in language it could understand. When it launched haphazardly at him, he side stepped, his blade slashing a deep cut into it's thigh. It did not put up much fight. Instead it collapsed to the ground crying in pain, hand placed over it's new wound as it yelled Al'millian curses and then stood to scurry away. Vergil watched it for a moment before chasing after it.

                                                              The creature was fast of course, but in the end not truly bright. It was cornered. Hissing, cursing, snarling. Vergil stepped closer as it cowered. "Kerem! Lusteven! " it cried, hobbling back up against the wall until it's spine met the stone. Vergil glared at it, twirling the sword once in his hand so that the blade was gripped better within his fingers. " Makei hik ruh nit peidin, *" was the last thing he said to it, calmly with a blank expression. It's stretched frown then became an angry snarl once more. As it cursed in a shrill scream that ended abruptly at Vergil's swift swing of his blade.

                                                              ❖❖


                                                              " It spoke Al'millian," Vergil finally informed the scholar. The king leaned against the wall on the other side of the room from the body of the beast he had slain only an hour ago. The man looked up from the corpse that he had been staring at with utter disdain. Concern filling dark almost black eyes as he stared at the king with furrowed brows. " How is that possible for an Arc'hildean monster to speak Al'millian?" he asked. " Or to be able to speak at all?" he added, looking back down at the beast as shaking middle-aged hands placed themselves around the beast's skull. " I was hoping you could tell me, Jezeul," Vergil answered as his dark blue eyes casted down to the creature to watch cautious hands analyze in fear. The man shook his head. " I have never seen this before. Even in my books. I am no expert on modern Arc'hildean magic. They have yet to release those books nor have they allowed anyone outside of Arc'hilde to do any research on it. . . Perhaps this is why," he explained, now pressing on the monster's ribs. " Such dark magic," he whispered.

                                                              Vergil sighed. " Is it possible that this thing could have been Al'millian at one point in time?" The scholar stared up at him wide-eyed. " Are you asking if this thing used to be human?" he practically exclaimed in horror. The king nodded. " That is what I am asking, yes." Jezuel looked down at the beast again. " It is possible, but I pray to Yin that it is not."

                                                              Vergil shook his head. " Not only are they killing Al'millians. . . They could be possibly using them as pawns." He griped that sleeves of his shirt tight within his fingers, chewing the inside of his lip in frustration. " If we all survive this battle, Arc'hilde better be prepared for slaughter on their land."

                                                              Jezual nodded as he stared at the beast. " That is an understatement." It was then, that Vergil's arms uncrossed and dropped to his side. " Inform me if you come up with anything else," he ordered as he exited the room.

                                                              Day 3: With Little Hope


                                                              Darkness was whirling over Vergil's head as he came to. Eyes blinking away the burning sensation as the pain sparked on the back of his head, a headache beginning to pound relentlessly inside his skull. He groaned, inhaling deeply as he looked around him. He couldn't see well. Everything was blurred and black around the edges, even though he was sure that his eyes were wide open. A few more blinks did not help his case. Despite one of his senses gone, and his ears ringing, he sat up. All the while trying to remember what happened. Within seconds it came to him. He was running Caston full force towards the end of town furtherest from the castle and some where in the mix he had met an explosion and had little time to get to cover because of other soldiers scurrying around him to do the same. Somehow the collision had not killed him or even given him a scratch. When he looked around once again, he couldn't see a large black mass that could of perhaps been his horse. Coward. Didn't even stick around to guard his unconscious master. In cases like this, Vergil was considering a dog to be a better companion.

                                                              Within his random thoughts he had lost himself to the outside world he was still struggling to see. Yet, he was brought back when he felt the cool blade of a sword press against his neck. He stiffened, gritting his teeth as he tilted his chin up from it but the blade only moved with him and hooked under his jaw. " King Vergil, I assume," cooed the male voice. " Here I thought I wouldn't get the pleasure of meeting you here." Vergil rolled his eyes. That tended to be something everyone said upon running into him in the most inconvenient ways. " I am flattered you admire me enough to feel such joy in meeting me," Vergil mocked, glaring up at the blonde headed man before him as his vision started to clear. " Admire isn't the right word," the man argued as he pressed the blade further into his throat. " I have been wanting to be the glorious lieutenant that ended the fearsome Al'millian king's life." That comment earned the intruder a grin from the prideful king. Of course, that was another thing an enemy soldier would say to the king. How unoriginal. His eyes glanced down at the blade and then back at the Arc'hildean lieutenant. " I will not take such glory from you, through I must ask, in the middle of your undignified boasting are you going to inform your men that you ended the king's life just as he was waking from his unconscious state?" he asked. " Because I am sure your men will find more respect for you then, will they not?"

                                                              The lieutenant clenched his jaw, his jowls protruding from the action and he pressed forward on the blade. " Do you wish to fight me, King Vergil?" The king raised both brows giving an arrogant nod as a resounding yes. " I would only want to give your future glory more precedence," he replied. With a harsh exhale, the man dropped his sword, taking a couple steps back. " Get up," he growled. Vergil was already on his way to doing such, dusting himself off leisurely. " May I know the name of my opponent?" the king asked as his hands dropped to his side, looking up at the man with little worry about him. The enemy took a defensive stance, brows pulled together into a scowl as he rocked softly back and forth on his feet. " Mastion, the name all of Al'mil will fear when I am done with you," he answered arrogantly. Vergil nodded. " Of course."

                                                              Within seconds, Vergil had dual swords unsheathed from his back and lunging forward at the lieutenant. He brought his sword down, his strike blocked by Mastion's sword as he brought it up to counter it only to miss the other sword that swung up and struck him in the ribs. The enemy pushed back, seething as blood gushed from his side. He stared at the king, whose swords were now down by his side as he stood there. " A nice battle scar. A gift from me as proof that I was a worthy opponent."

                                                              " Do not mock me!" Mastion spat as he slowly went back to his starting position. " I would not dream of it." Vergil lunged forward again.



                                                              Mastion fell on his hands and knees, head bowed as he struggled through panicked breath. Blood gushed from his side, more wounds around his open and festering on his arms and legs. And when he found a pause in his breath he was able to spit the blood out that was filling up in his mouth. Then a blade was pressed to his throat. " You have paid the price for your arrogance, now you must pay the price for your kingdom's descent on Al'mil," the king informed him through a low even tone. Not a hint of mockery or emotion to be shown. Mastion looked up at the king, blood staining his lips in crimson. " You are a monster among men! Your kingdom is a disgrace!" he yelled. Vergil nodded before saying " Flattery will get you no where with me."

                                                              It was then that the man lunged forward, rearing back his sword with the intent to stab the king. " Arc'hilde will bring you to your knees!" Just as Mastion was going to land his last blow, Vergil dropped one of his swords and placed a hand against Mastion's face. A blue light illuminating from his palms, stopping Mastion in his tracks. He hollered in agony, the scent of burning flesh filling the air around them, Vergil could even feel his skin melt beneath his palm. Yet he pressed further, light growing brighter and cries growing louder before the man fell backwards and curled up on himself against the ground. His bellows were loud, upsetting to anyone who had a sensitive stomach. Vergil just stared down at him with palms still glowing blue. He lifted his hand further. " May this put you out of your misery."

                                                              But it was too late for that. Suddenly, Vergil was hit hard in the shoulder. A force that whipped through the air and pierced right through him hard enough for it to take his shoulder with it. He stumbled backwards, looking at his shoulder to see the slender arrow protruding from his flesh. He cursed, looking around to find the culprit. Then he was struck again, this time in the knee. The placement of the arrow was intended, enough so that it made Vergil kneel before his bellowing opponent. He looked around again. " Show yourself, coward!" he yelled to the air.

                                                              Within the thick cloud of smoke, a green light flickered and then a transparent body shimmered before it revealed the skin and cloth of a man, bow held up high and arrow ready for another shot. Then in a few random places, more green lights flickered to reveal a group of roughly ten or twelve, their invisibility shimmering and then disappearing. A woman stepped forward from the group, placing a hand on the archer's shoulder and giving him quiet praise before approaching the king, stepping over her fallen comrade still alive and suffering. " You put up a hefty fight, King Vergil," she cooed, as she marched closer, hands placed on her hips. " It's a shame we had to wound you. I would have enjoyed watching you kill our little friend here,"she cooed.

                                                              "Why wound me when you could have just as easily killed me?" he struggled to say, unable to move, which he realized when he tried to lunge at her and was unable to. The arrows were not normal arrows, a trend he was beginning to see in Arc'hilde's fighting.

                                                              " If I kill you, then I would be missing out on some valuable information that only you can give me," she answered.

                                                              " And who says will give you any information?" he growled. It was then that the woman grabbed him by his jaw, roughly tilting his head up towards. " I wasn't asking," she said softly as she pressed her lips roughly to his. He didn't move or make a sound in protest for he knew there was no point in even attempting. A few moments of her lips lingering on his she pulled away with a light inhale eyes closing. When they opened again she looked at him as a grin slowly crept along her face. " I appreciate your assistance, King Vergil," she teased, wrapping her hand around the shaft of the arrow lodged in his shoulder. Dark blue eyes watched her carefully as she continued to grin as she ripped the arrow from his flesh. He grunted, but only a hint of pain showed on his face. " You don't recognize me, do you?" she asked as she slowly wrapped her gauntlet protected hand around the arrow in his thigh. " Trust me. I do," he answered. She grinned even wider, staring directly into his eyes before forcing the arrow from his flesh in which he grunted again, baring his teeth this time around. " The paralysis will wear off within the hour, and I hope for your sake something doesn't kill you before then."

                                                              " Shall I not die from your hand?" he asked, hiding his bit of shock. In response, she shook her head. " Not yet," she began before her grin began to fade. " I wish for you to watch your people die before I relieve you of this suffering." It was then that she stood, walking towards her comrades again. " We have gotten enough from him, move out," she ordered with a wave of her hand and like obedient pets they all turned away not even letting a glance linger on the king. " And someone grab the Lieutenant while they are at it," she demanded over her shoulder. Leaving Vergil to watch helplessly as the enemy walked away from him.

                                                              ❖❖


                                                              " General Shiveya, hm?" repeated Jezuel as he placed a thoughtful hand on his bearded chin, tapping his index finger just below his lip. " I am surprised she didn't kill you with the history you have and the fact you are at war. She had every opportunity to." Vergil nodded, eyes distantly staring at the floor.

                                                              " She got something from me, that was enough. She did kiss me after all, and we both know what that means," Vergil added and Jezuel responded with a sigh. " There was something she was trying to retrieve from your mind, and that's never a good sign."

                                                              " And whatever that thing was, she found it," he sighed. " We are losing more troops by the second. This was the last thing we needed."

                                                              "Yes, but Arc'hilde is also taking heavy damage. Perhaps they will retreat," Jezuel offered.

                                                              "Doubtful," Vergil replied. " We need T'vinian forces and soon."

                                                              " It is not wise to leave this kingdom without a leader."

                                                              " I know. That's why I am waiting for Artherien's return before I make any decisions to leave," he informed the old man. " If he comes back, that is."

                                                              The old man sighed " Do you believe it wise to leave him in charge?"
                                                              Vergil shrugged. " He gets the job done, and if not him then who?"
                                                              "Anyone else."
                                                              "Ye of little faith."
                                                              " You don't even like him."
                                                              "Fondness has nothing to do with it."

                                                              Jezuel sighed again, rubbing his forehead as he looked down at the floor. " Let's just hope he gets back soon enough. Let's also hope T'vin offers help."

                                                              "Hope is a good word to use in this situation," Vergil added optimistically though he had little reason to have such a bright outlook. Jezuel shook his hand, waving his hand. " I will go ahead and make arrangements for your departure," the old man said as he sat down at his desk, opening up a canister of ink and grabbing his quill. " Very well, I will return to Tylun then," Vergil announced.

                                                              "Not so fast, your highness," Jezuel said over his shoulder, waving the quill. Vergil stopped in the doorway, glancing at the advisor. " You are not in good shape to do so, those wounds are pretty severe. You'll rip out your stitches." It was then that Jezuel put his quill to parchment again, leaving little room to argue.

                                                              Vergil looked down at the wrap peaking out from his tunic. " If I were any other soldier I would be sent back out to battle," he argued. " Nice word choice, Vergil. Now I get to point out the fact that you are not any other soldier and if you die of infection we'll be in deeper trouble than we already are," he rebutted. " Now sit down and talk to me about these arrangements."

                                                              The king groaned almost childishly as he shut the door, walking over to a chair placed beside Jezuel's desk that he promptly plopped down into, crossing his arms over his chest.

                                                              " I will stay today, but tomorrow I am going back out there," he announced after several minutes of silence. " As you wish, your highness, but need I remind you that your troops have some hope because you are alive and giving them order. They do not need a new king in a moment like this." The old man continued to write, not looking up at his king as he did so.

                                                              " You are still a mortal man, Vergil. Nerezzan or not. One day you will realize it."


                                                              Caston
                                                              General Shivea
                                                              Lieutenant Mastien
                                                              Jezuel the Al'millian Scholar and Advisor to the King

                                                              *Untere é akmul monne, Kye Harc - "Beneath a blood moon, we fight." A saying that came from the year 3786 when King Makeane and General Jemille fought a battle within a full moon. Al'mil was triumphant and when Makeane had killed the last enemy the moon turned red. They called this night The Night of the Nerezzan Moon, a legend that produced this popular saying before battle and fear of Al'mil.

                                                              Ukus sure mesoe - " Taste your flesh" in Al'millian

                                                              Nerezzan Hond - " Nerezzan dog"

                                                              Harc mau- " Fight me"

                                                              Kerem, Lusteven- Please, Mercy

                                                              Makei him ruh nit peidin - A way of saying " May you rest in peace" said to a stranger almost as an apology if the person feels remorse for doing it.

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