A low, distant rumble punctuated the conversation. Alyosha closed his eyes, contemplation distorting his features beneath his porcelain mask; the thrill of finally meeting Crosos Granz gave way to the weight of their condition. [color=DBE6E0]”The Serene Pools have exploded. The situation… Does not require our immediate attention.”[/color]  Sympathy welled in his gut for the golem. Even if he was an amalgamation of twisted metal, his soul was forged of the Unsung. Executing the Silver Glint was tantamount to matricide, and The Oracle of the Seven Swords did not envy his situation. 


[color=DBE6E0]”You know of my powers for foresight. Of course I have come to guide you, to the best of my ability…”[/color] Grey glanced up and down the lengthy, vacant corridor, making certain that no one would overhear him. [color=DBE6E0]”It is certain that the Silver Glint will die, and we will bear witness. However…”[/color] He paused, wary to admit that his clairvoyancy had such troubling limitations. If his gift was so easily thwarted by an unseen enemy, what benefit was he? [color=DBE6E0]”I am blind to the exact circumstances of her death. As much as I wish to bestow comforting platitudes--’Her death will be swift and painless,’ ‘There is no one better suited for the task than one so noble, so close to her,’ ‘It will be an honorable end to a honorable life’--I cannot, in good conscious, speak what may or may not be.”[/color]


Discomfort gnawed at the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside, struggling to stay in the present. Crosos Granz was a friend to his father, his mother, a knight which most would daydream of calling a comrade. The Prophet was meant to help shoulder the burdens of heroes, to prepare them for the road ahead, and to do so with poise and tactfulness. Alyosha prayed silently that he might fill his father’s shoes. [color=DBE6E0]”Ser Crosos Granz, not another soul--man or beast or construct--would be equipped as well as you are for this. My only fear, given the chaos unfolding throughout the town, is that you will not have the chance to see it to [i]completion[/i].”[/color]


Alyosha gripped tightly the stone around his neck. [color=DBE6E0]”We have much to discuss, and little time to discuss it. Is there someplace private we can go?”[/color]

 [color=778899]"Of course,"[/color] the Golem Knight responded, lifting a hand and pointing down the corridor they currently inhabited, [color=778899]"my chamber is just ahead.”[/color] He, too, had felt the not-so-distant rumble and fought back the urge to investigate; if the Prophet's son had not deemed it necessary, Granz believed the information would soon present itself. That did little to ease his mood, but it meant, from his view, that the things at hand took precedence. [color=778899]"Might I say, Alyosha, you've a gift for oration. I'll not choose to argue with what you've said. It would be foolish...and all in Vaald know that Crosos Granz is only a fool when it suits him best."[/color]


 The matter of Elise's uncertain death was a strange salve to him. Mayhaps he would not be the one to sever her head from its perch; but that was a small comfort, given the questions it brought to mind. Instead he continued his steps, subdued thunder echoing throughout their vicinity. A wooden door, chipped and worn with age, sat before them; situated in an alcove to their right. He pressed it open without pause and held it, motioning slightly for Alyosha to enter. [color=778899]"Apologies, you may find it to be a bit stark."[/color] A slight grin accompanied the words.


 Inside his chambers was, indeed, bleak to most, but he had always found it to be more comfortable. A bed sat in the far corner, sunk in near the middle from his weight. Two tables, one small and one large made up most of the remaining decoration. Close to the window, where the smaller table sat, there was a prickly plant basking. [i]Nef[/i] he had decided to call the cactus, after an old friend. One chair sat before Nef and two arranged opposite one another at the larger table. Granz made another motion, shutting the door behind him; his single eye resting on Alyosha.


[color=778899]"We may speak freely here."[/color]


Alyosha Grey nodded, inspecting the room. It was certainly utilitarian; bare with the exception of minimal furnishings and a small, spiked plant. He found it queer that the golem slept, but not so strange as to comment--it was common that constructs would imitate life. Admittedly, the foreign cactus was what drew from him the most interest. [color=DBE6E0]“You named it.”[/color] The Oracle took a few strides across the room, tapping the needles of the desert flora. [color=DBE6E0]”Nef,”[/color] he commented. [color=DBE6E0]“How… [i]Paternal[/i] of you.”[/color] Alyosha smiled dryly beneath his mask at the irony. 


He turned back to face Ser Crosos Granz. [color=DBE6E0]“I am grateful for the privacy. Now then...”[/color] He surveyed the room again, selecting a open space on the floor, and sat down. [color=DBE6E0]“My powers of foresight are limited in this state.”[/color] He pulled out one of the [i]Seven of Eight[/i], inspecting it. The Oracle polished it free of any dust from his travels, scraping away a smear of dried blood embedded between the hilt and the blade. [color=DBE6E0]“I do, unfortunately, have… ‘Blind spots.’ Moments in time where the outcome still swings by a thread…”[/color] He sat the sword down and moved on to the next. [color=DBE6E0]“Or a powerful magic has been used to veil the truth…”[/color] The Son of the Prophet frowned slightly, buffing away grit until the sword’s blade reflected light like a brand new mirror. He unsheathed another and began his work. [color=DBE6E0]“Distractions will tempt us in the city, but we must not take our eyes away from the truth.”[/color]


Seven swords were neatly laid out on the floor in a row, each scrubbed of imperfection, each buffed clean of the past. He stood and stretched. Alyosha raised his hands. The air grew cold, his breath came out in a puffy cloud of vapor from beneath his mask; the hair on the back of his neck rose; goosebumps spread down his arms and legs. A touch, a shiver, a whisper. The swords began to quiver. Metal clanged gently against the stone floor, scraping upward as each one started to float. [color=DBE6E0]“Ser Crosos Granz, come with me. Gaze at the truth.”[/color]

 Paternal was not the word he would have chosen, but the Golem didn't feel it necessary to tell the Prophet's son exactly where that particular barb had been aimed; nor did he feel it proper to feign being startled by this unspoken bit of information. More pressing were concerns about what was going to transpire before his eye. Both in his desolate chamber and once he took up the mantle Serpera had offered to him. [color=778899]"Privacy is no trouble. I tend to favor it, if you couldn't tell by how ill-prepared I am to receive guests."[/color] Granz had moved while Alyosha spoke, departing from the door and taking up a spot near the window.  [color=778899]"Your blind spots are no trouble either, fledgling Prophet. If one were to see the future fully, I daresay they would experience something short of a fulfilling life."[/color]


 He had no true gauge for the validity of his statement, speaking mostly from a nervous agitation, but felt there was truth in the idea of it. Even the greatest diviners of fate were often limited in their access to concrete visions. So far as Crosos Granz was concerned, there was little in the way of solidity in clairvoyance; all results stemming from the actions of those involved. Some would argue the fact that those actions were taken [i]at all[/i] to be fate, but the Golem often questioned the existence of such an implement. To him, understanding the future was simply seeing the choices and their consequences splayed-out; a more mundane form of foretelling, if one was accurate. Of course, what transpired before him was far from mundane.


 The swords had begun to float. Chill settled in around him. Something filled the air that did not [i]feel[/i] entirely like magic. An implacable, distant pressure settled in on the Golem; something at odds with his Core. Something that vibrated with a sense of driven and bitter agelessness. His eye lingered on the hovering swords, jaw-plate scraping quietly as he contemplated what exactly [i]the truth[/i] was. He moved closer, lowering himself to sit; nodding a brief affirmation to the Prophet's son.

[color=778899]"Very well, Alyosha Grey. Let's see what these flying daggers can do."[/color]


The Son of the Prophet merely nodded in response, his focus needed instead for the ritual. [i]The Seven of Eight[/i] continued to rise, now hovering above them with supernatural splendor. The silver and steel blades aligned themselves in a ring around Alyosha Grey, their points aimed straight down, and began to circle him. The Oracle of Seven Swords placed his hand on Crosos Granz’s shoulder--a gesture to both steady himself and to help channel his visions for the golem as well. 

[i]One…[/i] [color=DBE6E0] “I summon thee into this place,”[/color] A sword dropped onto the stone floor with a loud, stannic clatter. [i]Two…[/i] [color=DBE6E0]”To usher out the murk of night.”[/color] [i]Three...[/i]  [color=DBE6E0]“Lead these blades I use to fight,”[/color] [i]Four…[/i] [color=DBE6E0]“And guide me about time and space.”[/color] [i]Five…[/i] [color=DBE6E0]“Cast out the shadow with thou light,”[/color] [i]Six...[/i] [color=DBE6E0] “To award me thou future sight.”[/color] [i]Seven...[/i][color=DBE6E0] “An act we make in grace.”[/color] The final glaive landed amongst the others, completing the invocation.


[i]Smoke curled up from the blackened ground before me. Screams of terror punctuated the ashen evening air. Wraith-like winds and serpentine undulations of fire dispersed the hot ashes, a bittersweet melody lost in the rain. No... No, don’t leave… I wept, grasping at the cinders. It was futile; the embers slipped through my hands like water. Nothing remained. 


Nothing but a cloaked figure. It had come to reap their spiritual energy; I could see the souls of my beloved swept into a quivering mass. What are you doing? You can’t take them. You can’t take them from me. A hot, malevolent gust of air swept back the creature’s cowl enough to reveal a mask; it shone, glossy and sinister, in the fading orange glow of the flames. As quickly as they had died, the souls were sundered. Their essence forever destroyed and their energies harvested. Was this truly my fate? Would my soul be forever annihilated? I won’t die without a fight. I won’t succumb without vengeance! 


The cloaked figure sent an umbral sphere hurling toward me. I stood in shock. Before I could react, the shadow made contact with my gut. It ripped through me like a cannonball through a wet scarecrow. My body hit the ground with a dull thud.This is it, this is over. Ashes landed like snow on my cold skin.[/i]


Alyosha Grey awoke with a jolt. Pain seared in his chest as if he had suffered the fatal wound himself. His gloved hand tightened its grip on Granz’s shoulder. [color=DBE6E0]“By the dreams of Steig…”[/color] A bleak horror ruminated in his bust, spreading through him like a venom. A draft of cold air snuffed out the candles in the room. Frost formed on the thick glass of the window and curved edges of Crosos’s armor. 


[i]Blood dripped down the fuller of a long dagger. The sound of grinding, tearing flesh echoed in the chamber. A small gasp of pain. Heavy breathing. Gritted teeth. Shadows seemed to dance chaotically around the room. A grunt of abject terror escaped as I twisted the blade, pushing it deeper into her gut. Purple venom glinted from the razor in the waning light. Drip, drip, drip. Crimson vitae splattered the floor of the room. The smell of fear, the taste of death, the caress of revenge. I savored the twisted grimace of agony on her features. Sweet convulsions of pain wracked her body, sweat beaded on her brow and white hair caked to her skin. My mouth watered. Succulent, agonizing lacerations gushed.


I was already waiting for you, very far away from this setting where I now stand, in front of you. I was already waiting for this moment. Waiting for the final piece, waiting for the satisfaction, waiting for you. You have it. You think yourself so brave? The dagger returned to its sheath, blood bubbling forth from the wound, a macabre font of dissolution. Warmth of the wound surrounded my fingers, pulsing in vile suffering, hemorrhaging around my skin. Hero Jezebel, death is too kind a mercy.


Footsteps.


Are you coming?[/i]

[i]In collaboration with [@Crumbs][/i]