II
elder tresting
The moment Altrius set down his empty wine glass, the guards began to herd him to the door. Quickly dropping some round copper coins down next to his drink, he slid his gun into its thigh holster before allowing himself to be ushered outside and down the street to an adobe that was far larger and fancier than the ones around it. The trip there passed in silence, the guards being quite cowed by this strange individual in their charge, Altrius not being the sort for idle chitchat. Instead, he took note of the absence of civilians passing to and fro along the streets like worker bees. Each and every one of the clay house, sometimes empty during the summer months, looked fully operational. More alarmingly, guards not wearing the colors of Driagor patrolled them.
All of this information was quickly noted, assessed, and filed away by the silent gunman, who appeared to be doing a detailed study of his boots.
Altrius was unsure of what Elder Tresting wanted with him, but he was quite positive that he wasn't going to like it. Unlike his best friend Vandralls, Altrius had never wanted to capitalize on his fame; over time, he'd faded into the background of the legend, which was the way he liked it. He felt uncomfortable and shameful, being known as the one to create a war that had killed millions. While the names of other rebels were universally known, Altrius Dial would raise very few eyebrows, if any.
Perhaps it was just a social call.
He was stopped outside the entrance to Tresting's personal meeting chambers by a large man, who stared at Altrius sullenly with his thick, muscular arms folded across his barrel chest. “You may leave your weapons with me,” he rumbled.
Altrius studied the man with cold eyes, but to his credit, the man didn't flinch away from his oddly tinged gaze.
Instead, he clenched his fists. “You will not be permitted to enter Elder Tresting's presence with those items on your person.”
Altrius continued to stare. “I wasn't the one who requested a meeting,” he deadpanned, when it became obvious that the body guard wasn't about to budge. The large man snorted, cracking his knuckles menacingly.
“If I have to take them from you, little man, you're going to regret it.”
Little man? He was slender to the point of boniness, but he more than made up for it in height. He sighed. He didn't care about staying in the city, supplies and a warm bed or not. If he had to put up with idiots like this...He started to turn on his heel, prepared to leave Karat far behind him, when a weary voice came from inside the room.
“Let him in, Dabir.”
Dabir blinked, and then bared his teeth angrily. The whiteness contrasted sharply against the dark skin. “But, Elder—”
“I trust this man with my life, Dabir. Let him through.”
With a growl, Dabir motioned Altrius in with a look implying that he was going to be mauled if he so much as sneezed in Elder Tresting's esteemed presence. He then followed the enigmatic gunman in and shut the door behind him, walking quickly passed Altrius to stand at Tresting's side. He was glaring daggers all the while. He believes demons to be inferior, Altrius thought, in a sudden moment of insight. He resisted the urge to crinkle his nose; the room reeked of something dead and rotting.
“Look the Elder in the eye, boy!” Dabir barked. Altrius glared at him before, for once, doing as he was told.
Elder Tresting was a formidable man, but the last few months had aged him considerably. The weight of his one hundred and twenty years seemed to bow the man down, giving him a cramped appearance, and adding a hollowed look to his drooping features. Altrius, no stranger to the sensation, thought he detected the look of pain.
He didn't have to say it. Altrius knew part of the mystery now.
Tresting was dying.
“Forgive my servant, Mister Dial. He's is a bit overzealous, though regretfully his vigilance is not entirely unwarranted in these troubled times.” The hint of a rasp caught Altrius's ear. It was taking everything Tresting had to maintain the illusion of health, but he wasn't fooling the observant sharpshooter. “That is why I have taken it upon myself to hire a personal assassin.”
He gestured to a darkened corner, and Altrius noticed for the first time an ivory-skinned girl in said corner. She was laden down with knives, a pistol, and even shruiken. Her hair was cut short, almost as short as a boy's, and light brown. She was very pretty, he noted. He looked up to see her eyes.
Purple eyes. This girl was a demon—a Ranger, a being that manipulated water.
“Please,” Tresting said, motioning toward a chair, “take a seat.”
Altrius didn't particularly feel like lounging in such a tense place, but he was perceptive enough to realize that the Elder wouldn't sit unless his “guest” was comfortable, so he took it reluctantly. Some of his hesitance must have shown, for the Elder cast him a grateful look while sinking into his own chair.
“Again, forgive me for interrupting what could have been a peaceful visit. I could not risk the chance that you would leave before I had an opportunity to speak with you, Mister Dial.”
Altrius said nothing, but appeared to be listening receptively.
After a short pause, Tresting leaned forward and clasped his hands together before his mouth. He eyed the gunman decisively. “I'll cut to the point, Mister Dial, as time is not a luxury I can afford. I am dying, and I have no heir.”
Of course, Altrius knew all of this. The man that had taken care of him during his teenage years had explained it all to him. For two centuries, Tresting's family had taken care of the prophecy and kept it from prying eyes. The Elder before him was the very last of his line.
“I have heard rumors that you have taken on the role of bounty hunter, as of late. I trust my information is accurate?”
Altrius shrugged, his face kept carefully blank. What was the man getting at?
“Good...very good. The world will have great need for your tracking skills soon enough. Our future is at stake.” He coughed, and Dabir sent him a concerned look. “Unfortunately, this one job you won't be getting paid for doing.”
Hearing this, Altrius sighed. “Who do you want me to track down?” he asked bluntly.
Tresting's servant looked like he was about to have an apoplexy over Altrius's lack of concern for the proper honorifics, and the girl in the corner was now grinning. Altrius ignored them both. The Elder waved a hand at his servant in a gesture to calm down. The large man settled for looking like a bomb about to go off. Turning back to the stoic gunman in front of him, Tresting frowned. Slowly, the Elder said, “Tell me, child. Do you know what will happen to the prophecy once I'm gone?”
If Altrius was surprised by this odd answer, he gave no sign. His only indication at this unexpected twist was a slight hesitancy as he spoke once more. “Davu...never explained that.”
Yes, well, Davu didn't explain hardly anything, did he? a small, muffled voice said from the back of his heavily guarded mind. He quickly squashed it flat and shoved it away to ponder later. He had been hearing the voice all his life, to the point where it hardly bothered him anymore.
Tresting stood painfully and eased his way over to one of the windows, gazing out at the grounds outside the adobe. Guards from another country stood outside. “Look at them...circling like wolves scenting a lame, dying buck.” He gave a loud hack, and croaked, “Well, I'm not dead yet. Not yet.”
Altrius watched him quietly, waiting for the old man to explain what the creator of their world, Davu, had not.
“Dabir, leave us.”
“But Elder—”
“Don't make me repeat myself, boy.”
The servant blanched, but did as he was told; he sent Altrius one last look that said the Elder's safety was his only chance of leaving Driagor alive, and shut the door behind him.
Tresting instantly dropped the illusion of health. He sagged wearily in his chair, as though he were a puppet with all of its strings cut. Grimacing, he pushed on despite the pain written in every crevice of his aged face. “You know who the prophecy is about. Most have less knowledge of the prophecy than that. Only my family has ever known what it even looks like.”
“The prophecy is about Davu's son, Zalthar.”
“That is correct.” For a moment, a glimmer of something akin to guilt passed through Tresting's chocolate brown eyes, but it was gone the moment he caught a glimpse of it.
Altrius raised an eyebrow. “You're keeping something from me,” he said. The ghost of a sneer appeared on his impassive face, reminding the Elder of exactly who he was dealing with. He uncomfortably remembered that the man could turn very unpleasant. The sneer became a bit more pronounced, as if Altrius knew what he was thinking. “Even Khardan is better at hiding things, and he wears his foolish heart on his sleeve.”
“Ah, yes...Khardan Tiqeula. How has he been faring?” Tresting inquired, seizing at the chance to change the subject. A smile crossed his features as he pointedly ignored Altrius's derogatory comments. “Last I heard of him, he moved in with you and was never spoken of again until he robbed a rich man of his worldly possessions and freed twenty illegally kept slaves. He's a good boy. A little greedy, but good.”
“He's adjusting.” This was a lie. Altrius didn't know how Khardan was doing. He hadn't seen the boy in five years.
“And yourself?” The dying man leaned forward a bit, staring Altrius right in his black eyes. Altrius wondered if Tresting knew exactly how long it had been since he'd seen his ward. “How are you coping? The war—”
Something fragile seemed to snap within the gunman. “Enough,” he said. His voice was harsher than usual; his eyes gleamed with something far from sane. “I do not wish to discuss it, Tresting.”
Cautiously, Tresting laid a hand on the demon's forearm, sighing when the man jerked away from him. “Will you never become comfortable with physical contact? You were once such a charming young man...”
Altrius grimaced and stood, striding toward the door. “Times change,” he muttered. “The prophecy—”
“Will hide itself somewhere in the world, after I die,” Tresting finished. “Davu told you this much, I'm hoping?”
“No. Vandralls eavesdropped on one of his conversations with Zalthar.” Leaning against the wall and gazing blankly out the window, Altrius continued: “Davu merely told me that Zalthar was largely involved.”
Tresting frowned to himself. Davu hadn't explained anything at all...Was he the one that was supposed to tell the boy what he had to do? No...if the Creator himself hadn't told him, there must have been a good reason not to. Dear Lord, was he going to have to find out by himself? “Vandralls was the rather—ah—pretty one, correct? The redhead.”
“Yeah. The one you mistook to be female.” Altrius had to struggle not to smirk at Tresting's sheepish expression.
“How was I to know that he was a young man? He was wearing makeup, for the sake of Razah,” Tresting mumbled, and stiffened as he tried to find a more comfortable position to sit in. Finally, he gave up and sighed. He called his servant back into the room. “Dabir,” he said quietly, “will you bring me the message I prepared for our rather extraordinary guest?”
Dabir had a suddenly ugly look on his face, as he handed a small, tightly wrapped scroll to Elder Tresting. The Elder took it, studied it for a moment, and nodded with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Then he held it out to Altrius, who gingerly took it. “No, no,” Tresting admonished gently, when he began to untie the ribbon binding the scroll together. “Read it only once you leave, understood? Wait until you're outside of the city walls. And no matter what happens then, my boy, do not look back. You will receive more instructions after you follow the ones I have just now given to you.”
Altrius hesitated; he had a very bad feeling about this. But Tresting was giving him a look he knew very well: one that told him not to argue. He'd seen that look all the time during his childhood, especially after he and his father had been in a freak accident—an accident that had left him completely unscathed, and his father with a broken neck.
“Tresting, what do you mean by 'whatever happens'?”
“Too late, Altrius, my boy. That is a story for another time, I'm afraid,” the Elder said with a smile, and gestured toward the Ranger girl still in the corner. “Mirabelle, child, come and sit down, won't you?”
Looking up at the sound of her name, Mirabelle nodded and slid into the seat next to Altrius's. Glancing at him, she said, “So you're Altrius Dial? My brother was a huge fan of yours, when he was younger. Our father was the chief of one of the Zatan tribes, before our family was stoned to death. I managed to escape.”
Her voice was surprisingly husky for a girl's; he'd been expecting the high giggles that most women made. Perhaps she is intelligent.
“All Zatans were big fans of me, during the war,” Altrius deadpanned. Mirabelle shrugged, and turned toward Tresting. The old man seemed amused, the gunman noticed with distaste. The amusement vanished after a moment.
“Child, will you never stop repenting for sins that aren't yours?”
Ah, what a perfect name for what he had done! 'Sins.' That was much better than 'mistakes' or 'bouts of stupidity.' Thank you, Tresting!
Before he could answer, however, the girl spoke up.
“Excuse my rudeness, but is there anything you wanted in particular?” Mirabelle asked blandly. “These chairs are really uncomfortable.”
“You will need,” Tresting spoke softly to Altrius, ignoring Mirabelle, “a Ranger.”
“A Ranger.” Mirabelle chewed her bottom lip. “I'm a Ranger.”
“Obviously,” Altrius murmured. She shot him a dirty look, one that he returned cheerfully. For a moment they glared at each other, before Mirabelle finally broke eye contact and cleared her throat noisily.
“I suppose I'll go with him,” she said agreeably. Too agreeably, the presence in the back of his mind was quick to comment. Altrius was immediately wary. The girl was planning something. Altrius knew the look in her almond-shaped eyes: the shrewd, calculating look that was often in his own inky depths. He didn't like that look, and resisted the urge to make that clear by putting his gun up to her head and firmly ordering her to cut it out and behave, or else he would shoot (and wouldn't that be a pity? Such a waste of intelligence, something the world desperately needed).
Tresting seemed equally suspicious, but said nothing as he slowly climbed to his feet and rubbed his lower back ruefully. “Old age,” he sighed. “You're lucky you'll never have to experience it.”
Altrius made a grunting noise in the back of his throat. Like being immortal was any better. He said as much.
“Not all demons are immortal.” Mirabelle gave him a sharp look. The words 'Rangers aren't' hung thick in the air. “Most just have an extended lifespan. Why wouldn't you want to live forever? You could be two million, and still look twenty—you could have as much sex as you want. You would also look good in a bathing suit.”
“That's disgusting,” Altrius deadpanned. “It would be the ultimate case of pedophilia.”
“Not if you were with another demon,” Mirabelle pointed out. Her eyes narrowed. “You know, I'll bet that you're a virgin. You certainly seem the type.”
He clenched his hands into fists. He was going to kill this girl! “I don't kiss and tell,” he said in a lazy drawl, glaring at her.
“Yeah, you're a virgin.” She smirked. His left eye began to twitch a bit.
Noticing this as well, Tresting coughed pointedly, and they both turned their attention to him. “Altrius, it would be my pleasure to have you as a guest tonight,” he said. Altrius gritted his teeth. He knew perfectly well that this was not a request. “I would be happy to supply you with provisions the morning you leave my hospitality along with Mirabelle here.”
He didn't wait for an answer, as he clapped his hands together cheerfully and said, “Dabir, could you take our guests to their rooms for the night?”
Dabir nodded curtly, and gestured for the reluctant duo to follow him. Tresting smiled at the Altrius and Mirabelle and said, “I shall see you both at dinner. Call one of my servants if you need assistance with anything; they're all very kind and helpful, are they not, Mirabelle?”
Mirabelle shrugged her agreement, following Dabir out of the room without another word. No doubt going off to pout, Altrius thought. As if reading his mind, she sent a frown in his direction and quickened her steps so that she was a meter or two ahead of him. Dabir kept sullenly quiet, and kept casting odd glances at him. Altrius decided to ignore him. He was completely used to demon haters, and so he instead focused on memorizing the long, lavishly decorated halls of Tresting's dimly lit home. He would need it for later if, as Elder Tresting had said, he was going to join the others for dinner.
The air in the building was cool, so much that he felt almost chill as they walked down the corridor. An awkward silence pervaded. Altrius became increasingly uncomfortable as the crafty look returned to Mirabelle's violet eyes. The minute Dabir stopped, shook his shoulder roughly, and pointed to a door on their left, the enigma of a gunslinger stepped inside and slammed the door in their faces.
***
Thank God he was alone. Realizing that he was shaking badly, Altrius wrapped his arms around his middle as if to keep himself from splitting apart and took a few deep breaths to calm down. Dabir had touched him.
He hated being touched.
Altrius had learned, at the ripe old age of ten, that most people were repulsed by the mere sight of him. They appeared beyond horrified when they saw his eyes; they recoiled at his touch; they shuddered at the sound of his voice. He was, in this wretched world, filth. Scum—something disgusting one would find on the bottom of their shoe, like a particularly gooey piece of gum.
He was used to it. His school teachers had looked down upon him. Shop owners had charged him ten Royals more than anyone else, no matter what he bought. Even homeless bums thought that he, not them, was inferior. Hah! He had a job (if it could be called that). He had a home—no matter if he had fled from it in the middle of the night, and hadn't looked back. He had money to spare (he certainly wasn't rich, but he wasn't anywhere near poor, either). And what did they have? The mere comfort of being able to laugh at a malnourished little boy who had the misfortune of developing black eyes.
The more demonic features began to show themselves when one turned ten. All sorts of things could—and would—happen. Your eyes would change, your canine teeth would lengthen into razor-sharp fangs, and sometimes you would even acquire the power to, in a manner, fly. That, however, was very rare.
Then weird things would begin to happen to you. Everything you touched would burst into flame, perhaps, or it would freeze instantly. Often you would levitate as you slept, or begin answering peoples' thoughts instead of what came out of their mouths.
Sure enough, the locals would soon notice these uncanny changes. They would realize what you were, and depending on where you happened to live, either celebrate, or they would banish you from the lands of your home.
Altrius had been one of the unlucky ones. He had been beaten regularly, his abuser attempting to 'force the freakishness out of him.' He had been starved until he was a mere a inch from death. Finally, driven to his breaking point, he had given the person their just desserts and had blasted them across the street. A man who had been mowing his lawn had seen, and it was less than a month later that Altrius had been forced to leave the country. It was either that, or be executed.
He had, like anybody with half a brain would have, chosen life.
A hard knock at the door startled him. He opened the wooden barrier a sliver to reveal a coarse woman in stained clothing. “Yes?”
“The Elder sent me to tell you that supper will be ready in ten minutes,” the servant informed him. She closed the door softly as Altrius nodded his thanks. With his altered senses, he could clearly hear her footsteps pattering down the hallway. Altrius decided to use his ten minutes wisely, and looked around at his room for the night.
It was, to his surprise, sparsely furnished. A bed sat by the window; a wardrobe waited quietly in the far left corner of the room; a desk and chair stood by his side. Altrius opened the drawer underneath the desk, and found pens, paper, and...the king of Driagor's seal. Taking this out, he turned it in his hands to be sure it was genuine and smiled faintly. This could definitely come in handy, if he ever needed to get into somewhere without being searched or questioned.
Khardan would be so proud, Altrius thought as he slipped the intricate wax seal into the front pocket of his rucksack. He was voluntarily breaking the law.
He next found signatures of twelve nobles, a queen, and three kings, and tucked these away as well. They were perfect forging material.
Closing the drawer, Altrius climbed to his feet and left the room so that he could attempt to find his way through the maze of hallways. Already he was thankful that he had decided to memorize where his bedroom was, for although Tresting's home wasn't gigantic, all of the corridors looked identical.
It took him almost six minutes to find the dining hall, and by the time he arrived it was clear that he was running late. Mirabelle and Elder Tresting were already sitting down with empty plates in front of them, waiting patiently—or not so patiently, if the annoyed look on Dabir's face was anything to go by—for him to sit down so that they could serve themselves.
The expansive room was brightly lit, torches burning along the walls and candles slowly melting on the long table, and it was practically deserted. A few servants ate quietly on the other side of the room, speaking in low voices to each other and smiling. Dabir stood by the door of the kitchen, glowering at him and leaning against one of the pillars that were on either side of the archway. Briefly glancing inside, Altrius spotted a large spit and a few bottles of wine, but before he could look further Dabir stepped in front of the door with a silent snarl. Better mind yourself, demon, Altrius heard as he pushed into the burly man's mind.
Altrius lowered himself into the chair on Tresting's right, and slowly placed his napkin in his lap. Unobtrusively peeking over at the Elder to make sure he was correct in doing so, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the napkin lying across the old man's thighs. He hadn't dined in such a high-class place for a very long time. He had forgotten much of which was polite, and which was considered rude and offensive. Tresting served himself, and nodded to Mirabelle; Altrius followed her example and put a obscenely large amount of chicken breast and roast potatoes onto his plate. He simply stared at his food for a moment, not sure of which fork he should use. Sensing his confusion, Tresting leaned over a bit and tapped the fork on the far right. Picking it up, Altrius studied the little silver thing, and sighed inwardly before shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
Mirabelle watched him curiously, wondering at his uncertainty. She'd been immersed in the skills of fine dining and etiquette at a very young age, and it was now second nature to her. She found it amusing that such a cold, forbidding man could be so unintelligent when it came to which fork he should use while dining with the Elder of the city.
Feeling Mirabelle's gaze on him, Altrius glanced up and shot her a glare so full of venom that she lowered her eyes immediately. He disliked it when people stared at him, for it made him feel uncomfortable. Twirling the fork in his left hand, Altrius pondered on whether or not he should have removed his gloves before beginning to eat. He made up his mind quickly and tugged them off one by one.
Setting them down on top of his napkin, Altrius continued to eat and observed the scars on his sickly pale hands. They were whiter than the rest of him, barely visible in the dim light; the newer ones were light pink. Bruises aligned his wrists, disappearing beneath his sleeves. The black symbols on the back of his hands laughed mockingly at him.
“So, why don't you tell me about your recent travels?” Tresting said abruptly, startling him a bit. Altrius watched as a servant brought them a bottle of cherry cordial with a smile, and popped the cork out. The Elder carefully poured the cordial into three glasses and passed them around.
Altrius sniffed carefully at his drink. Good, it wasn't alcohol. He took a small sip before answering. “I left Estius two weeks ago. They have finally gotten around to rebuilding the chapel. Most go to the new one.”
Tresting chuckled. “Should have put it back together again before a new one was built, hmm? But child, Estius is such a long way away! You must have traveled long and hard to make it here in such a short amount of time. Did you go around the mountains?”
“Where is Estius, exactly?” Mirabelle interrupted. Altrius stared at her, nonplussed. Everybody knew where Estius was, except for...Ah, he'd forgotten that the girl was Zatanese. The tribes lived on a small group of islands off the coast of the continent Akivar, the continent he was on at the moment, and generally kept to themselves. Some people called the Zatan islands the 'end of the world,' refusing to speak its true name: Ardina de Ra, words from the ancient speech that he was fifty percent sure translated into 'the forsaken ones.' Altrius had no such qualms. He called it by what it was meant to be called.
It was just a name, after all.
“Estius is a city in Caprice, young one,” Elder Tresting told her gently. “They are to the top right of us.”
“And to our left?”
“To our left is where you are from,” Tresting replied. “Ardina de Ra, the land of the abandoned and forsaken.”
It seemed that the old man agreed with him. Altrius listened quietly as Tresting began to tell Mirabelle of the continent they were on. “To the upper left of us is Xyren; their capital is Ardenia. To Xyren's right is Caprice, where Actus is the main city. Below them is Loran, Akanah. To Akanah's right is Mordock, whose capital is Eleve.”
The Elder paused, hesitating, and then continued. “And then the Tribal Lands, above them. The land of the vampires.”
Mirabelle scoffed. “Vampires? There's no such thing!” she declared, sipping at her cordial. It was delicious—sweet and with a pleasantly crisp bite to it.
“Unfortunately, there is such a thing,” Altrius informed her. “I've seen them.”
“Really now?” Mirabelle said sarcastically. She laughed. It was a tinkling sound, full of mischief. “Are they fifty feet tall, with long fangs dripping blood and red eyes? Are they gorgeous, with bulging muscles and unnatural grace and speed?”
“Neither. They are tortured souls, driven mad by the blood lust, and they have a wish to infect as many people as possible with the virus. Only a bare few are civilized.” He paused, and looked somehow insane. “I've never actually killed one before, but do you think that if I shot one, sparkles would explode everywhere?”
“Civilized,” Tresting sighed. He seemed to be pointedly ignoring the comment about sparkling vampires. “Not a person in this world is civilized, my boy. We are all wild and free, no matter what we do in order to change ourselves.”
He swallowed hard. The dying man's words had come dangerously close to what his mother had once told him, when he was six. That was before things had gone bad, when she hadn't been a deranged drug addict. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to make her that way, but he'd learned soon enough that such questions weren't welcome in their household. Questions weren't allowed at all. It was either take what you had and make with it what you could, or live a wretched existence. Because that was all that life had been, when he was young. Not a life, but a meager existence.
“Isn't there an island above the Tribal Lands?” Mirabelle inquired. Altrius was grateful for the question, for it brought his thoughts away from his troubled past. “They talked about it once or twice, but my father banned any talk on the matter a few days later. Some of the slaves tried to escape to the place.”
“Yes,” he said, quite unsettled at the thought of Zatan slaves, “though I wouldn't call it an island. It's a gigantic seashell, emerging from the ocean. They built a town on top of it and named it Adretyn.”
Tresting looked intrigued. “When my mother was still alive, she would tell me stories about a seashell out in the ocean, and the people that lived on it. It's amazing, to think that the place she told me about is actually real. Have you ever been there?”
“I spent part of my life there,” Altrius confirmed. “It's where Davu lives.”
“Amazing,” the Elder said softly. “Truly amazing. He created the island, of course?”
Altrius nodded. “Adretyn is a beautiful place. I had some pleasant memories of there.”
And some not-so-pleasant ones, the muffled voice said from the back of his mind. He shoved it away once more, refusing to think about those not-so-pleasant memories. They had happened, and there was nothing he could do to change that, no matter how much he wished to. Bad memories stuck with you for life.
“Why did you leave?” Mirabelle asked him. Altrius drank deeply from his cordial, taking his time as he ran his fingers around the circular mouth of the glass thoughtfully. Mirabelle crossed her legs and jiggled her ankle up and down impatiently.
Eventually, Altrius looked up. “I moved out. My roommate wanted us to find a home together. So we left, and went to the continent of Syria. My friend had heard that a few of the countries there, Trellimein and K'rene especially, accepted demons with open arms. I bought an apartment and we settled down.”
It was a testament to Altrius's closedmouthedness that this was longest speech he'd made in months.
“What was your friend's name?”
“Vandralls,” Altrius muttered. He dearly missed the boy he had grown up with. “I've known him since I was twelve. He was disowned. My mother was old friends with his parents, and offered to take him in and give him a place to stay.”
Mirabelle smiled. “That was nice of h—”
“He hated it,” Altrius recalled, cutting her off without a second thought. “He fought with me often. Once, I cut off his bangs while he slept; I had a bright red hand print on my face for three days afterward, from where he slapped me.”
Altrius was surprised at himself. He hadn't talked this much in around two years. There was a pause, and the three of them sat there for a moment before Tresting cleared his throat and said, “I hadn't realized how late it was...already eleven at night.” Slowly standing, he wearily patted Altrius on the back and bid them both goodnight, before leaving the room.
Quickly drawing back behind his apathetic mask, Altrius got to his feet, grabbed his gloves, and swept from the room without another word. He did not bid Mirabelle a goodnight, but ignored her completely as she offered to help the servants with the dishes.
Back in his room at last, Altrius locked the door and set about removing the outfit he'd worn for many years. He toed off his boots and shrugged out of the faded sleeves of his coat, lying it gently down onto the desk chair. Undoing the leather clasps on his high, loose collar, he pulled his shirt over his head. Dropping it to the floor, he shimmied out of his heavy black pants, kicking them away from himself before falling back onto the bed with a luxurious stretch. He hadn't slept in a bed for nearly two months.
The bedsheets were clean and soft; he pulled them over his bare, thin chest and closed his eyes, lying on his side and moving his hand beneath the plump pillow under his head as he tried to find cool spots. He curled up into a ball and began to take deep breaths. Slowly but surely, his body began to relax as the stresses of the days left him. A drifting sensation took hold of his senses.
A ltrius had nearly slipped into dreamland when he heard the soft, muffled scrape of leather on stone. Slowly getting out of bed, he tried to locate the source of the noise and turned his gaze toward the window. A normal person wouldn't have been able to pick out the almost imperceptible noise, but Altrius hadn't been a normal person for a long time.
Drawing his Exvence out from under his pillow, he checked to ensure it was loaded, then blew out the lamp that provided dim light to the room. Pitch blackness surrounded him. It took only a few moments for his enhanced eyes to adjust.
Another scrape, one that he almost missed, and then the sound of a wooden window cover being drawn slowly back drew his immediate attention.
He waited, a nondescript shadow among shadows, his breath easing in and out with a slowness that no human being could have matched. Several tense minutes passed, minutes that seemed like hours, as the intruder hesitated. They seemed confused by the state of the room.
Finally, whoever it was committed itself, and a black garbed individual, his or her face fully covered, slipped into the room. They looked this way and that, making no sound that even Altrius could detect.
Altrius was impressed.
But he still drew back the safety on his pistol and in one smooth motion pointed it at the figure's head. At the telltale sound the figure froze in a crouch, now oriented towards Altrius and the noise he'd made.
“Don't move,” he cautioned.
The figure remained stock still, but its breathing increased rapidly. Its muscles tensed. Altrius sensed it was preparing to spring.
“Don't do it,” he warned.
He was a firm believer in action, reaction; cause and effect. One event inevitably causes another. As soon as he pointed his pistol at the figure's head, the outcome became clear: if the figure followed his instructions, it would live. If it did not...
A split second reaction saw the figure jerk forward, a small razor sharp knife coming halfway out of its hidden sheath—
The resounding blast of the large pistol, so impossibly massive that it would have broken a normal man's wrist to fire it, echoed loudly in the small room. The figure was tossed back violently by the force of the bullet. It stumbled into the wall to tumble out of the open window.
It never made a sound.
Altrius strode over to the window and glanced outside, but the lack of light made spotting the dark clothed corpse impossible at this distance. His night vision was damn good, but it wasn't that good. However, as he scanned the ground below, he noticed that the sand was completely untouched. Any other observations would have to come later, as at that moment the door burst open and Dabir lumbered into the room, his fists raised.
“What in the hell was that?” the man yelled. “I heard gunfire!”
Altrius lowered his pistol and holstered it in one smooth, practiced motion. He quickly pulled his clothing back on. “You heard a single gunshot,” he said matter-of-factually, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his coat before buckling the collar of his shirt in place. “It was me.”
Narrowing his eyes, Dabir spat, “I know that. What were you firing at?”
He stared at him a long time, then looked away. He didn't trust this person. Something about him struck him as false. Tresting didn't seem hold him in the strictest of confidences either. He prevaricated. “Nothing. It was an accident.”
“An accident? You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you will,” Altrius replied, moving so suddenly that Dabir couldn't react. He was halfway down the corridor by the time the irate body guard made a swipe for him.
“HEY! YOU GET BACK HERE, OR—” Anything more he missed, for he was quickly making his way toward Tresting's quarters. It was time to get some answers.
#BF0000 ">Sorry I couldn't figure out how to get the other person's review off of there, so just ignor that. Hey. I'm gonna do a reivew.
Underlined: Fragments #FF4000 ">red:corrections #0000FF ">blue: my comments
I must admit I got sidetracked after a while but you have a good technique of writing; I was just trying to be picky as I know I prefer it if people point out all small flaws in my work.
Happy Writing