Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Monastery

As written by Emperor Jester

A grunt would be Izaic's only response as he stooped to pick up his dropped container, glad that less than half of it had managed to spill out. The only thing he was currently glad for. What was it about this day? Was it destined to just keep getting shittier? Would anything at all actually go his way, for once, something other than the results of swinging a sword. Suddenly, he had lost the urge to practice his blade work. His face would only continue to sour as he found a place to set his stuff down, including his dwei.

"Looks like you're improving. Good. I expect a fight out of you for once if we see each other in the ring on Sunday." The class bully would say all this while doing his best to limber up, which was a lot more difficult than usual with a nearly broken arm. Since his mood was fouled up even more than it had already been, and swinging a sword designed for a hand-and-a-half with only one functional grip was frustrating enough as is, he'd decided on laps. Cardio. Endurance training.

Eventually, a curiosity would find its way past his lips, an innocent enough question that in reality spoke volumes. "Are the weights helping at all?"
 
As written by Script

"Th-thanks," Inarin replied hesitantly, still catching his breath. "I... think. I ... I'll do my b-best." Though somewhat diluted by fatigue, there was a level of conviction to the younger boy's words that was new to him. He would put up a fight. If he couldn't face off against Izaic, a fellow proselyte (albeit a large, intimidating one), then how was he going to ever face off against anything that paladins were expected to handle on a daily basis?

Deciding that there wasn't a great deal of point restarting his drills now, given that he'd been about to take a break anyway, Inarin made his way across to the edge of the yard and set down his sword, before starting to unbuckle his armour to give himself a chance to cool down.

He glanced across at Izaic when the older boy spoke, and after a moment, nodded. "Y-yeah, I think so," he answered. As he slipped his gloves off, the weight bands around his wrists became visible. He flexed his fingers, letting the cool air run between them refreshingly for a few moments before he moved on to start removing the rest of his upper armour. "Thanks," he went on after a pause. "For what you s-said, back then, I..."

He trailed off, not wanting to say anything to embarrass the older boy. The fact was, that of all the words of condolence and encouragement he'd received since that day, Izaic's remained amongst those that had given him the most strength. Because they'd been undeniably genuine. Clumsy, undeniably. But genuine. He'd no doubt that right then, Izaic had truly believed in his ability to bounce back.
 
As written by Emperor Jester

"I'm glad that you've gotten serious about this, Nuvellon. I wish everyone else would. Each time I speak to Sir Kurtrin, he seems to look older, far more scared." The Golden was not an unknown figure at the Monestary. The physical changes overcoming the older paladin weren't just noticed by his private pupil. They were obvious. Tired eyes, dull skin, a haggard grimace that never seemed to go away. Lately, the Skirmish survivor had begun to show his age. "If you believe his tales that is. I'm not sure if I do, but I can tell he does."

Not that Izaic had any reason to doubt Inarin's judgement on the matter. Not after all that had happened to the city, their friends, and his peer's own family. Slowly, very slowly, he'd remove his arm from the sling and do his best to rotate the arm in its joint. A silent gasp of pain broke through pursed lips. The older of the pair would keep trying, each time issuing another anguished growl, but eventually the rotation would come full circle. It hurt like hell, but he refused to let the limb lay limp entirely. He'd lose too much control over the muscles by Sunday if he did.

"Like I said. Don't mention it. Its not like I did it to make you feel better. I'd just rather not die trying to defend your feeble ass once we take the Silver. If you can hold your own, less chance I'll have to risk that." He'd start off at a jog, after what felt like forever to the brute. Even if he strayed fair, he always made sure to stay in ear shot.

If Inarin had paid attention, the smaller lad might've noticed that his classmate refused to meet his gaze entirely, except maybe for the brief second that had passed between Izaic dropping the jug and retrieving it from the dirt.
 
As written by Script

Inarin watched with a frown as Izaic worked his injured arm, pursing his lips to bite back words of concern that he doubted the older proselyte would appreciate. In the end, he offered only a subdued nod by way of response. Izaic's words regarding his motives didn't exactly ring true, but at that moment, Inarin was more interested in getting out of the rest of his armour than making an issue of it.

A small sigh of relief escaped him as he relieved himself of his chestplate, and the breeze rolled over him. His undershirt was plastered to his chest unpleasantly, but the wind felt divine after cooking in his armour for however long he'd been training. He'd lost track.

Setting the plate down with the rest of his shed gear, he picked up the bottle of water he'd set to the side of the courtyard and took a long drink, sitting down on the steps as Izaic began to run.

He watched in idle silence for several long minutes, before he finally spoke, his soft brown eyes fixed thoughtfully on the older boy.

"Why do you insist on pretending you don't care about any of us?"
 
As written by Emperor Jester

The question nearly broke his stride as he made his way round and round the courtyard, but to his credit, he did his best not to stumble. The question had caught him completely off guard. He hadn't had any of his usual walls or fortifications built up like he normally did. As if thunder struck, it took Izaic a while to work up a response, his forehead and exposed skin only now just starting to bead with sweat.

For a few seconds, he couldn't decide if he wanted to keep running, walk over and give Inarin a good jab in the jaw, or actually answer the boy. Something made the last option sound the most appealing, and that worried him. He was never honest with anyone, not really. He'd built up a persona of being a loner, of being the strong individualist amongst the flock. He was brutish, cruel, and thick skinned. Its what he wanted people to think, and its what he wanted to believe about himself more than anything. The urge to be completely truthful, with...him...of all people, rattled him to his core. For a lot of reasons. Many he didn't want to admit to himself or his underclassman.

"...Don't go down that path, Inarin." He felt his stride slow a little as everything began to hurt. His head, his chest, his breathing. "I might not push you down and throw stuff at you anymore, but don't think for a second that means I like you. Any of you." The last part was quickly added, but not quickly enough to be too suspicious. Probably. Then, he'd stop, not far off but not exactly close by any means. "Why would you even ask such a stupid question?"
 
As written by Script

"Because it's obvious you do," Inarin replied softly, avoiding eye contact in much the same way as Izaic had been. He was nervous, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground with the volatile bully, but something pushed him to keep going. Maybe it was the fact that this was the closest he'd likely ever get to pushing past Izaic's shell. Maybe he was just feeling unusually empowered, and open, after his conversation with that stranger. Either way, he didn't drop the subject.

"Y-you make such a point of saying you don't, that you might as well be saying the opposite. I... I don't get it. It's not a bad th-thing to care about people. Even if you d-don't exactly get along with them."

He hesitated. "And because I care about you. Even when you were bullying me, I did." He finally looked up, his eyes sad, expecting a rebuttal. "Even if you were a jerk, when it comes down to it... we're in this together, right? And I think you were only doing it because... because you wanted me to get stronger, to stand up to you. Right? B-because you cared."
 
As written by Emperor Jester

Izaic had been listening intently, putting a lot of thought into what the boy was saying. He had been hearing In out without interrupting. Until the last part. The last part sent two waves of fire searing across his brain. The first was anger, white hot and blinding. His face would snap up, a murderous glare very much visible in his eyes, but only for a brief moment because as soon as the blaring heat had washed over his mind, it was just as quickly replaced by a different emotion. One that seemed to take a toll, a heavy toll, out of Izaic. His eyes would go from hateful and full of life to dull. Almost dead. The snarl would die on his lips, and all tension would leave his face. Those broad shoulders would droop so fast it almost looked like they were pulled downward. It looked like he'd been defeated, and in truth, he had.

Of all the things Izaic proclaimed to hate, nothing earned more of his ire than himself. "I...I..." The words were impossible to to get off his tongue. They felt so heavy, like lead, like stone, unmovable. His thought was something he couldn't bring himself to complete, his response dying on his tongue after so many tries, both internally and out loud. It was clear how hard it was for Izaic, how much he was struggling to even speak. His chest felt tight. He was dizzy. The injury was the only thing sending him a signal he could comprehend, but the pulsing waves of pain only made things worse.

Finally, he'd find his voice. It wouldn't be loud, but it'd be audible. Barely, but they'd be there. "You couldn't understand. Its a shitty thing to say, Inarin, given all you've gone through, but you wouldn't understand. Caring means people might take you for being a weakling. Showing compassion, showing any kind of love or comradery might mean going through the pain of losing them, or having them give up on you. They might be used against you." It was a cliche, every word that nervously tumbled out of Izaic's mouth, but that didn't make them ring any less true inside the older proselyte's head.

"I've never been wanted. Not truly. The Church took me in because my parents didn't want me around anymore. Mom couldn't afford to raise me by herself, and my father is a useless sack of shit. Thats how I felt when I was seven, before I ever came here. Once I did, it was much the same thing, just so thinly veiled enough that I didn't notice it for years. The instructors, they just want more living weapons. All of you," The word spat with a hatred so intense it almost scared him, because it meant he was close to cracking. "My peers, weren't much better. When I was younger, I tried so hard to be a part of the friendship, the joy, the fun. Each time people would start to get close, I just knew I swear by everything, that it was all just a joke. I knew I was being laughed at, talked about behind my back, that people hated me for how...skilled I was, even back then. All I wanted was some one to talk to! Some one who would listen to me! I found one person, Inarin, only one! An old man so terrified of every shadow and every cold breeze he shuts out the world in an alcoholic haze! I couldn't go to him with my troubles, and he seemed like the only one who ever actually cared, but it was just training. Training. TRAINING!"

There was a treble to his voice, a breaking noise raw with emotion. "So I decided...a long time ago...that that was all I'd ever care about. No matter how much I want to get close to all of you. No matter how much I hate being alone in my room...Always alone. And alone, these thoughts, these whispers, they only get worse. Even when I drown them and push them down and actually try to fit in. Be open with people, something always makes me say the wrong thing, react the wrong way, get violent half the time. Its just better for everyone else if I keep my distance. Every attempt is just a failure, and each time I fail, I just retreat further and further into this...fucking...lie I've built around myself."

His breaths were coming in ragged tumbles, and though no tears were falling, his eyes felt red. There was no crimson blush of embarrassed frustration, just the opposite. Izaic looked positively lifeless. To make it worse, he knew the words were a jumbled mess, but it was just how they came out. Another failure. He probably hadn't explained well enough, and Inarin was probably confused or annoyed. He wanted nothing more than to find his sword, find his water, and just go. Anywhere but here. Anywhere. Without anyone. But instead, he just stood there, a depressed wreck on the verge of total collapse, barely able to keep his body from shaking.
 
As written by Script

Inarin was stunned. He'd expected anger. He'd hoped, maybe for even the slightest admittance of not wanting to see his fellow proselytes hurt. For caring.

He certainly hadn't been expecting such an emotional outpour. Despite that, he kept his expression from looking too shocked, knowing that the last thing Izaic needed was to think that he was being judged. He listened quietly as the older boy spoke, not flinching, not interrupting. He let Izaic say everything that he needed to say.

A moment after it became clear that he was done, Inarin hesitantly got to his feet. "I ..." What did he say, to all of that? What could he say to offer even the slightest reassurance? Where did he begin?

"I don't think that caring is being weak," he finally said, his voice low. "Yeah, it might mean losing someone. I... I know that. B... but no matter how much it hurts... the happiness that being close to people can... can give you, I think it outweighs that risk."

He shook his head. "Even if you think you'll fuck it up... even ... even if you do. People can forgive. Nobody expects you to be ... to be perfect. I know I'm not. I ... I barely even talked to... to most people before a few w-weeks ago. I was t-too nervous, and awkward. I just hid and read books all the time. B-but then I got dragged into... well, making some stupid mistakes. B-but because I made mistakes, now I'm closer to everyone, and..."

Again, he shook his head. "A-anyway, what I'm trying to say is... Y-you shouldn't feel like you have to keep lying. Not to us, and n-not to yourself." He tentatively took a few steps forward, trying to make eye contact with Izaic's downcast gaze. "Y-you're probably right that I can't properly understand how you feel, b-but... I want to try, if you'll let me."

If Izaic allowed him, Inarin would hesitantly reach out and - in a mirror of the gesture that the larger boy had made on that awful day the other week - lift Izaic's hands up, covering them with his own. "Nobody should feel like they have to be alone."
 
As written by Emperor Jester

Izaic had never lifted his head the entire time Inarin responded, hadn't so much as stirred as the boy got closer. He didn't react at all until his junior placed their hands atop his own. That was when he'd flinch, and take a step back, eyes coming up red and puffy. His face was completely dry, without a single line of wetness, but those chocolate hazel orbs were on the verge. It wasn't clear if he was trying to say something, but the way the corners of his mouth kept twitched indicated that he might be trying.

Another step back, this time a full step, gaining a little ground. He'd shake his head sporadically, side to side, a clear signal that he didn't want to be touched, didn't want In to get any closer. This was already bad enough. A break down, in front of him for all people. Again. It had almost happened with those...shitty twins. But this was different. This was raw, coming from the same place all those honest words had, a place he normally kept locked so tight he was certain he'd never find the key again.

But.

No. Nononononono. "I...I have to go. I need to...to rest...to lay down..." Two steps backwards. As if he didn't even realize his feet were taking him away from both emotional salvation and his treasured blade.
 
As written by Script

"Izaic, please..." Inarin didn't move forwards any further, but he looked up at the older boy with pleading eyes. "Don't run away. I'm not gonna judge you, o-or think any less of you. I promise."

He feared that if Izaic left now, that he'd never let him - or anyone, for that matter - close again. He'd lock himself up all the tighter, and retreat even further away. No matter what Izaic had done to him in the past, he didn't deserve isolation like that.

"Stay. Y-you don't have to say anything else if you don't want to, but don't j-just leave and shut y-yourself away again. Please?"
 
As written by Emperor Jester

"But...but..."

But thats all I want to do...

He struggled so hard to say it, to make the words come out, but only his mind could keep pace with his tortured thoughts. The tongue was simply not strong enough, and the jaw couldn't stop clattering enough to make up the difference. Another furious series of head shakes, hands curling and uncurling repeatedly, forming trembling fists, twitching wide spread fingers, and anything in between. He just wanted to leave. Blow past the Nuvellon, get far away. Far enough away so the laughs and the taunts couldn't find him.

His eyes would shoot side to side, before breaking at out a full sprint, trying to go around the left side of the small proselyte as quickly as he could.
 
As written by Script

"Izaic!" Inarin reached out in an attempt to catch the older boy's arm as he ran past, reacting without thinking. He just wanted to get through to him. He just wanted to help.
 
as written by Script and Emperor Jester

Inarin's grasp would find a solid grip, but unfortunately for both of them, Izaic wouldn't realize it immediately. The sudden sensation of physical contact, for lack of a better word, spooked the much larger specimen, causing him to both speed up his pace and twist violently, both to get away and to try and look at what might've grabbed him. As if he had forgotten he wasn't alone.

The momentum of his older peer was more than enough to unbalance Inarin, and he let out a surprised yelp as the spin all-but tugged him from his feet, prompting him to stumble out of control towards Izaic, arms wheeling out to try in vain to regain his balance.

When he finished his turn to see what had happened, Inarin was already sprawling towards him, and the honed instincts of a warrior set in for the briefest of seconds it took him to dodge his younger counterparts accidental advance. So he'd let the boy fall, or regain his balance on his own, but stopped dead in his tracks either way, looking much more afraid than anything else.

"Ow." Had it not been for the fact he'd been pushing his muscles to their limt not five minutes ago, Inarin might have been able to catch himself before he hit the ground. As it was, he barely interposed his hands between himself and the dirt to stop himself fully faceplanting into the stairs. Sighing, he flopped over from his hands and knees to sit on the floor cross-legged, and looked back up at Izaic from there.

"Ah... s-sorry," he offered, wincing. "I didn't ... I didn't really th-think that one through."

Izaic didn't know what to do. On one hand, this was his perfect chance to get away. But...what if...he was hurt? What if, by coming after him in concern, Inarin had hurt himself? And if he had, what if it was worse than he was letting on? He'd almost bit the stairs for Wick's sake! That, all things considered, actually weighed heavier on him mind than the opportunity of freedom. So he'd drop to a knee, trying his best to speak.

"Are you...alright...?"

Though he was surprised that Izaic had stopped, Inarin did his best not to show it. He smiled, nodding his head and meeting the older boy's gaze. "Y-yeah, I'm fine," he reassured him. "Thanks."

A pause, as he looked down again, still smiling. "Please don't run again," he said quietly.

There was a long silence, but eventually, Izaic spoke. "I'll try...Why...why did you come after me like that? What if you'd...?" Then, more silence, as if speaking outloud the words of concern would confirm Inarin's theory far more than the gentle, worrying look in Izaic's eyes and his recent outburtst already had.

"Because if I hadn't, you'd... you'd have run off, and ... I was afraid that if you did, you'd j-just close yourself off again by the time I next saw you." Inarin's heart gave a treacherous little skip when he looked up and saw that look in Izaic's eyes, a touch of colour coming to his cheeks. No, now wasn't the time for that sort of silliness. If Izaic was reacting with this much volatility to the offer of friendship, he could only imagine...

Anyway. Inarin forced himself away from those thoughts, but not before the blush had deepened. "I... I might not be as s-strong as you, but I'm not c-completely made of paper," he mumbled.

"I know you're not...If you were, you would've washed out of here a long time ago...You've always been stronger than you...look." Izaic couldn't help but notice the blush, and in an other instance, he would've hopped on the chance to belittle the young Nuvellon for it. But right now. As things were. He could only stare.

"Heh..." Inarin smiled bashfully, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "I wouldn't m-mind looking a bit stronger, all the same. L-like you do." The words had slipped out before he realized how they might be interpreted, and it was all he could do to stop his eyes going wide with embarrassment.

The compliment actually found root, and Izaic couldn't help but smile, somewhat bashfully. He'd extend a hand, an obvious offer to help Inarin get to his feet. "I'm not as strong as you think. If I was, we never would've...had this happen."

Inarin took the offered hand appreciatively, clambering to his feet. "I... I think it takes m-more strength to be open, and honest about what you feel, than it d-does to keep it all locked away," he said. "S-so I don't think you're any w-weaker for this. The opposite, really."

"Heh. Makes one of us." Izaic would let his hand linger around Inarin's for but a moment before releasing his grip. His worries abated, the older proselyte would turn his gaze away. "I think...it goes without saying that if you talk about this...To anyone..."

"I won't," Inarin shook his head hastily. "You can trust me," he added, looking up to try and make eye contact with Izaic, the conviction in his eyes and smile making clear that he meant that in as broad terms as possible.

"No, Inarin. If you weren't paying attention, I find it nearly impossible to trust anyone. But still...thanks. I really mean that." It was hard for Izaic to stand there, that close to the individual who had so thoroughly confused and tormented his thoughts for the better part of a year without doing...anything. He might not ever get a better chance to free himself of that seemingly impossible to carry burden that had been weighing him down. Still...something stopped him from doing it. Izaic couldn't make himself say those words. So instead, he just kept standing there, trying not to look directly at that small, inquisitive, sugary-sweet face.

"Maybe not right now..." Inarin answered, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. "But eventually. I-I can be quite persistent, you know." There was a moment of clear hesitation, as his impulses fought against his better judgement, but for once he decided to go with his instincts. The smaller boy gave no warning before putting his arms around Izaic and hugging him tightly, as though he thought he could squeeze the distress out.

The simple expression of genuine affection honestly confused and rattled the brutish proselyte far more than even he had expected. He thought about slugging Inarin. Throwing him off. Pushing him to the ground and giving a kick in his stomach. Thats what his false persona demanded of him! But that wouldn't be what happened. Instead, Izaic would lift his own arms, and in a show of good faith, would return the embrace. There were many reasons why he chose to do this, but only one mattered:

It was Inarin would had initiated it. So it felt much...safer.

The tension ebbed from Inarin's body as he realized Izaic hadn't reacted negatively, and he relaxed into the embrace, resting his head onto Izaic's chest. He was silent for a long time, equal parts unsure what to say, and simply enjoying the feeling of safety that being wrapped in a pair of big arms provided.

Finally after what seemed like forever, he smiled again, realizing something. "I'm sorry... I- I must be kinda gross after all that training," he murmured without lifting his head.

Instead of responding with words, Izaic's arms only tightened around the young Nuvellon, savoring a moment he wasn't sure he might ever get again. Some how, his heart rate stayed steady in his chest, and for the first time in a very, very, long time, he felt at peace. His head would shift, and with a contented, satisfied sigh, Swigelf would rest his chin atop Inarin's head, though just barely. "I...wouldn't say you're gross."

A small, quiet chuckle escaped the smaller boy, and he tilted his head up ever so slightly to look at Izaic. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, his cheeks rosy.

"It was meant as one." Izaic smiled back, just a little, quite sheepish as he broke the embrace. Reluctantly, in fact. "I...really should go though. Soon. But this was...nice. I think." It was obvious that Izaic was uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. In fact, he seemed exceptionally happy, his own cheeks resonating a slightly crimson glow.

Inarin let his own arms return to his sides with equal reluctance, nodding. "Y-yeah, it was. W-we should hang out more," he offered tentatively, smiling. "If you'd like t-to, that is." The smaller boy had his own happy glow, and he could only attribute a portion of that to being glad to help a fellow proselyte. He certainly hadn't felt this warm and fuzzy after he and Neera had their heart to heart the other week.

Izaic took a step back before turning around and moving to collect his belongings. "I'll...think about it, alright? And the next time you see that...Well, I can't remember his name, but the one I hit. Tell him I'm sorry. And that I actually mean it this time. Unless that'll cause problems for you, in which case, pretend I didn't say anything." Dwei re-secured on his shoulder, water jug in hand, injured limb returned to his sling, Izaic would make his preparation to leave, unless Inarin had more to say.

The smaller boy's smile broadened at Izaic's words, nodding his head. A part of him had been worried that if Izaic saw him with the twins again - no matter what they were doing - it would only make him angry all over again. That the older proselyte was expressing regret for hitting Val was a promising sign that he hopefully wouldn't have to choose between his friends. "I'll see you around, then," he said softly, making his way over to his own gear to start collecting it up.

A small part of him still couldn't believe all that had just happened. But all of him was very glad it had.
 
A cloudy day in the Monastery. Grim-faced paladins and clerics walked the open halls with faces buried in case folders. Uniformed proselytes scurried to and fro between classes, chatting, lamenting the recent test or excitedly discussing the latest gossip. Of course Izaic had taken the match. Inarin had put up a good fight - who'd have thought he could spar like that? Camille should take the next one, unless the Warden had a trick up his sleeve. Did all animancers know their way around a sword? Jimmy hadn't been in the halls. Kicked out, then? No more than a mutt deserves. No, wasn't his fault. Lost his dad, need to be more understanding. Grunxa's final was awful, but not as bad as Romstone's shop exam. Putting a destrier engine back together backwards, come on.

Celeste. Celeste was still missing. Sir Durandet was looking, someone told them. Not much hope. Never much hope these days.

---

garage_by_gregmks-d64ydjo.jpg

Sir Savien Durandet sat hunched over the skeleton of an old Destrier model. His T-shirt was smudged with exhaust and oil, his military jacket slung over a nearby chair with his sword. A jug of water sat next to the suspended blade alongside a manila file folder and a half-eaten bowl of grey sludge flecked with brown specks. The sounds of his tinkering proliferated the empty garage - the winding wrench, a stuttering hammer. Light spilled in through an open door from the courtyard, gilding the rows of tools and the motorcycles regimenting the concrete floors.
 
Noah and Savien were taken to the Monastery following their clash with Nox. Lemeux was farther from the Phantom Quarter than the nearest hospital, true, but the two men had fought a Caeruleum vampire. If they'd come in contact with any dark magics or infernal poisons, then Lutetia General wasn't going to be of much use.

The clerics at the Monastery, on the other hand, were far better equipped to offer healing from any sustained supernatural damage. Both received some of the finest medical care available in Lutetia City. Noah would wake up the next day, his wounds cleansed and bandaged. He would doubtless still feel the exertions of combat (especially around his ribs, the clerics had informed him that he'd cracked two of them), but all in all would be well enough to stand up, walk around and take food. He would be given free reign of the Monastery but forbidden to leave until several test results came back. They assured him it wouldn't take much longer than two hours ...

There was no sign of Sir Durandet. Noah might have had a vague memory of the knight lying in the cot next to him, the entire left half of his face swathed in bloody bandages. He snarled at a cleric armed with a syringe. "Get that fuckin'... thing... away from me..."

---

Wherever Noah had decided to bide his time - the library, the courtyard, the hospital - he would be approached by a young boy - perhaps seven - dressed in a pressed military uniform. His hair was combed and his cheeks still held the blush of youth, but his eyes were hard and steely. Not the eyes of a seven year old boy.

"Sir." He bowed as he came near, touching two fingers to his lips. "I am Proselyte Cameron Lestrois." He cleared his throat, perhaps trying to make his voice sound a bit deeper. "Master Kelve would like to see you, 'if you aren't otherwise engaged'." He blinked. "Those are his words."
 
Noah's rest had been fitful, his unconscious mind haunted with images of the monster he'd confronted. The raw, unadulterated fear that had flowed off of it like a tidal wave of ice. Nightmares of a winter born of death had tormented him like fever dreams, vivid and brutal. But amongst the horrors that plagued his sleep, were memories of warmth. Of someone standing with him against the darkness and the terror, guiding him away from the nightmares and towards peaceful rest. Aurore had not left him while he slumbered, and it was her hand that kept the visions at bay, and allowed him the periods undisturbed sleep he so sorely needed.

It was late on Monday morning before the warden stirred, light spilling in as his eyelids flickered, and a slight groan escaping his lips as with it came recognition of his body's pain. Pushing oneself so far with anima was not without its tolls, and his muscles screamed at the previous evening's exertions with magnitudes more intensity than they otherwise would have. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings enough to realise he was in a hospital of some sort, and to fully drag himself into consciousness.

'It is good to see you wake, Noah.'

"Aurore..." he mumbled before he remembered himself, and collected his thoughts enough to turn them inwards. 'What happened?'

'The Caer defeated us,' she answered frankly. 'But the Order arrived on the scene before he could take your life. Sir Nuvellon saved you.'

Memories of the battle flooded back to Noah in a rush. He'd been walking home when he'd sensed the destruction of a soul in the phantom quarter for the second time that month, and when he'd moved to investigate, had been greeted by an overwhelming presence flooding the entire district. That aura had led him towards the sounds of a battle, and there he had found the monster. 'Light... I thought I was dead.'

'And you nearly were! Perhaps you'll heed me in future, when I warn you of rushing into battle without backup, or even the promise of it. Were it not that the other paladin, Sir Durandet, had already called for it, you would most certainly have perished! Foolish child.'

Aurore's chiding brought a small smile to Noah's face. 'Duly noted. I ... it's the first time I've come up against something I couldn't fight.'

'Your power is great, child, but you are still human. The Wyrm holds monstrosities that one cannot stand against alone. Humanity's strength is in our unity, as much as in our will. But at least some good did come of your foolishness.'

Noah quirked one eyebrow, ever so slightly. 'It did?'

'Yes. Aside from potentially saving Sir Durandet's life, which is in and of itself a worthy deed ... confronting that creature has awakened some of my memories. I remember battling its ilk before. The Caeruleum.'

'So you lived during the skirmishes?' Noah blinked. 'That's more recently than I thought.'

'Phaw! Am I so old fashioned? Watch your tongue, boy. Yes, my life was during the last war. I swore an oath, to carry Deliverance and wield it against those awful creatures, as one of the Oathbound.'

The term rang a bell in Noah's memory, from the few classes he'd had on church history. Nine paladins who had taken up sanctified blades charged with holy energy, swearing themselves to the deaths of the Caeruleum. 'It's good that you remember. I'm glad there's an upside to this, at least. Do you remember anything else?'

'No. But it's a start, is it not? And once you are recovered, you can make inquiries. I should imagine there are records...'

Noah nodded. 'I don't think there'll be too many Oathbound named Aurore to sift through,' he answered with a weak chuckle.

It was at that moment that the door to the ward was opened, and someone strode in. Noah turned his head on the pillow to face them, and gave a small smile upon recognising Aurelion. The paladin exchanged a few quick words with the attending nurse, before walking over to join him at his bedside. "Noah," Aurelion smiled wearily at him. "It's good to see you awake."

"I have you to thank for that," Noah answered, his voice raspy. He grimaced. "Is there ... water?"

Aurelion nodded and quickly passed him a glass. While Noah drank gratefully, he went on to speak. "I don't know what you were doing there, but Savien might owe you his life, for keeping that monster busy until we arrived."

"I sensed it," Noah frowned down at the water. "From a district over. Its aura was..." he shuddered. "Terrifying."

The paladin nodded, grimacing. "I guess when an aura's so strong I can sense it, it must be something else to you animancers. And yet you ran towards it?" He chuckled dryly. "You've more in common with a paladin than you'd think."

A wry snort, was Noah's only response, one which he quickly regretted as the pain in his ribs flared up. He winced. "I think I'm lucky to be alive. I ... thank you, for getting there when you did."

Aurelion gave a weak smile. "You don't need to thank me. I just wish we'd arrived sooner. You're in surprisingly good shape, I think, considering what you fought. You lost quite a bit of blood, but the wounds on your stomach weren't too deep. They'll be sensitive for a while, but the doctors say you should be back to fighting fit in a week or so."

"A week?" Noah sighed, resting his head back on the pillow and briefly closing his eyes. "I suppose I won't be sparring tomorrow, then," he said after a moment, with a wry smile.

"That's what you're worried about?" Aurelion scoffed. "No, you definitely won't be. The crowds will be disappointed, but they'll live. I'm sure there'll be other opportunities for you to show our proselytes up."

There was a pause, where both of them lapsed into silence. Noah stared up at the ceiling in thought, mulling over whether to raise the subject of what he'd fought. After the better part of a minute, he looked back at Aurelion. "What that creature was..." he started, frowning.

"I don't think I'm supposed to tell you, officially," Aurelion interjected, grimacing. "But..."

"It's alright. I already know." Noah shook his head. "A Caeruleum. I've ... read enough about them, and got a clear enough read on its aura... you don't have to break any rules for me."

The paladin nodded, sighing. "Right."

"How long have your order known?"

Aurelion gave him an uncomfortable glance. "Too long," he answered plainly. "At first we wanted to avoid a panic. Now ... the longer we say nothing, the worse it's going to be when it does get out. And it will. At this point, panic shouldn't be what we're worrying about. It should be using every resource we have available to take that monster down, before it makes any more of its kind."

"And yet..." Noah frowned.

"And yet even now we continue to deliberate. The order's inaction is going to get people killed. It's like the masters are paralysed over this, or in denial that it's as bad as it is." Aurelion ran a hand through his hair and sighed again. "If nothing else, last night should be a slap in the face for them. I'm working on getting approval for a sweep of the catacombs under the Phantom Quarter. If you're recovered by then, I'd like you wish us. If you're willing, that is. I haven't seen you go all-out, but Robert and Perrin have told me a lot of good things. And you looked like you'd done a fair bit of damage to the Caer before we arrived."

"Of course," Noah nodded grimly. "If there's a Caer on the loose... it's devouring souls. That makes it my Order's business, too."

"I don't know if I'd get approval for officially asking your order for help, but I'll throw the idea out there, at least. I'll take almost any advantage we can get against this thing." Aurelion glanced at his watch. "Shit, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I'm due for a patrol."

"Go," Noah said, tilting his head to the side to look at him. "And ... thank you. For coming to see me."

Aurelion blinked. "No need to thank me, Noah. You're a friend. I wanted to make sure you were alright, and it's great to see you're recovering." He smiled, reaching out to pat the warden on the arm. "I'm sure I'll see you later, anyway. Take care of yourself."

And with that, the paladin rose and strode from the room. Noah watched him go, then sighed and tilted his head back to face the ceiling. He'd spent so long resenting the church, and now his first friends since he'd graduated were all paladins? It was almost ironic. Still, it was obvious that the reality of the Monastic Order as a whole wasn't far from what his opinion of it had been. There were individuals like Aurelion, Perrin and Robert that were clearly good people, but the organisation... it seemed like it was willing to risk lives, and incite hatred against the city's werewolves, all to save face.

'They will realise the error of their ways in time, Noah. Let us just hope it is sooner, after deliberation, as opposed to later... when the Caer inevitably forces their hand.'

He nodded in silent agreement. It was inevitable, after all. That monster wasn't going to stay hidden for much longer.

Right now, though, he felt sleep teasing at his consciousness again, and he closed his eyes and let it reclaim him.


It was an hour later by the time Noah mustered the strength to leave his bed. His muscles continued to protest, and his movement was heavily restricted for fear of agitating his wounds, but it hadn't taken long for him to grow restless in his bed. His clothes from yesterday had been utterly ruined in the fight, and so he traded the hospital gown for a plain set borrowed from a proselyte of similar size to him, requisitioned by the nurse at his request.

Cameron found him sat in the Monastery's library, browsing through any publicly available records of the skirmishes in an attempt to find reference to Aurore. He'd not been at it for long before the boy arrived. He raised an eyebrow at the request, but nodded, offering the boy a smile and setting the book he was examining back on its shelf. "I'm not. Lead the way, Sir Lestrois."
 
The proselyte flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. "'It's ah... 'Proselyte Lestrois', thank you sir. I have not yet taken the silver." His chest puffed. "But when I do, I will wear the honor proudly."

The young student led Noah through the halls of the Monastery - an institution positively filled with life. Other proselytes walked the stone corridors of the building, chatting among themselves or scurrying to their classes. Paladins in full armor talked over cases or ate together with tinkering clerics. In the sunlit courtyard, a burly-faced master was instructing an older group of proselytes on entering and leaving power armor. Four suits of R12's stood in the grass - seven feet tall and gleaming in the sun.

"Silver in the back," he instructed, pushing his necklace into a slot on the armor's frame, "and it opens right up." The plates unfolded like a clamshell, allowing the master to enter with ease. The metal folded over his body, sealing him inside.

"I've modded these suits to let you enter without silver," he explained, his voice metallic through the suit's vox, "but NOBODY get inside yet. I need to teach you how to-"

A proselyte immediately jumped inside one of the suits. He wobbled, yelped, and then fell face first into the grass, immobile. The other students gave a chorus of laughter.

The master scowled. "Light, Aaro, I JUST told you-" He stooped over the power armor, released the back and yanked the proselyte to his feet by the scruff of his jacket. "That's five demerits, and you'll be cleaning this suit till it shines after training..."

Lestrois brought Noah up several flights of stairs to the gardens - a large expanse of stone and soil, everywhere plotted with all manner of flower and tree. Most of them, it seemed, were not bred for the winter. Browned foliage littered the ground and graying dirt, the oak trees like prickly bones on their trunks. Only a few still blossomed.

Sir Dantion Kelve, Paladin Master of the Monastic Order, sat at a rocking chair in the center of the orchard, Sir Kurtrin Hayes to his left. A kettle of steaming Losenyu make was between them on a coffee table, along with a bottle of brandy.

The two seemed to be in serious conversation, but immediately relented as Noah and the proselyte approached.

"Warden! Good of you to join us," with slight effort, the ancient paladin rose to his feet, balancing himself on his cane. He smiled at Cameron. "Thank you, proselyte. I'll see you in two hours for history."

The student bowed to them both and scurried away.

"Would you like some tea, Warden?" Kelve offered, "imported from Losenji. A very good brew." He turned back to the kettle. "Oh! Have you met Sir Hayes? 'The Golden', as some call him." He cracked a lopsided grin. "Don't let the name fool you. He's purified copper, at best."
 
Noah had followed the young proselyte through the halls with only a hint of a limp, his pride demanding that he retain his composure and strength amidst the warriors and warriors-to-be of the Church. He would have liked to be wearing his own uniform. Passing through the innards of the monastery was a glimpse at another world, one that was at once eerily similar to the halls of Auclair Academae - albeit with a lot more armour. His pace had thus been slow, but steady; likely the proselyte had been forced to pause and let him catch up at several intervals, much to Noah's chagrin.

He had to take a few moments to compose himself at the top of the stairs. Climbing apparently did not agree with his injuries. When he stepped out into the garden it was straight-backed, in defiance of his condition.

'Foolish boy...' Aurore muttered in the back of his head. 'You should not be so afraid to show weakness.'

Noah ignored her, following the proselyte forwards to approach Kelve and Kurtrin. "Master Kelve, Sir Hayes," the warden offered them each a stiff and formal nod of greeting. A pause, as he considered the offer, then nodded again. "Yes, please. Tea would be nice."

'Hayes? I know that name from somewhere...'

His eyes slid across to the man in question, assessing him silently. He was vaguely familiar with the reputation of 'the Golden'. Said to have lived and fought during the skirmishes, and slain one of their number; the specifics of which varied from honourable single combat to far less glorious tales, depending on who you asked. A figure from Aurore's past, then. Perhaps both of these men would know who she had been - but he doubted either would take kindly to her current situation. The Church was uneasy with animancy at the best of times; he had little desire to reveal to them that one of their former comrades was bound to him, willingly or nay.

"May I why it is you wanted to see me?"
 
Despite nearing eighty years old, Kurtrin still bore himself in a similar manner one might expect from an oak, as if age had not yet taken too terrible a tole on the prestigious paladin. His grizzled and scarred face was somber and heavy with stubble, and just from appearances it wouldn't be obvious whether he wanted to be here or not. He'd chuckle at the master's comment about the copper. It wasn't far off. His age-old armor was indeed copper, both in color tone and actual make up, though not entirely. Copper never would've been able to withstand the assault Avacyn had unleashed on him and his brother's in decades pass.

Despite the severity of what he had overheard last night, the old man had not yet himself fall into despair. Not all hope was lost. He knew this now, thanks to the news given to him by Kelve, and the bright future certain alliances might be able to bring about. Still, it was hard to miss the faint odor of scotch.

"Oh, we have quite a few things to discuss, boy." Despite the demeaning language, there was warmth behind those words, a grandfatherly tone that the proselytes knew well, but would no doubt be lost upon the Warden. "First things first...Did he give you his name during the scuffle?" Kurtrin wanted to knew which demon spawn of Nito's loins had managed to slip through the Light's grasp. He needed to know.
 
Kelve smiled, his presence and voice far gentler than Kurtrin's, but no less warm. The two survivors of the Caer Skirmish - Oathbound, the both of them - seemed to have no trouble conversing with the animancer on a human level.

"If you don't mind, Noah," he nodded, "I've already read the reports, but I'd prefer to have it from you personally. We can get to the next order of business afterwards."

He poured out a cup of steaming tea and handed it to Noah on a saucer. It smelled like jasmine, vanilla ... perhaps a touch of honey.

"Please, sit," he gestured to the garden chair opposite them, "you are still injured."
 
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