Quiet was something that Soven had grown accustomed to in his million year long assimilation with the body he currently possessed, but there was something different about this quiet. It was almost distant. Though his ears were ringing, he couldn't quite understand what it was or what it meant, so he simply tuned it out. He didn't realize it immediately, but warm liquid was beginning to climb up throat as the first clue, and soon, it started traveling out of his slightly parted lips and down his chin. He was awoken from his stupor as he felt insides begin to congregate around the blade piercing his heart, and were beginning to assimilate and augment Rising Tide. However, moments later, Soven realized that wasn't the objective of the puncture, but quickly figured it out when he felt the upward facing weapon begin to cut through him like a hot knight through butter. Soven was too prideful to admit it, but he was growing more panicked for every inch it rose, and no tricks of his were coming to mind. He tried to grab hold of the knight's only available wrist, but his grip was already greatly weakened, and still growing exponentially weaker. He tried to release the miasmic haze to put the knight to sleep, but the pores along his collarbone had already retreated into his ribcage, eagerly waiting for their turn to be used to sharpen the blade still stuffed in his heart.
Twin pairs of vacant eyes locked, they both understood the gravity of the situation. This was the end of Soven. The knight watched as the shriveling human body slowly, and feebly reached out to the knight's chest, and placed a single hand too small for the gauntlet it wore for a moment, before the hand fell back to Soven's side. Regret plagued him from behind the black helmet, he let his ageless experience lead him to arrogance, and now he was going to die because of it. Thinking about death made Soven shiver in fright; he had done many atrocious atrocities in his long existence, and now Death was ready to get his own petty revenge for all the havoc he'd caused. All the blood on his hands was finally lashing out at him and had officially wrapped around his neck, killing him via strangulation.
A single tear trailed down the soft face of Soven as he gazed at the back of Death, who was still playing his instrument hollowly. Death held no mercy for those who did not hold mercy for others, and it was finally catching up to him. Continuously choking back a sob, Soven whispered a question to the knight that gave the knight pause, "Am I–Am I really going to die?" The terrible tremble in the whisper made the knight almost pity the individual he had been facing. There was a weakness in his voice that was not unlike the physical weakness that came with death. Soven was shuddering in the knight's grasp; both hands at his side swaying in a wind that only blew for him: the wind of fear.
"All of my long existence–to die like this… All the bodies–all the war–all the blood–and for what? Even in my final moments I treasure my own voice in my ears, I truly have never lived." By the time Soven finished, there were many tears traveling down his face behind the mask. The knight was already well through his torso and now traveling upward, slicing through Soven's throat and then head cleanly. There were no bite marks, it wasn't painful, it was simply the end. He should've at least passed out when he cracked the giant's skull open, yet Soven seemed to have been too strong willed to do that, and now it was no more. After making it all the way through the skull of his former enemy, he quickly threw his blade in a random direction with enough force to let a boom so loud it made the knight jump a little following suit from its impact against the likely marble walls that separated the flesh and created the room he was standing in. He turned back to the body in front of him and stared at the sight of Soven for a moment longer, but turned to the right when he felt his stomach lurch in disgust. The sight of splattered brain matter, oozing blood, organs crushed and tampered with in the large open wound was something the knight wouldn't forget for a long while–though it still didn't match the insidious stench of rot that followed swiftly after the serpent's death in the graveyard desert. Shuddering a little at that, he turned back to the lurid scene pitifully, before turning back the other way.
The music had stopped playing, and so did the strange intensity he had felt in his movements. It was weird, but he felt less sharp, like he was being augmented during the fight in certain ways. Glancing back at The Guidance, who was still sitting on the small bench made for one, he decided to drag the body to death and leave the premises as fast as possible. His drooling thoughts were on the long list of things that needed to be done, and Soven isn't one of the ones at the top of his priority list, so he once again pivoted back to the body, but was quick to notice that he only had a single arm, and more importantly that the body had disappeared. Though the blade of darkness was still laying on the ground, abandoned by its owner, the knight decided to bring the blade to death.
When he took a step to pick up the weapon, he let out a groan of agony, while his body shuddered in protest. He was hurting everywhere. He missed his step completely, sadly, and instead stumbled forward, before landing on his face onto the obsidian where he immediately passed out from exhaustion, blood loss, and the great myriad of emotions welling at the surface of his face, but he did see Death get up from his stool, teleport around the scourged battlefield instantly, appearing once again in front of the piano thing with Soven held in one pair of hands while his top right hand clutched the hilt of the blade of darkness, and with that, the knight's spotty vision turned to black.
It was finally time. They had been traveling for what felt like years in the never ending darkness of the old capital. Traveling with the twins, and blondie was something he hadn't expected to enjoy as much as he did. Sure they were traveling this expanse specifically for him, but that didn't mean he would enjoy it. Whether it was the twins seeming to never agree on anything despite telling everyone they were the same person, or blondie's constant warm aura, his smile never seemed to leave his face, even after all he'd seen–and even more what he'd done. They were still with him–begging and screaming at him in his vision, his parents. His mother always seemed so disappointed in what he had chosen since her murder, and death in front of him but a few weeks prior to where he was currently. His father was always screaming, the agony in his voice didn't fail in making him flinch every time he heard it. It hurt. Both of them were in so much pain, for such different reasons.
"Hey! Now's not the time to be so deep in your thoughts! We have the spell scroll, you can get your arm back, so now there's no reason to be so depressed!" A slightly brash, yet elegant voice said from somewhere to his right. She was the 'happy' twin as he had called her in the recent past. Her straight black here was identical to her twins, just like all of their features were. They were the definition of two sides of the same coin, with the only difference being the stark personalities held by either.
"Perhaps you are the callus one, and it is not I. He is without his dominant hand, having lost it to his father, and is now an orphan, and one who cannot be adopted by another family simply because of who his mother was and her importance to the army and her rather disgraceful fall into obscurity." The coldness in the younger sister's voice made all four in the room shiver a little, though she ultimately had good intentions in her speech, despite her own lack of care in her voice. Her crimson eyes looked into the single armed boy's soul, the same color eyes as her sister, yet their eyes were so vastly different. The boy simply sighed at the girl and her simply lack of care in anything other than herself–at least on surface level. Maybe she simply lacked what was necessary to care like the rest of humanity.
Turning away from the second oldest in the group, the boy turned to the only other boy in their small search party of children and tweens. His short blond hair went down to the base of his extremely pale neck. The rages he wore were in stark contrast to his elegant, noble appearance and grace that seemed almost hereditary in the Hower family. It was strange, but the boy hadn't really said anything about it, and probably never would. His piercing blue eyes were reading through the scroll that had been their objective on this mission, only lit up by a small candle in the center of the small abandoned store they had taken refuge in.
The stone that made up the walls were cold–as all things down there, the boards of wood that made the floor were rotted in some spots, but for the most part, the stained tan colored planks were holeless, which was exactly why they picked this place to do the ritual, beside the fact that this was one of the only blacksmiths in the immediate area. Across the gray stone walls were various scorch marks that seemed to glow lightly, despite being well over four hundred years old. Many of the pieces had already succumbed to aging and lack of care, but a couple looked to be in a slightly orderly condition, which had gotten the trio of warriors attention immediately after their eyes had landed on the extremely high quality gear.
Blondie wasn't a warrior, and the only warrior male in the group lacked his dominant hand currently–though soon to be fixed–-so he decided to not join in on the sparring of the twins and instead chose to watch them as they walked off, rusty swords the right hand of both, with an intensity in both equally matched, just forged from flames that couldn't have been more opposing. The sounds of metal ringing against metal was music to the boy, especially after such a long time of hearing nothing about the vast, empty waste land that was once the capital of the old empire. It was strange. He watched as the Hower child got up from his spot on the cold, dusty, and creaky wooden floor, dust himself off, and looked into the boy's chocolate brown eyes with warmth.
"It would seem as if we hold all the cards to do the ritual right at this very moment. Would one such as yourself be interested in such a great offer? He said, a grin playing at the corners of his lips. He wasn't a fan much of the way Blondie spoke. It always seemed so extra for no real reason, though he did hear through the grapevine that his mother said the exact same thing after meeting a Hower for the first time. Prim people were weird.
Sighing, the boy jostled his equally brown hair lightly, shaking out the clouds of dust that had settled in it and spoke in his indifferent tone that annoyed Blondie almost as much as his speech patterned annoyed the brunet, but he couldn't stop the quirking up of his lips as he accepted the request, "Yeah, I'd be a fool if I decided to decline such a great offer." They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, they hadn't known each other for long, but both of them knew it in their souls that this was planned; that they were placed there, to be here in this moment. Not by either of them, but someone greater than any other planned that meeting on that day. The first of a chain of events that neither would ever truly understand.
"Well then, shall we call the twin hounds over here to graft the spell into the floor. After that–with a few steps in between–you will have an arm forged in darkness." The Blondie stretched out a hand to the younger boy, only to be left slightly baffled when the boy simply brought the Hower into a great embrace, while whispering thanks and gratitude to the boy in spades. The voices of his parents were quiet, simply witnessing the scene. It gave the boy a fleeing happiness brought by the simple silence as he embraced the one that had helped him so much even without knowing him. Moments passed as they held each other, one letting loose a small amount of tears onto the other. The Hower simply held the boy, feeling pity and great sadness for the boy. He was forced to kill at such an age, and it was his father at that, and seeing your mother pass away in front of you, It's a guilt that would never truly wash away, so he let the boy cry, knowing he could never understand it all. They stood that way for what felt like forever, but was really only a few fleeting minutes before the boy detached from the Hower.
"How about we start this process! I've been waiting to have an indestructible arm, and now seems like the best time" His grin was the biggest it had been since–well, he wasn't sure, but he knew it was the only way to hide the tears that were still streaming down his face. Smiling softly, Blondie spoke up, "Yes. Let us commence the process."