387 - Fear of Perfection Pt. 2 [Sturmblitz]

It had been her tutelage of Lucian, as well as the desire to be more capable to teach the other disciples, that had inspired her to push Carnifex as far as it could go in terms of shape variation. The young man’s growth had been incredibly promising. Time and time again, in defiance of his own glaringly lacking intelligence, he gleaned insight from someplace or another and advanced. Unceasingly, at times slowly, and at many times painfully, he kept on advancing, and as part of that, he kept on eating swords, going from a living sheath to a living arsenal of sorts. She had never seen a person turn into a swords-hedgehog and walk it off before. 

Mata’s growth had been similarly remarkable since she had experienced the World of Fangs, though Zelsys didn’t get to interact with her all that often. As for the others who had entered the illusory world, it varied. Two of them, who had been ejected immediately, exhibited some minor benefits, but not much else. The eagle-man was still recovering, not just because of his injuries, but because he had been molting continuously since the incident, growing not just more and larger feathers, but also scales and a great deal of muscle. He was very promising. And then, there were the four. Four Ikesian youths, those who had avoided her so vehemently, and who now acted with an unsettling degree of synchronicity, and who had somehow each tamed a different variety of giant serpent. They somewhat reminded her of the triplets she fought back in Eberheim. Despite the slightly usettling element, they, too, were highly promising, even if they still avoided her to some extent, and even if she couldn’t really think of a way to help them with direct coaching.

With this conundrum in mind, the events of the immediate future felt, to her, like the heavens themselves conspiring to help her out of this rut, as brief as it had been.

First came the guidestone, that gift from Estoras and his mysterious, stone-masked benefactor, whose identity Zelsys didn’t dare to guess, knowing it would probably end up somehow being the most outlandish possibility of them all. Why guess “rogue cultivator elder” or “one of the Twin Sages in disguise” when it could easily be something like “somehow both the Sage of Fog and one of the two remaining Three Kings resurrected in one body”? It was simply pointless to guess with this little information.

Second, there was the news — the news of the Black Horse Sect’s Stillwind Branch, and therefore, of their schemes in Willowdale’s surrounding lands. This wasn’t a surprise as much as it was an unexpected confirmation of her assumptions about the Black Horse Sect. She still wanted to meet with the Sangers, having never interacted with them in any meaningful manner due to the fact the Survivor Sects’ territories didn’t overlap.

And third, or, perhaps, number two and a half: The call for help from Arkaley.

This one… This one was the best.

Between these news, however, were also news that were far more relevant for others than herself. To begin with, Strake’s treatment had finally succeeded, allowing him full independence from Zero with the minor side effect of cosmetic mutations — scales, to be specific. Makhus couldn’t quite describe the nature of what had worked, because it wasn’t quite a Dragonheart Bolus in the sense of those described in the original scripture fragments, but it was based on the same principles. Perhaps far more momentously for Makhus, Strolvath had found out about the need for his blood and sent a man ahead bearing that vital reagent, so that the True Dragonheart Bolus would be ready by the time he arrived. He also requested to meet with Zelsys in person, claiming that it had to do with the goings-on in Arkaley, somewhat to her chagrin.

And arrive, he did, and so did three other Bureau agents who entered by different means and scattered throughout the city. But Zelsys knew them, she could feel their slippery presence on her territory.

Zel made it a point to make Strolvath come to her, in a perhaps petty show of annoyance. At the moment, she lacked the patience to make him wait outside her chambers’ doors, so she called him in after ten minutes. The moment the door was shut, she spoke up.

“I delayed myself for your sake. I hope you have a good reason.”

Strolvath smiled.

“Do you not want to know your opponent’s moves before he makes them?”

_________________________

Meanwhile…

Graham liked to think of himself as an experienced man. He had served the Bureau before the war, he had played soldier during it to keep an eye on targets of interest, and he had evaded capture many a time in his service since the war’s official end.

“You? The Dog of War, a knight? What happened? That steel coffin cook your brain or something?”

Strake glared at him. Hard. And… It burned. Somehow, his stare burned. Graham could feel the skin between his eyes blistering and smelled burning hair. 

“You say you know me. Hell, maybe you do. But you don’t know me enough to know why I called myself that, why I deserted,” Sodan said.

A part of Graham found it asinine that someone would refer to himself as a Tactical Supremacy Asset, even if he was designated as such. But he didn’t need to say that. He knew Strake could tell.

Taking a bet that the machine might not understand it, Graham signed to Strake: “Even if you wanted to come back, it wouldn’t let you, would it?”

The burned man laughed.

“Yeah, let’s put it that way. It’s as good an excuse as any. I can’t put it into words — but I can show you. I owe you that much. After this, we’re even. I’m done being an active agent, the Bureau will have to do with an independent Tactical Supremacy Asset. You tell Strolvath that.”

Reaching down, Strake pulled up his shirt and turned around. Beyond the widespread patterns of pitch-black skin, he also had patches of glistening scales surrounding scars at spots that, to Graham, seemed arbitrary, but that was not what Srake intended to show him, nor was it what pushed itself into Graham’s face. No, it was the Boar’s Head Insignia, emblazoned across the whole of Strake’s back, pulsating with the colours of a dull ember. It was not the insignia of Eberheim itself, but of its once-great knightly order. Graham had heard the rumours, but he hadn’t really believed them. A one-off event, a contingency left behind by the Knights of the Boar, that was one thing, but that it truly left a permanent mark upon him was something else.