Elysian: Realm Hunters

Azriyyan

My gaze shifted from the construction in front to the belling towers of Narville, stationed on our far right, striking 11:45; behind the body of troops pushing back the throng of crowd, as the row whereupon I stood slowly began to fill in with prisoners. The peculiar winds will soon carry with it souls of youth, bartered in search of power.

The clear twilight sky now the dusky thundering of wrathful clouds. It was close to midnight; soon we would be sprinting towards the temple of Deathspyre, most of us hoping to see another day. 'You deserve what's coming for you', 'Kill them all!', 'Hooligans!'; the audience of the king becoming more violent as the time progressed. "Let me go! I still have four days", a voice screamed among the crowd, silencing them. I couldn't quite make from where these shrieks were coming from within the chanting mob, until a girl came into view, withheld by two guards carrying her towards the line of doom as she fought her way through. I recognised her, prisoner four, that's how we remembered one another in camp or at least that's how they made us to remember one another, ripping us off of our identity as a way to belittle our existence, how one day or maybe even today prisoner 125 would be used to call someone else when my existence would be defined as nothing but a mere arrangement of cracking bones crowned by a skull. However, four differed in her pattern of fabric, she was not covered in the dull blue and white strips of a prisoner, rather a guard; similar to the ones carrying her; dressed in black pants and shirt with a white band wrapped around her arm. Did she attempt on escaping? The blonde strands of her locks drenched in the harsh rain as the guards struggled to place her between me and another prisoner. She dropped against the cold stone concrete, tears carving a path down her cheeks as newly formed canyons; mewling in pain.

Just as the guards left to blend in with the rabble, the ground shifted beneath us; sending a wave of hysteria among the masses who shrieked in horror. I turn behind towards him, locking his attention onto mine. The whites of his hair made him appear old, his skin paler than ever with wrinkles forming around the edges of his eyelids; yet his dominance on the throne marked for the firm influence and authority he had over Lucelance, including me; being mere puppets in his play of life and death. The world favours greatness over a tale of woe, only mourned once it shatters you wholly; retaliate from this oppression and watch how the worlds accusing finger would find you as if you were the villain. It's a bad chapter of life, not a bad book. Power is built upon a foundation of a series of blunders and prudence, and I will take back what was once destined mine. His stare meets mine, sending the edge of his lips curving up into a villainous smile, as he protrudes the glass of wine forward, commemorating for a world what was now his.

"Positions", a sentinel demanded from near the bell as myriads of flaring Lampyridae transpired over the skies, crashing onto the wet asphalt block pavement between the prisoners and Deathspyre, sending these radiating light towards the temple, until the whole of Deathspyre illuminated with burgundy. Zar swigged a large portion of his drink, swaying back and forth. I retrovert back to find a convict, a year or two younger; espying with a contemptuous stare; Zar's minions I suppose. He positions into a crouched state as the rest, while I await returning towards zar. "Azriyyan. It's you!", a feminine cry articulated from the congregation, "You are the key". Don't lose focus. "Mountain of ash has-"x, the voice ceased.

The antique slips from Zar's fingers, hacked to shattering pieces as he rejoiced my rout, now I will cherish this moment. A soul for a soul. His grip tightens around his neck., choking on vengeance. Guards encircling him. There is no turning back now, I grovel into a crouch start posture. The surface frigid against my bare hands, as rainwater patters against the glass of my shackles; with words blazing in the dull of the night; Form the red of 'Hider (prisoner)', to white 'Dead'.

The crepuscule of life that carried with it the fresh petrichor essence was now replaced with the rank malodorous stench of rotting flesh. A distinct snarling sound that of a low growl, as if a reynard belligerent for war; comes from beside me. Four. My head swivelled towards her to notice the clear cinnamon of her iron now as white as snow; elucidating no sign of entity. The grunting continued as distant rumbling lighting shuddered the glass panes of the clock tower. I need to get away.
"Let the games begin", Narville chimes at the second as runners break into a sprint with fists formed at their sides. The portal has opened.

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