Future of Calamity [Under Rewrite]

Chapter 41 - Sleeping Soldier

"Enough."

Breaths pumped heavy, and ragged. Ivory a plenty trickled, and yet the Praetor's halted their advance upon the lone half-breed. Sarid's inhales were long and plentiful, but the idle swinging of his makeshift roped kunai at his right hand told of his ability to continue. A sharp gash of a searing crimson was carved across his shoulder, the remnants of twinkling ice sprinkled atop the cloth and flesh.

Nevertheless, the great battle between this trio did still in silence at one man's word.

The Shepherd marched down from his step atop the throne, a stern and piercing look threading right into the Hunter that stood opposed; hunched and weary. His crisp robes swept over the dirtied marble and its ruined engravings, the hued blade hovering just above in the Saviour's motionless hold. Sarid's stark amethyst of his own could not ignore the welling power that merely rested beneath Artorias's steel.

He spoke, voice cold, cool and unfettered. "Praetors, dispose of the escaping intruders."

Oscar and Teresa did not hesitate, and instantly waded past the bewildered Barloc and towards the battling members of the menagerie; all who still desperately pushed back against the force that barred their way. Already weakened, they may falter against the intercepting Praetors. And still, did the strange Legate Melchior watch without any interference.

Sarid's teeth gritted, and he spared a look to the downed Velvet and the assisting Laphicet. She was hunched over now, still sore and racked with discomfort. But, the Therion was awake, and moving.

"Barloc."

Shepherd Artorias stood before him, spacious in their interaction. He gazed upon him with no identifiable emotion, just chilling sapphire unmoving.

"...What's your game? Going to talk me to death?"

The Saviour grunted with closed eyes, a disappointed shake of his head: ponytail swaying with the movement. "Brave, to tread across this city with such a sinful crest at your back."

Sarid protruded his chest forward slightly, presenting the very insignia the man talked down on to glimmer at his peck. "Every soul can know where I stand, for all I care."

Artorias's eyes darkened with a sigh, but nonetheless no change flickered in his expression; only intrigue.

"...I propose a remedy."

The Hunter's raised wind-whip fell, no longer held to a hostile poise. His eyes were lidded, and brows narrowed at the ambiguous suggestion.

"Your father was a traitor, an outcast, excommunicated and barred from setting foot in Midgand ever again. I am offering a chance to rectify his son, from suffering a worse fate."

Sarid was held to a bitter silence from the outlandish statement, staring blankly upon the grand and unsettling figure before him. Playful and idle, did passing wind sift through the flayed strands of white in heavy, dreading silence.

Artorias carefully planted the tip of his blade to root the marble below, and splayed out an open palm before himself.

"Do not stain that lineage any furth-"

"Shut up."

"...Excuse me?"

The half-malak's grip was tight upon the weapons he bore, almost shaking with its force. He took a single, profound step forward.

"You heard. This Abbey tarnished my family, and this world, when you and your scum moved in. Don't talk to me about remedy."

Artorias was silent, the pair of glinting teal orbs akin to celestial moons in his eyes. Glacial, contemptuous. His hand settled firm at the hilt, and a burdened sigh came to pass.