"TALES OF SHADOWS, TALES OF BEASTS, UNRAVEL AS THE SHADOW SPEAKS"
Aeraji; the continent of magic, the mother of legends, old and new. A place where gods and heroes, monsters and witches are very much real. Despite hailing from foreign grounds Arden...
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THE PERFORMER GLIDED ACROSS THE STAGE; there was an unnatural grace to his step, like the movement of water, the twirl of the air. Some called his kind ethereal, others wicked . Mavlerka, his Ma called them. Witches.
Marlo - unbelievably sulky at the turn of events - thought he was just a lunatic.
Any other day he'd be perfectly content strolling around, until his watch was finished and he could go home to the delicious, warm meal waiting for him - cooked by his beloved Ma. Everything would run smoothly - from his patrol around the Gelnhern mansion, to his report to the officials. Saskia would still be at her workshop by that time and, since it was on his way, he'd pass by to offer to walk her home - a mere few blocks before his own. She'd always decline with a soft smile, saying she still had work to do before urging him to go on without her - except from a couple of times she'd been too tired to keep working - but it was still a nice routine.
Until his change of route of course.
The beast cried out in scorching rage; its canines punctured the air frantically seeking for anything that could satiate its fury. There was a colar around what he supposed was his neck, bronze and engraved with designs he couldn't see from his spot amongst the crowd. But he could make out the way it blazed alive whenever the creature strayed too far on the stage, an unmistakable shock of light. And everytime it did the beast lunged at the performer ready to tear him to shreds. Again and again and again.
A pair of laughing children nearly crushed into him - both with glowing eyes and a curious appearance, strange marking peaking from beneath their sleeves like poorly hidden secrets. He stiffened as they came, watched with a tightened fist around his rifle as they passed him by a hair's width.
"Sorry mister guard," yelled the boy as they ran off. His eyes, a golden whirlpoor digging like daggers into his soul from in-between a forest of dark, dark teal (teal!) strands.
He shuderred.
Marlo resumed his steps, skin alight with shivers, hairs on end. Part of him wanted to bolt, abandon his duties and run for the hills, away from the witches, the unnatural freaks that plagued their holy nation. And, really, even if he stayed, what could he do? His mind conjured the hundreds of ways he could be murdered on those streets, the variety with which the beasts would use their devilish powers on him. Even if they ever found his body, he doubted anyone would recognise him. In that he case he'd wish a slow agonising execution for the perpetrator, just like all those that came before him.
The showfronts reflected the brilliance of his uniform, an emerald green that shown like a jewel against the light.
At least, he thought, I'll still be able to see Saskia on my way home. The thought made his shoulders straighten, his posture proud, as if Saskia would pop up in a matter of seconds. He'd made it his mission to impress her even since he grew a few heads taller and had finally donned his uniform; passing by her family's bakery to greet her parents, by her workshop to flash a charming smile, the soft cotton adorning his form glowing like a jewel in the sun.
