This is the servants Sacred Duty! (Solo)

[Nyroshea]

Clamor! The sounds of steel clashing in the distance.

Creaking! the wheels of a chariot coming near.

Crunching! The sacred tree was shattered.

Thud!

As he'd lay there on the ground, the cruel and unforgiving silhouette raises its arm into the air. Eclipsing the sun with blackened steel, the messied, dirtied youth could only watch in anticipation.

"What...what is that?" were the last words to come from his thin lips. But alas, there was no answer to his innocent query. Only a dark smile enraptured in trading blood for blood. No mercy, no kindness, no sense of humanity would be reflected in the shadows bogged eyes. This creature was no mere man.

The hand came down and the boys vision was engulfed. Not with red, but the pitch of black.

The mysterious dark residue he'd seen enveloping his sight felt as if it coated his entire shell. Their density was so overwhelming that he'd felt the air sucked from him and everything faded away. Faded back to nothing.

He had died. Before he could learn that kind strangers name, before he could repay his debt to the vagrants that shielded him from natures cruelties, his light was stolen from him and absolutely nothing remained. His shell became the abyss, hollowed out, and instead filled with piercing voices. Their cries of glee, turmoil, anguish. They resonated strongly within his vessel, urging for him to rise up.

But the boy of outlandish hair did not respond, for what corpse could? Only hearing them, he could not return but a gasp in pain to them, for even his voice had been taken away. What little quivering he could physically muster would have to be enough to notify them of his presence. That his existence was still tied to this world if only a little bit. That he had not set sail across Cocytus just yet. He was dead, but he was still here. There was still an uncertain possibility...


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Neo Log: 0 || This is not the Servants Sacred Duty!
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The sound of a clocks solitaire click echoes through an otherwise noiseless abode. Bits of white snow sneakily made it through tiny cracks in the old, gray wooded walls. Cob webs were forming in the corners above and below.
The cinders from a once lively fireplace scattered aloft in the air before falling, embracing the jet black ashes below.

This place was once filled with life -- and now its status reflected that of the individual on the bed. Cold, lifeless, decaying. The cold wind lifts the blankets from the youth, as if passing on its final edict.

Rise...

RISE!

With whatever mysterious force the room had been preparing - - the boys lungs inhaled heavily. Clutching his chest, he awakens, gasping for air. His eyes wide from the shock of rebirth. "Gh.. ghyaah..!" he grasped his hands outwards, gripping tightly at the air in front of him as if clutching to a rope... or rather, to strangle. That dark beings neck! If he would die--surely--he'd have to kill the aggressor first!

...Silence...

Wait. That's not quite right...

Nyroshea thought back. The memories were still jarred in his head, scattered about the place. Though it felt as if it had only happened moments ago, the recollection of events was fractured more and more each passing day and the reality itself was but a repetitive dream that grew to exaggerate each passing moment. Now that he had awoken from the perpetual nightmare, he couldn't quite put a lasso around it.

What happened...? Where am I...? And those people..?

Settling down, an arm rests around his empty stomach while the other placed his palm upon his temple. The repercussions of his death the coma were hitting him all at once. It must have been awhile since he'd used his body any, or ate a proper meal. Speaking of which, who's been taking care of me..? I should have died... Nyroshea thought to himself as his yellow eyes wander around the dust covered room. Whoever it was must have been taking care of solely he, to let the abode he was in grow so ragged. Or perhaps, at some point they gave up and abandoned their quest. Leaving him to die with this ill-tended building.

He was the weakest he'd been, like this room. Decaying inside. Why was he brought back to life? How was he still alive? That man of malice with the orange locks ...

Brown hair...

There was a man with brown hair too, wasn't there? A kind man who'd tried to save him despite only having just met -- He must have... he must have won... Nyro thinks weakly to himself, uttering a hollowed laugh. His eyes cascaded by the threshes of dark purple that seemed to have grown a significant amount since that time. "..E..eh? Was the world always... this dark?" he remarks, wiping a hand over his face, pulling his locks with his fingertips just enough to get a better view of just how much it's grown. His hair always did grow fast when unattended, he had to trim it nearly every week to maintain its sheen and shape. Now it was out of control and wildly devouring his body--or it would if it were a plant or some monster of that sort. Thank goodness hair isn't alive!

"A..lright... lets get up now.." the boy encouraged himself. Grasping the bed beneath of him by the sheets firmly, it was a bit of a struggle, but he managed to shift his waist about; just enough to hook his legs over the edges and put his apparently bared feet on the cold wooden floor below. "Eyeee! No good! No no noo...." he winced in pain, that good old Ilian flooring was something he'd forgotten in his month away at Laus. There's no way he'd dare set foot on such terrain for long, at least, not without socks on first! But it couldn't be helped! He had to get up to get clothes--which meant he'd have to endure.

Gathering his courage into his tiny fists, he hopped one foot at a time across the paneling of the floor. *Hop! Hop! Hop! THUMP!* he crashed down--toppling over a drawer face first. Hitting his nose in particular against the edge, making it bleed a little. "Oww..." he groaned in pain, sliding to his knees. But at least he made it to the containment, pulling out some clean white socks that were strangely his size. Got it.. finally, sitting down on his bottom he put the socks on...

Only then it hit him. These socks, the cold winters air, the familiar essence of mints. He was at his Grandfathers home again. Whoever it was that salvaged him must have taken him back -- far far back. But how? Why would they go so far for a punk kid? He felt a twitching in his chest as his heart sank -- and his stomach churns heavily. Causing mass discomfort.

Those people... that man with the sword. That woman with the firm face. The boy with a frightening giant for a mount ...

They all saved him and yet they were nowhere to be seen. He could never say thank you, or express his gratitude to them. The odds they were still in the same place he'd parted with them from were incredibly slim. It was a bad feeling, to not be able to express gratitude.

But even so, perhaps with some prayer he would be able to thank them; to bless them for their endeavors. As his Grandfather had done.

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Some time later, Nyroshea had gotten out from his room. Properly dressed for the cold terrain of Ilia, sporting his trademark satchel around his waist (thank goodness it was not stolen!) and a long silken sash to trade for provisions.

His Grandfather was not home . . . But he still had an instinct as a servant kicking in -- to buy materials to clean the house. To buy materials to tend to Mystel. And to himself now, as he was very hungry. Only eating a small slice of bread that had been left over in an ice box, he needed more fuel.

It was sunset, but the market place should still be open. He hadn't the best of luck coming down the pass to the village in his previous two attempts, but what were the odds something would go wrong a third time?

Through the cliffs he goes. . . ~ To the village where many things grow.

Or so he believed...