Alterum Exordium(Zorolo)

It was a Tuesday, and the ground was very wet, like a padding of mossy dirt covered by the trampled sprigs otherwise dry and water-saving grasses always is after a large downpour. As a matter of fact, the rainy day had not turned fully into a sunny one, nor had the clouds been wafted away, in the manner of clouds, by a swift wind either from the east or the south– for it was a northern wind that had brought the contents of the storm, and a westerly wind that shook loose the wetness. There would have been no sense for a northerly or westerly wind to clean up there own mess, and so the clouds, though they had been dark and brooding over the night, remained sturdy and gray, hanging there above the landscape. A drizzle remained for as long as the clouds held their place above the earth, and that healthy drizzle was neither unpleasant nor unwanted, especially by rural farming communities in the area who had, over the course of time, been hardened to the cold and the wet. Such people were able to go about their business amidst the comparatively cheering sprinkle, a mere aftermath of a passed storm.

The terrain that had been affected was a wide swathe of land, a veritable cornucopia of healthy young greenery that lived alongside the wild hay fields of the region; how these wild hay fields were able to survive with the frequent and very beating rains of the area was unknown to the seasonal harvesters, but appreciated nonetheless. In the distance, a few peaks of daunting height rose in the north, and in the west a chain of greater proliferation but unarguably lesser reach stretched in a scattered and curved line that, at its farthest northern border, was able to touch the foothills of the few northern mounts. To the east, a sea; unnamed to the inhabitants, it was a salty inland ocean to the farmers and men of millwork who lived in their townships, who would have remained undisturbed but for their magnificently large access to perfect milling creeks and rivers. However, because the milling work of this area was year-round, unlike their farming labors and the tending of their very good horses– their horses, during the rainy winters, were as native to the western mountains of lush green grass– and, because their millwork was year-round, there was constant plenty for the people, and they were able to import the wood they were not able to attain from natural growths in their fertile place.

To the south was The Kingdom. Not truly apart from this kingdom, the townships of the region were largely self-sufficient, trading eagerly with the townships of other regions that, like themselves, were ever-eager to maintain their independence; it was a well-known that the king had no interest in conquests, and therefore only intervened when he believed that peoples were downtrodden and living in unfortunate circumstance. Due to this, the various regions were left to their own devices. Only the currency of The Kingdom was something to be used in this region, for all else came not from the scope-spanning breadth of that southern empire, but from close relations between tribes of friendly "barbarians", as those in the lower country referred to their northern neighbors, though not without fondness.

On a hillock, surrounded by the comforting amount of dryness provided by a small patch of bracken that had shed much of the water from the rains of a whole week prior, a small, wet fire had been set. Though it was a small fire, the smoke it gave up from its lush fuel was not small in the least, and would be clearly visible for a furlong or more, even in the weighting and dispersing effect of the drizzling; this furlong would lengthen to a mile, had it been merely a day of overcast clouding, or even many miles had it been a clear and crisp day. As it was, it mattered not to the person who had kindled the small but warm blaze.

Solomon Marcenii sat– or, rather, knelt warily above the vaguely discomforting mush of the soil underneath– before his kindly little blaze, enjoying the heat from it in silence as he ate from a loaf of oat bread and drank from a pottery bowl he had heated over his fire. The comforting silence was not so tense as a casual onlooker might think, for the scene would actually have been quite sobering to the denizens of those parts: a tall man by their standards, and wearing a very large and mysterious mantle of durable brown, he would most likely have been construed as something he was not, perhaps a wandering warrior. Wandering warriors were plentiful in such a region, as it was a very fertile place that appeared beautiful both from afar and up close, pleasing to the eye and to the nose, for there was always a waft of good-smelling greenery about the place. Also, it was very often pleasing to the purse, for someone could bring with them an easily-gotten cartload of wood and go away with twice what it was worth down in the south, though such a price was never so large that a native could not or would not pay it. Tactile senses were the only senses unchanged between the south and the lush north; in the south, they felt the coarseness of the earth, of the wood, and they disliked it. In the north, they felt the sogginess of the earth, and when they reached out to lean against the familiar sturdiness of a tree, there was none to be found, not even a branch.

Despite all the wandering warriors that deviated from their lives to seek solace in the north, that was not the reasoning behind Solomon coming thence. Where his feet took him, there he walked. Where his eyes looked, there his feet would trod. In this way he was very little different from wandering warriors, for they also went upon their feet and wandered where their eyes desired to canter. However, Solomon had no higher purpose, or any purpose at all for that matter. A warrior commonly sought out those he could help or pillage or capture or revenge themselves upon, whereas the ex-legionary who stooped before his fire was intent upon nothing, and indeed thought very little about one thing or another. Cursed he was, almost, with a brand of oddity that seldom occurs naturally; it may not have occurred naturally in his own case, but he would not know that if one were to ask him. His oddity was such that he was not truly insane, for he was capable of human thought and deed, and no the worse for ware if those who passed him by remained content to do simply that and, from then on, give him no more thought; if he did come into contact with others, it was even then very rare that he would come across as more than a brooding and cold-hearted man who had nothing better to do than speak in riddles. The truth of the matter was that he could not speak intelligibly at all, perhaps because he could not think intelligibly either.

Whatever the case may have been, there he stooped, tending his fire with wet bracken, minding no business but his own, whatever that business may have been. The bread disappeared slowly, chewed methodically as if he enjoyed it a great deal more than he was capable of doing, and the water washed it down only after he had taken his fill. Then he sat tending the fire, doing nothing. For this was his way: to do nothing.

Another fine mess I've found myself in, the ice innate groaned to himself as he looked over the endless green of this land that he found so repulsive. I guess it is worth it. If I spend enough time around this guy, I'll learn the secret to his powers and become more powerful then him in no time, the swordsman told himself, looking at the man that had brought him out here. Why me? he asked himself, thinking back on how the man had easily convinced him to tag along, promising the boy that the adventure would be a good way for him to become stronger.

Zachary hated the grass, the rain, the vegetation and especially the man that had dragged him here. Far away from the ice, snow and tundra that the ice warrior considered home, this winter of this strange land held only disdain for the boy. He had always preferred the silence and ever looming sense of death one finds in frozen areas and mountains to the life giving areas of the world, and the fact that it was winter here and not a flake of snow was on the ground angered the ice innate beyond rational understanding.

The red haired boy clenched his hand, keeping himself as civil as he could, despite the fact he hated every inclink of this adventure thus far. Moving slowly behind the man that had, more or less, dragged him along, the boy tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. "Can we get going yet? This places makes me sick," the ice innate told his traveling buddy, who turned around slowly.

The man in front of the ice innate had vibrant green hair and shimmering green eyes that reflected the glow of the grass off them towards the boy, who hated this man all the more for the fact his attire represented this setting. The green haired man smiled and looked down at the youth. "Sure, we'll get on the move immediately," the fencer stated, taking a step on forwards on the hill and slowly walking down, his new compatriot following closely behind.

Jackass, the boy called the fencer mentally as he continued to follow the fencer, who was currently looking for someone. A strange story had entered the ears of the fencer, and he needed to see exactly what was going on. The swordsman hated this man with every part of his existence, and yet, he couldn't defeat this man no matter how hard he tried. The fencer was simply too strong. After all, that had been why the ice innate had agreed to travel with the Aura Master in the first place: To become more powerful then the green haired man.

Whereas Zachary's thoughts were filled with anger, Zorlo's were very different. He was excited to be in this new land, and not only that; but he wished to find out if the rumors of a member of a legion that had went insane was truly in this area. The fencer was unsure if this man was dangerous or not, but he didn't worry, for even if this deserter held great power, it would be good fun to fight him, of this the green haired man was certain.

"So, where are we going, anyway?!" the swordsman asked with great annoyance, watching the green haired man look over the area.

"There!" the fencer stated, pointing at a nearby puff of smoke, and the one that followed after it. There was a fire nearby, and the green haired man intended on examining if the man he quested for was there.

The two moved from their position towards the fire slowly, not wanting to startle the man that inhabited the camp if it could be avoided.

The sounds of the two newcomers were not unnoticed by Solomon, who remained crouching over his fire and ignoring them without much care to them– whether they were friends or foes did not matter to him, for he was much too enveloped in his own strange mental curse to make any real note of them or their movements. However, he did notice them in a vague, presence-noting kind of way, because one of them had a very strong presence that could be felt even from so far away and from underneath the shroud that the ex-legionary's inability to think clearly had created around him; the presence of the other one was considerably smaller, so much so that it was almost completely unnoticeable next to that of the larger presence, but it was noticeable nonetheless and the crouching fire-tender noticed it in the same vague way. Even so, he did not have the mental capacity that would be required to aptly greet them or turn them away, and so on they came without word or motion from the crouching man by his fire, who had not seen fit to acknowledge even that he knew they were coming.

It was not an overlong time before the pair had made their way up the slope at his back, obviously intending either to share his fire or to have some conversational intercourse with the man who had created it; there was quite the large likelihood that the first would last but a very short time, because very few people were able to tolerate a silent presence for more than a few minutes, and if they searched for he second it would most likely not occur at all, much less for a few minutes. Nonetheless, the larger and smaller presence alike came into the camp in a friendly, non-threatening sort of way, though the smaller seemed to be either highly angered or mentally deficient in his ability to control emotions ... not that the crouching legionary noticed, for his eyes had not left the fire since he felt their presence vaguely. Perhaps the smaller of the two– who was also smaller in stature, though stuck out much more against the landscape because of his strange choice of clothing– was a bit impatient, for he was huffing in the way that could have been either the heavy breathing of a travel-worn youngster or the rebellious signs of impatient that a immature child would give to a senior.

For a moment, Solomon did not realize that he noticed the child, for the feeling of sensing him entirely and understanding his mood came on slowly as he neared, and the picture of his face in the mind's eye of the legionary had not changed when his physical eyes were set upon the young one– another sure sign that he had once again gained a small, fragile bit of sanity. The flame of the young boy was not only on his head, but deep in the heart of his being, a much warmer flame than the snowflake on his blue garment would have striven to imply ... indeed, the flame that the crouching man saw was a deep-rooted anger, or perhaps hatred, directed at the taller man. When he realized this, he turned to the taller man suddenly, setting his eyes onto the larger in the same way that he had set them onto the smaller: in a mystified sort of expression created from the knowledge that, for the first time in many days, perhaps weeks, he was able to clearly understand that the presence of other human beings was near him. With that knowledge came the dull remembrance that, as a human, he was able to communicate with them.

"Good day," he croaked, his voice rusty and rough from disuse over a very long time.

And that was that. With the simple appearance of two people– hardly the confusing, angering crowds that Solomon so loathed– he was once again sane, and could once again talk, though for how long that would last would remain a mystery until he, once again, was shut into a coma of walking-death, an out-of-body experience that disallowed him even from observing the progress of his own body when it was out of his control. That would come eventually, as it always did, but the crouching fire-tender knew that it would only come if he made a mistake ... somehow it was always a mistake when it happened, as if he had no control over it but could never rectify his error because he never knew exactly what it was. In time, it would happen again, and he would have no way to stop it, of that he was sure.

"What news of the world?" he asked, having been separated for so long that he knew not even if his King still lived, or if The Kingdom he had fled remained vigilant for his life.

The fencer couldn't lie, he was very happy that this fire-tender responded to his and his young compatriot's arrival. Although they had been standing around for a short while before he even seemed to acknowledge them. To the Aura Master, this man's question was absolutely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. According to the green haired man's logic, there was no way this man could be a supposed insane deserter. Then again, although Zorlo hated to admit it, his logic did tend to wind up with several faults.

Unlike the green haired man, the ice innate instantly sensed he didn't like this man. The strange man sitting by the fire seemed almost too subdued and unnoticing to be normal. Although the fencer considered the ice warrior's outlook on life to be bleak, the swordsman knew that all people had innate goods and evils, and insanity, as Zachary saw it, was merely the evils of a corrupted man overwhelming his rationality, producing something that was no longer its former self.

The ice innate had, at times, considered himself mad because of the odd, looming voice that invaded his mind and told him to commit acts that could be considered evil. Each time, though, the voice gave a justified reason as to why such sins should be committed. Even in the madness that was Zachary's own mind, Leos could not accept that he and this deserter he and the fencer were looking for had anything in common. He wasn't mad, and he'd prove it. Nothing could control him.

The green haired warrior understood that this man before them wasn't the most normal of people, his voice had become rough and hoarse, perhaps from disuse; but just because he didn't speak much didn't mean anything. Perhaps this man was simply a wanderer, merely stopping here to rest for a short while to recover his strength, and he'd move on later. Even though the Aura Master could produce a reason that still didn't answer the question of if this man was the deserter the fencer had been told about.

"Well," the green haired man started, "in the land of the east, where I am from, times have gone quiet. War is scarce; people are content and go about their daily business without much of a care." The fencer stopped, brushing some of his green hair from his face and smiling at the strange man before the fire. "As for in this western land, there isn't much I can tell you, only rumors. The political standing seems stable enough, and the king doesn't seem to be doing anything to risk the security of his kingdom, but still, voices stir in this land of something odd."

"A deserter," the fencer stated, looking at his young comrade. "He is said to be one of several others that abandoned their legion and have gone mad, although I don't imagine such things could happen. Why would two hundred men simply pack up and leave their comrades, tis a bit farfetched if you ask me."

"Don't go about reciting that insane story to a guy we don't even know, it isn't like those sailors or those merchants have any idea what they are talking about," the red haired fighter interjected, looking angrily at the fencer.

"Even so, I think this is worth investigating, mostly because I get the feeling if we get to the end of this mystery, we maybe able to understand the fact from the fiction," the Aura Master stated, smiling as he seemed to always be doing.

"You really are a moron, you know that? All you are doing right now is blabbering on about something that has no grounds in fact. How stupid could you be?" the young fighter asked, blowing a small bit of red hair out of his eyes.

"Depends, why don't we introduce ourselves to this good sir and see if he knows anything. Well, anyway, my name is Zorlo, the Aura Master and Fencer of Tasogare, and he's..." the fencer found himself cut off by the swordsman.

"My name is Zachary Leos. Not much more to say," the ice innate noted, looking at the travel worn man.

"Well, sir, what, pray tell, is your name, and do you know anything about this rogue legionnaire or madness going through the ranks of a legion?" the fencer asked, hoping that this strange man could aid them.

"Solomon Marsenii," he replied. Throughout the small, heated debate between the two strangely garbed and much more strangely colored men, the crouching man had not done much more than stare and think, since it would have been a virtual impossibility to slant a word in edgewise between the argumentative pair. He wondered if they always argued so much, and if they had any kind of good reason to do so at all ... especially around strangers.

That through brought back memories; legionary soldiers of the Thirteenth had been specifically reprimanded whenever they were caught arguing anywhere in public, thereby creating hairline cracks in what the general had wanted seen as a ‘perfect legion', without disputes or problems, everything running like a mill. A crushing blow had been dealt to that old fool when his perfect legion turned into a group of half-insane liars and cheats, most of them bent to greed and cruelty by the attentions of wild women and a common overindulgence in alcohol products, and a that crushing blow had given him a heart attack, or so the rumor said. Solomon had left the legion around the time the old man was said to have become a cripple, without the ability to move his lower body, use his left hand, or even talk in the clear, strong, basso voice that he had used to address the Thirteenth many a time in the past. ‘His boys' had done him in with their horrible behavior, and not one of them ended up regretting it; they had hated the old man, thinking him a sorry attempt by the King to make a replacement for the long-dead Alexander Thatch, a man whose boots their general was not even fit to lick. They would not have peed on the old failure if he was on fire.

"Zachary Leos," the deserter said, a grim look plastered on his face as he looked keenly at the young man ... no, the boy. A young man was a person who had learned manners, discipline, and respect, if not morality and sensibility as well– this angry child had not learned any of them, if his attitude was an indicator. "A strange name... but I suppose Solomon Marsenii may seem a strange name to you two, and I suppose maybe it is, but it is mine."

His eyes glinted with steel as he came to an issue they had mentioned in their argument. Mad legionaries abandoning their legion was uncommon, even in with the perversely undermining influence of dark magic at work, but for random ‘traders' and ‘sailors' to know about it mere months after it truly did happen, that was random. Quite the stir we've caused, a voice whispered in his head, breathlessly evil enough to send a shiver down the spine, And just with a few hundred crazy legionaries ... the empire is getting touchy. It was a voice not heard in his mind for a long time, and Solomon knew that it was the voice of his own, his lost partner, the insanity that plagued his sanity; he had wished it to be gone, but it had not left or died over the time, and why would it? if his sanity had lived, why not his insanity as well ... after all, it had been stronger in the beginning, strong enough to do a great deal of damage.

"The Thirteeth Legion lost almost half a cohort to dark magic," Solomon said, raising his steely eyes to those of Zorlo, "if that is what you mean. I was one of over a hundred who deserted. How did you hear about it?"

Zachary's eyes widened as the strange man tending the fire told him that it was dark magic that had overcome that legion and driven them all mad. Something about that made the story more believable in the eyes of the ice innate. Dark magic seemed to do odd things in the world, one of which seemed to be effect people who could not resist its temptation. The only question I have: Why in the world did the dark magic choose that legion? Why would it drive only some mad and not all? Also, who is this guy and how does he know? the red haired boy asked himself, baffled at this thought.

"Well, that proves it. This man is a resident of this land, and he would surely know. For the sake of the gods, he lives here!" the fencer said with a powerful assurance in his voice, although nothing but happiness aside from his own sureness. The green haired man hadn't broken eye contact with the glance of this Solomon person, even in the glory that the fencer had just found himself having. "In all honesty, I received word of it from an old acquaintance that lives here. I thought he was joking, but I heard a few of the merchants and sailors at the port talking about something similar, so I thought I'd investigate."

"Why is it I find myself following you here and agreeing to help you?" the swordsman asked, looking at the fencer with an amount of annoyance in his eyes.

"Because you want a chance to defeat me in a fight and I said I wouldn't fight you unless you succeeded in helping me find out what is going on here and, if there really was something going on, how it was brought about and by what. If this magic that Solomon has told us about is really that bad, then we have to find out where it originates from and destroy it! If we don't, things like what has happened here could occur in other places of the world," the fencer assured the ice innate, although Leos merely shrugged.

"You have too much of a naive look on the world. There is no defined good and evil, everything is in the gray. You need to understand that," Zachary stated to the green haired man who merely looked at him.

"Did you say something, I was busy wondering what this darkness could be," the Aura Master responded as he let his glance shift slightly to Zachary.

"One day... Oh... I'm going to defeat you, even if it takes a hundred years!" the boy stated, swinging his fist at Zorlo who quickly caught it and let it go. Forgot how fast he is... the boy thought with a mental sigh.

"Well, mister Solomon, would you mind helping us find out what it is that plagues this land, since you seem to have a better idea then I do. So, would you please lend us your aid?" the fencer asked with a bow and a smile at this odd, yet friendly man.

After a quick few elbows from Zorlo, Leos finally bowed as well and stated, "Yes, I'd be delighted if you helped me help this idi-... I mean Zorlo find out what is bothering this land."

"What ... plagues ... this land?" Solomon replied, blinking his eyes dully as the thought sank into his mind: this naive man actually thought there was a root to black magic? one that could actually be pulled? That was as unlikely as a dog learning to speak, and foolhardiness itself might shun such an idea, even spoken from one so polite.

"Nothing plagues this land, Zorlo. Nothing more than plagues any other hundreds of continents, if there are so many. The thing that caused this is not something so easily uprooted as to quail in fear when it sees two men coming out of the distance. Black magic is much stronger than that, and is not so easily destroyed."

Black magic ... had it really been so long since the un-sane ex-deserted had reached into that black abyss and pulled out, like a living thing, the ropes with which he could tie down his entire legion ... it seemed like an eternity, but it was not, it could not have been more than a month, or even a few short weeks. The prospect was uncanny, because the desire to pluck more power from the very jaws of the Enemy was great, so great even that he would rather be completely engulfed in his inability to think than he would willingly leap into the outstretched arms of untrustworthy demons such as black magic. Once upon a time, not so long after he entered the legions, it had been a weak practitioner of the arts that sapped his strength to resist and thrown him into the insanity of dominating others; that one man had set off a chain reacting, and even he was nigh powerless in his own right, a mere speck on the magical scale in comparison to huge towers of strength, the men of bloodlines.

Feeling it, the power of blackness, was like feeling your strength slowly used up and destroyed, pummeled into a fine dust and swept away ... pure anguish for minutes, hours, days, as every last thing inside you was taken and beaten into a useless pulp, then languishing pleasure as the flood of power once again rushed into limbs and spirit. Trouble came only when the black magician realized that he was not creating a pawn of the magic, but that the magic was quickly creating a definite hold over the mind and the body, one so unbreakable that only a very powerful person could escape it without aid. So few had truly understood that black magic was subverting them, and fewer still were those who had wrested back their free will and regained the position of dominance in their own mind, taking back the high ground of their own will and forcing down the manipulative darkness.

To use black magic was the subscribe to it. To use it again was to let it creep into your home. To use it yet again was to give it your very being. When, at last, you had nothing left to give, no more that it could take from you and use for its own purposes, you would begin giving away that which was not yours in the first place. Family, friends, comrades-in-arms– none of that mattered once a person had been crushed beneath their own magical dalliances, all was used and abused by the new mind. A new mind is never forged from goodness, but from evil: even the good are tested in the fires of evil.

Solomon shook his head and closed his eyes, pressed the butts of his hands into the sockets to stymie the tears that convalesced without warning. His crouching position on the soft ground became compromised, and he let himself slouch down into the crushed bracken, sitting down hard on his cloak. It was many moments of silence, sitting still and feeling voided, before he felt that his sins had once again receded into the gloom ... sins that had come to haunt him, sins that had come to break him, it never mattered, they all felt the same, and they all worked together to make him feel the worthless person that he very well might have been.

But I'm alive, he reminded himself, That magic didn't kill me. If it had been a little bit stronger... but it wasn't. I was lucky. The others had not been so lucky, they had been forced to feel the magic. Unlike Solomon, who had made the conscious decision to sap his own will and strength, they had been forced into chains, bound and chained like slaves to the will of an altered man, one whom they should have been able to trust and depend on in life and in death, one who had turned out to betray them. He had betrayed them.

"If anything bet–" he caught himself, swallowed, and started again, "If anything is plaguing the land, Zorolo, it is far beyond your powers to heal it. Black magic has held people here for too many years to count. You cannot reverse history."

Zorlo laughed at this thought. The inability to change history may have been a challenged, but, "Even if one can't change the past, one can alter the future. There can be a future where no one suffers from madness produced of the darkness of magic. Please, Solomon, understand that even if we fail to stop this darkness in its entirety, perhaps it can be stopped and protect generations still to come. One cannot merely assume that just because destroying this magic will take time that it can't be done. Just give it time and people will work their way through such darkness," the fencer stated, looking at the vagrant.

Zachary, despite being in disbelief at what he heard the fencer saying, couldn't help but listen. No matter how insane what the fencer said was, it made a good amount of sense. Is it really possible that if mankind tries to work past the darkness of temptation and magic that could destroy him or her, that he or she could succeed in ending it? Is it possible, that if a person pushes through the darkness of magic that a person could truly come out better then when they entered? Maybe I'm just overanalyzing this, the ice innate told himself as the fencer finished talking.

The ice warrior looked at the green haired man and couldn't help but ask, "Okay Mr. We're going to destroy this Dark Magic even though it has no tangible form and don't care if we die trying, how do you expect to start looking for something without a physical form? Do you even have any idea where to start? Do you think out anything before you do it?" the youth asked in quick procession.

The fencer raised his index finger into the air at the end of each question, but was cut off from speaking as the ice innate interrupted him. "Zachary, now to answer your questions one at a time. And when you ask a question, can you at least wait for the person to answer?" Zorlo asked a counter question, interrupting his train of thought.

Leos groaned quickly, and responded, "I was just asking a group of questions with a similar idea, so just answer him." The ice innate crossed his arms and looked at the fencer, clearly growing more and more annoyed with the man.

"Oh yes, of course!" the Aura Master responded, slightly embarrassed. "To answer your question on the magic, there has to be someone that traded something for the magic to awaken it, so if we can find out who did that; it can safely be assumed that said person got the power from somewhere, so we find out where aforementioned person got his or her power and then we find the person pulling the magical strings and cut them. Simple, no?"

"That has to be the worst plan I've ever been forced to sit down and listen to..." Zachary remarked, looking at Solomon, and then back to Zorlo. "Okay, let us say that your theory has some merit and the insane things you are saying are possible, where would be start looking for this person? Do any of these thoughts cross your mind at all?"

"Of course they do!" the fencer responded in great confidence. In fact, he had been asking himself this very same question. "We would have to find each of the deserters and question them until we learned what caused them to go mad and... no wait... that wouldn't work..." How in the world can one find the source of a power if one doesn't know where to begin? I suppose there is a way to go about finding this magic, we just need to never give up, the fencer thought to himself silently.

The ice innate nearly fell over when the fencer failed to give him an answer. The red haired boy watched as the Aura Master was caught in heavy though before the green haired man's hand erupted into the air, making the ice innate jump back a few feet.

"I've got it! Mr. Solomon, you seem to know a lot about this land. Can you please help us find the source of this magic?" the green haired man looped around back to asking the fire tender in hopes this man could help them, although not fully knowing why.

Were it not for the smoldering crackle of the fire, nothing would have disturbed the silence reigning after that simple question; the silence, on the part of one man in the camp, had been much longer and more strenuous, though perhaps his companions did not realize what had caused this shift. Solomon listened carefully, hovering on every word coming from the mouth of the green-haired man, but could barely understand why they elicited such a response throughout the core of his being, why the grabbing hands of fear were clawing at his throat and forcing him to stay silent. Not a word, not a whisper, nothing– he could not have spoken if he wanted to, and the fear was stifling even that urge, but he could not discern exactly why ... blackness had settled before his eyes, and he felt for a moment as if he could not breathe, thinking left him, and his hand strayed up the hilt of his sword.

He remembered. He remembered the sword. It had been there, it had ... something had been with the sword, no it must have been someone, not something. He remembered the same fear, the same blackness, the claws of dread. He remembered real claws as well, and while one hand clasped his mantle tight about his shoulders, the other strayed down to his calf, where he remembered pain. The pain had left, but he could feel the marks. The sword! the sword had been there!

As quickly as it came, it went, and he was left in silence again, not remembering, his eyes unseeing and his lips pressed tight together in a firm, white line, as if some wound had suddenly pained him and was now throbbing throughout his being, a feeling so tearing that he could not move or think. But he could think, he remembered now! He could think, but he could not talk, and his body would not obey a command, nothing would obey a command. The blackness over his eyes had not left, but he could see now, there was someone there, and they knew one another, they knew one another well, as lovers know one another but in a worse way, in a horrible way that was as perverse and hateful as the atrocious acts that had been committed in their minds and by their hands.

"We had our fun, it seems," the voice, his voice, said. It was calm, cold, and dangerous. The lurking death of black magic had never left him, but it was a small death ... it had always been a small death, a weak death. That was why he had kept it at bay, and he knew that, he remembered that now.

He answered, knowing that nothing would hear him but what was already in him, what was him in every way. The darkness of his soul held sway in the darkness, and whatever good was left in him had been left to rot; that was truth, he knew and remembered that truth now ... his ‘sanity' had not been taken, he had thrown it away. Insanity would come in time, because he was too frail to hold back the tide ... black magic smiled on the insane, gave them power, might to uphold themselves and crush others. He remembered what it felt like.

Outwardly, his eyes opened and he looked out across the hills and bracken without actually looking at anything, as one does when staring out into space. His head jerked once, side to side, and he remained silent. The internal struggle, such as it was, had managed to reach him through his memories. His mouth formed a grimace, and for the first time since the insanity had first settled on his shoulders, becoming the burden for him to bear, he was able to come back.

"Know the land!" he yelled, leaping to his feet, "Knowing the land is not enough! You are right, Zachary Leos," he barked, the legionary tone of his voice returning and the rust scraping away, "there is more to black magic than searching for it. Have you looked at your life? Have you chosen between your family, your friends, your comrades, your country ... have you weighed them against each other on the scales of power, and found that power was the greater boon, the thing that you needed more? Because only the people who have done and are doing that very thing can know where the roots of black magic are spreading."

Sinking to his knees, Solomon felt the cold mush seep into his trousers ... he ceased to care, and enveloped himself in the protective blanket of thought. He remembered still, but it was different now than it had been. He knew the sword, but he did not recognize it through mists ... mists were everywhere in his mind's eye, an unbreakable wall of mirrors shining all the light of thought back into his eyes. It was impossible to see more than he already knew, but that was not enough.

The keening call of a bird rang through the land, and sunshine suddenly broke through a patch of cloud, blue sky stretching quickly as a west wind blew the clouds away. For the first time in an unknown time, Solomon knew he had won the struggle within his mind. His eyes sought the eyes of Zorlo, and he held them.

"I will help you, because you have helped me."

As the last words left the fire tender's mouth, a large smile spread across Zorlo's face; a slightly less amused smile spread across Zachary's, thinking both men to be absolutely mad. A cool breeze blew in from the east, causing the hair of both warriors to be pushed up as the stood looking at the now standing vagrant. Something about him didn't seem quite right, but who were the fencer or the ice innate to judge this man?

This is purely preposterous! This guy is utterly mad, there is no doubt about that! He's silent when we introduce ourselves, but now he's telling us he'll help us because, some how, that idiot helped him. This is, without doubt, the stupidest, most idiotic idea I've ever had to suffer through! the ice warrior thought in outrage as he looked angrily from Solomon to the fencer, who merely stood smiling, his eyes not breaking the stare of the strange man.

This is excellent, the fencer told himself, his eyes fixed on this Solomon person. The man that tended the flames was strong, the fencer could tell, even without sensing this man's aura. It also became obvious to the green haired man that his new ally suffered from some sort of internal struggle, although what, the fencer didn't care to ask. He's agreed to help us, and now, all we need to do is find the source of this darkness. If it can be conquered, I will find a way, and even if we can only weaken it, then that is good enough. Anything to slow the spread of darkness is better then not doing anything at all, the Aura Master told himself, looking at the ice innate, who seemed annoyed... more so then normal anyway.

Although, this annoyed look was not what it appeared to be. This man, Solomon had asked a question, and Zorlo had already answered it for himself, but Zachary hadn't yet. The fencer had already chosen others over himself, but what would the red haired boy choose?

Is power more important to me then others? the ice warrior asked himself, looking at the fencer, a man that he knew as the strongest warrior he knew. Do I travel with him because I want to be more powerful then he is... or is it because I see something in him that I want to have? he asked himself, his mind split between the darkness that was Magnus, his supposed conscience, and his own heart, where the will to do good prevailed. Am I truly cut out to be an avenger? Is that the way I want to keep my life moving? he asked himself, taking a long, hard look into his past. He would have to choice for himself soon, because something about the choice between the light and dark drew near.

"Can we go yet?!" Zachary asked in a low, almost growl like tone. He was tired of standing around and wanted to get heading out.

"Solomon, are you ready to head out, because I think we are," the Aura Master said with confidence, looking at his young friend and smiling, although the boy didn't respond in the same manner. Whether Zachary admitted it or now, he did enjoy having company, even if it was with a person he hated.