A/N: Enjoy & review/comment if you like.

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LEGENDARY THORN

by Scorose

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- 1. Petal -

“Chasing sun-kissed arms to follow.”

Char would never sacrifice herself for them. Those damned and damning souls . . .

The chambers were just like she’d remember them from the other vague, lucid dreams. Sombre. Alluring. Yet there was nothing compelling about the grimly, dirty walls and the promising odor of decay. The ground felt sandy and crusty with tiny pebbles, yet it didn’t hurt her bare feet. Her lashes drifted down, dark eyes watching the white dress flutter in the breeze of the void. She should have been cold, but she was unfeeling. Detached. Restless. Delirious. Lethargic. The haze wouldn’t dissipate from her eyes. She saw the tunnel-like route before her in double vision, and light faded at the beckoning shadows of the gate that lay at the end. She knew.

She always knew. The souls behind the gate. “Come, we await to embrace you,” they said. Everytime she’d had that dream, fear never gripped her. How ironic, she’d always think. There was nothing that hadn’t been analyzed peculiarly — the motives, explanations, meaning of it. Not once had she told anyone about the dreams.

Strangely, there was comfort in the assurance that whatever it meant, it was for her alone. She knew what it was. Selfish. Wrong. Perhaps she should’ve inquired and accepted a hand on the matter. But she found a sick sort of satisfaction, solace in the stark and vast melancholic state of mind those dreams drugged her into. She relinquished in that torment. Grief. Frustration. Anger. But most of all: longing.

The voracious longing she’d never realistically experienced firsthand, but thinking about it was a bittersweet torment.

She arose, head twisting towards the small mirror in the vicinity of her bed. “Why do you keep on torturing yourself?” Her dark eyes glinted, yet were hollow. An sigh rumbled in her mouth as she tore her gaze away, pushing at the books on the empty side of the bed. Several toppled over, falling to the floor with an aggravated thud.

Because you deserve it.

“I’m only a human being, after all.”

After kicking at the books again, purposefully, Char glanced through the window: full moon. No wonder I had the dream again, the girl concluded. It was 10:32, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. She knew out of thorough experience sleeping would’ve been a fruitless attempt at that point. And the window sill didn’t look particularly appealing for the next seven hours. Scoffing, she dragged herself out of bed and quietly walked downstairs.

She figured Kelly was in her room, going over the daily gossip with her flamboyant mobile phone, while Zack in the living room, laughing and chatting loudly with Mark and Denver, the amiable twins from down the street. Reluctant to be seen by his friends in her pyjamas, she tip-toed her way to the kitchen.

“Hey sis,” she heard her brother call out, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Hadn’t she been subtle enough? “Come over here,” he said, laughter breaking out in the background.

“No, I won’t,” Char replied, loud enough for him and his friends to hear. Her hands fumbled with the top drawers, searching for something edible and non-toxic to chew. Moments later, her brother trudged into the room, bag of chips in one hand, the other two leaning against the doorway. She silently glowered, not looking around as she nibbled on peanuts.

“There’s a carnival tonight, held by the Lunarcana circus in the old, abandoned boulevards. It’s a special edition, since it’s full moon.” By his tone, she could tell he would’ve wanted to point out her unnecessary defensiveness.

“Zack, it’s always special edition. And I’m not coming,” Char stated softly, decisively. Parties, social events, carnivals, concerts — neither were her thing. She simply wasn’t a social animal. When was he going to understand that?

“Of course you are, and if you don’t change, I’ll drag you there in your pyjamas,” he ordered in a brotherly tone that made her want to punch his arm. “Now get.”

The girl turned around, her neck warm from mild embarassment. “No, I’m not,” she insisted.

“How does the rainbow taste?” he whispered just for her to hear; a personal tique of theirs when arguing. As she didn’t respond, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She struggled, trashing her legs against his chest.

“Woah, is your sis always that feisty?” one of the boys snickered in the background.

“No, just defensive.”

The younger sibling let out an exasperated sound. “It tastes light!” she hissed at her sibling and he finally obliged, settling her back on her feet. He ruffled her hair affectionately, earning a greedy punch in the arm from her part. He was their friend, not her, therefore whether she was defensive or not was none of their business.

“What? You sounded like such a harmless kitten,” Zack cooed.

“Fine, but I’m staying ten to thirty minutes, and if I feel like coming home sooner, you’ll drive me home. Okay?” Muttering, she crossed her arms self-consciously — she didn’t like being around whenever her brother’s friends were over. She always felt silly; as if she was fresh prey to be pounced on.

“Great,” Zack grinned, satisfied, “yeah, yeah, I will. Now go get changed. I’ll be waiting out in the car.”

“What about mom and dad? Do they know I’m coming?” Unlike Zack, she had a pretty strict curfew. One that she hadn’t particularly tried to stretch or ply.

“Now they will.”

Altough Char had reluctantly agreed to tag along, she dreaded that part of the town. The abandoned boulevards. Everybody knew that part of the city was more or less haunted — the event of some strange deaths occured many years ago. Even if it was just a rumour, she doubted there were many people who went willingly. However, fifteen minutes later when they arrived with Denver’s car, the young teenager was blatantly proved wrong, much to her dismay.

The streets were full, and the circus encapment per se, was full with swarms of crowds. Her hands instictively flew to her ears, uneasy with the loud racket. Laughter and the delirious music was deafening her ears. The pompous, ilogical sounds thrown together so tactlessly were maddening. She felt like her chest and neck were ablaze, all nerves one by one catching fire — she simply couldn’t stand crowds. She barely arrived and already, she wanted to leave!

“Char!” her brother shouted in her ear, tugging on her wrist. The girl flinched, gaze snapping to his as he watched her oddly and somewhat amused. He tugged again, pulling her after him with his friends by his other side.

Circuses and massive crowds were one of the many things Char incurably loathed. “What time is it?” she yelled over the noise, hoping to distract herself at least momentarily from the insanity that apparently nobody but her was bothered by.

Glaring at the back of Zack’s head, she tugged back, causing him to stumble a bit before narrowing a pair of irritated blue eyes at her. People squeezed past, bumping hips or shoulders with her. She made a quick gesture with her hand, flicking a finger over her wrist, and he made a dramatic show of pulling out his mobile phone.

“Eleven,” he mouthed, snapping it shut and stuffing it in his pocket.

“Precisely?” she asked tidily, following him as they pushed past people, practically crawling through the crowd. Irritated at being ignored, she fell back into silence, grudgily letting him drag her to wherever they were headed. After several minutes, they halted in a spacious area where one could leisurously breathe.

Zack released his grip on her wrist and laughed at something one of the twins said. Altough she heard them chatting, she had to strain her ears to make out the words muffled by the unfaltering ruckus. She ignored them, turning around to vaguely watch swarms of people shuffle past.

“Why do I have to put up with this?” the sixteen-year-old murmured to herself, needing some comfort that the tense hands rubbing her arms couldn’t give. She wirled around, peeking at Mark’s wristwatch for the time before confronting her brother frustratedly. It was a quarter to midnight. “I’ve had enough, I want to go,” she stated, stomping her foot for emphasis, but the sound died in the circus racket.

Zack frowned, eyeing his youngest sister with mild annoyance. “We just got here, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna go get some popcorn. You want some?”

“No, thanks,” she replied reflexively. Food was the last thing on her mind.

“Hey,” Denver said to her with sympathy, “chill. Relax. Have some fun.”

“You never have real fun,” her brother put salt on the wound. “We’re getting some snacks. You intend on staying here or are you coming along?” he continued in a bantering tone.

Mark settled a hand over his shoulder and glared at him. “She’ll get lost in this crowd, man,” he tried reasoning.

“Staying,” she replied angrily, crossing her arms and turning away from them. They have no idea. Really none at all. And Zack — he was her brother, he should’ve known it would be this way! Her attitude was nothing new. So why was he being cranky? Why did he bother?

Aggravated, she pushed angrily through the crowds of people, aware she’d get lost in the labirynth eventually. She was not going to stand still and wait for them to come back. As the girl marched past people, internally, she was seething. She knew perfectly well of her brother’s protective tendencies. Zack could be an insensitive jerk one moment and a smothering guardian the next. He was going to look after her deliriously for hours in that massive place.

And she was going to be home at that time, sleeping innocently in her bed.

Or still lost in the crowd, she concluded minutes later. Her shoulders slumped as she whirled around to study the surroundings. Altough she felt undeniably restless, she knew she couldn’t stay there any longer. Zack needed to be taught a lesson.

Char rubbed her arms, finding very little comfort in the act. She started twirling brown locks of hair in her anxiety. She felt herself disappear into the mass of oblivious humans. The noise, the crowds, the circus — it was all driving her up to wall, like tiny ants crawling on her skin, making her want to scream with agony. She could feel the familiar gnaw in her stomach.

Then, a hand grabbed her arm out of nowhere. “Hey Char,” a flat tone greeted. She turned around to see a tall figure with dark eyes, glintless as an unblinking abyss. Four other cloaked men stood beside him. “Your brother told me to drive you home.” He tugged without awaiting a response, the men following suit.

She stared at his bland face, smoothed of any expression. “Zack told you that?” she asked warily. “And those guys too?”

His voice lightened. “Them? Oh no, they’re just some friends. I’ll be taking you home.”

The last was uttered in such a tone that lead her to believe they weren’t on the same topic of discussion.

“I don’t think so,” she shot back and began struggling out of his hold.

In response, the fingers only pressed harder into her flesh, an iron grip squeezing her arm in such a way that made her feel as if it would break soon. She gasped, trashing against him until the icy tip of a dagger poked her back. She stilled immediately.

“Move.” The command was delivered with hollow eloquence.

“What is this?” she said in a tight tone as they pulled her behind a tent. She stood with her back against the wall, trapped between two tents. A large tree stood between the two, and the space between the tents was wide enough . . . She could’ve ran, but the row of men would’ve only seen to their plans sooner; she could’ve screamed, but the sound would’ve dissipated in the plethora of noise. Her numb legs weren’t up to the task anyway. Her heart was rushing to an unfamiliar beat.

What did they want?

The man’s lips peeled back into snarl that was nothing but a facial stretch. Who are these men? she wondered. They seemed incapable of genuine emotion or expression. All of their eyes, those visible, were a piercing black, but hollow with lack of resentment.

“The end of the primal spirian follower,” they hollered in unison.

The man offered her a nasty scowl. “But mostly revenge, of course.”

Are you derranged? “Is this a joke? Last time I checked, serial killers were a rarity here,” she retorted.

“Enough.” He unsheathed a long sword whose glint taunted her. She watched with wide eyes as a hand coiled around her neck, and the sword was lifted to her chest, where her arms rested protectively.

A dark ellipse flashed behind them, revealing a contorting portal and three men poised to attack. They observed the scene and neither appeared delighted. “Guns are dishonorable weapons but by Fates, I swear I’ll teleport you soulless assassins to the depthless pit of the Vast Oceans if you harm the girl!” shouted the second, flaunting two shotguns.

The assassin leader released his grip on her neck to regard the intruders. “Alpha Brotherhood,” he began formally, eyeing the three. “And . . . Lothaire. Hmph. Of course you had to tag along, being the traitor you are. This does not concern you!”

The cloaked men watched the Alpha Brotherhood with animity.

The first of the three, Lothaire stood proudly at his six-foot two-inches with his uniform and long silver tresses flowing over his shoulders. Thiago was hunched in the middle, hands poised to either use or drop the weapons to produce a portal at any moment; while Azazel — the third and least responsible — rolled lazily on the balls of his feet like the high-schooler that he was. He gazed smugly at their opponents, ready to flip the scene upside down.

“Do not defy me, Jezrad. Altough I am no longer a member of your clan, I am still a member of the Naidradians, as well as an Assassin Lord and Fates-proclaimed ireth’Domine,” Lothaire spoke in his intimidating tone. His passive gaze alone belittled the assassins.

In the midst of the conflict, Char watched soundlessly for a moment, then dashed for the three, using it for both protection and strategy. Her action caught all eyes with the first movement, and she stared nervously at the two hordes of men before her. To the left, the assassins, and to the right, the so-called Alpha Brotherhood.

Jezrad stepped towards her, but as two gunshots were released in the air, he stilled, casting a venomous glare Thiago’s way. In the background, humans nearby began a stir, screaming and stumbling in their path.

“Who on earth are you people?” the girl demanded.

“Not from earth, darling,” Azazel whistled.

“You need to come with us to the underworld: Orbisalia,” Thiago said, a concerned expression etched on his noble features. “Actions now, words later.”

She swallowed; her throat felt like sandpaper. “I’m not going anywhere but home, where I belong,” she replied.

“Exactly,” Jezrad interrupted with a mockery of enthusiasm, “to Hell — that’s your home, you wretched heiress!”

“No, to Spiria; that’s where she belongs!” Thiago countered heatedly.

Jezrad swatted his eyes over the teenage girl, his dark eyes narrowing. She shifted under his piercing gaze. Then, a dagger darted towards her, and in a noisy flash, Thiago appeared by her side, phased back to his friends and teleported away.

Everything happened swiftly, in a matter of seconds. All she remembered was Thiago’s tug on her as they jumped through the portal, as a dagger flung through the portal. She gasped as it plunged into the flesh between her neck and shoulder. She dropped to her knees, soft features contorted in pain. Her hand flew to the wound, and found a crumpled post-it note attached to the dagger. She caught it in her fist, involuntarily smearing it with blood as the whirl of the situation finally receded.

“Damn it,” Thiago hissed, “I knew they’d try something dirty as that! So much for assassin honor.” She watched as his hands literally tore down the portal, leaving nothing but air behind. Small droplets of blood were visible on his palms. “Are you okay?” he demanded breathlessly.

Char nodded, uncertain what to do. While one hand held the note, the other pressed against the wound.

“I’ll take it out now, alright?” he said, his eyes meeting hers openly. He did it quickly, one moment of excrutiating pain until it was torn out.

Lothaire regarded them calmly. “I would suggest cleaning up her wound before presenting her to king Tarnarth.”

“Yes,” Thiago agreed, “he’d be incredibly displeased to see there were difficulties.”

She rose her gaze to the three, Thiago crouching before her, Lothaire standing motionlessly, and Azazel watching her broodily. Kings? Assassins? Portals? Orbisalia? She was far too tired to even voice her distress.

“Thiago.” Lothaire made a gesture.

Dutifully, the brunette stepped forth, and made a sweeping gesture, producing a pool of smudged dark-blue hues in the air. The edges were blurred, smoky, and the blue looked like the studded nightsky, compelling. A low sizzling sound floated in the air, a lulling murmur of mystery.

“What’s that?” Char sputtered, not having seen the act, until then.

“A portal,” Thiago explained, offering his hand. After seeing her impassive gaze, his eyes flickered, disheartened, before he requested, “Trust me, Charlotte.”

She didn’t oblige because of his words. It was his sincere tone that drew forth her inquisitive, tentative stare. “You first,” she prompted. Perhaps she was being difficult, childish even, but most certainly wary — and that mattered most. The way things stood, it was no safe ground.

“Alright.” She blinked at his unexpected compliance. “I’ll go first.”

The portal was wide and tall enough for a human’s silhouette. Thiago breezed through it in an effortless woosh. Watching, Char swallowed the lump in her throat, curiousity roused, but reluctant to follow through.

“Go,” Lothaire urged Azazel who, in a flurry of ripped jeans and leopard prints disappeared behind the smudges of blue. “After you,” he said formally, remaining still.

Before Char knew what she was doing, her steps brought her inches from the portal and the tips of her fingers attentively prodded at the strange essence they called a portal. It felt like reaching through a delicate wall of water with plastic gloves on. There was no temperature, she concluded sheepishly, but it didn’t feel like air. After assessing that her retreating fingers were very much intact and apt, she dipped her head and steeled herself for the possible worst.

The sight would’ve been humorous, had it been a different situation. Her gaze roamed over the two men, keeping tidily in mind not a hair was out of place, until her lashes drifted down, and her eyes widened. She toppled hastily through the portal, for it felt like an unnecessary appetizer for a Guillotine session, and seeing the alienating — but seemingly unharmful — pool of blue instead of her limbs was enough of a persuasion to prod her through.

“Good God,” she breathed, checking herself for missing dust, just for good measure. Lothaire was the last to step through, and when she turned about to glance at him, there was no portal in sight. “How did you do that?”

They were inside a large house. Utter silence surrounded them, and it looked as if they were still in the human world. But they weren’t.

The edges of Thiago’s lips quirked, a pleasant approach. “I’m a guardian.”

The self-explicit meaning of the last word eluded her. She could practically hear the capital G in it. “You guard portals?” she tried.

Thiago sent an inquisitive look Lothaire’s, who merely nodded in encouragement. “No, I guard Orbisalia. Natural born. Literally.”

A single muscle worked in her jaw. She was trying — she really was. And it better conclude effective results. “That being . . .” Her mind tried connecting the name with the only familiar grounds she recently heard of: Spiria.

Thiago lead her to the kitchen, while Lothaire disappeared into the hallway.

“This world. Where the Vast Oceans and all of its lands — Quimperas Kingdom, Diarjole, Dhrasdonis city and Nairapeth — reside.”

“That’s hardly half,” Azazel added in a grouchy tone. “But it’s not our stuff to tell you about Orbisalia, that’s Kit’s and T —”

The look on Thiago’s face at the slip was downright comical; his eyes brusquely drooped in dull aggravation, and the right edge of his lip dipped, his demeanor drastically shifting. “Az,” he scolded patiently. “Keep your tongue in check.”

“Why, Thi dear? Aforementioned carnal membrane feels far too heavy and motionless in my mouth. Perhaps you could make use of yourself and distract it . . . ?” The blow was delivered with practiced expertise, each syllable, poise, emphasis and gesture effected at perfected timeline.

She wasn’t sure just how fraternal their connections were, but the teenager and the brunette seemed to have a decent share of curious history. A jingle could be heard, and as she turned towards the sound, the glint of a dog-tag caught her eye; she watched Thiago’s shoulders hunch up, as if he was about to blow out a grieving sigh.

“Behave,” he said simply, leaving the other hanging with unvent provocation. “Come, Charlotte,” he beckoned, lips curving into a charming soft smile as she stepped away from the doorway.

“Char,” she corrected.

He patted a chair, and she obliged, eyeing him attentively. Lothaire returned with an aid-kit and settled it over the table next to her.

“Can I?” Thiago asked.

She nodded, finding his question unnecessary. Of course she wanted medical help. As Thiago worked quickly, cleaning the wound and wrapping a bandage around the area, Char studied their appearences; she hadn’t had a chance to accurately observe them.

Thiago had very elegant features. A sharply defined square jaw and high cheekbones that gave off a noble allure. In the brief moment their gaze met, his eyes were pretty and kind, a greyish-blue with a genuine warmth. He had a widow’s peak and his brown hair might’ve been longer than chin-length, but it was gelled into loose, messy spikes. “Does it feel better?” When he spoke, his eyes sparkled and his tone was amiable — chivalrous even; and his accent was curiously british. In human years, he seemed in his mid-twenties, but with Orbisalia, she couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” she admitted. His touch was very soothing.

Azazel, the cheeky teenager leaning against the doorway seemed to have a lasting smirk etched on his face, but it was more endearing than mischievous. His lips were shapely, the lower one fuller, setting his lips into a permanent, effortless pout. Clad in faded, ripped jeans and a leopard vest over a t-shirt, his appearance alone spoke volumes. He had unruly dark blonde hair and features that confessed his youthful, inexperienced years.

The tallest, Lothaire, was an assassin. His strong build hinted at it and from the information she’d gathered, he had to be. He could’ve easily been mistaken as an angel, had his face been kinder; but it was placid, devoid of great emotion. His lips were a thin line and his incredibly pale eyes were half-lidded; not out of fatigue but perhaps a sense of pride, along with his slightly raised chin and eyebrows. The most prominent was his silver hair that reached his waist while his tan skin created an impressive contrast.

“It doesn’t hurt at all,” Char said, frowning at him.

“I’m a healer.” Thiago smiled. “I’m healing you right now.”

She wore an inquisitive expression as she looked at his hand, resting over the bandaged wound. “How?”

“It’s reiki,” Thiago explained.

“I am afraid this is where I retreat. I have important matters to attend to,” Lothaire declared. His voice was airy and thoughtful, a wise drawl.

“Thank you for your help, we sincerely apreciate it,” Thiago said.

“Of course,” he said. “I was in your debt.”

“Au revoir, white lion,” Azazel flicked a limp wrist in the air, but upon noticing Lothaire’s marble gaze, he rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, treat elders with respect. Au revoir, ireth’Domine,” he muttered.

Satisfied, the pale-haired man disappeared into the hallway and the sound of a shutting door followed shortly afterwards.

“God,” the boy yowled, “he can be so sensitive sometimes.”

“And you,” Thiago said, “a terrible personality-reader, as well as lacking any kind of subtlety skills. He’s quite the contrary; he’s an assassin, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

Azazel made a gesture of pressing his fingers together and slapping his thumb against them repeatedly, a dull look on his face. “M-hm.” Char stiffened on the chair as he looked at her and his eyes lit up. “Now, now. Let’s see who the famous heiress is.” His eyes widened in scrutinity, trailing over her every curve.

“Stop that,” Thiago said patiently, batting him away without glancing at him.

“Do you —” she began, but realized addressing him probably wasn’t a wise idea. She turned to Thiago. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Yes, all the time,” he replied sympathetically while Azazel made a dramatic show in the background. Neither gave him attention.

“Heh, so you’re the heiress? You don’t look like a spirian, the brown hair, brown eyes and all,” the boy commented.

“How are they supposed to look?” came her defensive retort.

His lips parted into a shocked ellipse. “Beautiful,” he explained, as if it summed everything up. “Not that you aren’t; you are, but in, uh, a sweet, innocent way . . .” His voice was rushed, as if he held very little interest in the topic. “But spirians usually have splendid eye colors, are very passionate and sensual, and they have this silky hair . . .” There were sparks igniting in his eyes.

Char raised her eyebrows. “Is . . . or was he in love?” she asked quietly.

“Has been, still is, and will forever be, endless times. He’s sixteen years old, and a human, and I’m embarassed to admit I’ve seen him flirting around and crushing on people more times than I’ve been in love. And I’m fifty-seven.”

“He’s just young!” Char said with a little grin that didn’t reveal her teeth. “Teenage love can’t really be compared to true love — not that I know.”

“Is your hair the same, at least?” Azazel interrupted cheekily, reaching towards her. This time, Thiago did not stop him but merely rolled his eyes, letting the boy indulge himself, unless the girl protested. She did, but it wasn’t enough to hurl him away; she made a small sound, as if unsure how to treat the boy in the first place. “Oh well,” he said, and upon finding very little entertainment among them, he left the room.

“Did I do something wrong?” Char asked as Thiago sat down across the table.

“According to his human psychiatrist, he’s got Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. In my opinion, he’s just a very lively and eager boy who’s in need of affection. A lot of it.”

Char nibbled on her lower lip. “So . . . you three are the Alpha Brotherhood?”

“More or less. We work for someone called Krimdau. Originally, it was me and two other men, but one . . . died, and the other left. During one of my trips to the human world, I came across Azazel and he saw what I could do. There was very little I could do to change his mind — he wanted to come with me and join me. I didn’t mind much. Since I have the teleporting ability, I insist on him staying home unless there’s a mission. He’s young and highschool is important. He complains a lot of course, but I have the advantage.” He grinned. “And I’m supposed to be the adult here. Either way, the A.B. just didn’t exist with me alone. And, well . . . the extra dose of excitement and youth he brought in my life was a good change.”

“What about Lothaire?”

“He’s not officially part of the A.B., but he helps us sometimes. It’s not because we’re friends, I’m not sure if he even considers us acquintances. It’s pretty difficult getting close to an assassin, you can never know whether they understand certain emotions. Az and I helped him with something, and he found it necessary to return the favor. Assassin honor, I suppose.”

“I don’t like assassins,” she admitted.

“That’s not surprising.” He grabbed a bottle from the fridge. “Assassins and spirians have always been at each other’s throats.”

“What did the kings or rulers do? And why? Because of some land, greed or power?”

He turned to her. “Kit will explain it to you. It’s not my role, and he can do it much better.”

It was the second time the name was mentioned. “Who?”

“You’ll see.” He smiled. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah, thank you for . . . healing me.”

“Come then,” he said, and effortlessly produced a portal. She straightened and backed away from it. “Don’t be afraid,” he soothed, “you’ll see that Spiria is where you belong.”

The portal lead them to Spiria, and as he walked ahead, his pace was hurried. The king Tarnath could only wait so much. Char followed along, just noticing the foreign surroundings. It was a forest, that much she could tell, but the texture of the trees was different, it looked clammy and greasy, and a sudden expectancy to be striked at loomed in the pit of her stomach. Well, if they were able to pull off the portal bravado, surely a living, breathing tree wouldn’t have been far-fetched? The texture and unfamiliar patterns weren’t the only thing that caught her eye; the colors — the trees sported numerous shades and hues of blue and turquoise. It certainly gave ’lively’ a whole new meaning to nature.

The tall, graceful branches and leaves gave way to the race that would forever haunt her and pull her strings like a hollow puppet.

Spirians.

The sombre sky loomed attentively before her tilted gaze. It was unlike the earthly one; not pale and dazzling, but dim and greasy with a shroud of swampy rivulets, a mold of brown, green, yellow and grey amidst the heavy, stark clouds trotting with an ancient’s wariness and timeless sage. She wondered if it was just nighttime. The town was both surrounded and shielded by vast, endless descending stairs that cupped the city in the shape of an oval. The structure vaguely reminded her of the Colosseum; its arena being the home of the spirians. The difference was that the town stretched onto far beyond her eyesight.

For some reason, she had a feeling there were as many labyrinths there as the lines in a leaf — if the hazardous lines, squares and subtle shadows of the town were any cue. Swallowing down a thick longing feeling, she dragged in air while following quietly behind. She steeled herself for the worst.

However, nothing could have prepared her what was about to commence.